After all my apprehension, the border crossing from Turkey into Bulgaria turned out to be a pleasant surprise. The customs inspector scarcely glanced into the rear of the car and did not ask me to open any of my cases. He entered the date and point of entry on my Bulgarian visa but did not turn the other pages in the passport. Then he made me a little speech in English welcoming me to the country.
What was more, after the Turkish roads, which had been as appalling as the Greek, the Bulgarian highway was newly paved and well engineered. All along it I met the same welcome I had received at the border. Children shouted and ran along the edge of the road as long as they could keep the car in sight. Men and women working in the fields straightened up to smile and wave, a thing I had not seen anywhere else in Europe.
Bulgarian roads were good, that is, as long as I stuck to the main routes. That first evening I turned off on a little track up a mountainside in search of a camping site. I found a secluded spot and in the morning spent some time unpacking Bibles from the various spots where I had stowed them. Then I packed the Rumanian ones away again and drove down the mountain, slipping and sliding on the dangerous gravel road, intending to pick up the main pavement again.
Instead, I soon found myself following a track that wound through the backyards of a tiny village. The road was getting muddier every second. I splashed through a little stream and a few feet further on bogged down altogether.
There I sat, hopelessly stuck in the mud in an out-of-the-way mountain village where I had no business being. What was I going to do? I had no sooner asked the question than I seemed to hear some loud and rather brassy singing. It was coming from a building just on the edge of the village. I opened the door of the car and jumped. When the mud reached my ankles, I stopped sinking. Well, nothing for it. . . . I slogged heavily through the muck until I reached the door of the building.
It was a pub, and although it was only ten in the morning, the sounds were those of men well into their cups. I stepped inside, and instantly the singing stopped.
Twenty faces stared at me, obviously astonished at the appearance of a foreigner in their village. The air was thick with smoke, heavier and more pungent than the smoke smell of Western pubs.
“Does anyone here speak English?” I asked. No one responded. “German?” No. “Dutch?”
“Well, hello anyway,” I said, smiling and touching my forehead in salute. And then while these round, brown-eyed faces stared at me, I went into a pantomime routine. I made a noise that was meant to sound like a VW getting stuck in the mud. Huumm Huumm. Splutter, splut. Stop.
No one gave a sign of recognizing my charade.
I held my hands out in what I thought looked like a man holding a steering wheel with both hands.
“Ahh! Oh!” The man behind the high wooden bar nodded knowingly. In a moment he had run forward with two glasses of beer, shoving one in each outstretched hand.
“No, no,” I said, laughing. “Automobile. Car. Huum. Huum. Brrr. Brrr. Stop.” I put the glasses down and signaled with my arm. “Come!”
At last several of the men got the idea and rose from their tables, enjoying the game and shouting encouragement to their companions. I felt like the Pied Piper leading the parade. Back of the pub was the answer to what this was all about, sitting expectantly in the mud: my little blue VW.
“Ahh!” Nodding of heads, clapping of thighs. Now they understood! They were glad to help. They were wearing knee-high boots and without hesitation waded into the mud, indicating that I should get behind the wheel. I started the motor, and while these broad-shouldered men lifted, I eased the car into gear and within moments we were out on the main road in front of the pub.
I got out of the car and thanked them, a little worried at the curiosity they were showing for the car and its contents. It would never do for a story to get started about a Dutchman with a cargo of books in his car. Quickly I took one mammoth, work-hardened hand after the other, shook it soundly, and moved on.
“I really do thank you,” I said. “Holland thanks you. The Lord thanks you. . . .”
And while I was speaking, one man simply did not let go of my hand. Instead he pulled me with him into the pub. Even before we reached the bar, I knew what was going to happen. They were going to buy me a beer whether I wanted one or not.
I hadn’t had a drink since that stormy January night more than nine years ago when I had turned my will over to God. In my life, anyhow, alcohol had clearly always been a destructive thing.
