A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 13 - Part 02

No sooner had we found out what she was up to than we began a campaign of shaming her into leaving. One by one we secretly ran under her window and yelled out ‘leave the compound!’, ‘get lost’… But she would not come out of her room. We were so preoccupied with shaming her into leaving, many of us continued to chant obscenities, forgetting to go to breakfast that day. Still, she refused to come out. We continued our chanting campaign for several days until one day we saw her with two suitcases in her hands, leaving the camp and heading for the city. The Madzhiri children among us began to cry. They loved her. We, on the other hand, were ecstatic at seeing her go but we pretended to be sorry that she was leaving. Soon afterwards they also fired the Albanian man. For us it was important that Marianthi left. A day later Evdoxia cancelled the grueling, early morning exercises for the little ones and shortened them for the older children to ten minutes. The quality of food also improved. We were allowed to go to the beach every day and to the stadium to watch soccer matches. They also purchased a few soccer balls for us so that we could form our own teams and play. They bought us each a pair of shoes, a shirt and a pair of pants. The guards guarding the front gates were all gone and so were their guns. Soon afterwards the barbed wire also disappeared and we were allowed to go out to the city in groups. When fall came the wind started to pick up and the weather turned cold. As I mentioned earlier, there was a leather factory near the camp where skins were processed. Well, the byproduct, or whatever was left over at the end of the day, they used to throw out near the sea. So, early in the morning we went there and lit it on fire. It would erupt into yellow flames and burn practically the entire day. We watched the mountain peaks turn white with snow with each passing day. We were cold and did not go to morning exercises. We lay in our beds next to each other keeping warm. During those days Russian ships began to arrive in Durres on a weekly basis. We watched one ship spend more than a week out in the sea some distance from the port. They said it was a Romanian ship. Smaller boats floated back and forth unloading boxes from the big ship. Then when the ship was lighter it floated into the harbour. One night, after Evdoxia visited all the houses we were staying in, she summoned all the children to gather under the willow. We gathered there but we did not line up. When Evdoxia arrived she climbed on the stage and said: ‘Children, did you see the big ships in the harbour?’ ‘Yes!’ we said in unison out of habit. ‘And do you know why they have been waiting there for so long?’ she asked. ‘No!’ we again said in unison. ‘They have been waiting there a long time because there is no one to unload them,’ she said. ‘The Albanian youth was sent to help build the Durres to Tirana railway. There is plenty of wheat, rye and other things to be unloaded but there is no one to unload it. All those goods are for our partisans. Are there any volunteers who want to help unload the ships?’ asked Evdoxia, and then came down from the stage, went beyond the playground and yelled out: ‘All those who want to volunteer, please line up in two rows beside me.’ Even before she was finished talking, the entire group of children, boys and girls, young and old, had joined the two lines. Evdoxia than went in front of the line and said: ‘Let us now march onto the ships and get instructions from the people there as to what they want us to do. And you know, the sooner we unload those ships, the sooner we can get bread to Gramos and Vicho.’ We left. This was the first time I had ever walked with my group without having to march in a straight line and sing a fighting song. We returned from the ships at dawn, all loaded up with wheat. Our pockets, folded sleeves, socks, shoes and all other creases in our clothing were full of wheat. We did not waste it, we collected it to the last grain and boiled it.

