“Highly recommended! This is no ordinary war story, but a wonderful, exciting read, filled with action, intrigue, romance. The author brings out the true horrors of war, seen through the eyes of those on all sides –- and politics are secondary to the complexity of human relationships in an enthralling, realistic story. From beginning to end, it leaves you wanting to read more by this prolific author.”
-- Allbooks Reviews
“An accounting you will not soon forget. This epic novel tells of the lives behind the Balkan War...from the highest Bulgarian royalty to the simple houseboy. The dialogues flow naturally, the author’s descriptions enchant the tale. For an understanding of our world’s war history, insight into today’s conflicts, and a story that exudes the realities of living, this should be on your ‘to-read’ list.”
-- BookReview.com
“The author brings to life the adventure and history of a nation seeking freedom from oppression of the Ottoman Empire. The book takes you back to a place steeped in impressive history, a larger-than-life dramatic recreation of its glory and tragedy...”
-- Rebeccas Reads
“Another masterpiece by author Chernozemsky...a blend of biographical accounts and fictionalized events, one of the most difficult genres to write. Again, in this novel his story-telling skills amaze the reader, allowing them to “see” through his eyes. Overall, this novel is one to treasure for a long time.”
-- Book Review Club
“Lion of the Balkans has everything – love, hate, adventure and the glory and tragedy of human existence. The novel brings an historical period to life, yet is pertinent to today’s events -- the ongoing turmoil has distinct similarities to the Bulgarian-Turkish war. The story makes a most cogent plea for humanity to be just that – humane. It is a book for the ages.”
-- Dorothy W. Milner, Columnist and Critic
“A gripping folk-story authenticated by history, at once romantic, naturalistic and lyrical. It gives us a chance to live within those dark, tumultuous events of the early twentieth century. It is an adventure you will not want to miss…”
-- Mary Dawn Gladson, Author
Change Your Handwriting, Feel Your Life Change
Excerpt from Chapter One:
Tzar Ferdinand of Bulgaria walked slowly along the mountain path, rifle under his arm. His older son, Boris, was with him. Tall pine trees waved under the slight touch of wind, silver dust flying in the crystal air. The sun had broken through the ragged clouds, but its light did nothing to banish the uneasiness between the two. The snow under their boots produced funny squeaky sounds that made the silence even thicker.
“Listen, my son,” said the Tzar in German, “I might be a dreamer, but I am realistic as well. Bulgarians are tough: I would say, rude and idealistic, a nation of peasants, often given to heroics. They’ll hand a beautiful port at the warm White Sea over to me. They’ll open the gates of Tzarygrad for me and make me the Emperor of the Balkans.” He stopped, slightly flushed and panting from the long walk in the snow, or because of his sweet vision of glory. “I see myself in a magnificent procession filing through the splendors of the newly rendered Christian Saint Sofia, and the trembling hands of the patriarch crowning me.”
He ceased his long-winded speech abruptly, his clever foxy eyes focusing on his son’s face. Boris had paled, mouth open a bit, his keen, intelligent eyes evading his father’s. Ferdinand sighed. No, the heir to the throne was not the glamorous type, far from it. The scholarly type, yes. What kind of monarch will he make? And the other son was temperamental, unbalanced, hardly any brains. God Almighty, to whom should he leave his empire? “You don’t approve of me, do you, son?”
“I don’t know, father,” said Boris, in his quiet gentle way. “I thought we were going into this war to unite the nation, to give freedom, to liberate the still enslaved people. I think that’s what Bulgarians will fight for.”
Ferdinand looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and sarcasm. A thin, sardonic smile lingered on his lips making his expression even haughtier and more snobbish.
Just like his mother, he thought for the hundredth time, but much worse, because he happens to be a man and moreover, the heir to my throne.
“Let’s go back to the lodge. It’s getting colder.”
***
Lieutenant Colonel Vladimir Seraphimov was slightly bent over against the bursts of wind and the penetrating drizzle that fell over the open drill-square all morning. From the back of his horse, wrapped tightly in his “magic” mantle that, according to his troops, shielded him from the enemy’s bullet, he closely searched the faces of the young soldiers for any signs of fatigue or demoralization. There were none. Rumors of a coming war had electrified everybody. A war against the Turks—the age-old oppressor that still held the Rhodopy Mountains and its population under tyranny—was anticipated by the Bulgarian youths on both sides of the border like a wedding celebration. The mountain people, separated from their kinfolk for years, could hardly wait to be united with the young kingdom.
