Memoirs of a Stateless Person

By Anna Fries

Her memoirs cover the pre WWII period of the 1930s in her birth country, Bulgaria and her growing up in the German and Russian cultures of her parents and that of Bulgaria. The uprooting of her family because of WWII and subsequent events tells of the increasing horrors and dislocations not only of her family but that of countless others.

The author successfully captures the sharp contrast between her childhood bliss before the war and the horrors of life in German-occupied Europe An insightful firsthand account of European life in the 1930s and 40s, filled with lessons applicable to the present day. - Kirkus Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481706704

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© 2013, 2014 by Anna Fries. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/27/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0669-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0671-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0670-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013900696

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them..

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Chapter One

"In memory’s courtyard are sky and earth and sea made present to me, and whatever I sensed in them . . . And this is where I bump up against myself and call back what I did, and where and when, and how I felt when I was doing it."

St. Augustine’s Confessions.

How is the weather, Jeeves?

Exceptionally clement, sir.

Anything in the papers?

Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise, nothing

P.G.Wodehouse The Inimitable Jeeves, from the story Jeeves Exerts the Cerebellum

That October of 1990 I traveled through a mountainous land of willows, poplars, cypresses, Balkan firs, and apple trees. I saw scene after scene of intimate tawny beauty. Bulgaria’s particular attraction was that it hovered between the cold and dark climate of Europe and the warmer Mediterranean one of Greece. Its flora was a luxurious combination of both. Robert D. Kaplan Balkan Ghosts.

". . . Turkish rule was bloodier and more overbearing in Bulgaria than anywhere else. Whole populations were expelled from urban centers; forced labor was prescribed for the conquered peasants . . . Along with Serbia, Bulgaria was the first Balkan nation to be conquered by the Turks, but it was the very last one to be liberated. Robert D. Kaplan Balkan Ghosts."

"From 1393 until 1877 Bulgaria may truthfully be said to have had no history. Of all the Balkan peoples the Bulgarians were the most completely crushed and effaced . . . Bulgaria was simply annihilated . . ." Neville Forbes.

"I came to Batak, a name that once echoed around the world as My Lai later did . . . In April, 1876, the Turks decided to set an example here. They unleashed the Bashibazouks—murderous bands of Bulgarians converted to Islam-who burned and hacked to death 5,000 Orthodox Christians, nearly the whole population of Batak. Much of the slaughter occurred inside St. Nedelya’s Church . . .

In the museum at Batak, I noticed a clipping from an English newspaper . . . Dated August 30, 1876, the article attacked the British Prime Minister, Benjamin Disraeli, for stating that reports of Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria had been ‘grossly exaggerated.’ . . . To think that, in modern times, it all began here. Robert D. Kaplan Balkan Ghosts".

The word Balkan is a Turkish word and means mountain. The Balkan countries are mountainous. Turkey ruled the Balkan countries for five centuries, from 1393 to 1877. Bulgaria is one of those countries along with the former Yugoslav states, Serbia, Bosnia, Croatia and Macedonia.

I read recently that Gallup has conducted a world-wide poll and that Bulgaria ranks below Haiti in happiness. I was born in that small Balkan country, and when I lived there in the nineteen thirties until nineteen forty three, Bulgaria was industrious and productive. It based its modest wealth on exports of high quality produce, fruits and grains, wines and tobacco. Its prized high value added product was attar of roses, the pressed oil of rose petals which it considers liquid gold. Bulgaria dedicates a large area of the country to the growing of highly scented roses for just that purpose. The oil is sold to the French perfume industry and to pharmaceutical firms. Note that when I was born in Bulgaria in 1929, the country had been free for only 59 years.

At present writing, December of 2012, Bulgaria seems to be recovering from its socialist past, the cities are being refurbished, some prosperity is returning despite high unemployment. Traffic now parades new cars, and Sofia and Varna have shops that display luxury goods. Gypsies, as formerly, are numerous still, and still harbor criminal elements amongst them and are shunned by the general population. While many former Communists have managed to integrate themselves into the free economy, older members of the population miss the imagined security Communism provided, and they say that there was no unemployment under Communism but they will not acknowledge that full employment was imaginary, there were no consumer goods, the cities looked dirty and neglected and mediocrity and stagnation were the hallmarks of that command economy.

