Chapter 22

Chapter 22

In his last entry, which Pop Vasil had made in his scripture book, he wrote: “One thousand nine hundred and forty eighth of the Lord’s summers. Month of May, the fourth day. A week ago the children from Gramos were returned, the ones that last year were gathered for battle. They were sick, most had tuberculosis. Today both them and the smallest, with their mothers, were gathered and taken to Prespa. The children traveled beyond the border. The mothers stayed.”

Besides his recent entries, there were many more records entered in this book and from the looks of them, by various different hands. They spanned a long period of time and left us a record of what took place, a record written in simple letters and plain words. They were a reminder, like an old scar, of a distant and not so distant time full of bitterness, torment and spilled blood… like an open wound...

Pop Vasil gently, as if putting an infant in its crib, put the scripture book back in its box, locked it up and put it back in its old place in the cold storage room…

In Place of Epilogue

I remember going often to Sinadev Rid with my grandfather. The whole villages and much of the wide open space could be seen from there. We sat under the old elm tree where Grandpa often lit his tobacco pipe and, after exhaling a long stream of smoke, he would tell me a story.

One time he said to me: “Kire my boy, if you look straight ahead you will see Stenite. Now use your imagination and climb up to the peak. Now look down and, in front of you, you will see Kostur Pole and somewhere at the end of it you will see the blue water of Lake Kostur. If you look beyond that, beyond the rocks, you will see a bald mountain covered by a blue cloud. That’s why they call it Siniachka (sino is blue in Macedonian). Behind Siniachka, on its left, is Kailiarsko Pole and Mount Karakamen. And behind the mountain are the cities Negush and Voden. It is difficult to get to Voden from here in a straight line, you will need to turn a little to the left so that you can pass by the Rudnichko Ezero lake. Then, after you pass through Sorovich you will take the road to Petersko and Ostrovsko Ezero lakes and you will arrive in Voden. Under Voden is a green and wet flat plain with a lot of water running through it.”

I used to walk everywhere with my grandfather.

Grandpa continued with his story: “And now dear boy, if you follow the flat plain you will arrive in Solun. To the east of Solun is Tsari Grad, or what today they call Istanbul. Kire, my boy, you don’t need to go that far… I mean to Istanbul. Go, visit Solun and come back because this is our birthplace… we need to hang onto it… keep it in our hands. Throw a stone and a stone you will find… but throw some seeds and you will prosper. To the left my dear boy, if you look to your left… Are you looking? If you are looking then listen! The mountain on our left is called Morava. They say it’s Albanian. To our right is Mali Madi. Do you see the pass in it? The cut in the mountain; a bit that way… So, now if you leave here and walk through Protselo and Lobanitsko, you will arrive at the Lobanitsa border, and if you pass through Lobansko Pole you will pass by Lobanitsa and, following the path along the river, you will come out

at Smrdesh. If you want, stop there and drink some cold water and then continue and you will take the road to Breznitsa. Just outside of Breznitsa, immediately after passing the bridge, the road forks. Take the upper road, it will lead you to Gabresh, Aposkep and below that is Kostur…”

Grandpa then looked at me, smiled and said: “You know how to come home from Kostur, right?” I smiled and said: “Of course, Grandpa!”

He continued with the story: “Well, if you take the other fork in the road… the lower one… it will take you straight to Rula. To the right, up there in the woods is Oshchima and Trnava. Immediately after you pass Oshchima the road splits again. To the left is the road to Preval, which will take you to Prespa. There you will encounter the two Prespa lakes. The closest to you is Little Prespa and the one past it is Big Prespa. Stay on the road that leads you to the right side of the villages, it will take you to Resen. Before you arrive at Resen, look to your left and you will see a tall and long mountain. That’s Galichica and behind it is Ohrid and Lake Ohrid. The road on the left side of Resen leads to Ohrid and the one on the right leads to Bitola. From Ohrid you can go to Struga and from Drimot you can go to Debar, Raditsa, Mavrovo, down Gostivar, Tetovo and if you follow the Vardar River you will arrive in Skopje.”

Grandpa smiled at me tapped me on my head with his finger and said: “Did you know that if you followed the Vardar River downstream it would take you to Solun?”