We built fires by the seaside and boiled the Russian wheat in rusty Italian helmets and sardine cans. We shared it of course. We gave some to the little ones who crouched around the fires watching and waiting, wiping their tears and noses with their dirty little hands. Only their eyes glimmered in the presence of the open fires. There were little fires everywhere, the entire coastline was smoking. We ate the wheat grain by grain, hot, sometimes before it was fully boiled. It was as sweet as honey! This is how it was every day until we unloaded all the ships. After they sailed away, we were left on the shore with our empty sardine cans and empty rusty Italian helmets. This was the first time in a long time that we felt full and did not dream of bread. About two weeks later they started giving us rye bread, a bun the size of a couple of fists for breakfast and dinner and macaroni for lunch. The food was better than before. During the evenings we gathered together under the willow tree and danced. Before bedtime mother Eugenia used to collect us in the hallway, sit us down on the concrete floor and ask us simple questions like what is the name of our mother, father, grandparents, etc., starting with the youngest children first. We all answered her questions every time, it was therapeutic for us. She also would ask us for the names of our brothers and sisters, our family name and the name of our village. She would then ask the older girls to sing a song for us. The older girls knew many songs which they learned from their grandparents. We all sang the same songs even though we were far away from home; they comforted us and gave us hope. After that we would huddle close together and mother Eugenia would tell us stories about the village, about the meadows, the vineyards, the water fountains, about everything she could think of that related to our village. She did this every night so that we wouldn’t forget our roots and who we were. Then she would caress each child on the head and send them off to bed. She was always kind and never scolded anyone. She was everything to us. That was our mother Evgenia. One day two trucks entered the camp and offloaded heaps of military shirts. They gave us one each. There was not much to choose from in terms of size. Hey, they were military shirts and we were thrilled to have them, especially the little children. We had to either cut or fold the sleeves because they were too long. The shirts were too long for the little ones but they did not mind and wore them like a dress dragging on the ground. We couldn’t button them because they were too wide so we folded them around our small bodies and tied them with fine telephone wire that we found in the dumpsters by the seaside. The shirts had not been washed and most were dirty and blood-stained, some even had personal items in them. In the shirt pockets we found letters and pictures of the fighters, their family, their children, their wives, their women, etc. The letters were written in Greek but most of the children could not read Greek so they took them to those who could. Almost all the letters were sad, full of bitterness; only a few were cheerful and full of jokes. We cried most of the time as we read them and sometimes we laughed...” Kirche suddenly went silent. He sighed deeply, unbuttoned his right military shirt pocket and removed a number of sheets of paper and began to unfold them. “The military shirts they gave us belonged to the soldiers who died in the Albanian mountains during the Greco-Italian War... Can you read Greek?” asked Kirche and handed Pando the letters. “Read them for me if you can read Greek.” Pando took the first letter, looked at it, put his cigarette down on a stone and said: “Yes, this one is written in Greek. Let’s see what it says.” He then began to read: “My dearest, A week ago I sent you a letter; I hope it reached your hands. I wanted to let you know right away that a while ago the everyday struggles we have been experiencing have now escalated.

I am standing here by a burning fire and while the other soldiers from my unit are daydreaming in front of the dancing flames, I am writing you this letter by the light of the fire. Believe me, every word written here is life having lived because one can rarely avoid death in this hell. Today I am still alive only because I thought of you all day... Standing behind me are very tall pine trees which in the dark seem like they are touching the sky. Above, between their peaks, the wind howls, shakes off the snow, breaks branches and groans among the thick trees. It seems that everything here is wrong. The only real and normal thing is you... In this twisted place, under the insane howling of the wind, in these wild mountains that lie beneath the thick

snow, under the steady rain of cannon, mortar and machine gun fire, continuously crackling, today I am still alive. My only one, there, in the warm room, please kneel down before the icon of the Virgin Mary and pray for my return. I don’t know why but I often imagine myself face down crying, my face stuck in the snow, frozen and... and I think; will I remain here, like this, and will someone take my love away? I wonder if you still have those dried rose petals. The flame flickers in my tired eyes and my eyelids are getting heavy. I need to get some sleep. I need to lie down, because I don’t know what the night will be like and how the next day will end... Many warm kisses… Tomorrow I will deliver this letter. Good night my love, good night my Life…” Pando paused for a moment, took another letter, looked at Kirche, slowly raised his eyebrows and thoughtfully said: “And this letter too, the soldier never mailed… It was written on November 22, 1940, at the position where he was stationed.” Pando then began to read: “Dear and respected professor, By the knife and by sword, Ivan Mountain fell beneath our feet. We overcame the enemy. Unfortunately, many of our people from Lerin, Voden and Kostur Regions will remain here forever. Now that we came out victorious I often ask myself for whose fatherland, for which country, did we heroically fight? I wonder about this because a week ago about two dozen of our boys were arrested just because they spoke our language (Macedonian) in the trenches. Today we celebrate a great victory, the same day our troops invade Korcha. I have to go now, my Sergeant just ordered me to dig... We have been transferred to Dzvezda and have been digging bunkers and trenches all night. They just told us that tomorrow we will be launching an attack. It’s been like this every day. I am very tired today and I have not shaved. The night is clear and frost is falling on top of the snow making it glisten in the moonlight. My fingers are rigid from the cold. They told us that fifty of our boys (Macedonians) attacked the Italian batteries during the night and no one returned... That’s all for now… I will post this letter tomorrow. I will send you more news in my next letter. Give my regards to your loved ones. Best regards and forever yours...” “This letter was written using the Greek alphabet but the words are in Macedonian. I have read this letter many times,” said Kirche and handed it to Pando. Pando took it and began to read with a hoarse voice: “My dear husband. We received your letter and we are all happy that you are alive and well. We constantly receive news in the village of people being wounded and killed. May God protect us all from evil and may he bring you home safe and soon. Two days after Mitrovden (St. Dimitar Day), two policemen came here and took father to Kostur. There they beat him badly because he spoke our language (Macedonian). Uncle Done went and complained but they told him to mind his own business. Father was brought back on a horse and we had to put crushed onions all over his body and wrap him in a skin. He is okay now but he will not go to church. He sits at home all day, swears a lot, holds his chest and coughs a lot. Our son Riste constantly asks about you. He often goes to the balcony and waits for you. The Ristev and Petrev families are begging you to inquire about their boys and please let us know how they are doing. The families have not received letters for a long time and are worried. Greetings from your entire family. Every day mother and I pray to God for your safe return. Take care. We all love you.” “And this letter,” Kirche interrupted, “I found inside the right pocket of my shirt. The entire pocket was covered with black blood. I also found these pictures in my other shirt pocket…” Numo took the pictures and looked at them for a long time. Written on the back of the larger picture, with the image of a beautiful young woman on whose knees sat a little boy, was: “To our father, we wish your safe return to us.”

