Verfügbarkeit: Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek

Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek: 11 Bălgarski Zemedelski Naroden Săjuz "Dimităr Gičev" ; 2

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Bibliographische Detailangaben
1. Verfasser:	Rajkin, Spas T. 1922- (VerfasserIn)
Format:	Buch
Sprache:	Bulgarian
Veröffentlicht:	Sofija [u.a.] Pensoft 2008
Online-Zugang:	Inhaltsverzeichnis Abstract
Beschreibung:	XXVI, 489 S.
ISBN:	9789546423108

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Datensatz im Suchindex

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adam_text	СЪДЪРЖАНИЕ ПОСЛЕСЛОВ .1 ПРЕДГОВОР .7 Ï. Борба за контрол на църквата в Ню Йорк .,. í її. БЗНС „Димитър Гичев'^в Ню Йорк .33 Ш. „Новата политика1' на Тончо Тенев и Калин Койчев .44 ÏV. Св. Синод вето кандидатурата ми за свещеник .65 V. БЗНС „Д. Гичев" в чужбина на политически кръстопът .76 VI. Българската комунистическа партия за БЗНС .86 VIS. Петър Танчев за единодействието на БЗНС и БКП в революционното минало и социалистическото строителство .92 VIH. Спас Т. Райкин. БЗНС „Димитър Гичев'. В защита на политическата идеология на традиционния БЗНС. „Тайната реч" на Петър Танчев .109 IX. Хелзинки и международния детант .143 X. Ескалация на кризата в БЗНС „Д. Гичев" . І54 Xi. Тончо Тенев до Спас Райкин: „И ти ли Бруте, сине мой4· .180 ХИ. Криза в Българската синодална църква. . Î95 ХШ. Примирие в БЗНС „Д. Гнчев" пред нова буря . 2Ì 3 XIV. Злополучната недомислена покана и нейните последствия .237 XV. Разцепление в БЗНС „Д-Гичев" (1 януари 1978 η). .259 XVÍ. Aposteriori . , .297 XVII. От „Стожер" до „Свободно земеделско знаме* .321 XVHÏ. „Свободно земеделско знаме'1 .371 XIX. Коментари по политиката и философията на „Свободно земеделско знаме" и редактора Спас Т. Райкин. Полемика с Иван Иванов, и Д-р Стоил Стоилов .,.386 XX. Десети ноември 1989 г. Ревизионизм, дворцов преврат и компрометиране на демокрацията в България .,.408 ПРИЛОЖЕНИЯ 1. EPILOG.434 2. Преосмисляне на настоящето, миналото и бъдещето на БЗНС. Разговор със Слав Пеев.,, .446 3. Илюстрации .469 ПРИЛОЖЕНИЯ EPILOG I am near the end of my „A Political Journey Against the Winds of the XX Century." Volume XII over which I am still working, without being sure whether I will or will not publish it, is entirely dedicated to the Schism in the Bulgarian Orthodox Church andits political implications. I came out in opposition to this illegal and non canonical intervention by the government in the affairs of the church and expressed this opposition in numerous interviews, essays and documents published in the Bulgarian press. All my activities in this crisis fall in the scope of this „Journey." - the last phase of my participation in Bulgarian public affairs. On this occasion, things being as they are, before closing the last pages of this undertaking, I would like to cast one more look on my past and revisit some moments mentioned all along in the volumes, which moments and events have pierced my memory and oftensurface in my mind as unhealed wounds. , Too often I am reliving a painful scene having taken place close to eight decades in the past, when I was six or seven years old. The village tax collector, Peter Manev, accompanied by two cops with bayonets affixed to their carbines, were paying a service visit to our poor house - to collect unpaid taxes. The scene was played in front of our old dilapidated home. My mother was sobbing and wiping her tears with her kerchief. I was holding,to her skirt - flabbergasted and staring at the cops, with wide open eyes. Tears were running down my face. My father, angry, humiliated, unshaved, in his raggedy old fashion trousers and his worn out hat, and with eyes shooting arrows at the tax collector, shouted: „Take it, take all whatever you could find." The cops ran up the steps into the house to search for valuable house items. Minutes later they came out carrying the wooden flask (one gallon) which he used to take drinking water when working in the fields, and the two buckets my mother was using to bring water from the street corner water fountain. What else could they take, the wooden spoons we used to eat with or the wooden bowls where our cooked food was served - or the worn out home-made worn out blankets we used to sleep in? March, 1944. The war was coming to its end and the Soviet armies were close to the Bulgarian border. We, all the high school students, were on extended „vacation." The schools in Plovdiv were in recess on account of the air raids. The nearby mountain above our vil- 434 lage were ruil of partisans. A military unit was quartered in our village to fight them. It was rumored that over there, in the mountains, the military and the partisans were fighting. In the course of a battle an 18 years old boy, a partisan, had been killed. The military had decapitated him and had brought their trophy to the village. They had exhibited the bloody head on a sidewalk, opposite the municipal building in the street dust and dirt. That day, the leader of the government youth organization, Brannik, had appointed a lecture for us at the local school. We, over twenty students, from the public high schools and the Seminary, were on our way to the school for the lecture when someone suggested that we should go and see the exhibit of the severed head. Most of the students were secretly members of the Communist youth organization -the RMS. For them this was a way to honor the dead hero of their Party. The severed head was covered with dry black blood - a cluster of hair over the face. My stomach turned at this horrible sight. I could not look more at this inhumanity. Nor could I say anything. It was inhumanity at its worst. An hour later, listening to the speech of the Brannik leader, I turned to the street and noticed a soldier with fixed bayonet to lead a gypsy toward the village hole for dead animals. The gypsy was dragging the head of t\|ie young man tied to a wire. The lecture ended with a call of the speaker: „This is the road we have to follow," I could not refrain and almost shouted: „I could not follow this road!" Confused, the speaker asked me why I could not follow this road. I avoided giv¬ ing him the dangerous for me answer and whispered: ^Because I have no shoes!" Indeed, I did not have shoes. I had on my feet wooden bottoms covered with the face of old shoes. The class applauded rne. Later on, this incident was not going to be forgotten and, perhaps, it saved my skin. (See vol. 2, Rebel. pp. 161-163). June, 1944. A horrible hail storm hit the village and destroyed the harvest of the peas¬ ants, Somebody sought me for a temporary job in the municipal building to make a list of alJ peasants who had been hit, for possible compensation. I accepted the appointment, and, as it turned out, I was doing a good job and often I was asked to do other secretarial work. • The minimal pay was a sweet bonus for me in those difficult days. The municipal building was themain headquarters of the military unit,- The mountains above the village were full of partisans. Mayor of the village wasMitiuKraevski, from one of the wealthy families, auniver- sity graduate. It turned out that he was secretly a communist. During some arguments with the brother of the priest at a observation post against partisans he had shot him dead. And he was coming to Church - where I was chanting - and attending the liturgy served by the priest. One day Mitiu called me in his office and asked me to go and seek the wayward Todor Zlatarev, to ask him for his binoculars and go across the river, in the „Borchetata" - a small forest of pine trees - lie down and watch for partisans. Zlatarev was not home. His wife, frightened, sent me away. I had the feeling that she was lying to me. Ï was torned inside by doubts about the mission I was charged with, I went to see my father working in our cornfield near the village, I do not remember what I told him and what he told me. I went back to the office and told the mayor of not having found Zlatarev. He brushed it aside as if it was nothing to be concerned about. One hour later Mutiu called me again for another mission. He told me that there was nobody around, so he asked me to go to the house of my neighbor, Marin Pehlivanov, a high school student, and ask him to come and see him. Baba Marmitsa, Marin 's grand mother, and his mother, appeared at the house door, I gave them message, they were on the verge of 435 breaking down, told me that he -was not home. I returned to the office and reported what had happened. Again Mitiu brushed it aside as not important. An hour later, from the adjacent secretarial room, I heard Marin entering the Mayor's office and breaking down in loud cry. Mitiu was trying to reassure him. The next day I went to work and waited for the Mayor to come. As soon as he sat in his chair, I walked in and tended orally my resignation. He did not try to dissuade me. I was afraid to perform the tasks which I was being charged with. I did not think at that time that Mitiu and the partisans had set a trap for me, to catch me in the „Borchetata," and then, God knows what they would have done to me. July 21,1944. My village was occupied by the Communist partisans. They called a public meeting at the Municipal building. I, two other boys and Todor Vassilev, my neighbor and friend, known by his nickname „The Fuhrer," were going to the meeting. On the way we were met by two partisans - with machine guns held as ready to shoot. Some twenty feet close to us they stopped, pointed the guns at us and shouted: „Stop! Hands up!" As we held our hands up, they approached us, waved to the others to continue and focused on me. I stared at the barrel of the gun pointed in my face some two feet away. Pariapansky, leader of the partisans from my village, was looking in my eyes with a bitter contempt, while the second partisan was tying my hands behind my back. They asked me to turn around and hit me in the back with their guns to walk faster. Further down they walked in a house to ask for bread and cheese. Baba Petkovitsa, the old grandmother in the family, was frightened and standing on the side. While the second partisan went in the house to look for goods, I mustered all the courage which I could and told Pariapansky: „Georgi, I am not what you think I am. Ask Yovcho and he will tell you whatl am." Yovcho was a high school student, a communist, one of my close friends with whom I used to discuss freely politics. He would tell them the truth about me. Georgy untied my hands and sent me to the meeting. I was shattered by this event. At the end of the meeting Yovcho sought me and offered that we both join the partisans. I declined and told him to go. He did, and, as Τ understood in a few days, he had persuaded Pariapansky that I was not an enemy. One evening they came back to my house, and I spent one and ahalf hour in the chilly night listening to their kind of politics, agreeing with them and frightened to death, shaking inside of me, but trying to act normally - as best as I could, Yovcho was sent to the front and on October 13 was killed in a battle with the Germans at Stratsin. September 9,1944. 