“But if you continue on the road,” he said, “you will arrive in Veles. A beautiful city! I already told you that if you took the road on the right it would lead you to Bitola, right? That’s correct. Once you arrive in Bitola the road to the right will take you to Lerin, from Lerin to Sorovich and you know where Sorovich will lead you. If you take the road to the left in Bitola it will take you to Prilep and from there to Gradsko. There too you will find a fork in the road. The fork to the left will take you to Veles and Skopje. The fork to the right will lead you to Solun. To the right of Veles, the road will lead you to Shtip and from there to Strumitsa. And from Strumitsa, if you follow the Strumitsa valley, you will arrive in Petrich. If you

follow the Struma River, you will find Sveti Vrach, Kresna, Simitli, Gorna Dzhumaia, and if you turn southeast you will arrive in Razlog and then in Bansko. Mount Pirin towers over all these places. Now, my boy, if you go south, either to Kukush or Seres, every road will take you to Solun. Take the left road from Solun and you will be back in Kostur. And through all the villages and towns that you will pass the people speak the language we speak now. The language is the same... Macedonian…”

He must have been tired from all the talking, my grandpa then said: “Leave me for a few minutes and as long as the shadow is on me let me sleep for a while. You go and look around, use your imagination… travel the roads and visit the places I told you about… When the sun hits me I will wake up on my own… then when I start filling my pipe with tobacco you can tell me how far you went and what you saw when I was sleeping…”

And as such from my grandpa, I learned some rudimentary geography about my Macedonia.

One other time he said: “There are many more roads, rivers, mountains, lakes and cities in Macedonia but I have never been there and I am not familiar with them. I have been to America but before I could get there I had to take a ship and travel over great waters for a long time. I have been to America three times and three times I returned. You don’t need to go on that journey…”

One time he said: “Kire, my dear boy, wherever you go, wherever you find yourself you must protect your language… protect your language... Protect your language because life begins and ends with it. Wealth, my dear Kire is not forever… but language is. It is a face, an image that marks yesterday, today and forever. If you don’t protect it you will have no tomorrow... That’s the way it is... The beginning is language and the end is death. It if you save your language you will save the fire that burns in your native hearth. Language is the beginning and death is the end.”

He looked at me with a serious look on his face and said: “Take your mother for example: Who will you call for your joy and for your sorrow? Your mother, of course! For whom will you ask in

difficult times” Your mother! Where do you always return? Home to mother of course!”

“Take the soil, for example,” he said. “What are you standing on right now? On the soil! What do you walk on? The soil! You lie on the soil, you stand on the soil, you kneel on the soil, you get yourself dirty on the soil and you sleep on the soil. The soil takes sweat and water and keeps taking and, like a burning fire, it never has enough. At the same time water bubbles out of the soil and life springs and grows from it.”

“Take the bad for example,” he said. “About them they say the ground burns beneath them! The soil produces humanity and evil against it. Take the good for example. About them they say they are the soil’s pride and joy. And the miserable beg for the soil to open up and swallow them! Above ground it rains, snows and drips blood and sweat. Everything falls on it. And so they say for the soil we live, for the soil we die and for the soil we make sacrifices. We plow, dig and water that soil and that is why we say it bears fruit and gives birth to sons and daughters. And so Kire my dear boy, they rightfully say defend your soil when someone wants to rob it or abuse it… that’s when it bleeds. They say that no darkness, fog, snow or fear can cover the soil. They also say that the soil is a carpet of flowers, foliage, golden wheat, blue lakes and snaky rivers. And when it produces in abundance it creates prosperity for all, that’s when they say milk and honey flows.”

Grandpa looked at me strangely, as if wanting to emphasize something and said: “There is also hunger for soil and from soil… there is sorrow and tears, joy and hope. The soil is very dear to you when you leave it or when someone takes it from you or when someone divides it into pieces and you are forced to look elsewhere… for just a small piece, a lump, a handful, a belt of soil… And then you might hear things said about someone like; this is a son of his own soil, or this person ruined the soil. There are things, Kire my dear boy that you must know. The soil pulls, yells, cries, warms, rests and tugs at your heart. You can say about a person that they are dark, pale, dirty, difficult… and wonder how can the soil support them? Well, my boy, everything depends on the soil, everything is on top of or under it. People are born on top of the soil.

