Front Matter

A Stone too is Soil

A Novel

By Petre Nakovski

(Translated from Macedonian to English and edited by Risto Stefov)

A Stone too is Soil A Novel

Any similarity is by chance

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November 16, 2014

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Chapter 1

The well-built, silver-haired Giorgi stared ahead at the dark, soft fertile soil and took a step forward while transferring the saddlebags filled with wheat from one shoulder to the other. He then, but just for a moment, looked to his left, then to his right, as if measuring the field, and then took a handful of wheat in his right hand. He quietly said a prayer blessing the seed, as it had always been done since ancient times by all seed planting farmers, and took a measured step forward, opened his hand slightly and swung it from left to right sowing the first seeds. It was very quiet in the early morning hours and the only noises heard were those of the grain falling on the soil and those of Giorgi breathing. Step by measured step, Giorgi continued to spread the wheat seeds moving forward and then, at the limit of his field, turning back. When he turned around a third time and half of his field had been planted, Kiro arrived and climbed on the harrow pulled by a pair of oxen and began to trace Giorgi’s footsteps.

At noon they sat under an oak tree. Kiro turned and looked at the green turf where the oxen were grazing and with a bleak voice said: “We plowed and planted the new field but I don’t know if the place was a salty marsh or just a swamp… We will see when it rains… Even though this place is dry now, I know it used to be a swamp and that over there at the ridge is clay…”

Kiro broke off a stalk of the dry grass twirling in the wind by his canteen and after he chewed it a bit, he echoed nasally: “We did what we could… whatever happens, happens… right?”

“The old,” replied Giorgi, lifting his eyes, “always used to say you reap what you sow…”

Kiro reached for his canteen and before taking a drink said: “That’s right… but not always. In these bad times you don’t know what the next dawn will bring, what our foe is going to bring, so you never know what you will reap... Well, we planted the seeds and believe me I am not that pleased… I did not feel right… I did not feel like we planted something living… I could feel it in me…” Then, after

a short silence, Kiro quietly continued: “We sowed the field with reddish six-awned seeds here and black-awned there…”

“You talk like it’s the plague… and like it will last forever…” retorted Giorgi.

“The days are getting short and the nights are black like a charred log is all I am saying… In no time at all it will be cold again… and this is our second plowing… You remember what it was like last year after plowing when we returned home, eh?” replied Kiro.

How could Giorgi forget? Last fall when they were returning home from Virovi they remembered running into a cow herder who led the village cattle home along the dusty brook. While following one another they exchanged a few words and when they came close to the village spring they saw a number of young ladies filling jugs full of water. They were touched by the songs they were singing and amused by their giggling. There were also bachelors present among them, wearing their hats askew, while teasing the girls and spraying them with water. The grass along the road was full of crickets and tiny little birds, which could also be found in every hedge and compost pile. The birds were cheerfully chirping away uninterrupted and flying from tree to tree. The men had noticed the northern wind blowing bringing fresh northern air and reminding them that fall was just around the corner. Kiro remembered crossing over the stream and saying to one of the girls: “Hey beautiful, can I have a drink of water?”

Without hesitation and with a big smile on her face, Kiro remembered the young lady handing him a jug. Kiro took it, placed it under his big tobacco-stained moustache and began to gulp the cool and thirst quenching liquid. The jug made a boiling sound as the water ran down his throat, spilling down his chin, neck and chest. Kiro’s Adam’s apple danced up and down with each gulp, making the young lady laugh.

“Old man Kiro… be careful you don’t drown…” remarked one of the bachelors.

Kiro tore the jug from his mouth, looked at the bachelor with a grimacing look and said: “Mind your own business… you louse…” He then handed Giorgi the jug, turned back to the bachelor and, while looking at him with the same grimacing look, said: “When a man drinks water not even a snake interrupts him… and you… who do you think you are… you scoundrel? Instead of being out there working you are here teasing the beautiful girls…”

“Well, Grandpa Kiro,” remarked the same bachelor, “you were like that too. Everyone in Kostur knows about you and how you got Grandma Mara at a spring.”

All the girls broke out laughing. Kiro then turned to them and said: “Quiet you!”

“He told you good, hey Grandpa Kiro?” one of them remarked with a mocking tone of voice.

“He told me nothing! Yes, I took her, but not like these guys here, having fun and teasing the girls… I stole her and took her with me…” retorted Kiro.

“Ooh!” remarked a brunette amongst the girls when she noticed that her long and thick black braided hair was steeping in the water. She quickly stood up and her braid sprayed Kiro in the face.