“But what should I do now, Lord?” I asked aloud in Dutch. And suddenly I knew that I had to go ahead and drink that beer, that to turn it down would be to turn them down, that their kindness and hospitality ranked higher with God than one observance of a rule. Twenty minutes later, eyes watering from the powerful home-made brew, I once again shook twenty hands, laughed, wished them the speediest of all possible salvations, and went on my way. It took forty minutes of high-speed travel down the highway before the mud that had been trapped on the wheels of my little car stopped thumping the sides of the fenders.
———
My final night in Yugoslavia, the night for which I had been sent back across the border, I had met a man whose closest friend lived in Sofia.
“Petroff is one of the saints of the church,” he had told me. “Will you go to see him?”
And of course I was delighted. I had memorized Petroff’s address so as not to have it written down on my person in case I got into trouble with the authorities. Now as I sat on a hillside looking down over Sofia, I marveled at how God used the very last person I spoke to in one country to give me the first contact I needed in another.
Sofia was a beautiful sight, stretched out below me, the mountains rising beyond, the round domes of her Orthodox churches sparkling in the late-afternoon sun. But how in that vast metropolis was I to find the street where Petroff lived? My Yugoslav friend had warned me that it could be dangerous for him if a foreigner were to go around asking for it. So when I checked into my hotel, the first thing I did was to ask for a plan of the city.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re all out. You might try the bookstore on the corner.”
But the bookstore was out too. I went back to the hotel and asked the clerk if he was quite sure he had no maps at all. He looked at me suspiciously.
“What do you want a map so badly for?” he asked. “Foreigners shouldn’t go wandering just anywhere.”
“Oh,” I said, “just to get my bearings. I don’t want to get lost, not speaking Bulgarian.”
The clerk seemed satisfied. “All we have,” he said, “is this little one here.” He pointed to a small hand-painted street plan under the glass on his desk. It would never be of any help to me; only the names of the biggest boulevards were shown. But I bent over the map to please him, and as I did I saw an amazing thing. The cartographer had indeed penned in the names only of major avenues, with one terribly important exception. There was a single, tiny street just a few blocks from the hotel that had a name on it. And it was the street name I was looking for! Not one other street of similar size on the entire map bore a name. I felt again the most amazing sense that this trip had been prepared long before.
Early the next morning I left the hotel and headed immediately for the street where Petroff lived. I found it with no difficulty, just where the map had indicated. Now it was only a matter of finding the number.
As I walked along the sidewalk, a man came down the street from the opposite direction. We drew abreast just as I came to the number I was looking for. It was a large double-duplex apartment house. I turned up the walkway, and so did the stranger!
As we neared the front door, I glanced for a fraction of a second into the face of the man who had arrived at the precise moment I did. And at that instant I experienced one of the common miracles of the Christian life: Our spirits recognized each other.
Without a word we marched side by side up the stairs. Other families lived in the house too. If I were making a mistake, it would be very embarrassing. The stranger reached his apartment, took out his key, and threw open the door. Without invitation I walked into his house. Just as quickly, he closed the door behind him. We stood facing each other in the darkness of the single room that was his home.
“I am Andrew from Holland,” I said in English.
“And I,” said Petroff, “am Petroff.”
———
Petroff and his wife lived in this single room. They were both over 65, and their combined pensions from the state paid for the room, food, and an occasional purchase of clothing. The three of us spent our first few moments together on our knees, thanking God for having brought us together in this wonderful way, so that there was not a minute of time wasted, so that there was a minimum of risk involved.
Then we talked. “I’ve heard,” I said, “that both Bulgaria and Rumania are desperately in need of Bibles. Is that so?”
In answer, Petroff took me over to his desk. On it was an ancient typewriter with a sheet of paper in it, and next to the typewriter a Bible, open to Exodus.
“Three weeks ago I was extremely lucky,” said Petroff. “I managed to find this Bible.” He showed me a second volume on the small dining table. “I got it for a good price too. Only a month’s pension. The reason it was so cheap is that the books of Genesis, Exodus, and Revelation have been cut out and—”
“Who knows? Perhaps to sell. Or perhaps to make cigarettes with the thin paper.
“At any rate,” Petroff went on, “I was lucky enough to find it and have the money to purchase it. Now all I have to do is fill in the missing parts from my own Bible—and I have another complete book! I ought to be all finished in another four weeks.”
