Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The airplane flew over the forest. It was flying quite low when it passed over the village and seemed like once it had flown beyond the vineyards it would never return. The local defense guard reached out for his old maliher (gun) and took a couple of shots. Kiro went outside to his veranda, looked around and the moment he stepped back in, he heard a noise. He quickly turned and looked around. He spotted the aircraft in the distance. The dark spot he identified in the sky approached fast and grew in front of his eyes. He watched two round objects separate from the airplane and fall to the ground. He heard a thunderous explosion come from the lower neighborhood of his village followed by bellowing white smoke. The bombs hit the Mitrashkovtsi barn and set it on fire. The noise from the explosions traveled beyond the village, hit the nearest rocks, echoed back, moved down the valley and went across the river. Bullets fell over the houses dislodging and knocking out ceramic tiles. Falling tiles broke to pieces on the cobblestone pavement and scattered around. The airplane circled around over the village and kept on firing its machine guns. Horses were heard crying loudly adding to the existing noises. An old sick dog was heard crying as it passed by and continued along the road and behind the houses at the end of the street. The moment the airplane disappeared and the noise it made subsided, the children ran out of the school and dispersed in the yard, and from there they ran into the area beyond... Kiro was stunned to see the airplane circle around like a vulture, running its engine to the maximum as it swooped down on the village and rained shells and machine gun fire. Standing on his upper veranda, Kiro watched the children in horror. Running, falling, turning back… they were all crying… After falling down, some stood up and staggered along crying and panicking. Some ran for the first houses, others fell and remained down, flat on the ground. The plane flew over them firing at them with its guns and then flew towards Stenite and disappeared. When the noise subsided the people ran frantically in all directions, shouting.

Kiro took off his overcoat, placed it on the ground and put Kosta’s torn up body into it. A dozen or so steps away from him Iane’s body was lying on the ground, flinching and squirming. His legs were moving, digging, marking the ground. Iane was 23 years old. He

was quiet. His eyes were wide open and he stared at the sky. Kiro watched Iane from the corner of his eye and noticed his face going pale, his body tightening and shivering. Kiro turned towards him, ran for him and watched him trying to lift his chest in an attempt to turn over. He opened his mouth as if wanting to cry out, but no sound came out. He closed his eyes tight seeming as if he was praying and then died quietly. His blood spilled all around him in the green grass and autumn leaves and quickly coagulated. A short distance away stood Mare, a young blonde girl, holding her hip with one hand and leaning on the trunk of an almond tree with the other. With a voice filled with pain, she was calling out in spurts… begging: “Mother, mother! Where are you mother?!” She took a step, turned around and fell flat on her face. Her face hit the soft ground and was buried in it. She did not move after that. The wind was flipping and playing with the pages of the primer she had dropped from under her arm. The pages were fluttering and caressing Mare’s blonde hair.

“Riste-e-e-e!” Mitrevitsa was heard calling with a voice full of pain as she squatted over the lifeless body of her child. Riste had been struck by a large piece of iron and one could hardly recognize him. Mitrevitsa had already been struck by tragedy and was wearing a black head kerchief with which she now covered the torn up body of her child. Her cries echoed to the sky.

At nightfall when the cattle were returning home from the pasture they sensed the blood. They gathered together in the grass where blood had been spilled and began to dig with their hooves and toss the bloodied soil behind them while mooing loudly, sometimes in long extended moos, other times in short repetitive squeaky moos. A bull named Tsrnish stopped in front of the Stoikov house and with his left hoof began to dig at the threshold of the door while mooing long and extended moos and covering the soil with the foam dripping out of his mouth. The bull’s loud and frantic moos filled the air down the streets, in the gullies and shattered on the rocks beyond the village.

In the evening, nine wounded boys and girls were loaded on horses and mules and were taken to the partisan hospital in Vmbel. The wounded children were accompanied by their mothers who painfully

wept quietly. The children too wept, suffering from their painful wounds and constantly begging for relief...

The only carpenter in the village, a man of age, gathered a number of men in Luki’s yard and they began to pull out hardwood planks from last year’s pile of wood to make the coffins. They built seven coffins before sunrise and lined them standing up under the eaves. Among them was one made for Kosta. Kiro took that one under his arm, but before leaving the yard he felt a tightness in him that grabbed him, hugged him and squeezed his trembling old chest. He lowered his head and tightened his face. He did not wipe the tear that hung under his eye. His pain pressed on his shoulders making them shake and forcing him to shrug them. He remained motionless for a moment and then moved on, trampling on the muddy cobblestones...

