Chapter 16

Chapter 16

“Don’t wait Sofka, roll up your sleeves…” said Mitrevitsa to her daughter-in-law. “The days are passing us by while we continue to wait and cry and cry and cry… Did you say Kostovitsa passed by here and said they are leaving on Thursday?”

“That’s what she said... also to prepare food for three days...” replied Sofka barely audibly, especially the last words, before she began to cry loudly.

“Enough, enough... we are not sending them to be banished. Like they said, the children will be returned to us. Okay, Sofka... go in the other room and do all your crying, just don’t let the children see you. And where are they?” asked Mitrevitsa.

“Lenka and Kosta are in the yard, Kire and father went up Sinadev Rid,” replied Sofka.

“Come, Sofka,” said Mitrevitsa motioning with her hand, “let us have a look one more time at what clothes we put together… Open the chest.”

“The clothes are not in the chest, mother. I have prepared separate clothing for each child and put them in the guest room,” replied Sofka.

They went to the guest room, sat on the bed and examined each pile of clothing.

“Okay Sofka… this is good. You have two pairs of woolen socks for each…. Please put more dresses for Lenka. Have you put a comb? Also put two shirts for each. Not that sweater for Kire, put this thicker one. Hats! Oh, here they are. Go and take the new suits from the chest. Dress them beautifully...” said Mitrevitsa.

Mitrevitsa and Sofka busied themselves with the children’s clothing until noon when they finally placed them in separate bags. They took the clothes one by one and, while silently and secretly dropping

tears on them, gently folded them and put them in the appropriate bag.

In the meantime Mitre and his grandson Kire walked over to the Sveti Drach church and, on their way back, sat under the old elm tree that stood tall on top of Sinadev Rid. From there they could see the entire village and the surrounding area. To the left was Mali Madi and to the right near Aliavitsa were Gorusha, Odreto and Orleto.

“If Stenite were slightly lower, my boy, we could see Kostur from here,” remarked Grandpa Mitre, as he raised his cane, made a semicircle and said. “Look over there… from Borovo, Vishomo, Stenite, Lobanitsko, Telok and behind us up to Tumbite, is our border. All that up to there is ours, it belongs to us. Do you see it? It has meadows, flat fields, gardens, forests, boulders… and vineyards... It’s a good thing we pruned the grape vines, right? By the time the grapes mature you will be back with us. If by chance you come back late Grandpa will cut entire branches of the best grapes and hang them on the ceiling rafter. They will last until ‘Vasilitsa’ (New Year’s Day), they won’t dry… It’s a good thing we pruned the apple trees too. What remains to be done are the pear trees… Grandpa will prune those by himself, eh Kire? Now, let me see… what was I going to tell you? Ah, I remember… just a little longer and you will be going… and who knows how far. So please listen to your grandfather… I want to tell you something… You must never forget the road you will travel on… You must not forget our language. If you forget our language my boy, then you will forget the road... Look at Grandpa Kiro for example, he left for America when he was young, but never forgot our language or the road. Wherever he went, whatever he did, he always returned home... That’s the way it is… my boy, Kire. Wherever you go you must never forget this place… This is our place.” Mitre scratched the ground with his cane, unearthed a stone and said: “You must never forget our country... Do you remember when we were plowing and when the plow hit a rock? Well, Kire my boy, that plow has hit that rock many, many times... but neither my grandfather nor his grandfather, and neither have I broken that rock and taken it out...”

“Why Grandpa?” asked Kire.

“Because, my boy, that stone in our field, that stone too is soil, part of our country... How can we break it? How can we throw it away when it has been with us for generations. This stone too, Kire,” Mitre knocked the stone he had unearthed earlier with his cane and said: ‘This stone too can be soil because it is part of our country. And you should know, when you are there, far away, in those other countries, wherever you find yourself, you sometimes will feel tightness here under your arm, you will feel sad, but do not fret… I want you to be strong and so does your father… You see your mother and grandmother? Is there anyone today stronger than them? Then, in the Ilinden days, if we had such strong people... who knows… those mothers would have created miracles... The other day I was talking with Kole, your teacher... I asked him: ‘Kole, teacher, how many women are in the military? Do they know how to fight? Do they cry and scream?’ You know what he said? He said: ‘Grandpa Mitre there are girls in the army that are tougher than most men. He said: ‘In my unit we had a brunette girl with a long black braid like a goddess.’ So I asked: ‘What was her name?’ He said: ‘Donka, she is from these villages.’ It seems to me she must be from our village, from Donovichini... Even when she was a little girl she was smart and very nimble. The boys ran away when she was angry. That’s how tough she was. I am telling you, my boy, wherever you go you must never forget your language... Now let us go home before Grandma scolds us.”