Bulgaria descended in its ability to provide a hopeful life for its citizens because it believed that Socialism and Marxism would give it a better standard of living than freedom and free, capitalistic markets, and by collectivizing and robbing people of private ownership and private enterprise it forgot how to be productive and innovative as it had been once. It only takes one or two generations for a nation to forget its good habits. Under Socialism the motto became, We pretend to work, while the government pretends to pay us. The only people in Bulgaria who prospered during the years of Socialist decline were a few individuals in the upper echelon of the Socialistic government. When Georgi Markov, the disillusioned Bulgarian Marxist journalist, reported the truth about the corruption of the Bulgarian ruling class, in London in the late 1970’s, he was assassinated by his own, the Bulgarian government, under the direction of the Soviet KGB.

The roots of Western civilization lie in the religion of Israel, the culture of Greece, and the law of Rome, and the resulting synthesis has flourished and decayed… during the two millenia that have followed the death of Christ. (Foreword to The Closing of the Muslim Mind by Robert E. Reilly.) Bulgaria, as a vassal of Islamic Turkey, before Turkey’s government reformation, had little part in the synthesis of Western civilization, of the religion of Israel (except through its Christianity), the culture of Greece and the law of Rome. Except for its Christian religion, Bulgaria absorbed more of Islam’s dysfunction than of Western civilization’s advances, especially because during the Renaissance, Bulgaria was subjugated by Islam and had no part in the Revival of Learning. It came late by its Christian faith, when the two monks Cyril and Methodius converted the country from paganism in the ninth century after Christ. Those two monks also gave Bulgarians their alphabet. Until then Bulgarian history and lore was transmitted by an oral tradition in songs and poems, as taught by Orpheus.

Turkey, Bulgaria’s nemesis, underwent major social and governmental reforms in the earlier part of the 20th century. It severed itself from Islamic Sharia rule by adopting Western jurisprudence, giving women the vote, abolishing polygamy, abolishing the Arabic alphabet for the Western Latin alphabet, and establishing a free market economic system. This was accomplished by Ataturk, a Turkish general, who became an enlightened dictator in order to abolish the corrupt, dysfunctional Islamic influence of the caliphate. It is ironic that after World War II Bulgaria regressed in comparison to its nemesis, Turkey. I hope the present perceived improvement of Bulgaria’s economy is real.

Islam’s dysfunction is at base theological, and it remains to be seen if Turkey will be able to withstand the turmoil within Islam. At present, Turkey’s politicians seem to want to revert to Islam. When Islam rejected Reason in favor of Revelation only, it ended its own advances in science and theology. Those of us in the West who think that democratic governments alone can cure the Islamic nations’ malaise, are as naïve as the useful idiots of Stalin. Islam as currently constituted, will not tolerate democracy, which is based on the philosophy of the Greeks, Reason. Bulgaria adjoins Turkey, and I am sure Bulgarians are not sanguine over Islamic rule in Turkey.

Educate yourselves why Islam’s agonies are theological in origin. It is enough for me to say here that Islam’s advance lacked the philosophical wisdom of the Greeks. Islam did not have an Aristotle, Plato, St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Anselm or Abelard, or the Islamic scholar Averroes, who was rejected by his own. If you remain ignorant, you can be persuaded to believe anything.

I was fortunate to have been taught by good teachers in a country that suffered terribly under Islam’s aberrations. Bulgarians know first-hand what Islam stands for.

Bulgaria’s earliest inhabitants were the Thracians, a funereal society like the Egyptians. The Thracians mourned the birth of a child and had elaborate celebrations at the time of death of their elders. There have been excavations of great value dated to the Thracians. Eventually the Greeks held sway, and Philip, the father of Alexander the Great, founded what is now Plovdiv. The Romans followed and being great builders, left behind a theater in Plovdiv and walls here and there around the country to remind of their greatness.

For some years, until the late 14th century, Bulgaria enjoyed a time of peace and plenty. But after the Turks murdered the Bulgarian king in 1393, Bulgaria became a vassal state to Turkey and its long decline continued for 500 years until 1877. Throughout those centuries Bulgaria clung to its Christian faith under great suffering.

At present Bulgaria’s population numbers nine million. At the time I lived there, we were six million. Till recently Russia’s Soviet Socialism had remainders in Bulgaria in that its economy stagnated and regressed. Bulgaria became a vassal state to the Soviet Union during World War II until the late nineteen eighties. It was a kingdom from the time of its liberation from Turkey in 1877 until 1943, the year we left Bulgaria. Once it fell under Soviet influence it became so beholden to the Soviet Union it even assassinated its own dissidents and prominent leaders in the west at the behest of the Soviet KGB.

At present Bulgaria seems to be reviving and its people who have always been industrious are eager to embrace western culture once more. It is beginning its climb back from Socialism.