Kiro placed Kosta’s coffin in the visitor’s room in his house. It was a beautiful room painted all white. Mara Dicheva, a relative of the Stoikov family, placed Kosta’s body, wrapped in white linen sheets, into the coffin and after covering him with her black head kerchief, knelt at the side of the coffin and began to sob and cry out: “What are you dreaming, what dreams are you dreaming my sweet, sweet child? A black vulture struck you my dear and put your mother in black! What dreams are you dreaming my dear Kosta, oh, my sweet Kosta?”

She paused just to take a breath, reached into the bowl, put out the smouldering candle and lit another one. Tina Mitrashkova knelt on the other side of the coffin and she too began to sob and cry out: “Kosta-a-a-a, eh Kosta, aunt’s beautiful boy… rest in peace… rest in peace aunt’s beautiful boy…”

Next to her, reeling in pain, knelt Kosta’s mother. She was a young widow and until yesterday, Kosta was the only love in her life. Now, with her face tightly covered with a black head kerchief, she was a prematurely aged woman. With her face covered in tears she moaned the words: “Wake up, Kosta my son… make your mother happy…”

Tina Mitrashkova’s voice filled the room. The women standing in the room and those kneeling on both sides of the coffin were sobbing, crossing themselves, wiping their tears with their black head kerchiefs and quietly cursing those who had done this. Old men and women kept coming in through the widely open gates in the yard, crossing themselves, climbing up the stairs while banging the wooden steps with their canes, lighting candles, staying for a moment and then moving on to light a candle in the other houses that suffered a loss.

Pop Vasil came at midnight. One by one he visited all the departed. The church bell, which could be heard in nearby villages, rang all night long marking the tragedy.

The next morning the old people gathered in front of the church and together with Pop Vasil decided to hold the funeral at night.

“The damned airplanes might return,” said Mitre, “and drop more bombs on us during the day. Anything is possible...”

“If you want to do them at night,” said Pop Vasil, “then we will do them at night.”

After sunset they brought the coffins and put them inside the church. The only ones that were not opened were those of Kosta and Riste. They lined them up in two’s. Kosta’s coffin was placed nearest to the altar. The church became brighter and brighter as more people entered with lit candles. The candle flames flickered and spread warmth and the aroma of burnt wick and wax all throughout the church. The people stood in silence, crossed themselves and looked at the icons. High above the royal doors was the braid of vines with red and white grapes and leaves hanging from it. It was masterfully carved out of walnut wood and looked very realistic. On the left, half visible under the thick vine, carved in the same wood was a woman holding a basket full of grapes. She looked very realistic as if nature would transform all her sorrow and pain into joy once she left the church. She was not weeping with the women and she was not feeling their pain... She had been there; carved high above, for a long time and for many years she had watched the joys of weddings and christenings and the sorrows of death... Well, even now, nailed

on the spot, she carelessly looked down on the seven white coffins. To some she looked like she was waving her basket as if wanting to say: “Come, people, come with me to the vineyard… to the vineyard to pick some grapes… grapes to make some wine...”

Those who created her, have created the eternal human aspiration that life must continue no matter what kind of life it is…

The royal doors opened and Pop Vasil appeared from behind them. He was a short round man, a bit of a hunchback and completely grey on his head. After giving the people an amiable look, he looked at the coffins. His left hand trembled as he held on to his holy book. He gently swung his incense burner and spread the aroma of incense among the people. There was complete silence in the church. All eyes were gazing at him as he stood there swinging the incense burner looking back at them. They were all wondering when he was going to start the funeral. Time dragged on and the silence persisted. Pop Vasil could feel the anticipation, the weight and burden of those looking at him.

“Start the funeral, start the funeral… Father…” whispered Giorgi who stood closest to him.

Pop Vasil turned around and entered the altar. Giorgi followed him.

“What is it Pop Vasil, what is it?” asked Giorgi with a worried look in his eyes.

“You want me to start the funeral, you say? To do it in the language of those who killed our children, eh?” retorted Pop Vasil.

Giorgi crossed his arms, shrugged his shoulders and looked at Pop Vasil with pleading eyes.

