My father translated by Ann Wood
Nedyalko YordanovToday marks the 75th anniversary of my father's death. He died at the age of 34 when I was seven, and my brother was four months old. And my mother at 27. Half of his life was spent in prisons and concentration camps, sentenced to death by hanging on his birthday July 27, 1944. Surviving miraculously, on September 10, 1944, as leader of the Patriotic Front in Burgas, he issued a unique and humane order not to seek responsibility from the then regular police officers and to appoint lawyers as chiefs of police stations. Later, this was one of the main accusations that he was posthumously accused of being an "enemy of the people." He was killed in front of my eyes with an intravenous injection given by the party doctor. The whole city gathered at his funeral. It was March 27, 1947. They named a ship and a street after him. Two years after his death, the pentacle and the letters from his grave were killed. My mother was condemned for not giving up on him. They pointed at me like the son of the enemy. Six years later, he was rehabilitated, and the ship's name and the street returned. After November 10, the new Democrats again removed his name from them.
"A Tragic Life" is the title of the short documentary that can be seen on my personal YouTube.
This morning I wrote a poem in his memory.
MY FATHER'S
The cherry blossoms in the yard ... How they bloomed ...
And who knows ... That day was fatal ...
One injection into a vein ... And the last seizure ...
He is thirty-five ... And I am seven.
And then ... And then ... A huge coffin ...
And thousands are walking ... Terrible memory.
And the bloody flags ... And all red ...
And I go with my mother ... And she goes with me ...
Hold me tight ... He's trying not to cry.
Comrades ... And there is no priest ... No prayer.
And mourning speeches ... And somehow familiar.
Flowers on top ... after the last shovels.
And then home ... It's empty ... Day one.
And my brother is crying ... for her to breastfeed him.
Her breasts are white ... And she won't let me look at her.
The widow ... At twenty-seven.
My father is asleep ... Dressed and quiet.
It's his second time ... And he's used to it.
The gallows ... Before ... Miraculously saved.
And he thought - this time ended madly.
But it doesn't end ... It's getting worse.
Order from above ... From above ...
And the grave ... And his portrait pierced.
Posthumously declared an enemy of the people.
And they point the finger at me ... Ten years old.
It shouldn't be ... This memory is superfluous ...
Years ... And again ... Custom
a pentacle rises again on the grave.
And a street ... And a ship ... Understand me ...
Do you know it ... Again, in your name ...
And again today ... Removed again ...
Hammer signs ... Done!
Now talk upstairs with mom ...
You are smiling .. There is nothing strange ...
And you tell me: "You are still far away!
Don't hurry ... Stay there ... Our little Boy!
Patience ... You are not superfluous at all
such an eighty-two-year-old...
You still can ... And you're still valid ...
Live ... And then you will tell us everything.
March 27, 2022
Seven h 50 m.
the movie
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syFLLat-OU4&t=1407s
Poetry by Ann Wood
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Written on 2022-03-28 at 00:40
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