1 have written at length how I lived through this day in my „Rebel with a Just Cause" vol. 2, pp. 179-184. During this day 1 was again faced with the barrel of a machine gun. This time it was Koicho Koev, another young partisan from a neighboring village. We had been clashing with him on several occasions on many debatable issues. On this occasion, pointing the gun at me, hé said: ^Either you will walk on the right path, or this is what you should expect." Petko Ogoiski, in his „Notes on the Bulgarian sufferings," vol. 1, p. 229, has written of this young man, with whom they were locked in the same prison and has quoted him as having said: jtAgamst the Communists we have to have a free hand at least one month with two machine guns in hands and a knife in our mouth when they fall from power." Koicho had lost his mind in jail, , , 436 October &\ 1944. In the evening í was walking with friends in the crowds on main street - „The sturgalo" - as it was called, a traditional evening promenade in the village. I do not re¬ member who was with me. Passing by the old megdan (central square) amidst a mass of people, suddenly I saw myself waking behind two men with carbines held low, horizontally. Between them was Marin Papaza, former keeper of the village bulls. His hands were tied behind his back and a jacket was put over his shoulders, It could not hide the tied hands. The incidentmade me freeze. 1 slowed down. Further up, passing by the municipal building - it was dark - 1 looked at the room of the Tax collector. Suddenly the lights went on, I looked there and saw the priest with hand on the switch. He waved as for a greeting and instantly turned the light off. This gesture was meant for me. He must have seen me coming. He was locked in that room. That evening he, the priest, Marin Papaza and four other men were murdered. Among them was Koicho Manevski (The „professor" of the village). He had taken personal inter¬ est in me and was instrumental in my going to study in the seminary. In a way, he played a critical role in what I became and what I am today. Without his help I would have been left to chase sheep and cows for the rest of my life. I owed him a lot. Rumors had it that the execution has been done with brutal cruelty. They have been buried in a common grave. Before killing the priest, the murderers had cut his right hand and tongue and had asked him to cross himself and perform a funeral service for the others. Among those killed was also a cousin of mine, 24 years old. When they were about to bury them, he had screamed that he was still alive and begged to be killed. Then the brother of Mitiu Kraevski, the mayor I mentioned before (He was still the mayor) had gone to him and split his head with a pick. The morning after I went to the municipal building to sign for the annual harvest of wood from the forest I had no idea what had happened. I saw Parlapansky sleeping on a bench, with his boots covered with mud. Later on I heard that when they had been discussing whom they should kill, my name had been on the list. The Party Secretary, Tsaniu Aksiyski, had saved me. He has told them that killing a child would not go well with the people. At that time I was going out with his daughter, Vidka. December 15, 1944. About 8.00 o'clock in the evening someone knocked at our door. My father went out and came back to telí me that they have come to arrest me. I presented myself to the visitors, all armed with carbines party-men, all my neighbors: the father of Marin, Stahia, by nick name Gichev, the father of Georgi Pehlivanov, Diado {Grand fa¬ ther) Nacho, and Ivan Pâtura. They tied my hands behind my back and escorted me to the municipal building. As soon as I was ushered in the room of the Ordinary (an all around village officer), someone from another village grabbed me and shouted at me: „Is it you, hubostniko, (derogatory in Bulgarian for „handsom man") are going to fight the Party?" He slapped me with all his force in the face. My seminarian cap flew somewhere. I never saw it again. There followed other slaps and punches with fists. They kept asking me who had told me to join the Bulgarian Agrarian National Union (BANU). What could I tell them, when Г did it without talking to anybody, except the of¬ ficials of the BANU who were part of the governing coalition? It turned out that sometimes in October, while standing on the street, I had engaged in conversation with a young man passing through the village, organizer of the Young Agrarians. We discovered that we had 437 mutual friends. This young man - 1 learned later- had been a legionary (a youth organiza¬ tion, of nationalists, with pro-Nazi leanings). I had been a legionary for two-three weeks in the fall of 1943 (See vol. 2, „Rebel with a Just Cause." p. 132-135) And, as it appeared, there has been such order by the underground leadership of the Legion tojóin the BANU. This was not the case with me, but whom could I convince ofthat at this time? In vain I tried to cooperate, but to no avail. My incidental meeting with the young man was never mentioned. There followed slaps, kicks, and punches. I fell to the floor. The beating continued. At end they dragged me to the door and pushed me down the steps in the basement. There were already close to fifty people there. But they had not been beaten - except for Kuncho, brother of the murdered priest. They had asked him to jump out of the window where others, stationed outside, would have shot him for trying to escape. He had resisted and was not forced further. The days that followed were a painful test for survival for me. For two days I could not get up. My father had brought a home made blanket and had passed it through the basement window. Someone had picked it, spread it on the ground and had covered me with the half of it. They called me again for questioning, I struggled to make the steps up and down, but I was no longer mistreated. It was mostly lecturing me. My poor left leg was stiff, I could not bend it. I felt the pain for months. During these four days I had a chance to see expressions of a deep human compassion by a stranger, and a hurtful betrayal by a friend. Among those arrested was the former Director of the village school Peter V, Zidev. One day his wife brought him lunch. She was allowed to the top of the steps to see him. I was sitting on the steps below them. She looked at me, smiled, surreptitiously, reached to the paper bag, picked an apple and gave it to me - again with a worm smile, For two days I had not eaten a thing. I will never forget how delicious this little apple was and how deeply was I touched by her warm smile. And then, all of a sudden, I broke down crying. I felt sorry for myself. I never forgot the delicious apple and the compassionate smile of this lady, whom I had never met before, gave me. One of these days there appeared at the top of the steps my old friend Georgi Nachev Pehlivanov. With Georgi we were the same age. We had grown as children together, in the same neighborhood. As kids we played together, shared the joys of the childhood and as we were growing we discussed all sorts of problems in the spirif of friendship. In the Middle School we were in the same class and competed in our scholarship, but always in the spirit of friendship. After the Middle School he went on to study in Plovdiv and I stayed in the village as neighborhood shepherd and cow-herdsman. In the spring of 1939 I ventured to find a job in Plovdiv. Someone arranged for me to work for a businessman selling coffee beans. I was to stay at his home and help with baking the beans. The very first morning when he asked me to stir the baked beans in a large wooden frame. At one point I thought that it was no longer necessary to stir. He flew from somewhere shouting at me: „You, lazy bum* stir, you aro going to ruin my coffee beans." I felt wounded. I could be called anything, but not a lazy bum. Then he let me go and watch the parade. It was St. George Day. I did, but I deoided to give up my job and return to the village. I went to the house, picked my things and went to the bus station. There I found George. We had a long conversation. He urged me to do anything and go to school. I was encouraged. After graduating from High School George went to serve in the army and then in the School for reserve officers. In the summer of 1944 he was stationed in the village of Rozo- vets as commander of a military unit to fight with the partisans. But recently I read a book about these times, showing him in secret contacts with them, while simulating that he was on the Government side. In those days, in 1944,1 have heard that he was a member of the 438 Ratnik organization - an ultra-fascist movement. It a]] became clear when the Communists came to power. And so had he. This December day, when I was in the basement-jail, he appeared at the top of the steps, „to enjoy us," in his military uniform and his carbine. He sat on the top step - 1 was sitting at the bottom step - rested his carbine between his legs, pointing to the ceiling, and as he was caressing it up and down, turned to me: „Do you want to hear Hristo Statev tonight? He is going to speak on Radio „Donau." Statev was former Cabinet minister and represen¬ tative in the National Assembly of our electoral district. He was a National-Liberal, having escaped to the West, where he was a member of the Nazi-appointed Bulgarian Government in Vienna. I was shocked by this provocation coming from George. Was this the appropriate thing 1 had to hear from this old friend of mine in this dire moment of my life? Be that as it may! I got up, did not look at him and moved away Years passed. 1 met him on the street in Zelenikovo. We greeted each other. He congratu¬ lated me for some articles I had published in the daily press. He approved of my views. Told me they had read the pieces in their officers meeting. But he did nor seek me for a conversa* tion. In fact, he avoided meeting me when I was going to pass by his house a few days later. He fled inside. I had decided to seek him when I would go back to Bulgaria. Unfortunately» he had died in the meantime. On St. Nicholas Day, December 19*, we were freed. During the night my father liad dreamed me decapitated and had cried as never in his life. He came to fetch me with the car pulled by two cows. I was lying in the car. In mid-village, at the middle square, someone leaned over the car, looked atme and invited me to jump in the waiting buses to go to Plovdiv where Dr. G. M. Dimitrov was to hold a public meeting. I turned away and did not answer. Three buses were lined up for this occasion. Not one soul joined in, The whole affair with our arrest had been staged to frighten us not to go to that meeting. November 24,1947. My reply to a letter of Marin. At that time the Communist Party was conducting a campaign to win people like me for their cause. Apparently Marin Pehlivanov had been charged to work on my case. I had received a letter from him. Forty five years later, when I returned to Bulgaria, he came to see me As we were talking, he pulled out a folded bunch of sheets. I recognized my handwriting, picked it from his hands and tucked in my inner pocket. He asked to have it back. Told him that I will keep it and publish it in my memoires. At that time I had no intention of publishing anything, I did not remember what I had written and instantly thought that there may be something that could be used against me. But years later, when the tíme came, I remembered this letter, I had hard tíme locating it. But I found it and published it in „Rebel with a Just Cause," under title „Tempt¬ ing the Devil," pp. 241248. This was the first document surviving from my past, I could not quote if. in extenso here. It is very long. In substance it was a forcefìil defense of my right to be independent and to state my opinions without bending before any authorities I have written there: „Even if it is considered immodest, I dare affirm that I have always formed my own opinions on all questions, not accepting completely the opinions of anybody, any time and any place, always seeking to form my own opinions independently from others. (In the margin Marin had written: „Like the speech at the Brannik's meeting.") I hope that this has been noted. If it had not been understood by now, the future, sure, will confirm it" (How true this has been all my life!) The five volumes published in 1993 and these eleven 439 volumes certainly confirm this defense of my independence in 1947, at the time of the worst persecution of free thought - which was intertwined with my destiny in exile. March, 1950. 