Surprised, Kiro blinked several times and for a moment stood there with his mouth open. He felt like something had pierced his heart. Giorgi gave him a nudge and, without saying a word, the men left and took the road up towards the village. Kiro could not bear the silence and, quietly, barely audibly, with a sense of sweetness and with the flavour of wine in his mouth, said: “Oh, those braids…”

“I know, I know...” interrupted Giorgi in a quiet voice, “you want to tell me that Mara’s braid tied you forever…”

“Yes it did! Yes that little devil tied me forever!” replied Kiro, feeling unusually nervous. The incident with the brunette girl made him feel anxious and wanting to think about the old days of his youth, wanting to feel the warmth of bygone days. But every time he

thought of his past, of his youth, of memorable moments he wanted to remember, he felt tremors in his heart. They were indeed memorable moments worth remembering.

In Kiro’s old age such memories of his youth were rare but when they appeared it was like listening to an old song, like tasting something wonderful that he had tasted in the past, it was like being caressed and warmed all over, like stepping barefoot on thick woolen carpet... Unfortunately, life for Kiro after that was fierce and rigid. Like he used to say, God did not give him children, he gave him poverty which chased him out of his father’s home and sent him away beyond the great waters from where he sent Mara cheques. Later when he returned and lived under a different roof, he still was not blessed with children. Unfortunately he returned at a bad time when the world was upside down. Even before he had a chance to warm his new bed he was taken to Solun and the next day they sent him into forced labour. In 1939 both he and Giorgi were deployed to cut wood. Oak trees as thick as a man’s grasp were cut down by hatchet. After removing the branches the oak trunks were carried to the top of the hills to cover the deep and wide trenches being excavated. They were building bunkers with rows of timber, stone and soil.

When the war was over in 1933, the villagers took back some of those oak tree trunks to rebuild their damaged, burned and destroyed homes. The villagers were particular not to cut live trees, not like the Serbian, French and British troops who cut the forest in half even before the Solun front was broken in World War I. Then, before the Italians invaded, the Greeks drafted many of our local people and made them clear cut the entire forest down to the last tree. They made them build bunkers where many armies spilled their blood. All the armies were cutting trees in this forest and the trees, as if to spite them, grew new tendrils. New oak trees sprung up where the old ones were cut, even the ones Giorgi and Kiro cut. They grew and grew as the years passed and as life became more and more difficult for Giorgi and Kiro.

A gunshot was heard coming from the direction of the water spring and moments later more shots were heard coming from beyond the village. The young men and women who were gathered at the spring

quickly ran back to the village and behind them followed soldiers. When Kiro and Giorgi reached the first houses in the village they saw the soldiers rounding up the villagers and taking them to the village square.

They collected the entire village in the small yard in front of the church. The commander of the gendarmerie, a short, fat man with puffy cheeks, stood on top of the rung of the church stairs with a whip in his hand pointing at people he wanted to enter the church. When he was done he ordered his soldiers to lock the church door. He then said: “I hope you still remember me from last year when, while standing on this very spot, I told you I wanted to hear nothing from you, not a word, not a song, unless it was spoken or sung in Greek. And what have you done? You continued business as usual. And not only that, the guns that you were asked to return to the government, you took out and began to shoot at the peaceful people who you disrespectfully and irresponsibly call “Madzhiri” (referring to the Christian Turkish colonists and settlers deposited in Greek occupied Macedonia by the Greek government in the 1920’s). It is true that some of them were misled and went on to rob some villages but they have already been punished for that...”

“It is not true, sir,” yelled out Kolio stepping into the circle. “We sent a letter to the prefect and the whole thing remained only a promise...”

“Which?!” interrupted the commander, “Has already been fulfilled. But I,” he continued, “did not come here with my people just to remind you to speak the language with which the sacred letter was written, of which our fatherland is proud. I came here to remind you that some of you have yet to hand over the guns and today you will do that. And you old man don’t stand there looking like an ass, go back to your people.”

“Commander, sir!” a meek voice was heard speaking. It belonged to Kuze, better known as Kuze the lizard in his village. “Those who were shooting are not from our village. People say they are partisans,” he added.

Kiro turned to face Giorgi and spoke quietly into his ear: “He always exaggerates.”

“Bandits!” yelled the gendarme lieutenant from the top of the stairs.

“Okay, bandits it is, Commander, Sir,” Kuze agreed meekly, “but they are not from our village,” he added.

