A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 9 - Part 01

A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 9

It rained the entire day yesterday and all of last night. The roads were muddy from being trampled by our people. They traveled the road in long queues with their horses, mules and donkeys, kneading the mud with every step and then turned uphill towards Shak, you know those places, right? Uphill travel was difficult. It was very slippery and dangerous especially for those carrying heavy loads. It was more dangerous for the animals. Those who slipped ended up rolling down into the wild torrent in the swollen river. They were transporting crates of ammunition and bags of food. They had to carry the supplies uphill on their own backs. The animals that broke their legs were killed and loaded on other animals or were skinned on the spot, cut to pieces and taken up to be cooked and eaten. At dawn I went from my bunker to the river. The water was high, covering the lower branches of the willow trees. I thought for sure it was going to overflow the river banks. The sky was black and it didn’t look like it was going to stop raining anytime soon. I returned back to my bunker, took a thick rope and tied it to a willow tree. Then I went in the river and swam to the other side. This was Albanian territory. When I was tying my end of the rope to a pine tree, I was approached by an Albanian sergeant who came to help. He told me that (Greek) government troops were seen yesterday coming down from Stenite and occupying Krchishta and were digging trenches on the hill above Sinadevrid. You know those places, right? He also said that if they came to Telok, it would be easy for them to come down here and attempt to capture us. I finished tying the rope and, while hanging on to it, I returned to my bunker. By sunrise it had stopped raining and the sun was shining. People came out of their barracks and began to hang their clothes, blankets, rags, etc., to dry. Then, suddenly I heard the popping sound of machine gun fire; it was coming from the Albanian side. For some reason the Albanians had opened fire. Bullets were whistling over our heads. Then I heard fire coming from the woods above us, I knew it was not us firing. Then someone started shouting: “Run! Run towards Albania.” We all ran to the river but unfortunately it was still swollen with muddy, fast running water. Good thing I had tied the rope. I then yelled out, “People there is a rope here that you can use to cross. Hang onto the rope and you will be okay.” But in the panic, and from the noises made by the running water and the machine guns firing on both sides, it was difficult to hear. But the people improvised and by holding hands, made a long line and began to cross. After that several Albanian soldiers threw ropes at them which helped them cross faster. No one crossed using my rope. I then took my wife’s hand, entered the water and, while holding the rope, we crossed the river. That’s when others noticed my rope. I then went back to pick up some food and blankets. I took as much as I could carry and then went back into the river. When I reached the shore on the other side, I heard a woman yelling. I turned and looked back. She was up to her waist in water and was holding her child up above her head. It was Labrovitsa and she was crying. “Hold onto the rope,” I yelled but she could not hear me because she was screaming and because of all the other noises. The gunfire was also getting stronger. Labrovitsa was walking towards the rope as the water began to rise above her chest and splashing the frightened little girl. “Lift her head up, I shouted again and ran towards her. But at that same moment, someone else jumped into the water and I got silt in my eyes from the splash. I held the rope and blindly walked towards Labrovitsa. When I opened my eyes, I saw her in front of me. She was holding onto the rope. Her eyes were wide open and filled with fear and horror. She was screaming loudly. The little girl was gone. I took her under my arm and carried her to the Albanian side. I did not know what to say.