“Go and tell them to start ringing the church bell,” ordered Pop Vasil.

Giorgi came out from the left side of the altar and whispered to Kiro: “Ring the bell…”

The church bell began to ring. After the first few rings, Pop Vasil came out from behind the royal gate. With his hands down he listened to the bell ring; which caused him to cry. He looked up and slowly pointed his gaze at the ceiling where a mortar shell had made a hole in the roof of the church. Luckily it had not exploded. But now there was a gaping hole in the roof. Pop Vasil focused his eyes on the hole, raised his arms up, hands high above his head and, while stretching towards the sky, muttered: “Gospodi, s skorbi raspostranil nia iesi…”

The very moment he said those words the bell stopped ringing. After hearing the words Pop Vasil spoke, Kiro was stunned for a moment but when he realized what the first words meant, he felt a cold sweat flow all over him. Bewildered, he dropped the rope and ran down the stairs where the women were gathered. Seeing him run fast through the corridor the women became petrified. Pop Vasil standing in front of the royal doors raised his hands, looked up at the sky, stretched out his arms and yelled out: “Ushtedri mia I uslishi molitvu moiu...?”

And suddenly the old people who remembered what these forbidden words meant… spoken only in darkness and only in front of flames fueled by oil, spoken away from preying ears, spoken as prayers which in burdensome times were like ointment on an open wound, said “… I uslishi molitvi moiu…”

Then someone quietly said: “Amin!”

Kiro took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead and neck with his sleeve. He was trembling. His throat was dry. After years of silence and fear, after years of these kinds of prayers being silenced in this church, along with the books, the books that were expelled from this country, along with the painted inscriptions that were removed from the icons… Well, now in this inclement climate, the prayers were back again. At least for now... Now in these bad times, which have brought nothing but tears and suffering, times in which many young disappeared and much of life’s joy has been taken, the church began to look like what it was meant to be; designed to be, built to be. It was no small feat for the people to have heard words thought long forgotten. They were truly captivated

by the words and by Pop Vasil’s voice. Reawakened in them was their past and they, in dismay, felt relief; a strange, eerie and warm feeling had overtaken them… a familiar feeling which they secretly, every day, carried deep inside them, at the bottom of their hearts… a feeling about which they could not openly speak for so many years...

Kiro turned suddenly and began to whisper: “Gospodi, v skorbi rasprostranil mia iesi…” He then grabbed the rope and with all his strength pulled it down. The bronze voice of the church bell exploded sending its ring far and wide. The silence was broken. The wind picked up the ring and carried it far away to the mountains. It shattered it against the rocks releasing its echo, mixing it with the next ring and making it stronger and louder. And with every hard pull and strong ring Kiro made, he said: “Ushtedri mia i uslishi molitvu moiu…”

Kiro pulled the rope down hard and repeated the words “ushtedri mia i” and then “boom” the bell exploded sending a wave of sound outwards into the distance… Kiro kept pulling the rope again and again in sequence and with every pull he filled his chest with air and with a heavy sigh, released it… “Uslishi molitvu moiu…” then again he pulled on the rope hard causing the bell to ring loud. He felt that the further the sound traveled, the further it would carry the old Macedonian words.

Pop Vasil interrupted. He nodded with his beard and pointed at the bell tower with his eyebrows. Giorgi seemed to have understood. He made his way through the people and went up the bell tower.

“Bang – bang – bang – bang...” Kiro kept hearing the bell ring inside his own head as he took wide swings at it. He was reluctantly interrupted when he felt someone grab him by his arm.

“What are you doing, Kiro?” Giorgi yelled at him.

“Uslishi molitvi moiu… Uslishi molitvi moiu…” repeated Kiro.

“Kiro, it is not Easter… Stop ringing the bell like it was Easter. Ring it gently; one long ring followed by a short quiet ring,” said Giorgi, who took the rope in his hands, pulled it and said: “Like this!”