1 was drafted to serve my military duty in the Labor troops at Bezmer, Yambol District, to build a military airport-presently used by the American air forces. One day In the month of August, we were assigned to unload a train of 10 cars - each one loaded with three hundred bags of cement, each one of 50 kilos This was thé worst assignment coming every two or three days at any time of the 24-hours day. On this occasion, as I was stepping forward to stand at the door, so two men in the wagon were to toss a 50 kilos bag of cement, the passenger train pulled next to us. I looked up and saw several of my fellow students from Sofia - clean, refreshed, comfortable and engaged in some pleasant discus¬ sion. They were all priests. I stepped out of the line, and ran into the train. I reached them and we had a brief excited exchange. They were clean, comfortable, seemingly without a care m the world. I was covered with cement - ířom the top of my head to my toes, dirty, filthy, a pitiful and miserable figure. They were flabbergasted and glared at me. I was a pathetic figure. I saw it in their faces, they were shocked. A signal was given for the train to start moving, I ran out and back on the line to accept my charge. But it was not goin.g to be. Something exploded in me, I jumped into the wagon and ran to the rear. I leaned on the wall, slouched down on the flor, covered my face and gave fìlli vent to my humiliation in hitter weep. I could not stop it. It was a volcano of self-pity and grief. I felt that I had fallen in hell and saw no reason why I am in this pit. My friends whom I just saw knew me as a young scholar, a man with great future in the world of Academia, they had observed me day and night over a dozen of open books in the school library, in the National Library, in the University Library, 1 was reading, researching and writing my thesis on Sogomilism. I was highly respected by faculty and students. What a pitiful figure they saw now standing before them! What a pitiful figure I felt myself now - a miserable man, as a convict in penal servitude. What evil fate had befallen upon me! I heard a worker of the group telling the others: „don't touch the man, let him cry it out! We are illiterate peasants, but why they have brought here this man of letters?" 29 January, 1951. In 1990, in January, twomonths after the ф11 of communism, I received a package from Stockholm, Sweden. I was surprised. I.did not know anybody in that coun¬ try I opened it. There was a grey notebook inside of it. It did not remind me of anything. I looked at the first page inside. Up on the right comer was a date, 29 1. 195 1, followed by a text in my handwriting - forty years back. Now I remembered what it was all about. As I was waiting to be recalled back to continue my military service in the labor troops, I had sat down and written my story as a labor-soldier at Bezmer. I will quote here the first page: „INTRODUCTION. As I am beginning to describe my suffering in the Besmçr penal servitude camp, I am afraid that I will not be able to complete this projeci This thing aside, my inability to tell stories, and the dangers that this notebook may fali into hostile hands any time (these two words are crossed), may make me thrpw away the pen. Nevertheless, for my own peace of 440 mind I will continue. If times one day change and it becomes possible such writings to see the light of the day, many may be marveled at my audacity. But let the times change, let the new people in the far off future never live through what we have, then." This text of the first page is published as a photostate. The original text of the whole story is spread over 167 pages. It is published in vol. I, Rebel -with a Just Cause, pp. 296-340. This notebook, with all my valuable books, I had taken to my aunt Plina before leaving to report for duty in the service - in the beginning of March, 1950 - for a safe keeping. After my escape it has been passed to a cousin's son, Todor Bamburov, High School teacher. He had given me notebook to his sister who had married a Kurd and emigrated to Sweden. So, she was the one who sent me the package, With the priceless story of my martyrdom at Bczmer. Some times the ways of God are invisible. This is how this manuscript has survived. Beginning of March, 1951. 1 received order to report for duty in the military labor service at Balchik - some 40 to 50 km north of Varna. The day I was leaving I went to. the field, to Baidachka, to see my father and my brother Stoiu -18 years old. I embraced him and kissed him on the forehead above the eyes. It never crossed my mind that this was the last time I was seeing him for the next 40 years. I never forgot this kiss- And all these 40 years I haye been praying for him. He passed away on May 11, this year, 2007. May 5,1951. About 8.00 p.m. I, Zdravko and Stefan hid in the bushes some 150' in front of our barracks, in a slope toward the town. We had to take the final decision - to defect from service with intent to escape from the country - or to stay put. We wrote on two pieces of paper „Yes!" and „No!" We repeated the drawing three times. Twice it was „Yes!" The dye was cast! The next day, St. George Day, while all other men of our unit went to the town baths, we slipped out of the camp surreptitiously, and off we went on our way to Varna. That morning, at a camp meeting, we were singled out as saboteurs and punished - transferred to another unit with much harder work. These were our first step to. Exile, The story of our adventure is published in the „Rebel with a Just Cause/1 under subtitle „Escape from Hell.'" pp. 363-394. There is more on the subject in vol. 3, „State Security.,Dossier „Deserters," some 336 documents coppied for me in 1995 by officials of the Government office in charge of them, and published by me. May 8,1951. From Balchik to Varna by foot, from Varna to Plovdiv by train, and from there, led by members of the underground organization „I am a Bulgarian," we were left to spend the night in the wheat fields along the Komatevsko Shosse, near Plovdiv, and a little forest next to them. After two days of confusion; in the middle of the night, four men from the organization found us and gave us guns -r- carbines, bombs and sets of ammunition. I was given a small Turkish - or who knows what - carbine, with cut barrel. It was refitted by a local smith. May be because physically I was very weak and would not be able to handle a heavy gun I was given this antique. Still, the little veteran was good enough to scare any enemy, though after firing one shot, it was not good for a second one. I discovered that after we crossed the border and I tried it. So, we were now armed guerrillas. Our guardian angels led us to the mountain bivouac where we were to settle down. We were walking in a pitch dark night. We were avoiding to follow any roads, but charging through brushes, forests, 441 borders, plowed grounds and fallow lands. I could not see where I was stepping, here and there I would trip, but recover and follow the group of seven. and holding fast to the small carbine as my saviour. As we were walking along a border between two properties covered with overgrown weeds, and I was struggling to keep pace, I was seized by some strong feelings never ex¬ perienced before. It was exhilarating. I could not say what it was, but now, thinking of it, I see it similar to the experience of St. Paul on the road to Damascus. I felt as if a curtain fell from my own eyes, as if some big burden fell from my shoulders. In a moment everything changed in me. I was a new man - as if some evil spirit flew out of my body and I was liberated from its tyranny. For years I had lived in fear, in depression, feeling that all the time something was going to fall over me. Now, all of a sudden, all the fear that had been oppressing me instantly vanished. This evil spirit had entered in my body the day of July 21,1944. when I was staring at the barrel of the machine gun pointed at me. And all this happened while I was holding fast to my little carbine. I felt that I had defeated all those who have been persecuting me. They no longer had any power over me, and, if they showed up, they might kill me, but before that I would have taken one of them with me. I felt that I did not have to crawl helplessly on my belly before them in order to save my poor little soul. And, all this exhilaration was due to this little piece in my hands. Never before, and never after, had I have such experience. May 11,1951. We settled in a bivouac over the village of Markovo, in a brook known as Haidut Dere (Bandits brook), also known as Manchovoto. Few steps up from the running water was a huge boulder, and under it a narrow awning, where we could hide from rain. Vasil Atanasov, a corporal from the 9lh Plovdiv Regimenti and his pregnant wife María, sister of Stephen, one of the three fugitives from Balehik, were to stay with us. We escaped from Balchik with the understanding that the organization was to help us to cross the border. Soon it became clear that the intent of the organization was to form a guerrilla group to fight the communists. There was nothing we could do to change that. Vasil was the key protagonist for such plans. So, this is why he stayed with us. The next day, he took me on the side and whispered to me> He and his wife were going to go back to Plovdiv and organize other people tojóin us. So, he appointed me as leader of the group, Komandir. My God, I a Komandir? I did not say anything. I never told Zdravko and Stefan that I was the Komandir. We never saw Vasil again. Days after that he was arrested. Now I look at the whole thing as a parody. But given the political and historical context of the affair I see it now in much different perspective. I could stand and face those who ques¬ tion the cause of liberation that I have given my due for that cause, and