I could not find the words... my throat went dry... I immediately thought of my own wife. I looked in the muddy water but all I could see were uprooted trees, logs, branches and leaves floating down river. The people hid behind the bend, in the dense trees, and started climbing up the mountain along the dense grove. Here they were safe from being purposely shot. The Albanians ceased fire. From the cliffs we could see the Burandari (Greek government soldiers) slowly descending down towards the barracks and shouting: “Don’t run away, come back. We won’t harm you!” We had heard those words before and we Macedonians knew very well that a promise from a Greek is meaningless. We had had experience with Greek promises for half a century. And as such, Numo, we abandoned our homeland. During the night we arrived at the village Dobrani. The Albanian people there welcomed us with open arms and no one was left out in the open. During the night the Albanian people also took our sheep, goats and cattle and looked after them for us, as we spent two days in the village. We figured our Partisans would attack the government troops, drive them out and then we could to go back home. They may have attacked but we did not know, all we knew was that we couldn’t go home. We knew that for sure. During the morning of the third day we were awakened and told to go to the village square. They gathered us there to tell us that we would be traveling on a certain road, but where that certain road would take us they would not say. The only thing they said was that there were people amongst us who knew where the road led. I cannot express the happiness I felt there, Numo, in the open village space, when suddenly I saw Labrovitsa holding her little girl in her arms. She was alive! I ran over to her, grabbed the little girl out of her arms and hugged her and hugged her. I cried uncontrollably. Then she told me that the Albanian soldier who had jumped into the river just before me had taken the little girl from her arms and brought her to shore. The road we took, Numo, brought us here to Prenies. We gathered our sheep, goats, cattle, mules and donkeys and together went off on this road. I had a prch (male goat), Numo, which was the envy of the entire village. Unfortunately from the long walk its hooves wore down so it constantly lagged behind. It was limping from all four legs. Some people suggested I slaughter it and put it out of its misery before it died from suffering, but I refused. I kept saying no! It would be a sin! One day the animal stopped walking. Its hooves were completely gone. It was standing on naked flesh. At first it would not move. Then it lay down on the ground. Some of my fellow villagers, and others, again suggested that I slaughter it. But I kept refusing! When the people left, my wife gathered some grass and broke some branches with leaves and put them in a pile in front of the animal. She then filled a kettle with water and also put it front of it. The Prch refused to eat or drink. It kept looking at us with sad eyes. After that we left and followed the moving column. The Prch remained behind in desolation, and as we moved further and further away it began to bleat, not bleat, but cry like a child... I turned to look. It was slightly raised on its knees and the further away we moved, the more it bleated and the sadder its bleating became. It seemed like it was crying and cursing us. Numo, my friend, it seems that even the animals understood injustice and anguish… We finally arrived here... They put us in barracks. Everyone got forty centimetres of space. We were arranged like bullets in two rows on mats made of straw. Every day more and more people arrived and our numbers grew. And every day we ran on the road as we do now. The truck drivers were saying Gramos was burning and that they had to carry more and more wounded with each passing day. They tossed more and more leaflets on the road and we heard more screaming and crying. No day passed without bad news.

One day it was my turn. I found a piece of paper with information regarding my Trpo. My middle son Trpo was killed in Gramos. I went down there and hid in the meadows beyond the river and cried out loudly. I went there to hide from my wife but someone told her. Two weeks later I found another piece of paper. It was my youngest child, my seventeen year old, he was lying wounded in a hospital in Elbasan. I told my wife and we slipped out of the compound during the night. We went to Elbasan on foot. We hid from place to place to avoid being caught and by the afternoon the next day we were there. We found the hospital, but could not find our son. They said he died in surgery... How did we get back? Only we know how, Numo. A month later my wife got sick. She was heart-broken and her heart gave out. I dug a grave for her with my own two hands. I buried her myself and ever since then I became Pando the gravedigger... The first grave on the left is that of my wife... That’s how it was… concluded Pando. “And those graves there?” asked Numo. “They belong to the Italians. Italian soldiers lie in those graves,” answered Pando. Numo’s