The lieutenant quickly ran down the stairs, grabbed Kuze and dragged him away from the crowd into an open space and, while looking at him with a grimacing look, said: “You say they are not from your village? How do you know they are not? Where are they from then?” he demanded to know.

Kuze pulled down his head into his shoulders and began to quietly curse the moment he had thought of uttering those words. He wanted to say something but the lieutenant’s right fist met his nose. Kuze took a step back and fell down. Blood gushed from his lips. While he was down the lieutenant kicked him several times and then hit him on the back and head with his whip and then returned back to the top of the stairs. At his signal, several gendarmes threw themselves on the crowd and began hitting the people with sticks and pushed them under the wall.

The kmet (head of the village), a grkoman (supporter of the Greek cause) through his grandfather, came closer to the lieutenant and began to whisper something into his ear.

“People!” yelled the lieutenant. “Until a new order is given, no one can leave the village. Anyone who disobeys will be shot on sight. Now go home and stay there until I call you.”

The lieutenant entered the church, took out a piece of paper and read out a number of names among whom was Vasil, Giorgi’s son.

“Those who did not hear their name can go home. And you,” speaking to one of the gendarmes, “go and bring me the one I beat up. And you,” pointing at the men still left in the church, “I will talk to you tomorrow,” ordered the lieutenant.

The hearing began at dawn the next day. “Let us start with you,” said the lieutenant while pointing to Vasil. “Come closer. Do you have a gun?”

“No, no I don’t,” replied Vasil.

“Who from the villagers has a gun?” inquired the lieutenant.

“I don’t know,” replied Vasil.

The lieutenant became angry and slapped Vasil on the face then whipped him on the back and then hit him on the head with his baton.

“Is it true that you helped the bandits or the Slavo-phone partisans, as you call them?”

“No I did not! That’s a lie!” replied Vasil.

Without hesitation the lieutenant raised his fist and hit Vasil hard on the head sending him flying under the church altar doors. When he came to the lieutenant asked him: “What are you, Greek or Bulgarian?”

“I am neither,” replied Vasil while wiping the blood gushing from his cut lower lip with his sleeve. He then said: “There were never any Greeks or Bulgarians living in our village. There is the occasional Grkoman. Only Macedonians live here…”

But before Vasil had a chance to finish talking the lieutenant hit him in the stomach with the butt of a rifle, rendering him mute.

The lieutenant then turned to the two gendarmes standing beside him and said: “It’s your turn now.”

The two slowly got closer to Vasil and started undressing him until he was completely naked. They then got him upright and tied him on the column near the alter door. Then they poured water in the baptismal font and began to wet a pair of short, thick ropes. When the ropes were well-soaked, they began to beat Vasil on the

shoulders. Water was splashing everywhere. Vasil’s shoulders began to exhibit thick, bleeding red lines. Vasil fell to his knees. The only sound heard in the church was the thud of the water ropes and Vasil’s moaning. There was delight in their faces as they continued to beat him. Vasil cried out in pain, eyes filled with horror, exhausted, leaned his head on his shoulder and slumped over. They poured a bucket of water on him and when he came to, the lieutenant asked: “Are you going to talk or shall we continue, eh?”

“I don’t know anything…” Vasil said quietly in a pleading tone of voice.

“You said you are not Greek?” asked the lieutenant.

“I am not Greek or Bulgarian…” replied Vasil.

“You’re a fool then!” said the lieutenant.

“I am not a fool either!” replied Vasil quietly.

“Continue then!” the lieutenant ordered the gendarmes.

Vasil could not endure the blows that followed and fainted. The commander was sure he had broken him and that he would beg him to stop hitting him. But the only thing that came out of Vasil’s mouth was groaning, moaning and cursing. His muscles began to pulse. One of the gendarmes quickly pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his own sweat from his forehead.

“Enough!” ordered the commander and went near Kuze. “And you, what do you have to say?” he said in a serious voice while looking at Kuze’s frightened and tearful eyes. “Talk!” he ordered.

Frightened, Kuze lost his voice and only managed to squeak the words: “I don’t know anything…”

“Follow the same procedure!” yelled the lieutenant.

Kuze, not waiting to be embarrassed, began to take his own clothes off. He took off his shirt and T-shirt.

“Pants, the pants too… take them off!” ordered the commander.

“But, sir...?” pleaded Kuze.

“And you? Are you like him?” asked the commander while pointing at Vasil.