“And what will you do with the second Bible then?”
“Oh, give it away.”
“To a little church in Plovtiv,” said his wife, “where there’s no Bible.”
I wasn’t sure that I understood. No Bible in the entire church?
“Certainly,” said Petroff. “And there are many such churches in this country. You’ll find the same in Rumania and in Russia. In the old days only the priests had them; ordinary people couldn’t read. And since Communism, it’s been impossible to buy them. It’s not often I have a piece of luck like this.”
My sense of excitement mounted. I could hardly wait to show Petroff the treasure I had waiting for him in my car.
That night I drove up to the apartment, checked the street to make sure it was empty, and then took inside the first of many, many cartons of Bibles I was to deliver to this man over the years. Petroff and his wife watched me put the box on their one table, their eyes wide in frank and open curiosity.
“What’s that?” Petroff asked.
I lifted the top and took out a Bible. I put it in the trembling hands of Petroff and another into the hands of his wife.
“And—and in the box?” Petroff asked.
“More. And still more outside.”
Petroff closed his eyes. His mouth was working hard to control the emotion he was feeling. But two tears rolled slowly out from between his closed lids and fell on the volume in his hands.
———
Petroff and I set off immediately on an extended trip through Bulgaria, delivering the Bibles to churches where he knew the need was greatest. “Do you know the official reason the government gives for suppressing Bibles here?” Petroff asked me as we sped through a countryside brilliant with roses for the perfume industry. “It’s because Bibles are printed in the old orthography. They hold back education, the government says. Chain people to ancient spellings and usages.”
The visible Church in Bulgaria, he went on, had been purged of all elements contrary to the new regime. The Bulgarian Orthodox Church—state church of the country—was now little more than an arm of the government. The present patriarch praised the regime in all his official utterances: His speeches had as much to do with the glories of Narodna Republika Bulgariya as with those of the Kingdom of God.
“In effect there are two churches here now,” Petroff told me, “a Puppet Church, which echoes the voice of the state, and an Underground Church. You’ll see one of these underground churches tonight.”
It was my first service of worship in Bulgaria. It took twelve of us more than an hour that evening to assemble for the meeting, arriving at intervals so that at no time would it appear a group was gathering.
At seven-thirty our time came. We walked past an apartment house, just happened to turn in together, just happened to stop at the third floor rear, looked around briefly, and entered the apartment without knocking. I could not help but remember Sundays in Witte, when the whole village turned out to promenade to church.
Eight men and women were gathered when we arrived, two more coming at 7:45 and 7:55. The room was very dark. Only one small lightbulb hung from the ceiling, and blankets had been draped over the window to block out prying eyes. I wondered if these people were too poor to afford shades. No one spoke. Each new worshiper took his place around the central table, bowed his head, and prayed silently for the safety of the coming meeting. Precisely at eight o’clock Petroff stood up and spoke in a low voice, translating himself for me as he went.
“We are blessed tonight to have a brother visit us from Holland,” Petroff whispered. “I shall ask him to share with you a message from the Lord.”
Petroff sat down and I waited for the hymn, then realized that of course singing was impossible in this church underground. I spoke for perhaps twenty minutes, then nodded to Petroff. He jumped up and, with a flourish, unwrapped the package he had brought with him and held up . . . a Bible!
There were exclamations that threatened to be too loud before those assembled caught themselves and put hands to mouths. Then there were great bear hugs from the men and warm foreheads-on-the-shoulder from the women, before they passed the Book from one hand to another, tenderly opening it and closing it again.
———
One of the men at the meeting that night especially intrigued me. After we had stayed together for as long as we dared, we separated as we had come, in ones and twos, at intervals, for over an hour. The last person to get up from his knees was a mammoth grizzly bear of a man with a patriarchal beard, a square brown face, and the kindest, most guiltless blue eyes I had ever seen. This, Petroff told me, was Abraham.
Abraham had spoken little during the meeting, but there was a childlike innocence and purity about the old man that came through without words. Like Petroff, he was over the maximum age for holding a job. And so for several years the two of them had spent their time trying to locate churches that had two Bibles, so that they could beg or buy one and give it to a church that had none.