And when they go away, they take a handful of soil with them and safeguard it so that it will protect them, keep them warm and remind them of who they are. Then when they die they are buried in the soil and they become part of it. That is why the people say ‘may the soil be light on them.’ Where in the world can it be easier for a person than on their own soil?”

Grandpa looked at me, smiled and said: “For us, my boy, the soil is streams, fields, meadows, grass fields, gardens, orchards, vineyards, trees, roads, mountains, hills and all the places where our language is spoken. And the stone, look over there, to the right, at the end of Stenata, there is a boulder. It is naked, washed by the rain, beaten by the wind and baked by the sun. It has been that way since it became a stone. It has been standing there for centuries and you might say; so what it’s only a stone? Yes, it’s a stone but it is part of our soil, the same as our rivers, forests, source of water, fields, and... well... our faith... That’s the way it is… The stones in our yard, on the road, in our foundations, in our walls, on the side of the road, in our fields… those stones too are soil. They are all part of our soil that makes up our country.”

He must have sensed that I had not seen the far away stone that he was pointing at so he looked away and said: “That stone over there. That one! At the end of the Stenite. Do you see it now?”

When I shook my head in agreement he continued: “Underneath that boulder is King Krali Marko’s tabernacle (tent) and underneath that is a source of water. When King Krali Marko, Kire my boy, came to Kosintsko Polie he spurred his horse to jump over Stenite. Unfortunately his aim was off… and exactly over there his horse’s hooves hit the rock and stumbled. King Krali Marko hit the rock with his hip and water started to flow from it. One day we will go there and see for ourselves what the rock, hit by King Krali Marko’s hip, looks like and drink from the water flowing out of it. And a little further we will see his tabernacle... After falling down Marko became angry and hit the boulder several times with his fists, putting a hole through it… And... The boulder, Kire my dear boy, which you are looking at now is called Dupen Kamen (a stone with a hole). Dupen Kamen can be seen from all the surrounding villages east and west of Stenite. It has a hole from this side, from Sinadev Rid. But

only a circle can be seen from Naselitsa. And from down below, from Giamov Trap, somewhere in front of that clearing, before the summer heat starts, the sun passes through it. It is most noticeable however during the winter, when the ice bleaches the rock and when it covers it with frost. Then redness spreads in Dupen Kamen. It only lasts a short time... but it is memorable.”

“Kire, my dear boy, I will tell you more about Dupen Kamen another time...” he added with a smile on his face.

I never did hear the rest of the story about Dupen Kamen from my grandfather. The stone is still there and rests at the southern end of Stenite… elevated and with a hole in it... Soon after that they gathered us children and, with us not wanting to go, they sent us on the road my grandfather had never traveled. Without wanting, without knowing, first on foot, then on trucks, and later on trains, we crossed many borders and rivers. But none of them we took… to the right or to the left, ever led us to the cities whose roads would lead us back to Kostur. And as you know, Krchishta is close to Kostur.

We crossed the Danube, Moravia and the Carpathians. We were beaten by the north wind in the deserts of Syr Daria and Amu Daria. And now, after forty years, I went back to Krchishta… but only for a visit. I climbed Sinadev Rid then traveled east and sat under the shade of the same old elm tree… just like I did with my grandfather in the old days. I got down on my knees, assuming the height when I was a boy, and began to scan the terrain. I found the large rock called Dupen Kamen at the end of Stenite. As I stood there looking at the stone, I was taken back in time to the day when I was here with my grandfather. I could almost smell the pungent odour of his tobacco pipe and feel his presence like he was there with me. I could almost hear him speaking to me in his old hoarse voice. I could hear him say: “…and there Kire, my dear boy, is…”

I looked for old people from my place, both here and there, to tell me the rest of the story about the stone but I could not find any. They had been swallowed by time… After they were driven out of our homeland some remained in Romania, others in Czechoslovakia, Poland, Uzbekistan, Hungary… and many went to America, Canada and Australia. Many also left their bones, especially during the older

days, in Anatolia (Asia Minor), the dry islands in the Aegean Sea and in the prisons all across Greece. The only lasting thing that remained constant was that stone, and who knows how many more centuries it will remain there and carry the name Dupen Kamen. It has endured all kinds of storms, nature’s wrath, good times and bad, and despite all that it stands there proudly… and I still don’t know where its name came from... Is it only because it has a hole in it? Or does it suggest that our fate is like a sieve with a hole in it? Only if the bad had not come, as my mother used to say, then maybe my grandfather would have finished telling me the story.