“Oh... like that?” Kiro agreed genuinely. “Give me back the rope... I know how to do it, I just forgot. Sorry! Please forgive me oh Lord God,” said Kiro, quickly crossed himself and began to tug on the rope gently. Between rings Kiro could hear Pop Vasil’s touching, exciting, fluttering, delicate and gentle voice emanating from below, from in front of the royal doors, saying: “Glagoli moia vnushi, razumei Gospod zvanie moie…”

A while later Pop Vasil put his hands down, bowed his head, closed his eyes and, what seemed to everyone as if at any moment he would drop in front of Kosta’s coffin, suddenly raised his head, spread his arms wide open and, pointing his finger to the sky, in a hoarse voice yelled out: “Sudi im, Bozhe, da otpadut od mislei svoiuh…”

His voice rang like a bell and reverberated under the church ceiling before entering the people’s ears. No one moved… Those looking up were looking outside, at the bit of heaven coming through the hole in the roof; the others were looking at Pop Vasil.

The candle in Giorgi’s hand was smouldering. Its tiny flame, protected by the palm of his hand, was flickering and slowly diminishing. Giorgi wet his finger and thumb on his lips and gently squeezed the wick and put the flame out. He lit a new candle and, when he placed it in the candle holder that stood in front of him, heard Pop Vasil’s voice, now strong and angry, say: “Da skonchatsia dzsloba greshih…”

Kiro, it seems lost his desire to ring the bell... He took a few steps and went down to the balcony and looked down towards the altar. But the moment Pop Vasil stopped hearing the bell, he signaled Giorgi with his eyebrows to intervene. Giorgi looked up and met Kiro’s gaze looking down. Kiro gave him a sign with his hand to come up and when Giorgi did Kiro said: “Please Giorgi, take over for me, let me listen to the psalms for a while. Let me listen to Pop Vasil for a while… Go Giorgi, go!”

Kiro rushed to get down and stand in front of the altar where Giorgi was standing but before he reached the place, he heard Pop Vasil’s voice thunder, which made him stop in his tracks…

“Sokrushi mishtsi greshnomu p lubovomu…” thundered Pop Vasil.

“Amen!” said a few voices followed by the rest.

“Amen!” said Kiro loudly and crossed himself three times.

The relenting silence was broken, but only for a moment. Someone sighed loudly and from the sigh they felt relief, but no one took their eyes off of Pop Vasil. He stood there with his hands still raised in the air and his eyes still fixed on the sky. He quietly, barely audibly coughed and in a low, tender, deep voice proudly said: “Lord save us…”

After that a number of voices belonging to women and older people were heard whispering: “Lord, save us...”

Pop Vasil slowly lowered his hands and, while his arms were slowly being covered by the sleeves of his frock sliding down, without interruption repeated the words: “Lord, save us...” The people repeated the same words right after him.

The last few words spoken were quietly spoken and everyone felt as if Pop Vasil was losing his strength. And those who listened to him were feeble from their unhappiness that took them like a storm and from listening to Pop Vasil’s liturgy. The eyes of the old people were filled with tears and many of them had moist cheeks. No one raised a hand to wipe a tear, nobody looked away from the priest because they did not want to miss a word. They understood almost everything their ears captured, every word the priest uttered.

Pop Vasil, again looking up at the circle in the sky, stretched out his arms and said: “Ti, Gospodi, sohranishi ni i sobliudeshi ni od roda segio I vo biek…”

“Amen!” the people in the church said in unison… then followed individual whispers of prayers: “Ti, Gospodi, sohranishi ni i

sobliudeshi ni od roda sego I vo biek… Ti, Gospodi, sohranishi ni i sobliudeshi ni od roda sego I vo biek…” some repeating the prayers while others saying “Amen” in confirmation.

Pop Vasil raised his right hand in the air and made a cross. He repeated making the cross three times and then entered the altar and, for as long as he was inside, the people lit new candles adding more light to the church to further illuminate the smoky icons. After Pop Vasil came out he started the funeral in accordance with church canons.

By the end of the last funeral service Pop Vasil had lost his voice. He had never before done so many funeral services at one time. The funeral service was done with open coffins, except for Kosta and Riste’s coffins, they remained closed. The closest relatives said goodbye to their children with hugs and kisses; hugging and kissing the cold, unfinished boards of the coffins and bidding farewell not to the bodies, but to the pieces of their children’s bodies.

Pop Vasil gave the signal to take the coffins out. Kiro was first to come out of the church. He was carrying the large icon of the Virgin Mary. Walking in front of him, in fine steps, were two young boys each holding a large lit candle. Pop Vasil walked behind Kiro and behind him followed the coffins. Each coffin was carried by four people and they followed one behind the other. Behind them walked the people holding lit candles.