hands were shaking as he prepared a cigarette, sprinkling tobacco on a piece of paper. “Give it to me, I will twist it for you, Numo,” said Pando. Numo continued making his cigarette, lit it, took a deep puff and after he blew the smoke out, said: “Now I know why you are like that...” “Like what?” asked Pando. “Silent...” replied Numo. “No. I am not silent. I constantly talk. Wherever I am, I always talk to myself. I talk to my children. I see them in front of me, I follow them, they follow me, I walk beside them and always talk to them. When I am alone I talk to myself loudly and when I was with my wife we have conversations... It depends on how I feel. Now let’s go down to the road. You know I have another son, he is at Vicho... Maybe someone will tell me something good about him... And you, perhaps, you will meet that driver friend of yours, eh?” said Pando. Numo moved to the side of the road and stopped. The last time he did this he was caught up in the stampede, knocked down and stomped on by the crowd. Unfortunately when the trucks drive by they are mobbed by the people and it is almost impossible to see the drivers from the side of the road. He has only one leg and it is impossible for him to run or steady himself during the pushing and shoving. So, Numo stands on the side of the road calling: “Trpo, it’s Numo calling!” But in the screaming and yelling that goes on nobody can hear him or can see him where he stands. So, Numo stands at the side of the road twice a day waiting and hoping to get a glimpse of his truck driver friend. The dust that was lifted by the passing trucks slowly began to settle. The crying heard coming out of the barracks unfortunately lasted much longer. Pando and Numo kept walking on the side of the road, combing the dry grass looking for pieces of paper. Again Pando found nothing. Was this easier or more difficult on his soul? He felt heaviness on his chest, which he found difficult to get rid of. Like a dry cough. Suddenly Numo spoke up: “Yesterday I limped my way down to the river. I looked at the shores, they were white and hundreds of women were washing wool. Where did all that wool come from, Pando?” “It was from the sheep the people from Kostur brought to Albania. The smarter ones, Numo, immediately sold their sheep to the Albanians in the villages and managed to put a gold coin or two in their pockets. But the others, like me who had one hundred and twenty sheep and sixty goats, brought them here thinking that tomorrow we would return to our homes. Unfortunately those in the jeep, with help from those who watched our animals, who never had any of their own, took them from us. They gave us, Numo, a piece of paper with some handwriting on it. Well, this is how much my flocks were worth. I tossed the piece of paper because I recognized a con when I saw one. They told me that the government, the people’s government, when it comes to power, will pay for them.

So, all the sheep and goats were put under the knife. And the meat, they said, was sent to the front. The skins were sold to retailers and the wool was washed in the river. Our women worked for months in the barracks spinning and knitting stockings and sweaters for those in the battlefields...” concluded Pando. “You should have hung onto the piece of paper...” advised Numo. “Why? Do you think someone is going to return my herds? Whatever government comes to power, it must eat first. After it eats, what will there be left for me? I saw with my own eyes how those in the people’s government behaved in the villages. They were a people’s government in power then but did they plough, plant, harvest and collect firewood? No! They just took whatever they wanted from us. They were more interested in eating our food, for free, and lying in the shade all day. They did nothing to help us even in the worst of times. And here too they are doing nothing. Take Mitre for example. He visited from place to place there and he is doing the same thing here. All he has are two patches covering his ass yet he constantly preaches about communism. He and others like him do not hesitate, not even for a moment, to send other people’s children to the battlefields to get killed, while they stay here in Prenies and live a better life than they did at home. This kind of person does not get up early in the morning and does not plough. There is no field or village work for them. This is how they live, Numo, on the backs of others. They have big mouths when it comes to eating and shouting slogans. They are first in line in front of the cauldron every day. They ate meat from Easter to Easter, and here they eat meat at least once a week. They have their wives beside them and their children are nowhere near the battlefields. Most of them sent their children to the Eastern European States. They had nothing to eat at home but here all they do is eat. Well, Numo, I want nothing from a people’s government such the one Mitre envisions. And I don’t want to speak about Kuze...” “Who is this Kuze?” asked Numo. “Kuze? It’s better you don’t know who he is. But if you do want to know, then tomorrow, go up there where