Who Rescued Bulgaria’s Jews? A Review Essay

Ted Robert Gurr, University of Maryland

The Power of Civil Society in a Time of Genocide: Proceedings of the Holy Synod of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church on the Rescue of the Jews in Bulgaria 1940-1944, translated by Alex Tanev, edited by Albena Taneva and Ivanka Gezenko, with an opening study by Albena Taneva. Published by Sofia University Press St. Kliment Ohridksi for the Sofia University Center for Jewish Studies, 2005

If genocide scholars and activists hope to prevent future genocides, they might well reexamine historical cases in which genocidal threats were averted. Helen Fein, in Accounting for Genocide: National Responses and Jewish Victimization during the Holocaust (Free Press, 1979), cites three general conditions that shaped national responses to Nazi Germany’s efforts to implement the Final Solution. The general precondition is an ideological or normative one: the exclusion of the victim group from the sanctified universe of obligation – “that circle of people with reciprocal obligations to protect each other” (p. 4). Two conditions that determined outcomes in specific countries were, first, the role of the Christian churches as active opponents or passive enablers of antisemitic policies; and second the role of social authorities in movements for defense of Jewish communities.

The publication of the Tanevs’ The Power of Civil Society in a Time of Genocide provides fresh insights into the mobilization of the civil institutions of Bulgarian society against the sustained efforts of its Nazi-aligned government to restrict and then deport the country’s 48,000 Jewish citizens. The Holy Synod of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, consisting of the country’s eleven bishops (Metropolitans), played a leading role in this process. The Tanevs and Ivanka Gezenko have performed a signal service by publishing translations of all minutes of Synod meetings on the “Jewish question” plus the Synod’s memoranda and petitions to King Boris III and Prime Minister Bogdan Filov opposing the government’s anti-Jewish policies.

More than a third of The Power of Civil Society consists of commentary on the political context in which the Synod’s work was conducted. Support for the project came from the Democracy Commission at the U.S. Embassy in Sofia and from B’nai B’rith International, whose executive vice president Daniel S. Mariaschin writes the preface. The translations are rendered in excellent English; the discussions of political context have a few rough passages. The book lacks an index, which would help when tracing themes and individuals.

Most aspects of the Bulgarian case are familiar from Michael Bar-Zohar’s 1998 book, Beyond Hitler’s Grasp: The Heroic Rescue of Bulgaria’s Jews (Avon, MA: Adams Media Corp.), a study that focuses on the personalities and actions of key pro-Nazi and opposition figures. The role of the Metropolitans is dealt with in one brief chapter. Helen Fein relied mainly on an earlier, more analytic account by Frederick Barry Chary, The Bulgarian Jews and the Final Solution 1940-1944 (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1972). The major contributions of the new book are two. First, it emphasizes the central role of civil society institutions and their leaders which, despite the government’s close alliance with Nazi Germany and the presence of senior German officials charged with implementing the Final Solution, frustrated implementation of secret deportation preparations in March and again in May 1943. Second, it provides detailed insights into the evolution of the Synod’s reasoning, collective decision-making, and its many interventions - collectively and by individual prelates - aimed at modifying or derailing government policy. Let me focus on the second contribution because it gives substance to the authors’ arguments about the role of civil society in checking genocide.

Three phases can be discerned in the Synod’s activities. Late in 1940 the government introduced a Bill for the Defense of the Nation that was modeled on the Nuremberg laws. Many prominent individuals and civil associations publicly opposed the law, with the Synod taking a leading role. Four November meetings of the Synod dealt in whole or part with the proposed Bill. One prelate, Joseph of Varna and Preslav, sympathized with the objectives of the Bill – including restrictions on Jews – but eight others spoke with varying degrees of vehemence against it. They objected first to its application to Jews who had converted to Christianity – only 26 families at the time. Second, in the words of Metropolitan Stefan of Sofia, where half of Bulgarian Jews lived, “The Bill is a legal and moral disaster and it must undergo fundamental changes….” (p. 52).

The status of the Bulgarian Jewish community is key to understanding the Synod’s opposition to antisemitism. They were mostly Sephardic and had been incorporated into Bulgarian society for centuries. Contrary to images evoked by Nazi doctrine, they were not markedly different in occupation, status, or residence from most Bulgarians – few were industrialists, none were bankers, many were working class. Antisemitic currents of European thought appealed to some right-wing activists and intellectuals who organized the Ratnik Fascist organization in the late 1930s, the recruiting grounds for the Commissariat for Jewish Questions (KEV) established by the pro-German government in August 1942. But antisemitic ideology had little appeal for most Bulgarians, who continued to regard their Jewish fellow citizens as within the universe of obligation. Moreover the leaders of the Jewish communities had close relationships with the court of King Boris III and with the Bulgarian prelates, especially but not only Stefan. Thus when faced with persecution many turned to friends at court – including Queen Giovanna – for exit visas and to the Orthodox Church for help and protection.