“I, commander, sir, if you allow me, I am… I am Kuze… Kuze okay... the one the villagers sometimes mockingly call Kuze the lizard…” replied Kuze with a shaky tone of voice. “Well, if you allow me, Sir,” speaking slowly to buy himself some time, “if you let me I will tell you that in our village there are...”

“You, Kuze...” interrupted the commander, “that is your name, right? Tell me what are you, Bulgarian or Greek?”

“I am sure I am not Bulgarian… but if you allow me, sir, I can, with your permission, swear that I am not Bulgarian…” replied Kuze.

“Bravo! Then you are Greek!” snapped the commander.

Kuze swallowed hard and looked over at the altar where the icon of the Virgin Mary hung and quietly said: “Sir, if I say that I am not Greek, then those standing beside the baptismal fountain,” pointing at the gendarmes with his head, “with your permission, sir, with the wet ropes will turn me into a Greek...”

“Are you or are you not a Greek?” demanded the commander.

“With your permission, sir, I Kuze, Kuze the lizard, am Greek...”

Suddenly Kuze saw stars before his eyes. He did not expect or see the fist that came down on him. When he came to and saw the two men holding the wet ropes coming for him, with a shaky voice he asked: “Your Worship, was it not enough what I got in front of the church? Is it necessary for them to flog me with the ropes?”

“If you answer my questions then you can go home without being flogged,” replied the commander.

The commander then took out a piece of paper and showed it to him. Written beside Kuze’s name were the words: “In 1942 he went to Bitola to welcome the Bulgarians.”

“And you say you are not Bulgarian, eh?” yelled the lieutenant in Kuze’s face

“What… it was not me...” replied Kuze in a soft voice.

“Who then went to Bitola to welcome the Bulgarians?” asked the lieutenant.

“Ah, that kmet (village head), that bastard, his mother’s…” Kuze swore and cursed very quietly.

Kuze then swallowed hard and thought how far he had had to go from Bitola to meet the Bulgarian patrol and, because he had an old Greek personal identification card in his pocket, he was beaten by the Bulgarians and tossed in jail in Bitola.

Kuze looked up at the lieutenant, who was looking down at him with a mocking smile and with contempt in his eyes, and said: “I, sir, went to Bitola to purchase pigs, not to meet with the Bulgarians…”

“And why did the Italians beat you in 1943? I heard that you were helping the communists then… is that right?” asked the lieutenant.

“The Italians beat me because I sold them a sick chicken...” replied Kuze but before he was finished talking the lieutenant punched him in the face causing him to lose consciousness. When he came to the lieutenant punched him a second time. With his swollen tongue Kuze first licked his bleeding lip and then rolled his tongue in his mouth and spit out a couple of his teeth in front of the lieutenant’s feet.

“What do you generally do in the village?” asked the lieutenant.

Kuze slowly recovered from the blows and with the voice of a hermit said: “I? Well, that, according to the grace of God, I am

appointed sexton in our church… I dig graves. And besides that, I, sir, I am familiar with the Greek letters and I read the government newspapers and letters with government orders to the peasants...”

“And do you also read communist leaflets...” interrupted the lieutenant and continued. “Have you read them the government order to urgently surrender their arms?”

“Of course I have… twice!” replied Kuze and continued. “But I am not very familiar with letters written in Katharevoussa. Whatever I know I explained, the rest the kmet further explained...”

“Is that right Mr. Kmet?” asked the lieutenant who was standing next to the kmet.

The kmet looked at the altar, then at the ceiling and then adjusted himself.

“Are you asking him? He doesn’t read Greek. He is totally illiterate…” replied Kuze with a pleading tone of voice.

The lieutenant stared at the kmet’s face and quietly said: “You are all vermin. You too Kmet! There is word about you that you were inciting the peasants.”

“Who? Me? Dear Lord I can’t believe what I am hearing?” replied the kmet.

“Yes, yes you! They say while riding your black donkey you called on the peasants to beat the Madzhiri. Isn’t that how it was?” asked the lieutenant.

“Yes, that’s how it was, I was yelling very loud. You would have yelled out loud too if thieves broke into your home, right? But I know nothing about any guns…”

The gendarmes took out the beaten men and tossed them in front of the church. Their relatives collected them and took them home. Giorgi and Kiro put the badly beaten Vasil in a rag and brought him home. It seemed like there was no life left in him. Giorgevitsa,

crying, was hovering over him, washing his wounds and praying to the Virgin Mother, begging her to save him.

