Arrival in New York
I approached the customs officer too. He asked my name. On hearing a surname ending in “off”, he muttered:
"You are Russian?"
“No, I am Bulgarian”
"I am Bulgarian, from Bulgaria."
"Bulgaireean!" I spoke up stressing the syllables, because the carelessness of this American was beginning to offend me. Was he deaf or something?
"Hungary," he corrected me.
"What Hungary! Bulgaria, on the Balkan Peninsula." I was both angry and felt like laughing at the same time seeing him racking his brains to remember - where for Christ’s sake was this kingdom! I realised that I may not have pronounced the name of our principality correctly in their tongue, so I took out and spread a map of Europe before him and poked my finger into the centre of Sofia.
"Oh, yes, Turkey, all right!"
"No, sir," I objected, but he wouldn’t listen and wrote me in as a Turk. In the same manner he Turkicised Filaret and the doctor. The latter was disillusioned and conceived a hatred for the Americans.