the sheep graze. There you will find him, Mitre, and two or three others. They go there pretending to count the sheep, or the people’s sheep, as they like to call them. Kuze, Mite and the others are now the new owners of someone else’s sheep. Don’t be surprised if you find them roasting a lamb. Also, don’t be surprised if they tell you it’s for the wounded in Elbasan. And if you choose not to believe them, don’t say a word because they will report you to the authorities with trumped-up charges and you will find yourself in hot water. Kuze is a lizard, Numo; he almost poisoned the people here. It was his turn to collect firewood for the kitchen so he went up to the grove, who knows how the devil he did it, but he found a cave. Inside the cave were piles of bags of flour, boxes filled with cans of macaroni and who knows what else. I guess Kuze thought he was smarter than the devil when he loaded two bags on a donkey and took them down to the ovens. He made a deal with both the baker and the chef and got some compensation from the baker. But when the baker saw that the flour was hard and compressed, he went after him and they began to argue. They had a fight. When Kuze was questioned by the administration he told them that he had bought the flour from some Albanian in a neighbouring village and the whole thing was covered up. Unfortunately the greedy chef decided to use the flour in the cauldron as part of the meal he was preparing. The people ate it and then spent the night in the toilets and in the ditches behind the barracks. Thousands of people were severely affected. There were not enough toilets to accommodate them so they went all over the place. Prenies began to stink. A day or two later other people came upon the cave. One person said they had seen Kuze come out of it and told the others.

They all entered the cave but no one would say what they saw. The flour was hard as rock. It was left there by the Italians years ago. The people who found it took some, crushed it with rocks and made bread from it. They ate the bread and became sick with bad diarrhea but refused to tell anyone what had happened. But to be brief. Those in the Administration decided to investigate. Kuze realized what was going to happen so he blamed the shepherd. They took the poor man and transferred him to Smrdesh on a jeep and from there they took him to Breznitsa and filled him with lead (had him shot)... You know, if anyone should have been shot to death, it should have been Kuze and the entire incompetent administration. As you know, they are not allowed to touch anyone here in Albania. Those in Vineni passed judgment on an innocent man. Anyone unfortunate enough to be accused, however, barely ever made it out of Vineni. Once they arrive in Smrdesh, they know what is coming next. These are terrible times, Numo, when a rooster or a chicken is worth a lot more than a human. So, you still want to know who this Kuze character is Numo? From what I have heard from other people, Kuze took the boxes of macaroni and hid them. Then, unseen, during the night he would take a box, walk down to the Albanian villages and sell them to the Albanians. Don’t think that the Albanians were not hungry. They were hungry alright. They could only get rations of bread and for that they needed a ticket. And you know what? They were good people because they were willing to share their little bit of bread with us. Our conflict was also a big burden on them. They had to carry us too. Why? If you have been at war with the Italians and the

Germans, and turned your guns on ELAS and, as you say, reached the great and rich plain, what did you call it?...” “Srem... I called it Srem!” said Numo. “Yes, Srem! Tell me why did that happen?” asked Pando. Numo adjusted his body by leaning a bit more on his crutches, composed himself and said: “And what were you doing in the battlefields in Kukush Region and in Ali Veran in Asia Minor? They ordered you to go and fight for your country and you went. But for whose country did you fight? We all fought for our country but under whose flag? That is why we are here in Prenies eating rancid Italian flour, having deadly diarrhea, being eaten by swarms of fleas and houseflies and run like crazy people behind the trucks... Don’t push me, Pando, to speak about this. I told you I will go back down. And do you know why?” asked Numo. “To get killed. To lose your head. Why else would you be going down there…” replied Pando. “I will lose my head, perhaps, but at the same time I will leave a legacy for the Macedonians that Macedonia belongs to them... To us,” replied Numo. “If only you make it there to leave a legacy,” said Pando mockingly as he slowly pulled ahead. “If only they allow you to do that. But I am telling you, if you do something like that, they will do everything in their power to erase you completely. No one will ever know where you are buried and no one will ever hear your name again. Our people will participate in that. Sometimes we are condemned by our own people. Give them a little bit of wind and they will not only gauge out your eyes, but they will tear your heart out with