They returned to the village via the Lower neighbourhood and when they came close to Kiro’s house, they heard Kiro yelling from his veranda: “Not that one, Kirevitsa, the white one… I said the white one… chase it to the corner and catch it… Oh, gee… you let it get away again…”

Mitre knocked on the iron fence with his cane and yelled: “What’s going on Kiro? What are you arguing about from up there?”

“We are trying to catch a chicken, Mitre…” replied Kiro and came down to the yard. “That one there… the white one,” he said and asked: “Are you returning from your walk? I saw you from my veranda when you were going towards Sveti Vrach.” Kiro then turned towards Kire and said: “I see you are always with your

grandpa. But soon, my boy, you will be going and then on whom will we be leaning, eh?” At that very moment the white chicken, sensing danger, flew over them and ran up the street. “Let it go Kirevitsa” said Kiro, “tonight when it returns you can catch it.”

“Why are you so obsessed with that chicken, Kiro?” asked Mitre.

“Kirevitsa and I figured we would roast three chickens and donate them to the children… for their trip. We were thinking of giving one to each of the women looking after the children. They can divide them up into small pieces… Kirevitsa will also bake three large loaves of bread... We want to do our part too, right? It doesn’t matter that we don’t have children of our own… They are all our children and we too want to say goodbye to them? We will be going out to the road too… The white chicken, the one Kirevitsa could not catch; I wanted that one roasted too. We want to give it to Kole the teacher. Yesterday I asked him if he was going with the children... He said no. ‘I, Grandpa Kiro,’ he said, ‘will be returning to my old unit…’ The poor boy looked so sad… tears came to my eyes just looking at him… I asked him why he was so sad. He said he was very sorry for the loss of his commander Shiperkov.

Mitre crossed himself and said: “May God rest his soul...”

“Let us go inside?” Kiro invited Mitre and Kire.

“Thank you Kiro but we need to go home. Now that our children are still here we want to be with them as long as we can... spend as much time with them as possible. Goodbye Kiro. Goodbye Kirevitsa! Be well…” yelled Mitre and they left.

“Goodbye Mitre, Kire and say hello to everyone at home,” replied Kirevitsa from the distance.

After they ate Mitre asked to see what was prepared for the children for their trip.

“We put in everything that they will need,” said Mitrevitsa, “and don’t touch the bags.” she added.

“Okay, okay…” muttered Mitre, “then you untie them so that I can see… I just want to see...” he added.

And while Mitrevitsa and Sofka were putting the clothes back in the bags, Mitre started giving orders.

He said: “Tomorrow the two of you will sift some of the soft flour with a fine sieve and you will make two large loafs of bread and bake them under a saach (semi spherical iron cover used for baking pastry in the fireplace). Sofka you will fuel the oven and I will roast a lamb for the children to take with them... Mitrevitsa, don’t forget to put some fat, kaurma, dried plums and apples in their bags... and a whole box of cheese and cottage cheese. Eggs, don’t forget to boil some eggs... Wait, wait... First go and ask Pop Vasil if they can be painted red before Easter and if he can bless them... sure why not, our children are Christians... after the Christian ritual is performed by the priest and his blessing is done as was done by our grandfathers, great grandfathers since ancient times…” Mitre stopped talking and quietly coughed, turned his face towards the window and, while pretending he was looking outside, bent forward and with his hands stealthily covered his eyes and wiped his tears and spread them on his face and then dried them off with his sleeve. He then said: “Grandpa would have not given you away if the bad was not as strong as my desire for you to stay alive and healthy… Don’t wait Mitrevitsa, go...” he added.

In the days before the departure every household was folding clothes, making bread, baking goods and cooking all kinds of food. Mothers and grandmothers went out on their verandas and balconies, yards or to the water tap to meet, if only for a moment, with other mothers and grandmothers only to discuss what meals to make and how much would be enough. What clothes would be warm enough and how far the road would take them. They each, in their own way, thought of how soon the children would be returning… And every word they heard, every glance they saw was incorporated into their thoughts along with the anticipation, bitterness and sadness. They all hoped that their children would be returned to them soon. It was an emotional time; a roller coaster of emotions filled them. One word could bring them happiness or send them into total depression. The women went through the clothing

again and again… counting… measuring… no one was sure how quickly the children would be returning… They added more clothing or less depending on how their mood struck them. Would they return soon or… one thing was a constant… the tears that flowed… No one could erase their doubts because no one had any answers… promising words did not help either…