Four arguments against the anti-Jewish provisions of the Bill for the Defense of the Nation were made repeatedly in Synod meetings. They give substance to the concept of the sanctified universe of obligation. (1) Bulgarians had a long history of ethnic and racial tolerance. To single out one group or “race” for discriminatory treatment was antithetical to the country’s cultural values. (2) Christian doctrine, summarized in Christ’s dictum that “there is neither Greek nor Jew,” says that all people are equal before God and therefore must not be persecuted because of their identity. (3) The Church has been for centuries the leading institution of Bulgarian society, theologically and culturally, and – though it has no direct political role – its teachings should be heeded by the state. (4) Bulgaria’s international reputation will suffer badly if its’ government acquiesces to outside pressure to persecute a minority. These arguments were the subject of subsequent petitions to and meetings with leading politicians but led to no changes in the Law for the Defense of the Nation, enacted in January 1941, or in the decrees issued to implement it in 1941-42.

During the second phase, from 1941 through early 1943, the Synod concerned itself mainly with protecting the rights of Christians of Jewish origin from the restrictive measures imposed by the Law, on grounds that the state had no right to contravene the Church’s right to determine the status of its congregants. This issue was more important than it seems because, from the time the Law was proposed, many Jews sought conversion as a shield against persecution. The Synod and individual prelates responded by encouraging conversions, even if motivated by self-interest. Thousands of Jews did convert, though I find no estimates of their numbers in the sources cited here. Technically the Law specified that conversions after its passage would not be recognized by the government. The Synod extracted private assurances from officials that converted Jews would be spared.

In fact the architects of antisemitic policies – Prime Minister Bogdan Filov, Interior Minister Peter Grabovski, and Alexander Belev, director of the KEV, had no intention of sparing anyone of Jewish origin from the process. Secret preparations were made for the deportation of 20,000 Jews in early March 1943, beginning with some 11,000 from Bulgarian-administered Macedonia and Aegean Thrace. The transport of these Jews through western Bulgaria by train, in conditions of severe deprivation, alerted many Bulgarians to the imminent threat to the Jews of “old Bulgaria,” i.e. the country within its current borders, excluding Macedonia and Thrace. This triggered the third phrase of Synod opposition. In addition to the now-familiar and unsuccessful approaches to government ministers, Synod members sought to derail the process by open defiance of government orders – to close Sofia’s churches, for example – and by personal appeals to police chiefs, parliamentarians, and ultimately to King Boris III. Many civic groups joined in this process, including deputies from the government’s majority party in the Bulgarian National Assembly. Preparations to deport Jews from “old Bulgaria” were halted on March 9, almost certainly due to the king’s last-minute intervention.

A second and third plan for deportation, in May and June 1943, met similar resistance from civic groups, including the Synod, which by now spoke publicly and with unanimity – Joseph of Varna recanted his earlier support for the Law at a Synod meeting on April 2 and denounced its application as “very cruel, and…barbaric” (p. 133). At this meeting Metropolitan Paisiy of Vratza summarized the key point of a statement subsequently sent to the prime minister with a copy to King Boris: “The Bulgarian Church cannot accept racism as a principle. It cannot accept the belief that one race should be denied the right to live, as this contradicts the tenets of the Christian religion” (p. 140). The May deportation order, which followed the relocation of many Jewish families to rural sites, was cancelled, once again because of the king’s last-minute intervention. The third attempt was never begun.

Documents in this book do not clarify the ambiguity that surrounds the king’s role. He allied with Germany partly to regain control of Dobrudja, a region on the lower Danube lost after Bulgaria’s participation on the losing side in World War I. He appointed a government headed by Bogdan Filev, an avowed antisemite who was committed to carrying out the Nazi agenda – and who promoted and approved the deportation plans. The Synod archives contain a detailed report on an April 15, 1943 meeting with the prime minister and the king (pp. 160-170) at which the prelates urged the government to moderate the application of the Law for the Defense of the Nation and called once again for special consideration for converted Jews. The king began with “a few words” about the Jews that continued for more than half an hour in which he parroted Nazi ideology by blaming the Jews’ “speculative spirit” for Europe’s woes including “the present world cataclysm….” (p. 160).