Beautifully hand-written on the back of another picture was: “To our dear and respected teacher who fought heroically against that stupid Mussolini and his followers.” Dated: December 20th, 1940. Pando looked at the pictures and then, without saying a word, slowly began to read: “Sorovich, November 16, 1940. The formation of a new division began here. There were many, many of our people (Macedonians). We left on foot during the night and headed for Korcha. My battalion received orders to hold positions between Trebezina and Bubezi... December 9, 1940. For days now our Western Macedonian Army has occupied the position between Pogradets and Mount Kamia. Every day it’s the same thing, they appear and we shoot at them then we watch with our binoculars to see how many dead and wounded they pick up. When we go out to cut trees for building bunkers and for firewood, they thunder at us with their cannons and in place of bringing back wood, we bring back our dead and wounded. We bury our dead at night. They killed Stavro today. He was an older man. A neighbour of his from Turie, a village in Lerin Region, keeps saying in bad Greek ‘Oh, his poor six children... Oh, his poor six children...’ Today I can tell you what happened in the past few weeks. We fought against the black shirts from December 29 to January 25, in a continuous battle and finally we occupied the peak of Trebezina. We scored a goal. They are thundering at us now as we dig trenches. It’s windy and blowing snow is coming down hard, we can’t see anything, even in front of us. It is very cold and my hands stick to the metal parts of my weapon. We dug small bunkers, big enough to kneel inside. We sit side by side to keep warm. My hands and my feet are numb. We are slowly weakening. We have no hot food to keep us warm. It seems that the Lord showed some mercy. Today we were ordered to withdraw and regroup on the eastern slopes of the hill. We were attacked by mountain climbers this morning. We held our position resiliently but they overpowered us. But in the evening we charged forward, broke their defense through the deep snow and escaped. We did not bury our dead. They will have to lie frozen under the deep snow. This is how it’s been in this hell... We greeted the dawn frozen and crouching inside the bunkers. What I saw in front of me that morning was a fairy tale. The day was awakening in silence. I looked to the east and there, far at the top of the mountain, the world slowly began to whiten, darkness was slowly disappearing, being replaced by a whitish-yellowish shy color. I looked up and watched the sky slowly turn reddish as the view of the hills became stronger, sharper. The world was changing before my eyes, turning red then silver and then there it was, the big bright disk rising up from behind the cliffs. The sight gave me an outburst of joy deep inside, it was like a beautiful inspiring song, the sight of the rising sun gave me an insatiable desire to live... My daydream was interrupted by the voice of my Sergeant who ordered us to prepare for the attack... It is now noon and it’s snowing again. Sleet this time. I am tired, exhausted. We had to break through the frozen ground in order to bury those who were killed during the attack. We had to bury them in the frozen ground and cover them with soil mixed with snow. Their stiff bodies will never warm up, not with the sad sound of a soldier’s trumpet and not by the tears of those of us crazy people who stood over their graves crying...” Numo raised his hand and saluted, silently staring at the hills beyond the river, seeming like he was hearing the sad sound of a soldier’s trumpet, seeming like he was feeling the men’s pain as they struggled and suffered in the cold. Seeming like their pain was gripping him by his heart. Pando turned the page but Numo raised his hand signaling that he had had enough. Numo’s chin trembled and his cheek muscles vibrated. His forehead was wrinkled and fine beads of sweat were formed, glistening in the sun like tiny pearls, rolling down and disappearing in his thick eyebrows.

He felt shivers up and down his spine...