On December 7th Bulgaria marked the 100 birth anniversary of one of its greatest poets – Nikola Vaptsarov. This is his last poem written at 2 p.m. on July 23rd 1942 just before he faced the fascists’ firing squad.

The fight is hard and pitiless.
The fight is epic, as they say.
I fell. Another takes my place –
Why single out a name?

After the firing squad – the worms.
Thus does the simple logic go.
But in the storm, we’ll be with you,
My people, for we loved you so.

2 p.m. – 23 July, 1942

Great Bulgarian poet Nikola Vaptsarov was one of the most innovative authors in Bulgarian literature and a man with a complex and tragic fate. He was born on December 7, 1909, in one of the most well-known families in the town of Bansko in Southwesten Bulgaria. His father was among the leaders in the fights for the liberation of this region which remained within the borders of the Ottoman Empire until 1912. Later, he was a friend of the royal family. Vaptsarov’s mother was a graduate of the American College in Bulgaria and instilled in her children a deep interest in culture. Vaptsarov himself graduated the Naval Machinery School in Varna (on the Northern Black-Sea coast). Gifted with a sharp mind and a literary talent, he had the opportunity to lead an undisturbed life with a secure good income. He chose the life of an ordinary worker instead, and thus shared the hard toil, unemployment, and poverty of his characters. He wanted to describe the big contradictions of the 20th century, to see the romanticism hidden in machines, and to voice his belief in a better and fairer world. In the 1930s, he joined the Bulgarian Communist Party. During the WWII, when Bulgaria was an ally to Germany, he was among the organizers of the antifascist resistance movement. He was sentenced to death and was executed by a firing squad on July 23, 1942.

“There are thousands of pages published on Vaptsarov – both biographical accounts and critical reviews of his literary works”, Katya Zografova, main curator of Nikola Vaptsarov’s Museum in Sofia says in an interview for Radio Bulgaria. During the Socialist regime, official editions of his works in Bulgaria included a preface that said that fate was cruel to Vaptsarov during his life, but generous after his death. This is beautifully put but it is not true because what does a generous fate mean when Vaptsarov was virtually turned into a monument… Later, after the democratic changes of 1989, some self-pronounced specialists in Vaptsarov’s works tried to degrade him and claimed that he did not deserve to be among the highest ranked names of Bulgarian literature.”

Katya Zografova says, adding: “Bulgarian readers discovered Nikola Vaptsarov when his collection of poems entitled “Motor Songs” was published in 1940, yet the book went unnoticed by the literary critics, neither was it promoted by some institution or by his leftist comrades. So, Vaptsarov was discovered by the ordinary people, by his readers. For this reason, no ideology was able to wipe out the love of Bulgarians for Vaptsarov. His writing is warm and compassionate, and he is extremely humanistic in his views. His poems express his love for his fellow-beings and have an intimate touch even when he deals with the most universal issues of history. This is one of the reasons he is so well loved by his readers because he seems to be talking to them as close friends do. Yet, despite the seemingly simple, easy and accessible style of his poems, they carry deep messages. He is one of the most often translated Bulgarian authors. His poems have been published in more than 40 countries and have been translated into more than 60 languages.”

Nikola Vaptsarov is the only Bulgarian citizen to receive the International Honorary Peace Award, posthumously given to him in 1952. UNESCO proclaimed the year 2009 as Year of Vaptsarov to commemorate the 100th anniversary since his birth. “Vaptsarov is a modern European and world poet whose works are increasingly sought by young readers”, Katya Zografova says.

“The young generation likes him in a very special way. Young people today are rather skeptically minded, they lack inner motivation and faith. At first reading, they see Vaptsarov as an incredibly naïve romantic whose utopist visions never materialized. Life still has not become “fairer than a song, more beautiful than a spring day”, as he writes. So, young people first read him with a disbelieving smile, but gradually grow deeply fond of him. Because if we don’t feel Vaptsarov’s faith for which he had to suffer so much, we will have nothing else to do but turn our homes into bunkers and wait for the end of the world. His works reveal the alienation between people, the pervading hatred and dehumanization of modern life and compares them to a universal gangrene and leprosy. He devoted his whole life and writing to his belief that we should have faith in mankind.”, Katya Zografova, main curator of Nikola Vaptsarov’s Museum in Sofia, says in conclusion.

