Дмитро Терзі Dmitro Terzi

We joined the collective farm in 1949, [it was] one of the last ones. I don't know why it happened, but we were not persecuted, our family. My grandfather knew Russian, he went to teach at school — there were not enough teachers in the first grade to familiarize him with the alphabet, with the Bukvar [ABCs]. And then the military came, they were wearing side caps, military uniforms, [they were] Ukrainians. They were already teaching, and he became the school's storekeeper. He gave away his ploughs, this and that, to [work] at the school… [such things] were happening in all schools. Well, in short, the school was fine, the teachers were good, at that time, they... the war was over, they were military — they entered pedagogical institutes [universities] in Tiraspol, Odesa, in parallel they were studying extramurally and taught us and, of course, the school was weak. But they taught us to read, and they filled up quickly, they filled libraries with books. And this reading, I'll tell you, it aroused the spirit of competition. And the lamp was kerosene, and your eyes already hurt, and at night you sit and finish reading because you have to give this book to your classmate tomorrow. Well, in short it was beautiful, lovely, peaceful. And after the war everything was somehow being restored, restored. And it was much calmer and richer in Bulgarian villages than in the entire Ukraine. The war had passed there. And here, the war had passed through — the Romanians and Germans came in 1941. And they chose our house for some reason. We had a big room in our house, very big. And one German said, "Let's call the girls and make a dance party." They set up a huge gramophone, and these German records, you know, when you drop them, they break. I've forgotten what song it was, God. What was the name of this song that was popular at that time, German. They danced there in that house and left. And three or four years later, the Soviet regime arrived. And one of my (he died) relatives, Dimitr Peychev, an artist from Chişinău, from my village. And so he came one day and said to our grandfather, цell, the family is big — there are a lot of old people. He says, "Well, what are you going to do?" I said, "Well, I want to be a pilot." — "And you?" — "A painter." — "[You should] come and paint my fence." He became a national artist. And died. And a portrait of one of the tsars was drawn in pencil at their request. And I remember how an NKVD officer came in, looked, "And who is this?" My grandmother said, "It's the tsar, I think." He left, and we didn't get [repressed]. Because such things, that is, we were lucky, our village. Because the times were tough back then. And there were people who, well, how can I put it, there were people who wanted to be recognized, who wanted to distinguish themselves, to fulfill the plan. So they were mowing [repressing people] left and right.

In tenth grade, the teacher says, "What's going on?!" We went to see it. I won't tell you the name of the party secretary at the time. But he was kicking icons and destroying the altar. And he was so very cold-blooded. We, the children, schoolchildren, who had already got away a little bit from faith, from the church, looked at it with a certain interest and amazement. The older generation — not a single person came near the church. Not a single one. Didn't stand up for it. Either they were scared, or they all said: no, do what you want. In a word — it was 1961.

The country tried to present itself as best as possible. There were even such cases, here, let's say, normal behavior, you go into a restaurant, you are, let's say, Romanian or French, but you took a liking to a fork or a plate — you have the right to take it as a memento. It was included, you know, any memento. You come home, you start telling [stories] — you are propagandizing. That's the kind of department. First, I was an interpreter, I'm a man, and about 80 percent were women. And one gave birth, the second got pregnant, [the other's] child got sick. Take a group and fly, take a group and fly. By train, by airplane, on a big ship. Then, I was in charge of the special services department. For example, you come from the United States, and you want to meet some party worker or writer in Baku. Your visa has expired, we arrange everything and send you there. Or you want to visit some Soviet family in Odesa today. St. Petersburg, Kyiv, it doesn't matter. We have a whole list of these families. We pay for them, we have an agreement. Which one of them speaks the language. Let's say it's the French — we put a French interpreter there, take him to that family. There are three or four people there. They make some connections, exchange addresses, drink, take pictures. There was a thing like that, to visit a family, to have a look not only from the point of view of propaganda. But, of course, everything had been appropriately arranged there.

There are traditions and customs - this is very important. In the village, it's simple. Grandmothers telling each other one thing, another. Doing it. Children running around, grandchildren, "Let me try, what is it." They know everything. And in a city, a cosmopolitan city, it disappears. It disappears, and it's a pity, and we try to attract it somehow. Here, let's say we have between 5,000 and 7,000 Bulgarian students in the city today. Somewhere around 500 people are in the Sunday school. I understand that it is difficult to take a child [to school] on Saturday-Sunday, parents are busy, [they have] one thing or another. But still, people come. And with such pleasure, they run, make noise, learn, sing, dance. And they become richer - you know Ukrainian, you know Russian, you know Bulgarian. You get to go to Europe or somewhere else. You will end up in Europe anyway because you don’t know how [the events are going to unfold]. And our Sunday school gives you the right to study in Bulgaria for free.