The procession left the church and made its way toward the cemetery. The candle flames flickered in the evening’s northern breeze. Everyone in the procession was sad and cried while Pop Vasil, with a crackling voice, did his best to continue the service. And on the way to the cemetery he repeated the prayer: “Ti, Gospodi, sohranish ne i sobliudeshi od roda sego I vo viek!”

And when they arrived at the open graves, Pop Vasil blessed them. They then lowered the coffins and Pop Vasil threw a handful of soil three times on top of each coffin. Everyone else did the same after that; some silently while others crying and praying: “Ti, Gospodi, sohranish ne i sobliudeshi od roda sego I vo viek…”

The women, holding their basket with one hand, went from person to person and gave each some food and drink for the souls of the dead. Pop Vasil took a bite of the bread and a sip of the wine and rakia and, while looking up high at the stary sky, quietly asked: “Oh dear Lord, what kind of monster would do this to their children? Who would harbour so much hatred and cruelty?”

The lit candles on top of the seven graves burned all night until dawn; their flames fluttering in the open air and their melted wax dripping into the freshly dug soil. With time each went out and left behind its aroma of burned wick and wax.

Three days later the women came back to the front of the church and to the cemetery and again brought their baskets and went from person to person giving each some food and drink for the souls of the dead. Pop Vasil, after saying a prayer, gave the teacher the signal to come over. When he did Vasil said: “Kole, don’t leave by yourself, wait for me son, I will come with you.”

Kole remained in front of the church until Pop Vasil came out of the cemetery. The two then got off the main road and took a different path.

“We are going to Sveti Ilia,” said Pop Vasil without looking at Kole. They continued to walk in silence. When they crossed the creek they turned and took the path that led directly to Sveti Ilia.

“A lot of trouble and pain… all at once, Father…” Kole broke the silence. Pop Vasil did not respond. He walked in front of Kole on the uphill and often stopped to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his forehead.

They climbed to the top of the hill and there, under the thick and bushy oak trees, they came upon a large pile of bricks and tiles. Pop Vasil pointed at the heap and said: “This, in the old days, my son, was a large church. The foundations stretched from here to there. When it was built and who built it, no one knows. And it is unknown when it was destroyed. But as you can see, here are its remains, untouched by human traces. These oaks have been growing for centuries and when their time comes they lose their strength and

dry up. The wind breaks their branches and no person will harvest them for firewood or whatever else. This place is holy... and fantastic... one can see the entire Kostur valley from here... And the lake... And Vicho too. Look at that panorama. I told the people to bury the children here so that they can have all this wide view and be the first to see the sun and feel its warmth at dawn. And they will not be alone... Come here and look… Look over there, under the three thick oaks. Do you see them? Where the little flat space is… where the green is? There lie six souls. Come; let us go down there... Here lies Sterio Sidovski. He was thirty-five years old when he left this world and left his children Ziso, Kosta Risa and Tana fatherless. Beside him is Sterio Fotovichin, a young unmarried man. On that side is Petro Nikolov, he never had any children. Over there is Sterio Liochovski. There lies Stavre Stavrovski and beside him is Gele Shomovski. I also wanted the children to be here...” concluded Pop Vasil.

“When were these men buried here?” asked Kole.

Pop Vasil thought for a moment and said: “On March 18, 1905. That year the Andartes (Greek armed bands) dressed Kostur in black. Karavangelis the executioner, holding a cross in one hand and a dagger in the other, sponsored the Andartes… these Greek murderers and cutthroats came from southern Greece. They said they were here to free us from Ottoman bondage but instead they cut our throats and burned our homes. In Zagorichani they beheaded eighty-five souls... Young and old… children and babies… everyone passed under the Greek dagger...”

Pop Vasil got emotional and paused for a moment. He continued: “It was Friday March 17th, 1905 when they came to our village looking for the leaders of the rebellion but they were not so keen in finding them because they knew that they had either been killed or had escaped. But still under the pretense that they were looking for these men, they went from house to house beating the people and robbing them. They were looking for gold and demanded that they be given all the gold. In the meantime they waved the Greek flag in the middle of the village. When they found no gold some abducted the men that are lying here and others stood under the walnut tree and shot at those trying to go home on the other side of the brook. The

men they abducted they took to Klopotarei, over there, along that path, and from there to a clearing in Brezeto behind Sveti Ilia, from that side, under the Polenik hill over there. That’s where they beat them until sunset. And while the sun was setting behind Kopanche, the Andartes removed the kneecaps of their captives with their knives. The villagers could hear their cries and feel their pain... but did not know how to help them. The Andartes had guards stationed at Sveti Ilia and anyone approaching was shot at.”