The cherry tree in the Mitrev yard was in full bloom in the warm breath of spring. The white flowers were buzzing with bees. The sour cherry tree next door in the Labrov yard was also white with flowers. The apricot and almond trees in the Nichev yard were loaded with flowers. The meadows in the valley were again turning green after a winter’s rest. The roadside thickets were covered with tender green leaves inspiring the birds to cheerfully sing their love songs. The wind, sometimes joyous, sometimes angry, was whispering, calling, begging and complaining while carrying the aroma of mint and thyme from the nearby hills. A large loaf of bread was simmering under the heat of the saach and a lamb was roasting on a spit in the hot oven. A blackbird, refreshed by the evening dew, perched on the highest branch of Giorgi’s pear tree, away from the people’s daily worries and pains, was sticking its head out, shaking its throat and singing its silvery song, spreading its melody in the yard and beyond, lasting as long as a maiden’s breath, a bride’s sigh… It paused for a moment, turned its head, listened and again shook its throat and disturbed the peace, clenching the hearts and sending shivers and pain to those listening to it. Thunder, one after another, was heard coming from Gorusha. Long echoes of machinegun bursts were heard coming from Kopanche. The village church bell rang in the evening. Evening prayer was conducted in the mild light of day. People were praying in front of the Virgin Mary and in front of Sveti Ilia and lighting candles for the Virgin Mary to provide light for the long and unfamiliar road and guide the children on their way there and on their way back when they returned… light for all their pain and sorrow… Light for their return… and for hope... The candle light twinkled in their eyes, eyes covered by a veil of mist through which prayer passed prayers for those who were fighting in the war; may God protect them… Prayers for the dead; may God forgive their sins and guide their souls… Prayers for the children; may God keep them safe… and a safe return… soon… May God’s eyes look after them and hands

guide them back to their maternal embrace and to their ancestral homes...

After dinner the school bell was heard ringing. There was a vicious battle taking place up in Gorusha. Cannons, mortars, machine gun bursts, one after another, were incessantly firing. Florescent bullets were embroidering the sky. Kole, the teacher, stood in front of the blackboard and watched the students in silence. This was the first time he had felt nervous. His voice trembled and he spoke to them not like a teacher, but like a father.

He said: “My dear children… I wanted to tell you a story, a story that I was saving to tell you at the end of the school year. Another teacher will perhaps tell it to you where you are going... But in case such a teacher does not tell it to you, then you alone, when you grow up, you will remember this day and the days when we were learning together. But then it will be a new story, a story born during the thunderstorms coming from the battlefield... And let it be a story about how we learned together… to read and write and how... you matured to leave and to go far away and how you quickly grew up to carry such a burden on your small shoulders… and that you must never forget… you must never firget who you are and where you come from... you will grow and ripen even more and the more you do the more you will mature and create your own… new story… which you will make sure you tell… You will need to tell your story because it is your mark in the world… our yesterday and today...”

The teacher paused for a moment, looked at the children one by one, and continued: “Today, children, this hour is our last hour together and perhaps the greatest hour of our lives... From now on, a new hour will begin for you, a great hour… from which what you learn will shape your life. I will not take back your primer, you can keep it. You can carry it with you wherever you go. Also take the piece of pencil. Learn how to read and write. You will see how important this will be when you write your first letter to your loved ones… when with the letters (alphabet) you learned you will be able to tell what you feel, what you see, what you experience… and how and who you are. Wherever you are, you will be talking to your loved ones using the letters you learned. You have learned them well. And never forget the thunder that is heard coming from Gorusha and

Kopanche. Remember the storm so that you can be happy in the sun... And I don’t want us to separate and say goodbye with tears in our eyes. But with a song...”

All the songs they learned in late autumn and during the long cold winter, songs with hints of rebellion, hatred and vengeance, songs of hope, joy and admiration, were mixed together with the echoes of cannon shells exploding and machine guns firing… and with them the fears, anxieties and moaning cries of mothers...

This was also the first time when songs stopped cradling and bringing happiness to the heart, and when the songs stopped they brought silence to the homes, a silence that spread like water spilled from a broken jug that fell in a room filled with bitterness.

Mitrevitsa and Sofka entered the room, sat next to one another and, while waiting for the children to return from school, hugged each other and began to cry out loud.

Their souls were filled with great pain and there was nothing that could bring them any relief.