their dirty little fingers... And you ask me for whose fatherland I fought...? I fought for my fatherland, I swear to you that’s what I believed then. And all the time for them I was a ‘neznamitis’ (ne znam-itis is what the Greeks called the Macedonian soldiers in the Asia Minor campaign who did not speak Greek. Ne znam in Macedonian means – I don’t know). I was a nameless soldier, a neznamitis. A slave may swallow sorrow but the words ‘freedom’ and ‘homeland’ are sweet to him. I wanted my homeland and how... When we were running back, being pursued by the Turks and barely escaping with our lives into the sea, we were greeted by Venizelos and after he raised a gun up high, which he took from an exasperated soldier, he shouted: “Pedia, hasame tin Mikri Asia, ala kerdisame tin Makedhonia! Zito i Elas!” (Boys, we lost Asia Minor, but we gained Macedonia! Long live Greece!) “Well,” I said to a bunch of Macedonians in Greek uniform, “how can it be that way”…, but it was that way…, it was that way alright... Perhaps some day there will be a piece of Macedonia left for us...

They stripped off my uniform and started calling me ‘dirty Slavophone’. And what was I doing, asking for my homeland... That’s why I ended up in jail. Asking for my homeland landed me in Aegina. That was when Pangalos was in power. General Pangalos was a dictator. They accused me of being a communist. When they interrogated me I told them I don’t want communism and I don’t need it. What I want is Macedonia and that’s what I am looking for. They labeled me an autonomist and sent me to a dry island. Two years later they let me go. I went back home. I figured the place would be devastated, but my boys and their mother kept the property in good shape. They also ploughed, sowed and harvested the fields and managed to stave off hunger. I rejoiced to see that I still lived in a country full of such riches. As soon as I arrived home, I took my medals of bravery that I was given during the Asia Minor War with the Turks and went straight to Kostur. I went to see the mayor. I told him: “I no longer need these medals given to me by the Greek state, you can have them. Being sent to Aegina was reward enough for me for having fought for Greece in the Asia Minor campaign.” No sooner had I finished speaking than he slapped me hard on the face and literally kicked me out of his office. Later, as you know, Metaxas came to power. For years, Numo, I had been passing through all kinds of doors in the hands of the Greek police. My file followed me like a shadow everywhere I went; I was an ‘autonomist’ and it was always the same. It would start, Numo, with oil. Yes, castor oil. The lead investigator was very patient and sometimes spent the entire day questioning me, tormenting me, making my life miserable in an attempt to convince me to admit that I spoke two or three Macedonian words. He kept three glasses on the table. The first glass he filled with 30 grams of castor oil, the second with 75 and the third with 100 grams. After that the interrogation followed. With me he always started by accusing me of being an autonomist. I always answered by telling him that I was not an autonomist and not even a Greek. After that he would give me the first glass, the thirty grams of oil. I would drink it like I was drinking water during harvest time; slowly and with delight, then looking satisfied, I would put the empty glass on the table. After that it was beating time. A half hour later he would ask me the same questions and I would give him the same answers. After my answer he would give me the second glass of oil. And after he heard the same thing from me he would grab the third glass of oil in his hand. During the third interrogation I would say to him, since I had nothing to hide, ‘I am telling you, sir, sometimes I do say a word or two in my native language’. That’s when he would offer me the 100 grams of oil. And after that they would lock me up in a small cell and they kept me there for four days. I would have severe diarrhea all the time I was there. Sometimes, instead of giving me oil, they made me sit bare-butt on blocks of ice for hours. It had the same effects as the oil. In 1937 I wanted to leave for America. I went to get permission from the authorities and they told me to wait. I waited… and waited… and waited. I then called the police to find out what was taking so long and they accused me of being associated with the Communist Party. I was not associated with any party so I told them that it was not true. I was a sympathizer, that was true, but I was not a member. I was stupid too, that’s for sure. Initially when they started with me they spoke eloquent words, offered me cigarettes and ouzo... So I believed things had changed, so as not to make them think that my tongue was cut off, I spoke a few Macedonian words in front of them. They got angry. I could not believe how angry they became. They began to yell at me and eventually they beat me. After that they began to pull my fingernails and then my toenails. The pain was the same. Still not satisfied, they lit matches under my arms and placed hot eggs in my armpits.