“Enough, woman!” yelled Giorgi. “Start cutting and crushing onions. I will go to the pasture and grab a ram. We need to wrap him in a skin.”

Giorgi remembered, and so did all the people in the village, the bitterness they experienced last fall.

Three weeks into the fall and terror started in the middle of the night. Armed people came knocking at his gate. Giorgi picked up the heavy lever, put it aside and when he opened the door shiny sharp bayonets pointed at him.

They took everyone to the front of the church and then one of the armed men asked Giorgi: “Is anyone else, a stranger staying in your house?”

“No, only my family, no one else.” replied Giorgi.

“Then go back home and bring everyone here… and hurry!” ordered the armed man.

The church bell began to ring and continued to ring to no end. A burst of automatic rifle fire was heard coming from the lower neighbourhood. A woman was heard screaming. Rockets were fired above the grove in the village and the entire sky lit up. A voice was heard yelling: “There he is running away!” And then bursts of gunfire.

Soldiers armed with machine guns stood on each side of the church porch. A crowd was gathering inside the church. Beatings could be seen taking place inside. One woman broke away from the crowd and quickly rushed towards the church door. It was Mitrovitsa, Vane’s mother. A sergeant stood up in front of her. She grabbed him by the shoulders and began to shake him while yelling: “No! Do not beat him! Do not beat him! His father was lost in Asia Minor fighting for you! Ali Veran’s bones will rot! Don’t beat my Vane! He is the son of a major! I received a medal from the government

for my husband’s death, killed for you, for Greece… do you understand?”

Ignoring her pleas, the sergeant took a wide swing at her, pounded her on the head and sent her tumbling towards the stairs. The church doors then swung open and two soldiers grabbed her by the arms and took her away. They dropped her at the bottom of the stairs and went back inside the church. Droplets of blood were dripping from the woman’s head and rolling on the step and down into the dirt. Her blood dripped, pooled and flowed down the step, expanding, stretching and contracting on the step and then dripping down and forming a puddle in the dirt below. Someone shouted: “They killed Tinka!”

The villagers, walking side by side, silently gathered on the stairs. Their faces were full of hatred and they were thirsting for revenge. The sergeant raised his arm and the soldiers immediately began to fire bullets above the crowd. The two machine guns also joined in. Moments later there was silence and the place stunk of gunpowder. Moaning and groaning could be heard coming through the open church door. Shaken up and bent over, Donka came out and quickly went down the stairs. One of the soldiers pointed his bayonet at her chest. She paused but only for a moment, while looking directly into his eyes. She then took a strong swing at him and slapped him on the face. The enraged soldiers pushed her down the stairs and began to kick her with their military shoes and hit her with their rifle butts until she was dead. They killed her and tossed her lifeless body in front of the church. Donka, the most beautiful brunette in the village was dead. By the afternoon the terror was over, leaving five people dead. The oldest was Stavro. Stavro’s wife cried at the top of her voice and endured being beaten as she held Stavro in her arms. Then two soldiers came over and violently tore her away from him and tossed her into a ditch. She lay there kneeling on her hands and knees begging them to stop torturing him but they would not...

Stavro slowly lifted his head up but only for a moment, turned and looked into the crowd. He saw his Lenka and Pande. They were not crying. They had dirty eyebrows and slightly moist and shiny eyes. Stavro then took a quick gaze at his wife and said: “Look after Lenka and Pande…” that’s all he managed to say. This was the only

legacy he left her before departing. After that his voice was never heard again.

The next day, at dawn, the village cow herder ran into the village and told everyone that the Madzhiri and the army had slaughtered five people and buried them in the open space at the end of the road near the old church.

Not far from the three-hundred year old oak grove near the meadow, next to the old church, lay five piles of soil and stone… freshly dug graves marked with the footprints of military shoes and with Madzhiri village footwear. Stavro lay under one of those piles. The villagers gathered around and cried and lit candles. Five graves, five circles of lit candles… that’s all they were going to get. That’s all the slaughtered uneducated peasants, lying at the edge of the thick oak shadows buried near the old rural church, were going to get… There would be no more whips, no more wet ropes and no bullets for them now… only eternal serenity...

