The girls boarding school was fiercely guarded by an old maid. I was certain she was a very frustrated woman, because her hysterical voice constantly echoed through the halls. If mother nature had made her a little bit more beautiful she probably wouldn’t have been so miserable and vent her frustration on us. Since a facelift was out of the question, she devoted herself to her job as a guard. She would lock the central door early on in the evening. At 10.00 o’clock lights had to go out in all the rooms. If you dared read a book after that time you were punished by not being allowed to visit your parents for a few weekends.
I felt like I was confined to an elite prison. Protesting against the establishment was impossible, but I found it a challenge to secretly break the rules. If I had a date with a boy, I would leave via the balconies. That was not without risk, but staying in my boring room seems even more deadly to me.
Once you are imprisoned there is a natural desire to break free. The strict regime strengthened my aversion from everything that was forbidden and as such the boarding school became a crash course in adulthood.
It was a great feeling trying to avoid the guard, sometimes even more exciting than dating boys I barely knew. They usually asked me during lunch break if I wanted to meet up with them in the evening. That was the best time to ask something like that, because most of the lunch break was spent queueing up for a croissant or a warm cheese sandwich.
The shop in the school yard did good business, because hardly anyone brought their own lunch. Despite the limited choice, I did not mind eating the same thing nearly every day. I often drank ‘boza’ with my lunch, a beige coloured wholesome drink made from fermented wheat, barley and millet, and at the same time I would look to see which boys were trying to catch my eye. Sometime secret admirers would send their best friends to arrange a blind date. I always said yes, because there was nothing to do in the evenings anyway. The school was quite isolated and the city was difficult to reach.
During communism, all schools were strict. We wore dark blue uniforms and even the smallest deviation was punished. We were not allowed to wear red or brown shoes, distinctive jewellery was out of the question, make-up was forbidden and your hair had to be tied up in a bun or ponytail. Even though the temperature in the classroom sometimes rose above 35 degrees centigrade, the boys were not allowed to take off their blazers. Comrade Taneva decided a shirt was not neat enough. They would sweat profusely, but she was unrelenting: ‘If the Director keeps his blazer on, you will also.’
At least we could not complain about the temperature in the winter, because in the big cities the schools were heated well. This was not always the case in the countryside. A friend told me that it was so cold that once they ripped up the wooden floor during their break and threw it all in the stove. The bonfire did not last long. The culprits were sent to the Director straight away and immediately had to look for another school.
The punishments at our elite school were not so severe, because most of us were sons and daughters of prominent party members, directors of state-owned companies or important civil servants. Despite this many teachers were constantly on the lookout for a scapegoat. I was often chastised for wearing earrings that were considered to be too long, but they were no longer than two centimetres. Luckily, I could keep the peace by taking them out. Milena, the girl I shared a desk with, had a real problem. She had natural highlights in her hair and many teachers complained about this. It cost her a lot of effort to convince them that she had been born with this hair, but the history teacher did not believe her. That meant war: Milena was constantly bullied by her.
One day my friend appeared with a boyish haircut.
‘Did you surrender?’ I asked with a touch more sarcasm than sympathy in my voice.
‘You don’t think I cut my hair because of the highlights?’ she replied with a question in return. ‘You’ll always see them anyway.’
‘Then what made you cut your hair so short?’
‘Orders from the Director. Yesterday I let my hair loose when I was leaving the school yard. The Head saw that, ran after me, and told me that I had to cut my hair very short the same day. To make sure that I would do it he took away my report. The only way to get it back, was to follow his orders.
I stroked Milena over her boyish head, while she wept.
‘Don’t worry, hair grows back very quickly. Look at it in a positive way. Perhaps Comrade Taneva will be delighted with your new look and you won’t have to study so hard for History.’
‘Do you believe that yourself?’ Milena asked.
I didn’t believe it. Her highlights were still visible and Comrade Taneva would surely notice the war had not yet been won. Studying less for history did not actually free up more time, because we would get oral exams in at least three subjects on a daily basis and we never knew in advance which of us had to appear in front of the blackboard. If you hadn’t studied enough just for one day, then that would have a great impact on your grade. Then you were more or less going to have a bad report and you would be denied entry to university. If you wanted to have a career then you had to ensure you only scored sixes, the highest possible grade in all Bulgarian schools.
Milena would always skip class if she had not studied enough. She usually done this through official channels, by producing a doctor’s note that she had been ill. She could do this through good connections, but if this was not possible there were other tried and tested methods. Milena swore by drinking a lot of Schweppes in combination with two aspirins. That gave a chemical reaction which results in a fever. Before the effect wore off she would run to the infirmary to have her temperature taken. Proof delivered: you couldn’t go to school with a fever.
Because I could not be bothered studying every day, I had also thought of something. When a teacher would forget the class book on his desk, I would quickly change a few grades. I was a good student and the forgeries all seemed plausible. Usually I changed fives into sixes. Satisfactory grades were not good enough, because then I would get a scolding from my parents. They thought I was better than that. And I was: I had become a master forger. Sometimes I would also forge my fellow student’s grades, if they weren’t brave enough themselves. I didn’t only do this for charity, but also for self-protection. Imagine if someone was to change the grades with ugly handwriting or in an amateur way, then I would eventually get caught.
I was almost certain that I would get the highest grade for all my subjects. I didn’t believe in God, but I was grateful that he had given me the gift of remembering things without any problem. This meant I did not need to study hard and it left me enough time to explore the peculiarities of the male species. During my first year at boarding school I did not come any farther than profound discussions in the dark, walking hand-in-hand and a single kiss goodbye. I was in fact quite a good girl, while everyone thought I was a femme fatale. I wasn’t sure if I should be pleased with this reputation. The only benefit was that it attracted more boys, whom I rejected in return.
‘Why do men fall for someone they hardly know?’ I asked my sister.
‘it’s because they don’t know you,’ she replied. ‘Men mostly think with their bottom half, because they are pumped up with testosterone. The fall for your sensual confidence without realising you will hurt their ego.’