And after that they beat my feet and put them in bags filled with sand. Did it hurt? It hurt, Numo, believe me! One time, while torturing me, they said they would crown me king of an autonomous Macedonia. They placed an iron band, an iron wreath, on my head and began to slowly tighten it. I thought my eyes would explode from the pain. I was swearing and screaming at the top of my voice. They left me alone for a day or two and then gave me peppers. They were very hot peppers. When you bit into one it felt like you just bit into a burning coal. It was horrible! In 1939 they stuck a cat under my shirt and put me under water. This torture was not invented and exclusively used in Makronisos. I think they adopted it from somewhere else and perfected it on us… After that they used it to torture their own. That’s how it was… During Ilinden celebrations we gathered together under the shady old oak tree at the Sveti Ilia church. As usual, we reminisced about earlier times, about bloodier times and about the times we were proud. They were traditional, ordinary rituals performed in memory of our fallen during which we sang our patriotic songs. We sang, Numo, slowly and quietly. Dono would start singing and stretch the song out and I would take over when we came to the words: ‘Enough, enough, wake up, come out of your sleep...” The melody was good and the words were even better. Dono kept the volume of the song to a minimum and, pausing long enough to swallow his tears, he would sing: “It’s a great shame for you...” and his words, sung in bass, would echo under the old oak tree and then,“to not know yourself” they would echo at a higher tone. And when the words: “... and for others to know you…” were sung the melody would be raised and our glasses would be lowered... as we looked at each other...” concluded Pando.

“Shame?” asked Numo silently as he spat on the side and began to lift his wooden leg with both hands. “Shame, isn’t it!” he said again as he took a deep breath and watched his spit dissolve into the dry, red soil. “Yeah... But what can you do when you look at your face in the mirror and don’t know who you are. My father sang a different song. When he listened to the whistling bullets fly and when he watched the flying flag flutter, he sang: Listen, brothers, listen, sisters, What a phenomenon, a phenomenon has taken place, A phenomenon has taken place in Kostur kaaza! The Sultan was sitting, sitting and thinking, Sitting and thinking who to kill: An Armenian or a Greek? Not an Armenian and not a Greek, But a Macedonian from Kostur kaaza. And we then, at the Ilinden celebration, sang ‘shame on you...’ Unfortunately the village elder, that bastard, informed on us and it was the cat under the shirt for me. A living cat, Numo, meowing and screaming while tearing at my chest with its sharp nails. On the same day they put us in a phalanx. A phalanx, Numo, where five or six police officers beat you as you pass by them. They hit you wherever they can. They just don’t hit, they pound at you with all their strength… After they pounded us to their satisfaction, they laced us with two or three buckets of shit. And now, after all that, I and hundreds of others like me are still alive. And you know why? Of course you don’t know. I will tell you why. They beat us but not to kill us. The rule was to maim, not to kill! Maim! Kill their spirit, their defiance, not them. Cripple them so others would be afraid of being crippled! This is what our Greek fatherland did to us. This was done to us inside the ‘cradle of democracy’! I don’t believe there is any other country in the world, outside of the ‘cradle of democracy’ where this happens! They are savages, Numo. They want you to go mad even with their smile. They want to lead us to madness and despair. Even with what they did to us, the everyday hopelessness and despair, our living was never in doubt. We still wanted to live and have hopes that someday, somehow, there would be better days ahead. They scolded us at every opportunity, insulted us and called us every name in the book. They wanted to make us feel like we were nothing, not worth living, but rarely did any one of us ever pay attention to their arrogance. Every time someone new came they would invent a new name to call us, more derogatory that the previous one. We watched them come and we watched them go while counting the time in between. And this is nothing new, Numo, our ancestors have watched savages like them come and go for centuries, different people, same tactics… Savages, Numo… Savages…