Why, then, should King Boris be credited with “saving the Jews?” The most plausible explanation for me is that, in response to persistent and widespread civic opposition to government policies, he found it expedient to suspend the deportation orders, telling his German allies that Jewish labor was necessary for Bulgaria’s war effort. His expedience, in turn, may have been motivated by concern for his legitimacy. His father, King Ferdinand, was forced to abdicate in 1918 because of public anger about Bulgaria’s wartime human and territorial losses. It is evident that Boris III allied with Germany to regain lost territory and avoid occupation. He let the Nazi authorities, including Ribbentrop and Hitler himself, think that he sympathized with German doctrine and policy. What he actually sought, according to his biographer, was to protect Bulgarian territorial gains and neutrality with “passive but stubborn resistance, unpalatable compromises, and shrewd maneuverings” (Stephane Groueff, Crown of Thorns: The Reign of King Boris III of Bulgaria 1918-1943 (Madison Books, 1987, p. 381). It seems that approving restrictions on Bulgaria’s Jews and allowing preparations for deporting them were among the unpalatable compromises. In private, according to Queen Giovanna, he was determined to avert deportations (Groueff, p. 319). By 1943 it appeared that the tide of war was turning against Germany. Boris also knew by April that Bulgarian civil society – with the exception of pro-fascist organizations and some of his own ministers – stridently opposed Nazi race policies. So, in the face of concerted civic resistance, he chose to “save” the Jews from policies that he had himself allowed to go forward in order to save Bulgaria from the ravages of occupation and war.

The interaction of forces in politics, civil society and the government is also documented in Tzvetan Todorov, The Fragility of Goodness: Why Bulgaria’s Jews Survived the Holocaust: A Collection of Texts with Commentary by Todorov, translated by Arthur Donner (Princeton University Press, 2001). Todorov traces dissent within the majority party upholding the government and its impact on King Boris, who was also influenced in 1943 by the failing power of Germany and the likelihood that Bulgaria’s post-war fate would be determined by the Soviet Union. The texts include protests by unions of writers and lawyers as well as that of the Bulgarian Orthodox Church and memoirs by significant figures. Foremost among the latter is that of parliamentarian Dimitar Peshev who led the protest in the National Assembly

Todorov concludes: “Looking back and reflecting on the rescue of the Bulgarian Jews, one comes to realize that no one individual or single factor could have brought it about….Men of conscience and courage…would have struggled in vain if the king had not decided to take their side; and they themselves would not have acted as they had if they had not felt that the Bulgarian citizens, with some few exceptions, stood behind them in their efforts….All this was necessary for good to triumph, in a certain place and at a certain time; any break in the chain and their efforts might well have failed. It seems that, once introduced into public life, evil easily perpetuates itself, whereas good is always difficult, rare, and fragile. And yet possible” (Todorov, p. 40).

After the war, the interpretation of the rescue of Bulgarian Jews in old Bulgaria—but not of the Jews of Thrace and Macedonia—depended on who controlled the state. “The Communist regime that gradually took power in Bulgaria after 9 September 1944 gave two mutually contradictory answers to that question: first, what happened was not all that important; and second, the Communist Party deserves all credit for this glorious achievement” (Todorov, p. 14). The People’s Tribunal sentenced most of the deputies from the government majority on trial, and sentenced to death or long prison terms delegates who had signed Peshev’s protest letter—Peshev himself was sentenced to 15 years in prison.

After the fall of the Communist regime, the new Bulgaria recognized the need to relate to democratic forces in the West and to international Jewish organizations and used memory to restore their “moral capital.” This echoes the appeal of several public figures to King Boris on 26 May 1943, proclaiming that the mass deportation of innocent citizens must be opposed not only because of its cruelty but because “we [are] squandering a vast moral capital of which our generous and tolerant people had every right to be proud, we are also harming Bulgaria’s reputation in the eyes of the world and compromising its future national interests” (Todorov, p. 106).

The Tanevs do not address questions about the king’s role or the uses of memory. They do document in great detail the sustained and principled opposition mounted by the Bulgarian Orthodox Church against the government’s anti-Jewish policies. In Helen Fein’s terms, the Church proactively defended the principle that the Jews were within the sanctified universe of obligation and, aligned with other social forces opposed to persecution, pushed the king into an expedient decision that halted plans for deportation. The plausibility of this interpretation is reinforced by Bulgarian authorities’ unopposed deportation of Jews from the occupied territories—their lack of Bulgarian citizenship is often cited as the reason they were not protected. The central lesson for prevention of future mass atrocities is clear. What is needed, within a high-risk society, is sustained, high-level civic opposition to genocidal policies. Internal opposition may itself be sufficient to check genocidal processes and is a powerful complement to human rights campaigns by international organizations.