Stavrovitsa lit many candles, praying in front of a pile of black stones and soil for the tranquility of Stavro’s soul. Kneeling, she continued to bow until the sun set and its last rays disappeared above the horizon. She continued to light the candles whose flames were blown off by gusts of wind and prayed under the silver light of the full moon. The dim light emanating from the candles betrayed her constant flow of tears dripping from her tired eyes. With an exhausted and frail voice she continued to cry and whine, calling on her departed husband… a beloved husband and good father… a good man and a good provider…

It was daylight the next day. Heads down, looking ragged, sick and tired, people began to return to the village. They left the five piles of fresh soil, stones and burned candles behind. On their way they were greeted by Vasil, the old, grey and feeble village priest who, during the entire time, repeatedly rang the church bell saying farewell to the dead, according to an old custom… and helped the living endure the pain and grief...

Then, during the night before Mitrovden, the men unearthed their rifles and in the morning before the roosters crowed, they cleaned

and counted their bullets. Giorgevitsa, passing the oil to Vasil, in a begging voice, said: “My son, you are the only son I have left… only you… I am begging you not to go, even though you will not listen to me. But please hear me out about one thing: please look after yourself… please be careful…”

Vasil looked at her and with a tiny smile on his face and, without saying a word, gave her a great big hug. They both began to cry, which made Giorgevitsa feel uneasy. It was difficult for her to let him go. She hugged him back for a long time and slowly and quietly let him go. Then, while wiping her tears, she said: “After you go my son there will be no one here to take me to the cemetery. Your father and I will be left alone…” She then slowly stood up and went down to the cold storage room and got something that was wrapped in a cloth. She came close to Vasil and, while standing directly in front of him, barely audibly said: “My father, your grandfather lost his life at Lokvata. This is the only thing that remains left of him.” She then opened the cloth and his father, Giorgi, took the item out, handed it to Vasil and said: “This is what is left from your grandfather and please do not be embarrassed by it… and may it be God’s will that you never leave such a thing to your descendents…”

“The Lokvata?!” Vasil repeated the word in a trembling voice. “The Lokvata you said?” he asked again. He knew about the battle in Lokvata and Viniari from stories he had heard from the older people. Three years ago he had attended a great memorial service in Kostur where a lot of people had gathered. The old people were kissing the stones, and the young people cursed with clenched hearts. They also sang the songs that were sung just before the courageous battle in Lokvata and Viniari began.

Giorgevitsa turned towards the icon that hung in the corner, crossed herself and began to whisper a prayer. No one left her house without being blessed and no one shamed this family. That is how it always was.

At dawn six men with guns hanging over their shoulders left the village and headed for the mountains.

Giorgi remembered 1946 well. He sat there with legs crossed, smoking bitter tobacco that caused his eyes to tear and tried to forget last year’s bitter incidents.

Kiro looked up at him and then looking at the young forest, slowly, as if it was an everyday thing, said: “Well brother, this place is trampled by soldiers every sunrise and every sunset…”

Then, from the young forest, a column of parisans appeared and headed straight for the planted field. Their military shoes trampled the newly planted soil. Then a section of the column broke off and headed for the Faltsata.

“Well, that’s that! Our field is ruined!” Kiro said casually. “Tomorrow more men will trample through and it will be ruined for good…”

“Look, the larger part of the column is turning towards the village,” added Kiro. “I can see that…” commented Giorgi, “so let us go and finish planting.”

“For who?” inquired Kiro. “This is the second fall that we have been at war and somehow I feel it will not be over soon. In the spring they took all the men and even children who were not ready to carry rifles. The only ones left here are us, the older men and the women. That is why I am asking you, who are we planting for Giorgi?”

“We are planting for us.” replied Giorgi without looking at Kiro. “You asked me the same question last fall but we went ahead and planted the fields anyway.”

Giorgi took his place in the field and, with a wide swing of his arm and measured steps, continued to spread the seeds one step at a time. He followed the furrows and, with handfuls of seeds and the same uniform motion, from left to right, spread them widely apart letting them fly like solar beams and fall on the ground.

“For Who!?” Giorgi heard Kiro muttering to himself.

Again, without turning, Giorgi said out loud: “If not for the living brother, then let there be wheat for the souls of the dead!...”

In the evening when they returned to the village, they heard some singing. They were partisan songs. The partisans had gathered in front of the church and were singing and dancing. During the night the partisan detachment conducted another, a second mobilization. This time they took young women. Mothers standing on the side wept as their daughters were taken and so did the young women who were mobilized. Donka, the most beautiful brunette in the village, also cried. This was the young woman who, last fall at the spring, with her thick black braid, had sprayed Kiro in the face with water and sent his memories back to his youth.

The village welcomed the next morning without any youth. All that remained now were widows, nursing mothers, the elders and children.