Before Soviet Russia’s demise, individuals slated for assassination were challenging the Soviet Union. Bulgarian assassins killed their own Georgi Markov, a journalist who lived in England and reported the corruption of the Socialist government. A Turk, living in Bulgaria, tried to assassinate Pope John Paul. The Polish labor unions, along with Pope John Paul defeated Polish Soviet style Socialism and through it the Soviet Union because the Polish nation rallied behind the first Polish Pope, who challenged their government’s version of social justice.

The Balkan is a geologically old formation, very barren in appearance. The Balkan provided hiding places for the Bulgarian insurgents who battled Islam’s governments, and who finally were victorious in the 1870’s with the help of Imperial Russia under the Czar Alexander II.

At the western end of the Balkan mountain of Bulgaria, in a high valley of 2000 feet, lies Sofia, the capital city. To its south, on its outskirts, is the Vitosh, a pyramidal mountain, sometimes snow covered till late spring, which serves Sofia as a recreational center with ski runs in winter and picnic grounds and climbing paths in the summer.

Sofia banned high rise sky scrapers when we lived there, and its layout copied Paris, with beautiful broad chestnut or linden trees planted boulevards, wide sidewalks and many parks. French domestic architecture dominated. Here and there German Bauhaus architecture showed its modern facades with balconied buildings. There were some less esthetically pleasing remainders of the earlier Turkish and domestic Bulgarian architecture. The city was immaculately clean at the time we lived there, no litter in the streets disfigured the city, and at night water trucks sprayed and washed the streets. Littering the streets, even with cigarette butts, brought a heavy fine.

Formerly, when overlooking Sofia from the north, the golden domes of the Alexander Nevski cathedral gave Sofia its distinct appearance, and the only high rise building was the slim, pointed minaret of Sofia’s only remaining mosque.

Sofia’s streets were paved with labor intensive granite sets, which formed a distinct road bed, high in the center and sloping to the gutters. This allowed for quick drainage after heavy storms. The granite sets were laid in wave like patterns, so distinct that when I saw a picture of one of Sofia’s major streets, Boulevard Dondukov, many years after we left Bulgaria in the National Geographic, I recognized it immediately without reading the caption.

Shortly after we left Bulgaria, Sofia’s city fathers covered some of those beautiful streets with asphalt. When they planned to pave over Sofia’s grand boulevard, the Czar Osvoboditel, the citizenry revolted, and that boulevard retained its distinctive, glazed yellow brick paving. I have often wondered if one of our American film makers used it as a model in the Wizard of Oz story with its yellow brick road.

In winter when there was a little snow on that yellow brick road bed, it became extremely slick. But in spring and summer when the chestnuts bloomed, the perspective of the tree lined promenade of yellow brick paving, lush, deep green, pink and white blooming chestnuts, as one sees in France, and a fashionably dressed crowd of Sofia’s citizenry walking sedately along the boulevard, presented a scene worthy of France’s best impressionist painters.

Sartorial requirements today are almost gone. Then, one’s attire mattered. On special occasions, when the foreign embassies in Sofia held receptions, of those invited, men wore striped trousers, a gray vest under a dark suit coat, a gray cravatte with a stick pin. I recall my father wore also his gray homburg that was specially ordered for him from Habicht in Vienna because his head measured larger than the standard head measures. Men still wore spats over their dark, shiny shoes.

The twenties and thirties were the last age of elegance, and women’s fashions seen today in films of that era reinforce that memory. From becoming hats, to well-cut suits, dresses and coats, even women who were not rich, dressed becomingly with an undeniable understated elegance.

It would have been unthinkable to go to a reception at the small palace in Sofia or to one of the embassies in flip flops and shorts as I have seen young people do these days when they are called to the White House.

Our strolls along the Czar Osvoboditel promenade was a time to meet friends and acquaintances. If they were Austrian or German, the men would carry my mother’s hand to their lips and murmur Kuess die Hand, if they were Russians they kissed the back of her hand, and if they had a military back ground there followed a slight click of the heels. There followed a polite exchange, an extended good bye, and everyone continued the stroll.

Usually we stopped at our favorite Konditorei, the Viennese coffee shop, where glass covered cases displayed those edible jewels, masterpieces of Viennese confectionery art, the pastries. Their delectable sugar, butter, vanilla and chocolate scents of light mousses, whipped crème fillings, glazed fruit and rich frostings filled our nostrils and made our choice difficult.

Waitresses clad in navy dresses with frilly organdy aprons and pleated organdy caps brought our orders to the marble topped table on silver trays with the clink of water glasses, fine china and cups filled to the brim with hot chocolate or coffee and mounds of whipped crème. We compared our orders, which elicited Oh’s and Ah’s and I wish I had ordered that.

