It was forbidden for Bulgarian citizens to have dollars, except if they had earned them themselves when abroad. With a few dollars in your pocket you were considered rich and you could go to the special dollar shops where you never had to queue. However, it was extremely difficult to get a travel visa, because all citizens were classified as potential political refugees. My father was one of the ‘lucky few’ who had been allowed to travel for several years through many different countries. He thanked this on the happy combination of being a talented musician and a party member. If he had only been a party member, then it would probably not have been possible and if he had only been a talented musician then he would surely not have been allowed to travel abroad.
The company my father was part of primarily served the noble cause of spreading the rich Bulgarian culture abroad. The stage performances were spectacular with nice props, beautiful music and patriotic texts. Even dissidents who had had to abandon their fatherland couldn’t prevent drying a nostalgic tear.
Dad was a loyal member of the communist party, but because of his many travels abroad he started to doubt the justification of the system.
‘Communism is a nice idea, it all sounds honest and just, but some things just don’t add up,’ he said. ‘The Western stores are full of products that we have never even heard of. Everything is nicely packaged to grab your attention and the customer is always right. When you enter a store, they even ask you if they can help you. Our salespeople don’t even care if they perform good or bad. They get just as much money and are never fired. The party believes you don’t need any stimulation to do your job well, but unfortunately that’s not the way people work.’
He had also noticed the great variety in cars. In our country, you could only choose a few types and you had to wait years for them. Even if you had the cash, then you still couldn’t buy a car before it was your turn, according to a never-ending subscription list. People with the right connections would get their name bumped up the list, which meant that regular citizens never got a look in. You just moved increasingly farther away from your dream car.
The favourites were Soviets: Lada and Moskwitch. The Moskwitch rattled like an old tractor even when it was brand new, but could withstand rough treatment better than a Lada. With a few hundred repairs, it could last at least twenty years. Everywhere on the streets you could see people lying under their cars. Most Bulgarians repaired their own cars and would get helpful advice from passing motorists as most people drove the same car.
From the few types of car available, the East German Trabant was the least loved. It was not even that cheap, but it had a cheap image. Nearly everyone knew why Trabants had luxury rear window heating: so you didn’t get cold hands when you had to push. There was also a joke about a man who wanted to buy a rear mirror. ‘I would like a mirror for my Trabant,’ he asked the salesperson. ‘Okay, that’s a fair trade,’ the salesperson replied.
If you owned a car, you would do anything to get it fixed, because public transport, especially in the rush hour, could not handle the number of travellers. I went to school by buys every day and after my stop the bus was already full. People would still get in and would hold on tight, while the bus continued its journey with its doors open. The driver would shout out every now and then: ‘Make room and move to the middle,’ but that was practically impossible. Sometimes I would be standing on one leg and lose my balance. That was never a problem, because the crowd would catch me. Once I fell on the lap of a young man who had managed to get a seat.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said startled and tried to stand up.
‘Don’t worry. You can stay seated,’ he replied without batting an eyelid.
I tried to stand up again, but that was impossible, because someone else had already filled my spot. So, I just sat there on the lap of a complete stranger thinking how I would get myself out of this difficult situation.
‘I’m feeling a bit foolish,’ I told him, while I tried to dodge his gaze. ‘I can’t get up. It makes me look like your girlfriend. ‘
‘If only that was true,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been looking for such a girlfriend for quite some time.’
Now I dared to study him closer. He was attractive, too attractive for someone without a girlfriend. Perhaps had had just broken up with someone or he was too picky.
He looked at me knowingly.
‘Okay, if you want, we could find out if I am the new girlfriend you’re looking for,’ I quietly told him, while I tried to stand up again. ‘As long as you don’t think I’m going to sit on your lap on our first date.’
It was less effort to get into a full bus than it was to get out of one. You had to start worming your way to the exit two stops in advance, otherwise you would miss your stop. I was lucky that my school was situated at the edge of town, because everyone got out here. With a little bit of luck, I could even grab a seat towards the end of my journey. The seats were upholstered in some kind of fake leather, that was ripped in different places. Sometimes I would play with the bulging filling, because there was little else to do on the bus. Sometimes I would try to read a book, but that was usually impossible. Then boys would start to chat with me or I would get pushed or someone who lost their balance would stand on my toes.
Luckily there were hardly any thieves during the communist period, because in those stuffed buses you couldn’t feel if someone was putting their hands in your pocket or bag. I felt so many limbs around me that I couldn’t tell if they were those of a thief.
Such stuffed buses seem an excellent location for unwanted attention, but this never actually happened to me. The social control was vast and potential assailants obviously knew that also. Of course, not everyone kept their hands to themselves: some men thought they would be safe because many women dared not open their mouth. They didn’t try it with me: apparently, I looked too confident.
The boy on the bus appeared on our date with a bouquet of red roses. I inhaled their wonderful perfume and we entered the semi-dark cinema. It was a romantic film and towards the end I felt his hand slide over my thigh.
‘What are you doing?’ I snapped. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
The severity of my threat had gotten through to him, because he immediately removed his hand. For him to later slide it over my knee. I secretly took my secret weapon out of my bag. I hesitated for a moment, but when he moved his hand towards my thigh, I hit out at the same moment there was shooting in the movie.
Krassimir yelled. Even though my timing had been perfect, most people turned to look at us.
‘You pricked me with a pin,’ he stuttered incredulously.
‘It’s a shame our acquaintance has come to an end,’ I said and left the cinema.
Krassimir was apparently still busy with his miniscule wound that he didn’t even think of coming after me.
The magic of winter
In the winter, I would always go cross-country skiing with my parents. I loved it, but my heart would beat faster when I saw someone skiing. I wanted to do that also and I hoped that I wasn’t too old to learn at 16. I rented a pair of skis, checked out the young gods who whizzed past and tried to copy them. Unfortunately, I spent more time on my backside than standing on the skis. When I had once again made a spectacular fall, a man came to me and asked if I needed any help.
He gave me private lessons and my skiing improved. Vassil took part in competition skiing and asked me to join his team. I couldn’t believe it: I almost fell at every turn and he was asking me to take part in competitions!