Pop Vasil continued: “Before nightfall the Andartes cut their necks and left the men to slowly bleed to death while they withdrew to Orleto. They left guards at Stanitsa to keep the people away from helping the dying men... So they slowly bled to death. It was not until the next day, after the Andartes withdrew from Orleto and went towards the Naselets villages to pillage them, that they collected the bodies and buried them here... And remember this place is holy… It is also holy because ever since then, both young and old come here to light candles. Only they knew and would not tell anyone where these men were buried.”

Pop Vasil continued: “More Andartes came later, as far as Urieto, to remove the traces of the crimes they had committed. They came back again, after they dismembered Macedonia when Greece and Bulgaria were exchanging people like sheep… They came back again when Metaxas came to power and again when we expelled the Italians and the Germans came... again when the Greek King returned a year ago... They came inquiring but the people would not tell them anything... the graves may have been covered by the grass but the people who witnessed the crime remembered everything and made sure that that knowledge was passed on to their offspring so that nothing was forgotten. And they, my son, came here to erase everything that had happened… to dig the bones of the dead and destroy them.”

Pop Vasil continued: “But the soil that covered them knows, my son, to remain silent, and the people need to remember... everything is passed on from generation to generation quietly, like a prayer, silently... and no one muddies their tormenting dream. And you, my son, I am telling you all this because you are a teacher and to be careful how you pass it on to your students. Maybe tomorrow one of

them will be educated and will become wiser than us and will tell those who succeed us... Now let us go and leave them to rest in peace.”

They returned to the village at noon. Kiro, who came from the opposite side, stretched his arms wide open, as if wanting to embrace and hug both of them, and said: “I would like to invite you to come to my home, what do you think?”

“Thank you, Kiro for the invitation,” replied Pop Vasil, “visiting your home has always been a pleasure for me, and I pray to God that it continues to be that way for everyone...”

“Thank you Pop Vasil… For everyone?” asked Kiro watching the priest raise his eyebrows.

“Yes, for everyone…” replied Pop Vasil, “for all those with pure hearts and good thoughts...” he added.

“Amen, Pop Vasil, Amen...” said Kiro and went ahead to open the iron gate in the front yard. Kiro did not wait for Pop Vasil to enter, he went ahead to open the door of the house. He quickly climbed the broad wooden stairs that led to the wide veranda.

“Welcome, welcome, please come in,” said Kiro by turning his hand.

“Thank you… Thank you…” said Pop Vasil, crossed himself and asked: “Where is Kirevitsa, is she at home?”

“She is here, at home…” said Kiro and was immediately interrupted by Kirevitsa who yelled from the other room and suddenly appeared on the threshold wiping her hands on her apron. “Please, please, do come in… I am here, Father…” she joyfully said and bent forward to kiss his hand. Then after she kissed it Pop Vasil offered her his cross to kiss and then touched her on her face three times with it. She then said: “Please come this way” and took them straight to the room where they entertain guests.

“Kirevitsa, please bring us each some quince sweets and a glass of water,” ordered Kiro.

“Thank you, Kirevitsa and may your house always be full...” said Pop Vasil.

“Amen, Father, and may the Lord give you good health and a long life…” replied Kirevitsa.

“And may the Lord keep you safe and healthy too, my son…” said Kirevitsa to the teacher not knowing who he was.

“I did not tell you, Mare,” that’s what Kiro called his wife when he was in a good mood, “the young man is a teacher...”

“Ah...” mumbled Mara not understanding what Kiro had said to her.

Someone was knocking on the door and Kiro called his wife: “Mara, Mara, go and see who is knocking on the door.” A moment later they heard Kuze’s voice asking: “Mara, is Kiro home?”

“Please come in, the door is open. Welcome… He is home, come on in,” replied Mara.

Kiro got up and went out to the corridor where he heard Lazo’s voice say: “Hello Kiro, it’s a good thing that you are home. Kuze and I came are here to discuss important business with you. Both Party and People’s business…”

“That’s fine, please come on in,” replied Kiro and told them that Pop Vasil and the teacher were also here.