Abraham, Petroff told me, lived in a tent in the Rhodope Mountains. He had an income from the government of five dollars a week, and on this he and his wife lived. At one time he had owned land but had lost it because of his “subversive” activities.
“Some day you must try to visit him in his home,” Petroff said, “because it will give you a picture of what a man will sacrifice in the name of his God.” Most of the year, he said, Abraham and his wife lived on wild berries and fruit and a little bread.
Petroff called the old man Abraham the Giant-Killer, because he was always setting out to find his “Goliath”—some high-ranking Party official or army man to whom he could bring his witness. “Abraham is always seeking a new Goliath,” Petroff said. “He finds him, too, and then there is a fight. Only Goliath wins, and Abraham ends up in jail. But on many occasions Abraham wins, and a new soul is added to Christ’s Church.”
Before he left, I went out to my car and brought Abraham the Giant-Killer the rest of the Bulgarian Bibles I had brought with me. He would know what to do with them.
Abraham held the Bibles as he might have held a baby. He did not say thanks, but the words he did say have remained with me to this day. His blue eyes burned into mine as Petroff translated for him.
“The front line is long, Brother. Here we must give a little, there we may advance. This day, Andrew from Holland, we have made an advance.”
The balance of that first trip to Bulgaria was spent visiting the tiny nonregistered, underground churches. “Strengthen the things that remain” became more than ever a command that haunted my sleep. How courageous they were, this remnant of the Church, how heedless of self, how utterly alone. Three ministers especially stand out in my memory from those weeks—Constantine, Arminn, and Basil.
Constantine had been in prison for eighteen months for baptizing converts who were under 21 years of age. He had just been released. Constantine told me that the night after his release he had taken 27 teenagers out of town and baptized them secretly in a river in the country.
Arminn knew there were government observers in his congregation at Christmastime, so he was careful in no way to transgress the law against evangelizing children. Speak only to adults. Keep away from politics. But in one unguarded moment, Arminn looked down at the children who were seated beneath the church’s Christmas tree and asked, “Do you know why we give each other presents at this time of the year? It is to symbolize the greatest Gift of all.” For those two sentences he was brought to trial and removed from his pulpit.
Basil was notorious for working hand-in-glove with the secret police. Petroff had taken me to his service one Sunday so that I could have a chance to see the Puppet Church in action. The congregation of the church had dwindled steadily since the war. Basil was complaining about this to us before the service when suddenly, with no change in his expression, he said to me, “Would you like to hold a meeting here this afternoon?”
I could not be sure that I had heard right. Basil knew as well as I that unregistered preachers were not allowed to hold meetings. What had gotten into the man?
“I’ll—I’ll have to pray about that,” I told him.
And pray I did, furiously, all through the service. Was this some kind of trap? Suppose he had set this up with the police to get me out of the country? And yet the answer I seemed to be getting with great clarity was a ringing “Go ahead!”
At the close of the service Basil announced to the handful of people in the congregation that the brother from Holland was going to hold a special meeting that afternoon. He invited everyone to come and to bring a friend.
We were all surprised that afternoon to see some two hundred people there. We had a wonderful meeting. At the end, when I issued the altar call, dozens came forward.
Then Basil surprised me again by suggesting that we hold another meeting that night. I was more than willing, and so was Petroff. Still, we could not understand what had happened to this man who had a reputation as a marionette.
That evening the church was packed. We all felt the presence of the Holy Spirit. That night scores of persons expressed a willingness to follow Christ, whatever the cost. And once again Basil invited everyone to come back the following evening.
On Monday night the church was so crowded, people were standing along both sides and many were sitting in the center aisle. But this time Basil spotted half a dozen of his friends from the secret police in the congregation. We went ahead with the meeting but omitted the altar call. We didn’t even dare ask for a show of hands, for fear names would be taken down.
After the meeting was over, Petroff and Basil and I sat in the vestry and wondered what we should do next. Obviously we could not hold any more meetings. What about Basil himself; would he be in trouble now? It was clear to me that he was acting in a way he himself did not understand. What was going to happen now? What would the police do?