As I sat at Sinadev Rid I looked down the slope and there in the distance I saw my aunt’s almond tree grove... but there were more than almonds growing in the grove… I saw weeds, thorn bushes and tall grasses… and where there had once been a village and a thriving community, there was desolation and silence… silence... silence... I put my hands together, made a cone and yelled: “E-e-e-e-e, nashi-i-i!!! (hey, our people!!!)”

“Eeeee ...” echoed the mountains Telok, Vishomo, Borovo, Stenite… back at me… They also echoed my voice back at each other and it seemed to me that my voice reached Aliavitsa, Naselitsa and traveled on to infinity and after a while my “eeee” returned to me, barely audible but carrying nothing back with it…

There was silence everywhere. Only the leaves on the old poplar trees rustled... the wind hissed through the branches of an old leafless oak tree. The old meadow, where weddings and holidays were celebrated with much music and dancing before the bad times, was now silent. I turned on the little transistor radio that I had with me... it played and played and played music… and nothing… I looked far into the distance and listened harder... something was playing... playing... but it was not in the distance… it was from a different time. I listened… It was the Baraicheto playing... and I heard breathing… Kostur was breathing in the silence... it was peaceful… I heard voices in the distance… I listened… they were voices from my past… calling… I listened… I heard breathing, breathing, breathing… Kostur was sighing...

I descended down the hill. The only building still standing was the church. An old woman sat on the stairs. She said that she did not remember her years… she did not know how old she was. We entered the church. I lit a candle. Twenty nine! That’s how many died on the battlefields during the Greek Civil War. I lit twenty nine candles, one for each. I then took the stairs up. Two hundred and eighty! That’s how many people lived in the village before the war. I lit two hundred and eighty candles, one for each living or dead person so that there was no dark moment, day or place for them. So that they will have light in their eyes and before their eyes and will not be lost on the road they travel and if they again think of embarking on new adventures, they will be able to see with whom they will go, who they will follow or if they want to they can venture on their own...

I lit a big candle in front of the icon of the Virgin Mary. She had a worried expression on her face and looked lost in her own thoughts. I wanted to light her way so that she would watch over the roads traveled by those who knelt, prostrated themselves and prayed to her the most with the kindest, warmest and most loving thoughts and words. I also lit her oil lamp and placed it in front of her sad face. I lit another big candle and then I prayed, conveying my mother’s words and greatest wish.

I said: “Dear Mother of God, please help us return to our homes, to our native hearth. Please show me the way to the bones of my son. Please take away the sadness of those wandering the world. Please show us the unknown graves of our children who fell in that miserable war and who were taken from us by storm… Help us find their white bones bleached by the sun, washed by the rain, dried by the wind and covered by the snow... please end our suffering… We suffer like You have suffered for Your son nailed to the cross… let there be light before Your eyes and before the road that will lead us back to our grandfather’s land. Please let scented flowers grow where our feet have touch and let our footsteps be the footsteps of love and hope...”

That’s all I remember and that’s all I said from my mother’s prayer. And before I took my eyes of Mary the Mother of God, I said: “And

please protect us in the lands where we now live since you could not protect us on our own lands...”

And before I left, walking backwards, I said: “So that I can come back here again…”

And as I was leaving, when I looked at her and saw the candlelight and the oil lamp light flicker in her eyes, it seemed to me like She was crying. So I said: “I will be back next year so that… so that I can tell you, whisper in your ear, where the others have gone and why they have left you all alone…”

I came out of the church. I went back inside again to ask her a question.