it is more than what the accommodationists have done. None of us had ever held a gun. Never had we thought of becoming guerrillas. Our intent was to defect from Bulgaria through the border. We started from Balchik on the assumption that they had made arrangements to that effect, After Vasil left us, we had to wander forty four days in the mountains without a clear idea what was going to happen to us. But we never gave up the idea of going for the border. I will not tell here the rest of the story. It is in „Rebel with a Just cause," pp. 363-394. A week or so after that, spent in painful waiting and crushed hopes for going for the border, having been told that we will stay in the mountains and fight the communists, sink- 442 ,ig in deep disillusionment, but not in despair, late an evening, I climbed up the rock, sat jn the top with head resting upon my fist under the chin, and stared over the vast Thracian plain around and beyond Plovdiv. I was looking at the dozen or more villages around the city, glittering in light in the darkness of night -like small islands of life. I sought to see Zeienilcovo, but it was far away in the slopes of Sriadna Gora. I was gazing over Plovdiv. It was surpassing everything that was visible in the darkness of night, I was awed over the brilliant sprawling blanket of lights, I was imagining the life that was going on under this fairy landscape. I was thinking of the throngs of young men and women, of kids and parents, happy, going in and walking out of sweet shops, devouring ice cream, laughing, conversing, strolling without a care in their minds. And me? I was free in this wilderness. Free? I was hiding in these raggedy bushes like a wild beast where only the night darkness, the mystery of the forest and the craggy rocks were protectors of my freedom. Oh, how would I like to be there, in their world of tyranny, rather in this world of my freedom? I would have loved to walk with friends along the Djumaia street of Plovdiv, rather be sitting on this rock. But, it was not to he! Like the Aesop's dog, I have chosen to be free, but in misery - rather than live like the well fed dog of the wealthy master, with his neck rubbed by the leash- The lucky dog invited his friend, whom he had met in the forest while returning home after an escape, to avail himself to the generosity of his master, but the poor stray dog, looking at his bare neck, Declined to follow him. After long contemplations I returned down where my friends were already sleeping. This contemplation on the rock never faded in my memories. June 19,1951. We had reached the border. I could hardly stand on my legs - of hunger, weakness, exhaustion, physically reduced to a remnant of a man, but still in good spirits and unshakable hope that the hour of salvation would come. We sat down for a rest. The border was some three hundred feet up the slope. In a few minutes we would be crossing. It was about 4.00 p.m. I left the group to fetch some fresh water. While I was out of view I fell on my knees and prayed with all my heart to God.and the Holy Mother to extend their hand over us. In ten minutes we were at the crest of themountain. We were hiding in the bushes while surveying the place. A lawn of some one hundred feet wide was in front of us - covered with overgrown grass, We looked to the East and looked to the West - where we had jpticed the military posts. We saw no living soul. And we charged across - with all the speed that, we could muster. I never stopped looking East and West, running with the last ounce of my strength. In a minute or so we were on the other side, again behind bushes. We flew over this dreaded border, guarded by soldiers, dogs, electrical charges - and it was all ip the middle of a clear day. The rest of it, from here on, is a history I have told in eleven volumes published so far - including this one, ; How many times during the past forty years in my dreams I saw myself back in Bul¬ garia, chased by „them," trying to capture me, and ran as fast as I could towards the border, crippled by fear.,, and would awake in sweat,.not opening my eyes to digest the reality, the awareness that it was not,true,that I was not in Bulgaria, that it was a dream. October 1966, Potsdam, N.Y., near the Canadian border. This was the.third year in г academic profession, at,the Sitate University of New York. The faculty in the Departir» of History were trying to introduce team teaching. AH of us had to deliver a lecture to all freshmen. It was my turn. I was assigned a topic the Hundred Years War. 1 took my position at the podium, ready to start. I looked at the Vast auditorium where some 5-600 pairs of eyes were focused ön me. On the front row was the entire faculty of the department. Instantly my whole life flashed in my mind - from the mud house where I grew, the sheep I had been shepherdof, my slave labor days, my partisan days, all the mishaps in my life. Instantly I experienced the glory of victory over the winds with which I had fought to reach this place. The rest, from that day, to this day, is a history of which I am proud of. Sitting on the patio behind my house in America, this day, July 1 б"1, next to a deck of flower garlands cared for by my wife, I am putting an end of all these memories by which I have lived through over eight decades - in Bulgaria and abroad. . ' Let me finish this look at the past with a few more remarks. In the sixteen volumes I have published so far - five volumes of „Political Problems of the Bulgarian Public Abroad;" (1993) and eleven volumes of „A Political Journey Against the Winds of the XX Century" (2000-2007) -1 have collected a huge amount of documentation, essays, articles, reports, resolutions - all that I have Written, published, and spoken in my public activities in exile. Among all these materials I consider as most important the following items - where I have expressed my deepest convictions: - My letter to Marin Pehlivanov, 24 November, 1947, vol. 2,242-248. - Trudovak, notes on my military service in the labor troops at Bezmer, 29 January 1951 vol. 2, pp. 295-340. - Escape from Hell, notes on my partisan days, б may -19 June 1951, pp, 363-394. - My letter to Prof. Liubomir Delineshev, „To a professor accommodatsionist," „Polit¬ icheski Problemi." Vol.2, pp. 496-502. - My letter to Bishop Parteniy, dated 1 December, 1965, published in „Politicheski Problem!.," vol. 3, pp. 83-88, under title „What the Bulgarian Exiles Expect from the Clergy of the Holy Synod in Bulgaria and Abroad." - Article, „BANU and the Political Crisis in Bulgaria. The „Secret Speech" of Petar Tanchev at the Plenum of thè Central Committee of the BCP." „Politicheski Prob¬ lemi." vol. 2, pp. 27-67, re-published in this volume. "" ' !, - „The Washington Declaration'- - adopted at the 7l11 Congress of the BNF on 31 Marcii, 1963, „APolitical Journey." vol. 9, pp, 254- 256. At the end, I want to mention the names of some public figures with whom I have worked for many years and who have left lasting memories in my mind - with the good which I re¬ member or the disappointment which I have suffered - more or less. In the first place, І will mention Dr. Kalin Koíchev who introduced me to Bulgarian exile politics and with whom we served with profound dedication the common cause to which we had dedicated ourselves to - until he betrayed that cause. Nçvertheless, I bave kept most cherished memories of him and do not condemn him. for anything that he did at the end of his political career. Side by side with him, I will mention Dr. Georgi Paprikov, who stood like a rock upholding our cause for the liberation of Bulgaria. Both of them passed away within a month in the spring of 1984. 1 could not say the same for Dr.-Ivan Dochev with whom I worked shoulder to shoulder for over 40 forty years, but at the end he stained my memories of him by publishing 444 unworthy statements at my expense - not an honorable act for a Bulgarian leader in exile. I have less to say about Toncho Tenev, former Director of Pernik coal mines, and Member of the Bulgarian Parliament in the group of BAND led by Nikola Petkov. In exile he claimed to represent and be spokesman for the policies and philosophy of Dimitar Gichev, which led me to associate with him. I could say more about his brother Zhecho with whom we repre¬ sented with dignity the gichevism in exile. I have even more to say about Hrisio Konovski, about his pomposity, yet his generous sacrifice of time and money for the publication of our periodical „Free Agrarian Banner." I will not speak of our elite in exile. Intellectual poor, but highly pretentious in immigrant circles, masters of impudent snobbism and opportunists to the marrow of their bones. In seeking the fat little bone, they were ready to sell the Bulgarian cause to the lowest bidder. There ís no Bulgarian institution abroad which, in the second half of the XX century, to show some face on the public forum. The Monarchy, in the person of ex-king Simeon Saxcobur- gotsy, turned out to be a dead branch, unable to grow one little green seedling in order to attract the Bulgarian community. The Bulgarian Orthodox Church had entangled itself with the Macedonian Political Organization (MPO) around the „Macedonian Tribune" of Ivan Mihailov, and dishonored the authority of the institution as a spiritual and cultural leader of the Bulgarians abroad. The foreign organizations, richly subsidized by their respective governments to broadcast to Bulgaria, openly refused to embrace the Bulgarian cause and created obstacles, instead of encouraging Bulgarian activities abroad. Only on the political stage the two leading forces in exile - The Bulgarian National Front - where was the base of my public activities - and the Bulgarian National Committee of Dr. G. M. Dimitrov - were showing that the Bulgarian spirit was still alive. At long last, I have to mention my closest and most loyal friend in Exile - Borislav Ivanov - one time Secretary of Ivan Mihailov, and Editor of his Memoirs and „Macedonian Tribune." Regrettably I have to mention that in the whirlewind of the political conflicts. I lost my other close friend - Radi Slavoff. Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania Spas T. Raikin 1 September 2007 :