And who knows what they have in store for us in the future and what kinds of names they will invent to call us. And you know what, Numo, we endured and we will keep on enduring. We are like the weeds in a garden; we keep coming back no matter how hard they try to get rid of us... Look at the clouds above. They get blown by the wind here and there and moved around. Sometimes they appear light, other times dark and heavy, thundering and fierce. They come and they go, appearing and disappearing, over the fields, over the mountains, above the forests… Look at the moving water, Numo. It runs, twists, curls, slithers like a snake, disappears under the stones, reappears again and does the same thing again somewhere else... It follows its eternal path... That’s us Numo. We are like the weeds, like the clouds and like the water. No matter what others try to turn us into, we are what we are, they can’t change that... I, Numo, have fought in wars, have spent time in prison, have been tortured and beaten by the police and by the gendarmerie, and have learned their ways. Since my younger days, I, Numo, the ‘neznamitis’, have also learned their language and have read many of their books. And you know what’s sad about all this; they now hate me even more. They hate us when we ‘barbarians’ know a little bit more. They hate us when their uniforms look good on us. They hate us when we are better fighters than they are, even though we fight for them. Everything we do bothers them! Why, Numo, why? I Pando, the gravedigger in Prenies, ask you, Numo, because you have fought for the patrida (Greek fatherland) against Italy and Germany and now you are fighting for some new kind of patrida, why? Don’t even try opening your mouth. You will not convince me of anything. If you try to convince me, I’m sure you would be lying to me. No one can convince me! The only one that can convince me is the one that has the power to turn our hopes and dreams into reality. Numo ... And not with words... not with empty words… Don’t you agree, Numo, eh? Four years I sang the song ‘Narode Makedonski…’ (Macedonian People…) and for doing so, four years I was forced to drink Greek oil (castor oil) and shit diarrhea in Greek gendarmerie and Greek police cells and basements. On top of that, every year I spent at least a month frying under the Greek sun on one of their dry Greek islands. There, sitting above the rocky shore, I searched for my Ithaca. And let’s not speak of the angaria (Turkish word for work without pay) I had to do. After they had me in their grip they put me to work for them without pay... I told you earlier that I found a piece of paper on the road that had information about my oldest son... They put me in a Greek army uniform just before 1940 and sent me to sunny Giura (Greek island prison camp). When war broke out with the Italians, they let me go. They needed me again. They gathered about one hundred of us and made us carry ammunition, food, repair roads and do whatever was necessary to help in the defense of our homeland. That is what they told us and that is exactly what we did – defend our homeland as best we could. A lot of snow, waist high, fell during the third month of the war. They gave us shovels and sent us to clean the road leading from Kostur to Bilishta. We were mostly people from Kostur. On the other side, on the Lerin side, they sent people from Lerin and Voden Regions to do the same. Trucks passed by day and night. They were carrying ammunition, weapons, food and wounded just like they are doing now here in Prenies. One day they told me to go to Kostur and report to the mayor’s office. I hailed one of those military trucks, showed them my orders, got on it and arrived in Kostur. The next day I knocked at the office door. They told me to wait. I sat on a stool. I heard loud talking in the office. I moved my stool closer and I listened: ‘Mr. Minister Rendis, a soldier came to my Headquarters yesterday and complained that his father was interned because he spoke in his Slavic language.