On the other hand, a young generation of Turks, even after the radical changes in their crumbling empire, still held a grudge against the newly liberated country. Their hot blood boiled and violent tempers soared. “Damn it,” they would say in the cool Turkish pub, sipping on the strong coffee, “Let’s tangle with the rebels again. The next day we’ll be in Phulbee, in three days we’ll be drinking our coffee in Sofia. This time there won’t be any Moscovites to help them out. It will be between us two: The Great Ottoman Empire and a handful of rebels.” Bulgarians and Turks, as well, looked upon this coming clash of the two nations more as a sporting event, flexing muscles and exchanging insults and challenges. However, Vladimir Seraphimov knew what war meant to the common people. He could foresee death, innumerable sufferings, hunger and epidemics coming to victors and defeated as well.
Shortly before noon recess an officer of the guard came to relieve him from duty. An urgent message had come for the lieutenant colonel. Seraphimov threw a last look at the exercises on the square and galloped his horse toward the garrison’s quarters. It was warm inside with the persistent smell of wet clothes drying. The little tin stove, red hot, seemed to be booming with delight. Assen Mitackov, his houseboy soldier, jumped to attention. Seraphimov searched the open peasant face for something alarming, but read nothing.
“Is it about my wife, Assen?”
“Yes, sir, Colonel!”
Seraphimov led him away from the gawking clerks.
“What is it?”
“She’s all right, but the baby is hungry.”
“What do you mean? Doesn’t she feed her?”
“No, sir, Colonel, she does not.”
Seraphimov visibly paled with anger. “What is happening at my home?”
The young man looked confusedly at his boots. “For the second day in a row, the baby is crying and madam says she doesn’t want to see her, ’cause the baby is another girl and five of them is enough under the same roof…”
Seraphimov caught himself shouting. “She said that?” then he remembered the presence of the clerks and toned down, “I can’t believe it. Did she really say that?”
The boy stepped back speechless with fright; then regained his voice and whispered, his innocent blue eyes wide open, pleading. “For Christ sake…I didn’t invent it, it’s true…”
Vladimir felt ashamed. He had to learn to cope with his temper if he ever wanted to be a good commander.
“It’s all right. You’ve done the right thing. Thank you. Now go home and I’ll come as soon as possible,” Seraphimov ordered.
The houseboy left promptly and Seraphimov waited for the general. Permission was granted. In less than an hour he confronted his rebellious wife. Ellena’s unusual beauty had faded after giving birth to the last baby. Her face was swollen and there were slight bluish pouches under her large green eyes. She had a sullen and stubborn expression, but she evaded the hard stare of her husband.
“I don’t want to see her,” Ellena reiterated.
Seraphimov said nothing. He just kept staring at her in his hard way.
“You don’t frighten me. I am not one of your soldiers,” she pouted.
The man went around the bed slowly, and at this point, she had to look at him and she was frightened.
“Ellena,” he said in a low and husky voice, “I have never laid a hand on your hind parts. Pray that this never happens.”
Then he stepped back and opened the door. “Bring in the baby.”
Ellena cried softly. “I wanted so badly for it to be a boy this time…to make you a proud father…”
For the first time in days Seraphimov smiled. He took the baby from the hands of a confused and flushed Assen, looked at the small reddish face for a moment, then gave her to his wife with a kiss on the forehead.
“I am the proudest father of my Amazon Tribe. Proudest in the whole wide world,” he beamed.
***
Sultana was leaning against the window when the long magnificent coach drew along the side of the house. The day was dark, wintry, swept by a piercing, hostile wind. The suave greyhound pricked up his ears, then sprang gracefully and stood erect, whining softly. Though all the lamps had been lit in the elegant town house, they only seemed to make the shadows in the corners darker. The blaze in the marble fireplace flickered over the smoothly polished mahogany. The greyhound moved behind Sultana and settled at her feet.
Pale faced, with his aristocratic beard and prominent Hapsburg’s nose, in hunting clothes that gave a hint of his enormous wealth, the middle-aged Tzar of Bulgaria entered pompously.
What a garish actor his Majesty is, thought Sultana while she made an elaborate curtsy.
“Bad weather for hunting, Your Majesty.”
“Outside, my dear lady, only outside,” he crooned. “Great weather for hunting inside.”
Sultana stood motionless for a moment, shocked by the grossness of the remark. She took possession of herself and pointed to the sofa. The Tzar sat down heavily and the greyhound moved immediately beside him, the fingers of his well-manicured right hand restlessly stroked the hound’s smooth coat.
Sultana’s voice seemed to ebb away: “I am sure; my husband will be terribly disappointed…”