adam_txt	СЪДЪРЖАНИЕ ПОСЛЕСЛОВ .1 ПРЕДГОВОР .7 Ï. Борба за контрол на църквата в Ню Йорк .,. í її. БЗНС „Димитър Гичев'^в Ню Йорк .33 Ш. „Новата политика1' на Тончо Тенев и Калин Койчев .44 ÏV. Св. Синод вето кандидатурата ми за свещеник .65 V. БЗНС „Д. Гичев" в чужбина на политически кръстопът .76 VI. Българската комунистическа партия за БЗНС .86 VIS. Петър Танчев за единодействието на БЗНС и БКП в революционното минало и социалистическото строителство .92 VIH. Спас Т. Райкин. БЗНС „Димитър Гичев'. В защита на политическата идеология на традиционния БЗНС. „Тайната реч" на Петър Танчев .109 IX. Хелзинки и международния детант .143 X. Ескалация на кризата в БЗНС „Д. Гичев" . І54 Xi. Тончо Тенев до Спас Райкин: „И ти ли Бруте, сине мой4· .180 ХИ. Криза в Българската синодална църква. . Î95 ХШ. Примирие в БЗНС „Д. Гнчев" пред нова буря . 2Ì 3 XIV. Злополучната недомислена покана и нейните последствия .237 XV. Разцепление в БЗНС „Д-Гичев" (1 януари 1978 η). .259 XVÍ. Aposteriori . , .297 XVII. От „Стожер" до „Свободно земеделско знаме* .321 XVHÏ. „Свободно земеделско знаме'1 .371 XIX. Коментари по политиката и философията на „Свободно земеделско знаме" и редактора Спас Т. Райкин. Полемика с Иван Иванов, и Д-р Стоил Стоилов .,.386 XX. Десети ноември 1989 г. Ревизионизм, дворцов преврат и компрометиране на демокрацията в България .,.408 ПРИЛОЖЕНИЯ 1. EPILOG.434 2. Преосмисляне на настоящето, миналото и бъдещето на БЗНС. Разговор със Слав Пеев.,, .446 3. Илюстрации .469 ПРИЛОЖЕНИЯ EPILOG I am near the end of my „A Political Journey Against the Winds of the XX Century." Volume XII over which I am still working, without being sure whether I will or will not publish it, is entirely dedicated to the Schism in the Bulgarian Orthodox Church andits political implications. I came out in opposition to this illegal and non canonical intervention by the government in the affairs of the church and expressed this opposition in numerous interviews, essays and documents published in the Bulgarian press. All my activities in this crisis fall in the scope of this „Journey." - the last phase of my participation in Bulgarian public affairs. On this occasion, things being as they are, before closing the last pages of this undertaking, I would like to cast one more look on my past and revisit some moments mentioned all along in the volumes, which moments and events have pierced my memory and oftensurface in my mind as unhealed wounds. , Too often I am reliving a painful scene having taken place close to eight decades in the past, when I was six or seven years old. The village tax collector, Peter Manev, accompanied by two cops with bayonets affixed to their carbines, were paying a service visit to our poor house - to collect unpaid taxes. The scene was played in front of our old dilapidated home. My mother was sobbing and wiping her tears with her kerchief. I was holding,to her skirt - flabbergasted and staring at the cops, with wide open eyes. Tears were running down my face. My father, angry, humiliated, unshaved, in his raggedy old fashion trousers and his worn out hat, and with eyes shooting arrows at the tax collector, shouted: „Take it, take all whatever you could find." The cops ran up the steps into the house to search for valuable house items. Minutes later they came out carrying the wooden flask (one gallon) which he used to take drinking water when working in the fields, and the two buckets my mother was using to bring water from the street corner water fountain. What else could they take, the wooden spoons we used to eat with or the wooden bowls where our cooked food was served - or the worn out home-made worn out blankets we used to sleep in? March, 1944. The war was coming to its end and the Soviet armies were close to the Bulgarian border. We, all the high school students, were on extended „vacation." The schools in Plovdiv were in recess on account of the air raids. The nearby mountain above our vil- 434 lage were ruil of partisans. A military unit was quartered in our village to fight them. It was rumored that over there, in the mountains, the military and the partisans were fighting. In the course of a battle an 18 years old boy, a partisan, had been killed. The military had decapitated him and had brought their trophy to the village. They had exhibited the bloody head on a sidewalk, opposite the municipal building in the street dust and dirt. That day, the leader of the government youth organization, Brannik, had appointed a lecture for us at the local school. We, over twenty students, from the public high schools and the Seminary, were on our way to the school for the lecture when someone suggested that we should go and see the exhibit of the severed head. Most of the students were secretly members of the Communist youth organization -the RMS. For them this was a way to honor the dead hero of their Party. The severed head was covered with dry black blood - a cluster of hair over the face. My stomach turned at this horrible sight. I could not look more at this inhumanity. Nor could I say anything. It was inhumanity at its worst. An hour later, listening to the speech of the Brannik leader, I turned to the street and noticed a soldier with fixed bayonet to lead a gypsy toward the village hole for dead animals. The gypsy was dragging the head of t\|ie young man tied to a wire. The lecture ended with a call of the speaker: „This is the road we have to follow," I could not refrain and almost shouted: „I could not follow this road!" Confused, the speaker asked me why I could not follow this road. I avoided giv¬ ing him the dangerous for me answer and whispered: ^Because I have no shoes!" Indeed, I did not have shoes. I had on my feet wooden bottoms covered with the face of old shoes. The class applauded rne. Later on, this incident was not going to be forgotten and, perhaps, it saved my skin. (See vol. 2, Rebel. pp. 161-163). June, 1944. A horrible hail storm hit the village and destroyed the harvest of the peas¬ ants, Somebody sought me for a temporary job in the municipal building to make a list of alJ peasants who had been hit, for possible compensation. I accepted the appointment, and, as it turned out, I was doing a good job and often I was asked to do other secretarial work. • The minimal pay was a sweet bonus for me in those difficult days. The municipal building was themain headquarters of the military unit,- The mountains above the village were full of partisans. Mayor of the village wasMitiuKraevski, from one of the wealthy families, auniver- sity graduate. It turned out that he was secretly a communist. During some arguments with the brother of the priest at a observation post against partisans he had shot him dead. And he was coming to Church - where I was chanting - and attending the liturgy served by the priest. One day Mitiu called me in his office and asked me to go and seek the wayward Todor Zlatarev, to ask him for his binoculars and go across the river, in the „Borchetata" - a small forest of pine trees - lie down and watch for partisans. Zlatarev was not home. His wife, frightened, sent me away. I had the feeling that she was lying to me. Ï was torned inside by doubts about the mission I was charged with, I went to see my father working in our cornfield near the village, I do not remember what I told him and what he told me. I went back to the office and told the mayor of not having found Zlatarev. He brushed it aside as if it was nothing to be concerned about. One hour later Mutiu called me again for another mission. He told me that there was nobody around, so he asked me to go to the house of my neighbor, Marin Pehlivanov, a high school student, and ask him to come and see him. Baba Marmitsa, Marin 's grand mother, and his mother, appeared at the house door, I gave them message, they were on the verge of 435 breaking down, told me that he -was not home. I returned to the office and reported what had happened. Again Mitiu brushed it aside as not important. An hour later, from the adjacent secretarial room, I heard Marin entering the Mayor's office and breaking down in loud cry. Mitiu was trying to reassure him. The next day I went to work and waited for the Mayor to come. As soon as he sat in his chair, I walked in and tended orally my resignation. He did not try to dissuade me. I was afraid to perform the tasks which I was being charged with. I did not think at that time that Mitiu and the partisans had set a trap for me, to catch me in the „Borchetata," and then, God knows what they would have done to me. July 21,1944. My village was occupied by the Communist partisans. They called a public meeting at the Municipal building. I, two other boys and Todor Vassilev, my neighbor and friend, known by his nickname „The Fuhrer," were going to the meeting. On the way we were met by two partisans - with machine guns held as ready to shoot. Some twenty feet close to us they stopped, pointed the guns at us and shouted: „Stop! Hands up!" As we held our hands up, they approached us, waved to the others to continue and focused on me. I stared at the barrel of the gun pointed in my face some two feet away. Pariapansky, leader of the partisans from my village, was looking in my eyes with a bitter contempt, while the second partisan was tying my hands behind my back. They asked me to turn around and hit me in the back with their guns to walk faster. Further down they walked in a house to ask for bread and cheese. Baba Petkovitsa, the old grandmother in the family, was frightened and standing on the side. While the second partisan went in the house to look for goods, I mustered all the courage which I could and told Pariapansky: „Georgi, I am not what you think I am. Ask Yovcho and he will tell you whatl am." Yovcho was a high school student, a communist, one of my close friends with whom I used to discuss freely politics. He would tell them the truth about me. Georgy untied my hands and sent me to the meeting. I was shattered by this event. At the end of the meeting Yovcho sought me and offered that we both join the partisans. I declined and told him to go. He did, and, as Τ understood in a few days, he had persuaded Pariapansky that I was not an enemy. One evening they came back to my house, and I spent one and ahalf hour in the chilly night listening to their kind of politics, agreeing with them and frightened to death, shaking inside of me, but trying to act normally - as best as I could, Yovcho was sent to the front and on October 13 was killed in a battle with the Germans at Stratsin. September 9,1944. 1 have written at length how I lived through this day in my „Rebel with a Just Cause" vol. 2, pp. 179-184. During this day 1 was again faced with the barrel of a machine gun. This time it was Koicho Koev, another young partisan from a neighboring village. We had been clashing with him on several occasions on many debatable issues. On this occasion, pointing the gun at me, hé said: ^Either you will walk on the right path, or this is what you should expect." Petko Ogoiski, in his „Notes on the Bulgarian sufferings," vol. 1, p. 229, has written of this young man, with whom they were locked in the same prison and has quoted him as having said: jtAgamst the Communists we have to have a free hand at least one month with two machine guns in hands and a knife in our mouth when they fall from power." Koicho had lost his mind in jail, , , 436 October &\ 1944. In the evening í was walking with friends in the crowds on main street - „The sturgalo" - as it was called, a traditional evening promenade in the village. I do not re¬ member who was with me. Passing by the old megdan (central square) amidst a mass of people, suddenly I saw myself waking behind two men with carbines held low, horizontally. Between them was Marin Papaza, former keeper of the village bulls. His hands were tied behind his back and a jacket was put over his shoulders, It could not hide the tied hands. The incidentmade me freeze. 