Once I asked my mother why our maid, Ivanka, did not wear the same kind of uniform like those waitresses wore, and she reprimanded me that I had the makings of a snob.

After stopping at the pastry shop, we continued our stroll. We crossed the lion’s bridge before entering the Boris Park. Immediately to the right lay a gold fish stocked lake. Boats cut across the lake, couples out on a date, the women under a white parasol, while the men leaned into the oars. Sometimes a dignified swan left a gentle wake crossing the lake’s glassy surface.

On the opposite shore lay a restaurant. Colorful lights along the shore lent their reflection to the water, and in the evenings live orchestras played flirty foxtrots, lilting waltzes and staccato tangos, while dancers danced beneath the lights. The mouth-watering aroma of charcoal grilled meat wafted through the air. Bulgarians love to grill.

Continuing through the park we walked past lovely seasonal plantings, past red clay tennis courts, along bridle paths and shady walks.

At the far end of the park lay my piece de resistance, the swimming pools and club house. Each winter I daydreamed of the time when I could go to the swim club again. Before entering the clubhouse, we were directed to the private dressing rooms, which were constructed of aromatic wood. The smell of that wood, Nivea sun crème, which really did not block the sun, and chlorine will forever remain with me as the summery scent of swimming pools. Years later when I visited our American pools here, I felt that something was missing because chlorine alone predominated.

By the dressing rooms for women was a private sandy beach where women sun bathed in the nude.

Some of the women kept their babies with them, and I thought it a form of child abuse that they would expose their infants to sun burn. I had suffered sunburn, and I knew a baby’s skin was much more susceptible.

On one occasion, during the German occupation of Bulgaria, German fighter planes buzzed that beach, and women ran screaming for cover.

The club house stood at the top of a short hill, its shape reminiscent of a boat, and the veranda that overlooked the hill had a railing like ships have. I have a photo of my beautiful cousin Resi, standing on that railing, posing in her bathing suit. Tables under sun umbrellas stood about the veranda, and sitting there one could look across the hilly grounds and the various swimming pools terraced into the hill. There was a pool for diving, another Olympic sized one for serious swimmers, another one for the younger set and still another for the youngest children. At night, an orchestra played on the veranda, and dancers danced to the latest tunes. Summers passed much too quickly while we divided our time between swimming pool, hiking in the mountains, travel around the beautiful, small country, picnicking and fishing in the nearby river, the Iskar.

I have pictures of numerous occasions when our family and those of my mother’s brothers and sisters, went picnicking or swimming. Sometimes my cousin Franzi or my uncle Yoshi brought along their mouth organs or accordions to play for us while we trekked across meadows, through valleys on our way to fish or swim or picnic, and we sang marching songs like Das Wandern ist des Muellers Lust, Der Jaeger aus Kurpfalz, It’s a long way to Tipperary, some Russian or Bulgarian soldier songs. Thus our parents avoided our complaints when we were younger should the walk be too far or too difficult. We liked to sing.

In winter, when we were returning home from a visit or an outing in Sofia, peasant women on street corners enticed us with their chestnut roasters, when the irresistible aroma of roasting chestnuts drew us to them. We carried our warm, aromatic chestnuts in small, brown paper bags, pealing and munching them while walking.

Late in winter there were harbingers of spring: peasant women selling nosegays of sweet scented violets, which my mother pinned to her black Persian lamb muff. I preferred the white, cool scented snow drops, whose nodding heads stood in a small, green glass vase on my room’s window sill that faced the Vitosh mountain. There I could anticipate spring.

In those days, in the 1930’s, I heard foreign visitors to our house exclaim that Bulgaria was the best kept secret of Europe. Some came to visit annually, others set up their business there. Throughout the thirties, prosperity was on the rise, and the future looked hopeful.

Chapter Two

Now will I praise those godly men, our ancestors, each in his own time.

Stalwart men, solidly established and at peace in their own estates.

Some of them have left behind a name and men recount their praiseworthy deeds.

But of others there is no memory, for when they ceased, they ceased.

Their bodies are peacefully laid away, but their name lives on and on . . . (The book of Sirach, chapter 44.)

The kind of family into which I was born on May 2, 1929 in Sofia, Bulgaria, was not so unusual for the times. My parents were foreigners to Bulgaria, although my mother was born in Sofia.

Germans lived in colonies in Romania, Yugoslavia, Hungary and Bulgaria. Except for Bulgaria and Romania, the other countries had been members of the far-flung Austro-Hungarian Empire before World War I. I was born to a couple who came from different worlds: my mother came from middle class folk who were only a generation or two removed from the farms their forebears had run.