And as the days passed it became clear why Christ had chosen Basil rather than some other pastor to touch with His spirit. Because the police did nothing at all. Neither to me nor to Petroff nor to Basil. Basil was one of their most valuable collaborators, they thought. Surely what he was doing must have some orthodox motive. He was too high up in the New Outlook of the church to earn suspicion. Best, they must have concluded, to let the flame die with the departure of the Dutch evangelist.
But when I departed, the flame did not die. That little church that had had fifty-odd people attending sporadically became instead a live congregation of almost four hundred. Eventually the government did try to stop the fire. Basil went to Switzerland for a long-delayed operation that fall; when he attempted to return to his country, he was turned back at the border. A new, “safe” pastor was chosen to take his place, and within three years he had successfully quenched the flames in this one building, for the attendance was back down to its original fifty. But the three hundred new converts left Stara Zagora, fanning out across the Balkin Peninsula, disbursed like the church in Jerusalem, to build fires wherever they landed.
None of these developments, of course, could we foresee at the time. But Petroff and I had learned one thing right at the beginning. It is never safe to call a church a puppet—no matter how dead, no matter how subservient and temporizing it may appear on the surface. It is called by God’s name, it has God’s eye upon it, at any moment He may sweep the surface away with the purifying wind of His Spirit.
———
Before I left Bulgaria, Petroff and I drove up into the Rhodope Mountains hoping to find Abraham. We had no idea how to locate his tent, only the name of the village nearest to it. It was just as well, for at the village the road, which had been threatening to disappear for several miles, vanished altogether, and we got out and stood, undecided, beside the town’s artesian well. Above us the forest stretched away as far as we could see. Where in all that vast wilderness was the man we were looking for?
The line of people at the well were staring at us curiously as they waited to fill their jars. And then the first man in line finished drinking, straightened up, and turned around. It was Abraham himself!
His blue eyes, when he saw us, blazed like the sky at noonday. The next thing I knew I was drowning in a mammoth wet embrace, the icy water on his great beard drenching me to the skin. Abraham was even more astonished than we at this unplanned meeting, for he told us he came to the village only every fourth day, and just long enough to buy bread. He picked up half a dozen round flat loaves now from the stone wall beside the well and began leading us up the mountainside.
Again and again Petroff and I had to beg this 75-year-old man to stop so we could catch our breaths. He had just returned the week before, he told us, from giving away the last of the Bibles I had brought into the country. He described in great detail how they had been received, and Petroff pantingly promised he would repeat it all for me as soon as we were sitting down.
It was two hours, including the rest stops for us, before we rounded a rocky ledge, stepped behind a screen of wind-twisted pines, and were standing in front of the goatskin tent where Abraham lived. He looked more than ever like the Biblical patriarch as he welcomed us to his home. In a moment his wife had stepped outside, as composed as though visitors were dropping into their mountain hideaway every day. She was as tiny as her husband was big, a slender, erect little woman with skin like wrinkled parchment. Only their eyes were alike, blue, childlike, trusting. I looked at this woman who had once had a house replete with rugs, cupboards, linens—servants, probably, for they had been well-to-do—and I thought that I had never seen a face more content with what life had brought.
She offered us fruit that looked like tiny blue blackberries, and wild honey. We ate little, not knowing how much they had, and we stayed only a short while because we didn’t care to try the trip down the mountain after dark. The shortest of visits, no more than a glimpse—and yet in those moments was forged a friendship that is one of the bulwarks of my life.
———
And so the visit to Bulgaria brought encouragement and deep love. And at the same time, it ended on a note of defeat. Just as I was leaving for Rumania, a group of people who had attended the meeting in Basil’s church came to ask me to hold a similar campaign in their town.
“We’ve been waiting for this message for years,” they pleaded. “We don’t care about the consequences. We care only about the will of God.”
And I had to look into these loved and loving faces and say no. I was only one person. I could not go with them and at the same time move on where I felt God’s spirit calling too.
“I wish I were ten people,” I told them. “I wish I could split myself into a dozen parts and answer every call that comes. Someday, I’m going to find the way to do it.”