1 slowed down. Further up, passing by the municipal building - it was dark - 1 looked at the room of the Tax collector. Suddenly the lights went on, I looked there and saw the priest with hand on the switch. He waved as for a greeting and instantly turned the light off. This gesture was meant for me. He must have seen me coming. He was locked in that room. That evening he, the priest, Marin Papaza and four other men were murdered. Among them was Koicho Manevski (The „professor" of the village). He had taken personal inter¬ est in me and was instrumental in my going to study in the seminary. In a way, he played a critical role in what I became and what I am today. Without his help I would have been left to chase sheep and cows for the rest of my life. I owed him a lot. Rumors had it that the execution has been done with brutal cruelty. They have been buried in a common grave. Before killing the priest, the murderers had cut his right hand and tongue and had asked him to cross himself and perform a funeral service for the others. Among those killed was also a cousin of mine, 24 years old. When they were about to bury them, he had screamed that he was still alive and begged to be killed. Then the brother of Mitiu Kraevski, the mayor I mentioned before (He was still the mayor) had gone to him and split his head with a pick. The morning after I went to the municipal building to sign for the annual harvest of wood from the forest I had no idea what had happened. I saw Parlapansky sleeping on a bench, with his boots covered with mud. Later on I heard that when they had been discussing whom they should kill, my name had been on the list. The Party Secretary, Tsaniu Aksiyski, had saved me. He has told them that killing a child would not go well with the people. At that time I was going out with his daughter, Vidka. December 15, 1944. About 8.00 o'clock in the evening someone knocked at our door. My father went out and came back to telí me that they have come to arrest me. I presented myself to the visitors, all armed with carbines party-men, all my neighbors: the father of Marin, Stahia, by nick name Gichev, the father of Georgi Pehlivanov, Diado {Grand fa¬ ther) Nacho, and Ivan Pâtura. They tied my hands behind my back and escorted me to the municipal building. As soon as I was ushered in the room of the Ordinary (an all around village officer), someone from another village grabbed me and shouted at me: „Is it you, hubostniko, (derogatory in Bulgarian for „handsom man") are going to fight the Party?" He slapped me with all his force in the face. My seminarian cap flew somewhere. I never saw it again. There followed other slaps and punches with fists. They kept asking me who had told me to join the Bulgarian Agrarian National Union (BANU). What could I tell them, when Г did it without talking to anybody, except the of¬ ficials of the BANU who were part of the governing coalition? It turned out that sometimes in October, while standing on the street, I had engaged in conversation with a young man passing through the village, organizer of the Young Agrarians. We discovered that we had 437 mutual friends. This young man - 1 learned later- had been a legionary (a youth organiza¬ tion, of nationalists, with pro-Nazi leanings). I had been a legionary for two-three weeks in the fall of 1943 (See vol. 2, „Rebel with a Just Cause." p. 132-135) And, as it appeared, there has been such order by the underground leadership of the Legion tojóin the BANU. This was not the case with me, but whom could I convince ofthat at this time? In vain I tried to cooperate, but to no avail. My incidental meeting with the young man was never mentioned. There followed slaps, kicks, and punches. I fell to the floor. The beating continued. At end they dragged me to the door and pushed me down the steps in the basement. There were already close to fifty people there. But they had not been beaten - except for Kuncho, brother of the murdered priest. They had asked him to jump out of the window where others, stationed outside, would have shot him for trying to escape. He had resisted and was not forced further. The days that followed were a painful test for survival for me. For two days I could not get up. My father had brought a home made blanket and had passed it through the basement window. Someone had picked it, spread it on the ground and had covered me with the half of it. They called me again for questioning, I struggled to make the steps up and down, but I was no longer mistreated. It was mostly lecturing me. My poor left leg was stiff, I could not bend it. I felt the pain for months. During these four days I had a chance to see expressions of a deep human compassion by a stranger, and a hurtful betrayal by a friend. Among those arrested was the former Director of the village school Peter V, Zidev. One day his wife brought him lunch. She was allowed to the top of the steps to see him. I was sitting on the steps below them. She looked at me, smiled, surreptitiously, reached to the paper bag, picked an apple and gave it to me - again with a worm smile, For two days I had not eaten a thing. I will never forget how delicious this little apple was and how deeply was I touched by her warm smile. And then, all of a sudden, I broke down crying. I felt sorry for myself. I never forgot the delicious apple and the compassionate smile of this lady, whom I had never met before, gave me. One of these days there appeared at the top of the steps my old friend Georgi Nachev Pehlivanov. With Georgi we were the same age. We had grown as children together, in the same neighborhood. As kids we played together, shared the joys of the childhood and as we were growing we discussed all sorts of problems in the spirif of friendship. In the Middle School we were in the same class and competed in our scholarship, but always in the spirit of friendship. After the Middle School he went on to study in Plovdiv and I stayed in the village as neighborhood shepherd and cow-herdsman. In the spring of 1939 I ventured to find a job in Plovdiv. Someone arranged for me to work for a businessman selling coffee beans. I was to stay at his home and help with baking the beans. The very first morning when he asked me to stir the baked beans in a large wooden frame. At one point I thought that it was no longer necessary to stir. He flew from somewhere shouting at me: „You, lazy bum* stir, you aro going to ruin my coffee beans." I felt wounded. I could be called anything, but not a lazy bum. Then he let me go and watch the parade. It was St. George Day. I did, but I deoided to give up my job and return to the village. I went to the house, picked my things and went to the bus station. There I found George. We had a long conversation. He urged me to do anything and go to school. I was encouraged. After graduating from High School George went to serve in the army and then in the School for reserve officers. In the summer of 1944 he was stationed in the village of Rozo- vets as commander of a military unit to fight with the partisans. But recently I read a book about these times, showing him in secret contacts with them, while simulating that he was on the Government side. In those days, in 1944,1 have heard that he was a member of the 438 Ratnik organization - an ultra-fascist movement. It a]] became clear when the Communists came to power. And so had he. This December day, when I was in the basement-jail, he appeared at the top of the steps, „to enjoy us," in his military uniform and his carbine. He sat on the top step - 1 was sitting at the bottom step - rested his carbine between his legs, pointing to the ceiling, and as he was caressing it up and down, turned to me: „Do you want to hear Hristo Statev tonight? He is going to speak on Radio „Donau." Statev was former Cabinet minister and represen¬ tative in the National Assembly of our electoral district. He was a National-Liberal, having escaped to the West, where he was a member of the Nazi-appointed Bulgarian Government in Vienna. I was shocked by this provocation coming from George. Was this the appropriate thing 1 had to hear from this old friend of mine in this dire moment of my life? Be that as it may! I got up, did not look at him and moved away Years passed. 1 met him on the street in Zelenikovo. We greeted each other. He congratu¬ lated me for some articles I had published in the daily press. He approved of my views. Told me they had read the pieces in their officers meeting. But he did nor seek me for a conversa* tion. In fact, he avoided meeting me when I was going to pass by his house a few days later. He fled inside. I had decided to seek him when I would go back to Bulgaria. Unfortunately» he had died in the meantime. On St. Nicholas Day, December 19*, we were freed. During the night my father liad dreamed me decapitated and had cried as never in his life. He came to fetch me with the car pulled by two cows. I was lying in the car. In mid-village, at the middle square, someone leaned over the car, looked atme and invited me to jump in the waiting buses to go to Plovdiv where Dr. G. M. Dimitrov was to hold a public meeting. I turned away and did not answer. Three buses were lined up for this occasion. Not one soul joined in, The whole affair with our arrest had been staged to frighten us not to go to that meeting. November 24,1947. My reply to a letter of Marin. At that time the Communist Party was conducting a campaign to win people like me for their cause. Apparently Marin Pehlivanov had been charged to work on my case. I had received a letter from him. Forty five years later, when I returned to Bulgaria, he came to see me As we were talking, he pulled out a folded bunch of sheets. I recognized my handwriting, picked it from his hands and tucked in my inner pocket. He asked to have it back. Told him that I will keep it and publish it in my memoires. At that time I had no intention of publishing anything, I did not remember what I had written and instantly thought that there may be something that could be used against me. But years later, when the tíme came, I remembered this letter, I had hard tíme locating it. But I found it and published it in „Rebel with a Just Cause," under title „Tempt¬ ing the Devil," pp. 241248. This was the first document surviving from my past, I could not quote if. in extenso here. It is very long. In substance it was a forcefìil defense of my right to be independent and to state my opinions without bending before any authorities I have written there: „Even if it is considered immodest, I dare affirm that I have always formed my own opinions on all questions, not accepting completely the opinions of anybody, any time and any place, always seeking to form my own opinions independently from others. (In the margin Marin had written: „Like the speech at the Brannik's meeting.") I hope that this has been noted. If it had not been understood by now, the future, sure, will confirm it" (How true this has been all my life!) The five volumes published in 1993 and these eleven 439 volumes certainly confirm this defense of my independence in 1947, at the time of the worst persecution of free thought - which was intertwined with my destiny in exile. March, 1950. 