“It is good that the teacher is also here,” said Lazo.

Kuze extended his hand and shook hands first with Pop Vasil and then with the teacher.

“I, Kiro,” began Lazo while hastily eating the sweet and licking the spoon, “came here with Comrade Kuze on behalf of the national committee and on behalf of the Party to tell you that we will be

opening a school in your house. Is that not so, Kuze? What do you say, teacher? We are not going to ask the priest because he, according to Kuze, said…”

Kuze looked up at the ceiling, then at the corner and, without taking his eyes from there, while coughing, said: “I did not say that, Lazo, someone from the people said it…”

“Okay, okay, then just tell what that someone from the people said,” insisted Lazo.

“But, what can I tell you… someone amongst the people said that Pop Vasil…” Kuze coughed loudly, a long cough, and continued. “This damn cough is tearing me inside here,” he banged his chest with his fist and continued: “Pop Vasil said that he wanted to turn our church into some kind of Bulgarian or Serbian church... he did not perform the funeral service in Greek but...”

“In our language (Macedonian)!” interrupted the teacher. “This is how services were conducted in the old days from a long time ago before any Serbia or Bulgaria existed…”

“Teacher!” Lazo interrupted. “We, during a Party meeting, will figure out if that was indeed ‘our language’… And for what you said teacher, here Kuze is my witness, I will report it high up, I want you to know that. I will be brief, Kiro, like I said, we will turn your house into a school.” (Lazo used broken Greek words to refer to “Party meeting” and to “school”.)

Kiro adjusted himself and in a calm tone of voice said: “It would be an honour for me if this house is turned into a school or a church… if you like… But what happened with the idea of using the old school…?” asked Kiro.

“Well you know, right?” Kuze butted into the conversation, “The roof is leaking, right? You don’t want rain to fall on the children’s heads, do you?”

“We will fix it again!” interrupted the teacher.

“We will fix it again?” replied Lazo in a mocking tone of voice mocking the teacher. “With what? Where are you going to find the ceramic tiles needed to fix it, eh?”

“We will take them from the houses that have fallen... I saw several fallen houses in the upper neighborhood. We will collect tiles from there and we will cover the school, right Kiro?” said the teacher.

“Right! If it were up to me, teacher, I would ask the men to roll up their sleeves and do it. Unless, of course the Party and the people’s government want to do it themselves or choose a different solution...?” remarked Kiro.

Lazo first looked at Kiro then immediately shifted his eyes at Kuze and said: “Should I be thinking about these things, Kuze, or should the national committee? The teacher is right in what he said. Well said… Take action and cover the roof… I will report this to the higher ups, to the central leadership, tomorrow and tell them that we will be opening the school on our own… This is also what the people’s democratic government wants… for us to find our own solutions… right Kuze? You need to pay more attention to the books they give us from above. Don’t let me forget to remind you of that, Kuze…”

Lazo thought for a moment while tapping his mouth with his index finger, turned to Kuze and said: “We need to sit down today and write a report, a detailed report, and describe how the Monarcho-Fascists sent five airplanes… no ten airplanes… and how they attacked and killed seven children. And before you seal the report I want you to give it to me so that I can see it and sign it. You should definitely write that the airplanes attacked the children and fired their guns at them. And when those high above find out about this, they will talk about it on the radio and write about it in the newspapers. The whole world will know what the Monarcho-Fascists did with the airplanes the American and British imperialists gave them… Killing our children… That is a great shame which the whole world must know about… a great shame on King George and Queen Frederica who raised a hand against our children… Shame… Shame…” yelled Lazo and spat on his feet.

Pop Vasil coughed lightly, a sign that he wanted to interrupt someone. Immediately after that he raised his hand. Everyone in the village knows what that meant. It meant that everyone must stop talking. He kept it up only for a moment while he moved his fingers and lowered it again. This was the sign for everyone to stop coughing and take a deep breath. This time too, raising his hand meant that Pop Vasil wanted to say something important or he wanted someone else to say something important. When he got everyone’s attention, he looked at everyone and, in a tame and quiet voice, said: “No, Lazo… They did not specifically attack the children this time… Maybe another time they will severely attack the children, but a of couple days ago they did not… This time they attacked our letters, our words, our books, our language… They attacked everything that is Macedonian…”