A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 25

A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 25

Eight days after she found out about Risto’s death, Krstovitsa decided to go to the road. After the running, trampling flood of people passed her by, she noticed the little grove where she and the other women used to collect dry firewood. She noticed the plums were already ripe and stuffed several handfuls into her pocket. She then took the uphill road. Lost in her thoughts she moved slowly until she reached the plateau from where one could see the great blue water. She decided to take a rest. When she was done resting she took the path that led to the side of the hill, occasionally frequented by flocks of birds. She was moving a little faster now because the sun was setting behind the mountain. She bypassed the thorny landscape and walked through a harvested wheat field. The field had been harvested about a week ago but the harvester had not collected all the wheat. Minute amounts had fallen on the ground. She decided to gather some. She bent forward, turned the bottom of her skirt up and started collecting. When she was done, she sat down, crushed the wheat heads by rolling them between her hands and then cleaned the grain by blowing away the chaff. She then put it in a bag she had borrowed from Pando. After she was done she took the downhill and headed back to her cabin. When she reached the road she ran into Kuze who, at the time, was responsible for guard duty. Leaning on his cane, with a stern voice, he ordered her to stop and asked her: “Where to woman?” By her movements and body language Kuze could sense that she was afraid of something. He was very happy when people showed fear in his presence. A coward himself, he took pleasure watching other people squirm. He loved to torment people, he enjoyed feeling like a hunter in pursuit of prey, preying on helpless … “I was up there at the side of the hill...” muttered Krstovitsa and transferred her little bag from her left to her right hand. “At the side of the hill?! And what were you doing there? I am asking you!” ordered Kuze. Krstovitsa untied the little bag and showed Kuze what was inside. She then said: “I collected some wheat… I picked it up from the ground… The field had already been harvested…” “Don’t tell me that the field had been harvested!” replied Kuze loudly. “Well it’s not much, only two or three handfuls of grain which I cleaned myself…” she admitted. “Yeah, but that’s still theft!” he said and ordered her to go with him and walk in front of him. “Where am I expected to go walking in front of you?” asked Krstovitsa.

“Let’s go, move, I am taking you to the administration office and you can explain to the commander what you have done, you understand? Now walk in front of me!” ordered Kuze. Krstovitsa looked at him with pleading eyes and spoke as softly as she could when she asked: “Please my dear man, please don’t do this to me. I will give you whatever you want, just please let me go. I will give you my gold wedding ring, just let me go.” She then began to cry as she tried to remove her ring off her finger. The ring, unfortunately, from years of wear, was imbedded deep into her finger and refused to come off. She had no reason to remove it; she had always been faithful to her husband and in all the years had never looked at another man. Even after her husband had left for America, she had never allowed another man to touch her. But now, to avoid embarrassment, she was willing to part with her ring. Now she was willing to renounce her past life for the sake of saving herself from embarrassment. “Move, get going woman!” ordered Kuze. “And because you want to bribe me I will make it harder for you!” With her head bowed down Krstovitsa walked in front of Kuze and they both entered the administration office. When they reached the Prenies commander, Krstovitsa stood by the door and, with fear in her eyes, she stared at the one-armed man. “Comrade Vasilopoulos,” said Kuze, “I caught this woman stealing...” Vasilopoulos threw his cigarette on the floor, stepped on it with his heavy boot and after releasing the smoke through his nose, with a hoarse voice, said: “So, the stealing has already begun...” And after approaching Krstovitsa he asked: “What’s in the bag?” “A bit… a bit of wheat… from the field that has already been harvested… I picked it up from the ground… grain by grain… seed by seed… here… I picked it instead of the birds…” replied Kostovitsa timidly. “A little bit of wheat… hmmm…” said Vasilopoulos, making a face. “It’s very little… barely a shepa (handful in Macedonian)… it’s all here…” replied Krstovitsa pleadingly. “Sepa? What is that comrade?” asked Vasilopoulos in Greek. (Note: Greeks can say “sh” so they pronounce “sh” as “s”.) Comrade Kuze, with his eyes looking like those of a frightened, crying dog took an idolatrous step towards Vasilopoulos and explained. “Shepa, comrade is hufta (handful in Greek)… hufta,” he explained and made a cup with his little hand looking like a beggar in front of a church. “I only collected a handful of grain that would have been eaten by the birds anyway and I took it from a field that had already been harvested about a week ago…” pleaded Krstovitsa. “You mean you stole a handful of wheat!” Vasilopoulos blasted. “Don’t you know that the harvested field is Albanian National property? Don’t you know that Enver Hoxha has received us here like brothers and sisters, and you are stealing from his field, eh?” Krstovitsa sighed, leaned against the wall and lowered her head. A moment later she lifted her eyes and opened her mouth but before she had a chance to speak, Vasilopoulos looked at her sternly and in Greek said: “Give me the little bag!” “It is not a big offense, son ... I only collected a handful of wheat. The ravens, the crows and the sparrows would have pecked it anyway. If anything I took it from the birds… If it wasn’t eaten by the birds then it would have sprouted with the next rain anyway… I only took a handful... I also collected some dried sticks of wood to make a fire and borrowed a small pot to boil it in… Today I was going to boil it... It’s our custom…” explained Krstovitsa. “Are you that hungry?” asked the one-armed Vasilopoulos. He then took the little bag and tossed it on the side and addressed Kuze: “See to which barracks she belongs. She must be punished.” “I understand comrade. Don’t worry. I will take care of it myself and see that she is punished. I will make an example of her for the others,” he said to Vasilopoulos and grabbed Krstovitsa by the arm and began to pull her towards the door.

“I beg of you, please,” pleaded Krstovitsa. “Have a heart… Please give me back my wheat. I did not steal it. I gathered it from the ground seed by seed… I gathered it for…” “Get out! Get out you ruffian! Get lost!” Vasilopoulos yelled loudly, showing her the door with his good arm. He then yelled at Kuze, asking him what he was still waiting for. They did not allow her to keep the wheat, they did not give her a chance to explain why she needed the wheat and they did not listen to her pain. They cruelly kicked her out of the office in the same way they kicked dozens of people out everyday here in Prenies. Krstovitsa was returned back to the barracks and horse stables. She was made to lay down on her straw mat, a bed for the wretched, feeling sick, wounded and insulted. She greeted dawn with her eyes closed. When the rail rang and the people began to stand in queues in front of the cauldrons, she took the plums she had gathered the day before and, with tears streaming down her cheeks, went from woman to woman and from man to man praying: “Good people, take some, eat them and may God bless Risto, my son. May he rest in peace…”