I asked: “Dear Mother of God, how did you protect our houses from which now there is not even a stone left? I don’t see a stone left. I can’t even tell where one house ended and another one began? I can’t see any of the alleyways or streets. And please tell me why have the graves of our ancestors and predecessors been dug up and their bones scattered and destroyed? And where are my mother’s silver belt buckles and the dowries of my sisters? Why have the forests been cut down, roads moved and the vineyards uprooted? Who made the new roads and why? Is that so that we cannot find our way, our hearth and our vineyards? Why is there no water in the brooks and who changed their course? And the cemetery, dear Mother of God, is overgrown with weeds... Why dear Mother?...”

I took a great big white candle, lit it, placed it in front of the Virgin Mary and said: “I am burning one more candle, dear Mother of God, to keep my word to you that I will come back again and so that you will not say that I have abandoned you. Please protect my promise and my sad enthusiasm...”

I went to the cemetery to look for my grandfather’s grave. The old woman said: “Your grandfather died in Kostur and there is no grave for him, my son…”

My grandfather died alone... in solitude. He went, like he used to say, in the ground or underground. I was on my way back to Sinadev

Rid when I heard my grandfather’s voice whispering in my ears like a source of water gurgling from underground: “Kire, my dear boy, wherever you go you must remember two things… Your language and the road you took! Only that way you will return, you will find your way home. If you forget your language then you will forget who you are. And if you forget who you are you would have forgotten the way that would lead you home. And if you forgot your way home then you will wander the world forever... Your language, my dear boy, is what makes you who you are. If you forget your language then you will forget yourself. If you forget the road back home, you will wander forever… So protect your language and it will protect you. If you don’t forget your language then you will not forget your way home... And then you will come home...”

I went up to Sinadev Rid, sat under the elm tree, as I used to sit with my grandfather, and said: “And there, Grandpa, before Moravia in Moravia and after Moravia we took our culture and dispersed it. We sang our songs that we learned at the foot of the Stenite and danced our dances that we learned to dance in the village and in the houses which now no longer exist. We played the same melodies which we learned to play on flutes made of willow branches. We sang the same songs we learned singing under the eaves of our houses that are now gone. We played flutes the same way we learned to play them with the willow flutes in the narrow alleys of our village, in the meadows, fields, vineyards, at weddings and during holidays. Our songs and our language have been our symbols that identified us for who we were at every road we traveled and at every boundary we crossed. And through them we kept this nook here and the crying face of our mother, in our hearts… And we used to say: ‘We hope the wheels keep turning so that they return us back here!’ That’s the way we used to think in the earlier days. But later, when we realized that returning to our native hearth was more a dream than a reality, we used to wonder if our kind became uprooted with our exodus. If our roots were cut behind us when we left and if our connection to our native hearth was gone? And us such, we grew up, in these alien worlds where we realized that we had matured and understood that in us nothing had wilted. We left fragile and here we are returning with roots fully intact and embedded deep in our soil… in this country... And that’s the way it is Grandpa…”

The old woman waited for me in front of the church. She said: “Please dear boy come visit with me at my home. No one has visited my house in a long time.” I decided to go. We entered a large room. In one corner hung an icon of the Virgin Mary and in front of it was a small oil lamp. Against the wall stood a number of jugs all lined up nicely. There was a shabby rug on the floor and a pot hanging by a hook in the fireplace. Outside by the door, almost within reach, water slowly trickled from a tap. About ten steps away was a pole with electrical wires. There was no electricity or running water inside the house... She used a kerosene lamp for light… She offered me a lokum (Turkish sweet) and a glass of water...

She said: “I don’t even share my water with the Madzhiri (Asia Minor settlers). I get my own water from the spring in Petkovets…”

“Thank you mother,” I said and started to walk out.

“Are you going?” she asked. “Go... go… I will stay here to protect the soil… defend the place… And please, don’t forget to tell everyone… to tell everyone… tell all our people that I am the last one to remain here… I am the only one left in our village… To protect the soil, to light candles, to burn fire in the fireplace. Tell them my chimney is the only chimney that smokes and my window is the only window that has light in the night that can be seen from Dishonor, Stenite, Talk, Borolo, Pratselo… so that the beasts don’t get the idea that there is no life here...