There, in the old archives, five floors, thousands of fates are recorded, of refugees who have been saved from hell of Turkish persecution and sleeping the ink with tons of paper, the history that has stood up to this day. What presence of Turks? Horror, Bulgarians have arrived without news. Arsenals and buried men, not passing through the border, fear. Bulgaria gave away pieces a house for a house, a pot and a veranda. The archives are here and they talk. And Soros can read them. They speak with speechless textbooks. And let every Judah move! There, in the old archives is life, crippled and started a new one again. Unpaid by anyone, lonely, with the hope of a blessing drop.