Do you know, Mr. Minister, that their children are the heart of our units and that they are keeping the Italians back? Do you know that my division is made up of boys from Lerin, Kostur and Voden Regions? What are these stupidities that you are doing behind the scenes? What do you think will happen if all their children find out what you are doing to their fathers? Don’t you think that such stupidities could get them to abandon the front? How long do you think it will take the Italians to find this out and use it in their propaganda? To put it simply they will say: ‘Hey, you stupid sheep! You are fighting here for the Greeks while your fathers lie in prison for speaking their own language!’ Huh?! What do you think that will do, huh? What, eh?’ Then I heard steps and after that I heard: ‘General Cholakoglu.’ I figured this was the voice of Minister Rendis so I paid close attention. ‘You as commander should know what to do in such cases. The state has no confidence in these people, even though their children are given guns, machine guns, cannons and even though they are fighting at the forefront of the war. As far as I know, they are excellent fighters, but... Here is a list of those the Greek state deems most dangerous. Some are interned and some, because they are older, were sent home to work angaria. That is all. Now let us do our duty... The door opened and a sickly looking young man invited me in. I entered. The Minister welcomed me in and shook my hand but with only two fingers. I did not squeeze his fingers. The general came closer and asked me how I was and what my name was. After I told him he said: ‘Ah, so you are the father of that very brave young man? You have a brave son. Your Greek fatherland will not forget this.’ And then opened his briefcase, pulled out a golden cross attached to a ribbon, raised it and said: ‘I am honoured to express my admiration for your son’s courage as well as to express my sympathy for his heroic death...’ The moment I heard those words I felt weak at the knees but I did not flinch; only my chin was trembling. I stood up, composed myself and looked outside the window. Heavy snow was falling. The general took my right arm, placed the medal in my hand and said: ‘In its gratitude, your Greek fatherland would posthumously like to decorate your son and advance him to the rank of corporal.’ I squeezed my hand into a fist and shed no tear. Then, without saying a word, I put the medal on the table and left...” concluded Pando. “Yes…” muttered Numo after a long silence. “Now it is becoming very clear to me...” “What is becoming clear to you?” asked Pando. “Let us sit down,” said Numo and, while handing me his bag of tobacco, asked me to twist him a cigarette. The smoke from the crushed tobacco wrapped in paper from a newspaper was thick and cast a shadow over their faces. Their eyes began to tear after exhaling and their lips became red from the hot smoke. “Yes…” repeated Numo, “it is becoming very clear to me.” And without waiting for a response from Pando, he continued: “As you said, during the third month of the war, a lot of snow fell on Morava. There were a lot of Italian cannons concentrated and they were pounding us. One day, at dusk, when the Italian artillery stopped thundering, they gathered us all. We assembled under some large beech trees and a major began to call roll call. There were fifty of us, all Macedonians. ‘Brave heroes!’ he yelled out. ‘Your fatherland calls on you to silence those Italian cannons by tomorrow!’ He also said a lot of other nice words. During the night we sharpened our bayonets, packed our backpacks, loaded our belts with grenades and explosives and off we went. After midnight we arrived at the Italian position, but we did not silence the Italian cannons. Instead, the Italians welcome us with their own rifles and grenades and the next day, when it was visible outside, they hunted us down like rabbits in the deep snow. A rocket explosion flashed in front of me and that’s all I remember.

When I came to I was in an Italian tent. A soldier was standing over me trying to comfort me. He spoke to me in Macedonian and said: ‘Brother you have been yelling in your sleep, relax...’ What the hell, I thought to myself, an Italian speaking to me in Macedonian? But, as it turned out, Pando, he was not Italian, he was a fellow countryman. He was a Macedonian from Albania. He was one of the first people to be stuck in an Italian uniform and told to go fight for his fatherland. What the hell? How many fatherlands does a Macedonian person have? How many? I was wounded but I had not quite recovered from my wound. One day the Macedonian wearing the Italian uniform came over and said: ‘This evening we are going home. The Greeks opened the front and left…’