1 was drafted to serve my military duty in the Labor troops at Bezmer, Yambol District, to build a military airport-presently used by the American air forces. One day In the month of August, we were assigned to unload a train of 10 cars - each one loaded with three hundred bags of cement, each one of 50 kilos This was thé worst assignment coming every two or three days at any time of the 24-hours day. On this occasion, as I was stepping forward to stand at the door, so two men in the wagon were to toss a 50 kilos bag of cement, the passenger train pulled next to us. I looked up and saw several of my fellow students from Sofia - clean, refreshed, comfortable and engaged in some pleasant discus¬ sion. They were all priests. I stepped out of the line, and ran into the train. I reached them and we had a brief excited exchange. They were clean, comfortable, seemingly without a care m the world. I was covered with cement - ířom the top of my head to my toes, dirty, filthy, a pitiful and miserable figure. They were flabbergasted and glared at me. I was a pathetic figure. I saw it in their faces, they were shocked. A signal was given for the train to start moving, I ran out and back on the line to accept my charge. But it was not goin.g to be. Something exploded in me, I jumped into the wagon and ran to the rear. I leaned on the wall, slouched down on the flor, covered my face and gave fìlli vent to my humiliation in hitter weep. I could not stop it. It was a volcano of self-pity and grief. I felt that I had fallen in hell and saw no reason why I am in this pit. My friends whom I just saw knew me as a young scholar, a man with great future in the world of Academia, they had observed me day and night over a dozen of open books in the school library, in the National Library, in the University Library, 1 was reading, researching and writing my thesis on Sogomilism. I was highly respected by faculty and students. What a pitiful figure they saw now standing before them! What a pitiful figure I felt myself now - a miserable man, as a convict in penal servitude. What evil fate had befallen upon me! I heard a worker of the group telling the others: „don't touch the man, let him cry it out! We are illiterate peasants, but why they have brought here this man of letters?" 29 January, 1951. In 1990, in January, twomonths after the ф11 of communism, I received a package from Stockholm, Sweden. I was surprised. I.did not know anybody in that coun¬ try I opened it. There was a grey notebook inside of it. It did not remind me of anything. I looked at the first page inside. Up on the right comer was a date, 29 1. 195 1, followed by a text in my handwriting - forty years back. Now I remembered what it was all about. As I was waiting to be recalled back to continue my military service in the labor troops, I had sat down and written my story as a labor-soldier at Bezmer. I will quote here the first page: „INTRODUCTION. As I am beginning to describe my suffering in the Besmçr penal servitude camp, I am afraid that I will not be able to complete this projeci This thing aside, my inability to tell stories, and the dangers that this notebook may fali into hostile hands any time (these two words are crossed), may make me thrpw away the pen. Nevertheless, for my own peace of 440 mind I will continue. If times one day change and it becomes possible such writings to see the light of the day, many may be marveled at my audacity. But let the times change, let the new people in the far off future never live through what we have, then." This text of the first page is published as a photostate. The original text of the whole story is spread over 167 pages. It is published in vol. I, Rebel -with a Just Cause, pp. 296-340. This notebook, with all my valuable books, I had taken to my aunt Plina before leaving to report for duty in the service - in the beginning of March, 1950 - for a safe keeping. After my escape it has been passed to a cousin's son, Todor Bamburov, High School teacher. He had given me notebook to his sister who had married a Kurd and emigrated to Sweden. So, she was the one who sent me the package, With the priceless story of my martyrdom at Bczmer. Some times the ways of God are invisible. This is how this manuscript has survived. Beginning of March, 1951. 1 received order to report for duty in the military labor service at Balchik - some 40 to 50 km north of Varna. The day I was leaving I went to. the field, to Baidachka, to see my father and my brother Stoiu -18 years old. I embraced him and kissed him on the forehead above the eyes. It never crossed my mind that this was the last time I was seeing him for the next 40 years. I never forgot this kiss- And all these 40 years I haye been praying for him. He passed away on May 11, this year, 2007. May 5,1951. About 8.00 p.m. I, Zdravko and Stefan hid in the bushes some 150' in front of our barracks, in a slope toward the town. We had to take the final decision - to defect from service with intent to escape from the country - or to stay put. We wrote on two pieces of paper „Yes!" and „No!" We repeated the drawing three times. Twice it was „Yes!" The dye was cast! The next day, St. George Day, while all other men of our unit went to the town baths, we slipped out of the camp surreptitiously, and off we went on our way to Varna. That morning, at a camp meeting, we were singled out as saboteurs and punished - transferred to another unit with much harder work. These were our first step to. Exile, The story of our adventure is published in the „Rebel with a Just Cause/1 under subtitle „Escape from Hell.'" pp. 363-394. There is more on the subject in vol. 3, „State Security.,Dossier „Deserters," some 336 documents coppied for me in 1995 by officials of the Government office in charge of them, and published by me. May 8,1951. From Balchik to Varna by foot, from Varna to Plovdiv by train, and from there, led by members of the underground organization „I am a Bulgarian," we were left to spend the night in the wheat fields along the Komatevsko Shosse, near Plovdiv, and a little forest next to them. After two days of confusion; in the middle of the night, four men from the organization found us and gave us guns -r- carbines, bombs and sets of ammunition. I was given a small Turkish - or who knows what - carbine, with cut barrel. It was refitted by a local smith. May be because physically I was very weak and would not be able to handle a heavy gun I was given this antique. Still, the little veteran was good enough to scare any enemy, though after firing one shot, it was not good for a second one. I discovered that after we crossed the border and I tried it. So, we were now armed guerrillas. Our guardian angels led us to the mountain bivouac where we were to settle down. We were walking in a pitch dark night. We were avoiding to follow any roads, but charging through brushes, forests, 441 borders, plowed grounds and fallow lands. I could not see where I was stepping, here and there I would trip, but recover and follow the group of seven. and holding fast to the small carbine as my saviour. As we were walking along a border between two properties covered with overgrown weeds, and I was struggling to keep pace, I was seized by some strong feelings never ex¬ perienced before. It was exhilarating. I could not say what it was, but now, thinking of it, I see it similar to the experience of St. Paul on the road to Damascus. I felt as if a curtain fell from my own eyes, as if some big burden fell from my shoulders. In a moment everything changed in me. I was a new man - as if some evil spirit flew out of my body and I was liberated from its tyranny. For years I had lived in fear, in depression, feeling that all the time something was going to fall over me. Now, all of a sudden, all the fear that had been oppressing me instantly vanished. This evil spirit had entered in my body the day of July 21,1944. when I was staring at the barrel of the machine gun pointed at me. And all this happened while I was holding fast to my little carbine. I felt that I had defeated all those who have been persecuting me. They no longer had any power over me, and, if they showed up, they might kill me, but before that I would have taken one of them with me. I felt that I did not have to crawl helplessly on my belly before them in order to save my poor little soul. And, all this exhilaration was due to this little piece in my hands. Never before, and never after, had I have such experience. May 11,1951. We settled in a bivouac over the village of Markovo, in a brook known as Haidut Dere (Bandits brook), also known as Manchovoto. Few steps up from the running water was a huge boulder, and under it a narrow awning, where we could hide from rain. Vasil Atanasov, a corporal from the 9lh Plovdiv Regimenti and his pregnant wife María, sister of Stephen, one of the three fugitives from Balehik, were to stay with us. We escaped from Balchik with the understanding that the organization was to help us to cross the border. Soon it became clear that the intent of the organization was to form a guerrilla group to fight the communists. There was nothing we could do to change that. Vasil was the key protagonist for such plans. So, this is why he stayed with us. The next day, he took me on the side and whispered to me> He and his wife were going to go back to Plovdiv and organize other people tojóin us. So, he appointed me as leader of the group, Komandir. My God, I a Komandir? I did not say anything. I never told Zdravko and Stefan that I was the Komandir. We never saw Vasil again. Days after that he was arrested. Now I look at the whole thing as a parody. But given the political and historical context of the affair I see it now in much different perspective. I could stand and face those who ques¬ tion the cause of liberation that I have given my due for that cause, and it is more than what the accommodationists have done. None of us had ever held a gun. Never had we thought of becoming guerrillas. Our intent was to defect from Bulgaria through the border. We started from Balchik on the assumption that they had made arrangements to that effect, After Vasil left us, we had to wander forty four days in the mountains without a clear idea what was going to happen to us. But we never gave up the idea of going for the border. I will not tell here the rest of the story. It is in „Rebel with a Just cause," pp. 363-394. A week or so after that, spent in painful waiting and crushed hopes for going for the border, having been told that we will stay in the mountains and fight the communists, sink- 442 ,ig in deep disillusionment, but not in despair, late an evening, I climbed up the rock, sat jn the top with head resting upon my fist under the chin, and stared over the vast Thracian plain around and beyond Plovdiv. I was looking at the dozen or more villages around the city, glittering in light in the darkness of night -like small islands of life. I sought to see Zeienilcovo, but it was far away in the slopes of Sriadna Gora. I was gazing over Plovdiv. It was surpassing everything that was visible in the darkness of night, I was awed over the brilliant sprawling blanket of lights, I was imagining the life that was going on under this fairy landscape. I was thinking of the throngs of young men and women, of kids and parents, happy, going in and walking out of sweet shops, devouring ice cream, laughing, conversing, strolling without a care in their minds. And