A Song of Man

We argued,

           a lady and I

                            on the topic:

"The man of our time".

The lady,

         a peevish, excitable lady

impatiently stamped,

                       answered back.

Overwhelmed me with torrents

                               of muddled complaint

and a hailstorm of verbal

                            attack.

"Just a moment, - I said. - Just a moment!

                                               Look here..."

But she cut me short, taking offence:

"I beg you, stop talking.

                            I tell you - I hate man!

He doesn't deserve your defence."

"I read of a fellow

                   who took up a chopper

against his own brother

                            and killed him.

Then washed

           and attended a service at church,

and afterwards said he felt better."

I shuddered in horror, and felt none too bright.

But I'm not

           very strong

                       in my theory,

so I quietly said,

                    as an honest man might:

"Let's make a test case of a story.

The case took place in a village, Mogila.     

The father had hidden

                       some money.

The son got to know of it,

                             took it by force

and then did away with his father.

But after a month, or

                       was it a week,

the authorities made an arrest.

But the court

                   doesn't function to give men a treat,

and sentenced the culprit to death.

They duly conducted the villain

                                      to prison,

they gave him a number and can,

but there in the prison he met honest people,

became

         a real man.

I don't know

            the leaven that stirred him,

I don't know

            the way it was made.

But a song

          much more clearly than talking

opened his eyes to his face.

And then he would say:

                       "O my God, how I floundered!

And here am I waiting

                       to swing.

When you're hungry

                     and dizzy

                              from hardship,

you've only to make a false step and you sink.

"You wait like a bull for the slaughter,

turn about, in your eyes there's

                                      the knife!

How unjust,

         how unjust

                   is world order!

But perhaps we could better our life..."

He struck up his song, sang it quietly

and slowly,

         in front of him

                            life

floated forth like a wonderful vision...

He sang,

         fell asleep

                       with smile...

Outside in the passage

                            they talk in a whisper.

There follows a moment of calm.

Then somebody cautiously opens the door.

A few people. Behind them a guard.

One of them

spoke

in a fearsome flat voice:

"Get up on your feet, man!" he bawled.

The others looked on,

                       with vacant expression

examined the dripping grey walls.

The man in the bed

                     understood that right now

life had finished with him,

                              and at once

he leapt up and brushed off the sweat from his brow.

Stared back

           like a wild staring ox.

But little by little

                            the man understood

that his fear was no use,

                            he would die.

And a curious radiance

                         lit up his soul.

"Shall we go now?" he asked them.

                                      "All right."

He started

         and they followed after him,

                                        feeling

a curious

         ominous chill.

The soldier thought:

                      "Let's get it over and done with!

You're a tight corner now, pal."

Outside in the passage

                            they talked in a whisper.

The corners were hidden in shade.

At last they came down to the courtyard.

                                               Above it

the sky shone with brightening sky

where a star in its brilliance bathed.

And fell to considering deeply his

                                      grievous,

                                               ferocious,

                                                        and blind

                                                                  human

                                                                       fate.

"My fate is decided,

                   I'll hang from rope.

But that's far from the end,

                               I would say.

For a life will arrive that is fairer

                                         than song,

and more beautiful than a spring day..."

He remembered the song,

                        a thought flashed through his mind,

(In his eyes a small fire was kindling).

He smiled a broad smile full of brightness

                                                and warmth,

braced his shoulders and then started singing.

What's you view of it? Maybe

                               you think we've discovered

a case of a complex, hysterical?

You can think just whatever you like of the matter -

today, my dear friend,

                       you're in error.

The man calmly,

                   sentence by sentence

so firmly recited the song,

that they stared at him

                            uncomprehending,

and watched him in fear and alarm.

And even the prison

                     was quaking in terror,

the darkness too panicked and ran.

The stars, smiling happily, shouted for joy,

cried out to him:

                   "Bravo, young man!"

From here on the story is clear. The rope

                                               skillfully

dropped on the shoulders, then

                                      death.

But still his contorted

and bloodless blue lips

to the words of the song were compressed.

And now we have come to the final denouement.

Well, what's your opinion, reader?

The lady,

         had started to sob,

                            the poor woman

as if in a trance began shrieking:

"How horrid, how horrid! You tell the whole story

as if you'd been there on the spot!..."

What's horrid about it?

                            The man sang a song -

and that's very fine, is it not?

English version: Rossitsa Petcova