My father came from the landed gentry of Russian society, the class loyal to the Czar and the Russian Orthodox Church. His people provided the Russian empire with trained military men. Throughout the periodic clashes of Russia with Islam’s predations from the East, his people faced those invasions and repelled them through the time honored tactic of letting the enemy advance ever deeper into Russia. Then, when the severe Russian winter descended, Russians were able to repel the invaders. (Napoleon should have studied that history.)

My sister, Maria Roberts, was successful in obtaining information about our father’s family, and I want to include it here. I am grateful to her for having done so. We don’t know what became of my father’s many siblings; they disappeared into the Soviet Gulag. His older brother Dimitryi escaped with my father from Russia and lived in Cannes, France, which had a large Russian population.

My father had wanted to name me Alexandra because that name was given to one of his sister as well as to one of his paternal aunts. My mother did not like the nick name that would arise, namely Alexandra would become Sasha, so they compromised on a name that would begin with A.

I thought Anna Katarina Sergeevna Kosorotova was very dignified but I would have preferred Alexandra, although I would not have liked Sasha.

One of the documents discloses that my grandfather, Anton Vasilevich Kosorotov, noble under-officer, was ordered for service on August 28, 1871, commissioned as a Cossack under-officer on August 28, 1871 and transferred to retirement on January 1, 1890. In that document my grandfather had petitioned that my father, Sergei and his siblings who came after him, Vladimir and Zoya, be included in the register of noble men, apparently to avail themselves of hereditary titles and the royal favors that came with them.

From those documents it is apparent that my great grandfather, Colonel Vasilyi Gavrilov Kosorotov was a hero.

This is a short introduction into how Russian names are read. I have heard that Americans have difficulty understanding why Russians are called different names at various times.

The first name of any Russian is his Christian name, and his nick name might be altogether different sounding. For example, my nick name, given me by my father when I was small, was Anyushka.The second name is the patronymic. It stems from the Christian name of the father and its ending means belonging to. My first name is Anna, my patronymic is Sergeevna because I belong to Sergei, my father’s Christian name. Because I am a woman, the name ends with an A. My brother’s patronymic was Sergeevitch because he, my brother, is male. My family name was Kosorotova, again ending in A. My brother’s family name was Kosorotov, he was a male, so the A falls away.

I will include a copy of those documents as an addition to my book, separately. We must not forget those who came before us, especially those who suffered so cruelly under Soviet rule.

The following is from the Alphabetical Register of Noble Men’s Genealogy Up to 1894, Letters K-P Governmental Archive, Rostov Oblast, under the listings of Ranks, Names and Family Names of Forefathers of the Noble Men. Amongst other names appears KOSOROTOV, Vasilyu Gavrilov, Colonel. He was my great grandfather.

The research was done by a Sister Theresa, the remainder of her name unfortunately is illegible, from the SLC Family and Church History Mission.

Unfortunately, the earliest names that can be read go back to the 19th century. Earlier records cannot be read because the ink has faded.

My great grandfather: Vasilyi Gavrilovitch Kosorotov. (His father’s name was Gavril, Gabriel.)

Children: Alexei, Ivan, Anton, Agafyia, Alexandra.

Note: Anton was my grandfather.

My father’s father, my grandfather: Anton Vasilevitch Kosorotov

His wife: Matryona Khrisanovna Kosorotova, (my paternal grandmother)

Children, my father’s siblings, as follows, from the Metrical Records of Donsky Ecclesiastical Consistory:

Vital Records Book of Christ Is Born Church, (we would call this the Church of the Nativity)

1. Olga Antonovna Kosorotova, born November 1, 1883, my father’s oldest sister

2. Alexandra Antonovna Kosorotova, born February 3, 1887

3. Anastasia Antonovna Kosorotova, born January 23, 1889

4. Vasilyi Antonovich Kosorotov, born March 30, 1891

5. Nicholai Antonovich Kosorotov, born February 3, 1887, obviously twin to Alexandra

6. Ivan Antonovich Kosorotov, born September 18, 1895

7. Antonina Antonovna Kosorotova, born March 4, 1898

8. Dimitryi Antonovich Kosorotov, born October 7, 1900 (my uncle Mitya who lived in France)

9. Sergeyi Antonovich Kosorotov, born September 8, 1902 (my father)

10. Vladimir Antonovich Kosorotov, born July 6, 1905

11. Zoya Antonovna Kosorotov, born February 12, 1912

My paternal grandmother, Matryona Khrisanovna, must have been in her teens when she was married, and she bore eleven children over a period of twenty nine years, every two to three years.

Her youngest child, daughter Zoya, was born almost seven years after Vladimir. By that time my grandmother must have