me? I was free in this wilderness. Free? I was hiding in these raggedy bushes like a wild beast where only the night darkness, the mystery of the forest and the craggy rocks were protectors of my freedom. Oh, how would I like to be there, in their world of tyranny, rather in this world of my freedom? I would have loved to walk with friends along the Djumaia street of Plovdiv, rather be sitting on this rock. But, it was not to he! Like the Aesop's dog, I have chosen to be free, but in misery - rather than live like the well fed dog of the wealthy master, with his neck rubbed by the leash- The lucky dog invited his friend, whom he had met in the forest while returning home after an escape, to avail himself to the generosity of his master, but the poor stray dog, looking at his bare neck, Declined to follow him. After long contemplations I returned down where my friends were already sleeping. This contemplation on the rock never faded in my memories. June 19,1951. We had reached the border. I could hardly stand on my legs - of hunger, weakness, exhaustion, physically reduced to a remnant of a man, but still in good spirits and unshakable hope that the hour of salvation would come. We sat down for a rest. The border was some three hundred feet up the slope. In a few minutes we would be crossing. It was about 4.00 p.m. I left the group to fetch some fresh water. While I was out of view I fell on my knees and prayed with all my heart to God.and the Holy Mother to extend their hand over us. In ten minutes we were at the crest of themountain. We were hiding in the bushes while surveying the place. A lawn of some one hundred feet wide was in front of us - covered with overgrown grass, We looked to the East and looked to the West - where we had jpticed the military posts. We saw no living soul. And we charged across - with all the speed that, we could muster. I never stopped looking East and West, running with the last ounce of my strength. In a minute or so we were on the other side, again behind bushes. We flew over this dreaded border, guarded by soldiers, dogs, electrical charges - and it was all ip the middle of a clear day. The rest of it, from here on, is a history I have told in eleven volumes published so far - including this one, ; How many times during the past forty years in my dreams I saw myself back in Bul¬ garia, chased by „them," trying to capture me, and ran as fast as I could towards the border, crippled by fear.,, and would awake in sweat,.not opening my eyes to digest the reality, the awareness that it was not,true,that I was not in Bulgaria, that it was a dream. October 1966, Potsdam, N.Y., near the Canadian border. This was the.third year in г academic profession, at,the Sitate University of New York. The faculty in the Departir» of History were trying to introduce team teaching. AH of us had to deliver a lecture to all freshmen. It was my turn. I was assigned a topic the Hundred Years War. 1 took my position at the podium, ready to start. I looked at the Vast auditorium where some 5-600 pairs of eyes were focused ön me. On the front row was the entire faculty of the department. Instantly my whole life flashed in my mind - from the mud house where I grew, the sheep I had been shepherdof, my slave labor days, my partisan days, all the mishaps in my life. Instantly I experienced the glory of victory over the winds with which I had fought to reach this place. The rest, from that day, to this day, is a history of which I am proud of. Sitting on the patio behind my house in America, this day, July 1 б"1, next to a deck of flower garlands cared for by my wife, I am putting an end of all these memories by which I have lived through over eight decades - in Bulgaria and abroad. . ' Let me finish this look at the past with a few more remarks. In the sixteen volumes I have published so far - five volumes of „Political Problems of the Bulgarian Public Abroad;" (1993) and eleven volumes of „A Political Journey Against the Winds of the XX Century" (2000-2007) -1 have collected a huge amount of documentation, essays, articles, reports, resolutions - all that I have Written, published, and spoken in my public activities in exile. Among all these materials I consider as most important the following items - where I have expressed my deepest convictions: - My letter to Marin Pehlivanov, 24 November, 1947, vol. 2,242-248. - Trudovak, notes on my military service in the labor troops at Bezmer, 29 January 1951 vol. 2, pp. 295-340. - Escape from Hell, notes on my partisan days, б may -19 June 1951, pp, 363-394. - My letter to Prof. Liubomir Delineshev, „To a professor accommodatsionist," „Polit¬ icheski Problemi." Vol.2, pp. 496-502. - My letter to Bishop Parteniy, dated 1 December, 1965, published in „Politicheski Problem!.," vol. 3, pp. 83-88, under title „What the Bulgarian Exiles Expect from the Clergy of the Holy Synod in Bulgaria and Abroad." - Article, „BANU and the Political Crisis in Bulgaria. The „Secret Speech" of Petar Tanchev at the Plenum of thè Central Committee of the BCP." „Politicheski Prob¬ lemi." vol. 2, pp. 27-67, re-published in this volume. "" ' !, - „The Washington Declaration'- - adopted at the 7l11 Congress of the BNF on 31 Marcii, 1963, „APolitical Journey." vol. 9, pp, 254- 256. At the end, I want to mention the names of some public figures with whom I have worked for many years and who have left lasting memories in my mind - with the good which I re¬ member or the disappointment which I have suffered - more or less. In the first place, І will mention Dr. Kalin Koíchev who introduced me to Bulgarian exile politics and with whom we served with profound dedication the common cause to which we had dedicated ourselves to - until he betrayed that cause. Nçvertheless, I bave kept most cherished memories of him and do not condemn him. for anything that he did at the end of his political career. Side by side with him, I will mention Dr. Georgi Paprikov, who stood like a rock upholding our cause for the liberation of Bulgaria. Both of them passed away within a month in the spring of 1984. 1 could not say the same for Dr.-Ivan Dochev with whom I worked shoulder to shoulder for over 40 forty years, but at the end he stained my memories of him by publishing 444 unworthy statements at my expense - not an honorable act for a Bulgarian leader in exile. I have less to say about Toncho Tenev, former Director of Pernik coal mines, and Member of the Bulgarian Parliament in the group of BAND led by Nikola Petkov. In exile he claimed to represent and be spokesman for the policies and philosophy of Dimitar Gichev, which led me to associate with him. I could say more about his brother Zhecho with whom we repre¬ sented with dignity the gichevism in exile. I have even more to say about Hrisio Konovski, about his pomposity, yet his generous sacrifice of time and money for the publication of our periodical „Free Agrarian Banner." I will not speak of our elite in exile. Intellectual poor, but highly pretentious in immigrant circles, masters of impudent snobbism and opportunists to the marrow of their bones. In seeking the fat little bone, they were ready to sell the Bulgarian cause to the lowest bidder. There ís no Bulgarian institution abroad which, in the second half of the XX century, to show some face on the public forum. The Monarchy, in the person of ex-king Simeon Saxcobur- gotsy, turned out to be a dead branch, unable to grow one little green seedling in order to attract the Bulgarian community. The Bulgarian Orthodox Church had entangled itself with the Macedonian Political Organization (MPO) around the „Macedonian Tribune" of Ivan Mihailov, and dishonored the authority of the institution as a spiritual and cultural leader of the Bulgarians abroad. The foreign organizations, richly subsidized by their respective governments to broadcast to Bulgaria, openly refused to embrace the Bulgarian cause and created obstacles, instead of encouraging Bulgarian activities abroad. Only on the political stage the two leading forces in exile - The Bulgarian National Front - where was the base of my public activities - and the Bulgarian National Committee of Dr. G. M. Dimitrov - were showing that the Bulgarian spirit was still alive. At long last, I have to mention my closest and most loyal friend in Exile - Borislav Ivanov - one time Secretary of Ivan Mihailov, and Editor of his Memoirs and „Macedonian Tribune." Regrettably I have to mention that in the whirlewind of the political conflicts. I lost my other close friend - Radi Slavoff. Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania Spas T. Raikin 1 September 2007 :
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id	DE-604.BV023273660
illustrated	Not Illustrated
index_date	2024-07-02T20:36:59Z
indexdate	2024-08-10T01:04:15Z
institution	BVB
isbn	9789546423108
language	Bulgarian
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physical	XXVI, 489 S.
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spelling	Rajkin, Spas T. 1922- Verfasser (DE-588)123881579 aut Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek 11 Bălgarski Zemedelski Naroden Săjuz "Dimităr Gičev" ; 2 Spas T. Rajkin Sofija [u.a.] Pensoft 2008 XXVI, 489 S. txt rdacontent n rdamedia nc rdacarrier (DE-604)BV014256553 11 Digitalisierung BSBMuenchen application/pdf http://bvbr.bib-bvb.de:8991/F?func=service&doc_library=BVB01&local_base=BVB01&doc_number=016458610&sequence=000003&line_number=0001&func_code=DB_RECORDS&service_type=MEDIA Inhaltsverzeichnis Digitalisierung BSB Muenchen application/pdf http://bvbr.bib-bvb.de:8991/F?func=service&doc_library=BVB01&local_base=BVB01&doc_number=016458610&sequence=000004&line_number=0002&func_code=DB_RECORDS&service_type=MEDIA Abstract
spellingShingle	Rajkin, Spas T. 1922- Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek
title	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek
title_auth	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek
title_exact_search	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek
title_exact_search_txtP	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek
title_full	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek 11 Bălgarski Zemedelski Naroden Săjuz "Dimităr Gičev" ; 2 Spas T. Rajkin
title_fullStr	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek 11 Bălgarski Zemedelski Naroden Săjuz "Dimităr Gičev" ; 2 Spas T. Rajkin
title_full_unstemmed	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek 11 Bălgarski Zemedelski Naroden Săjuz "Dimităr Gičev" ; 2 Spas T. Rajkin
title_short	Političesko pătešestvie sreštu vetrovete na XX vek
title_sort	politicesko patesestvie srestu vetrovete na xx vek balgarski zemedelski naroden sajuz dimitar gicev 2
url	http://bvbr.bib-bvb.de:8991/F?func=service&doc_library=BVB01&local_base=BVB01&doc_number=016458610&sequence=000003&line_number=0001&func_code=DB_RECORDS&service_type=MEDIA http://bvbr.bib-bvb.de:8991/F?func=service&doc_library=BVB01&local_base=BVB01&doc_number=016458610&sequence=000004&line_number=0002&func_code=DB_RECORDS&service_type=MEDIA
volume_link	(DE-604)BV014256553
work_keys_str_mv	AT rajkinspast politiceskopatesestviesrestuvetrovetenaxxvek11

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