Introduction - Part 02

I picked up the pace and, over and over, struck the hard ground with my pick until I unearthed a big stone, and underneath it… ants, not a few ants but a pile of ants. They quickly ran up my legs and covered my arms, chest, head and entire body. I got out of the hole and took off my blouse, shirt, trousers… and tossed them in the trench. Then in amazement I watched the ants hunt down the lice and take them down their hole. These were the same lice that had penetrated every piece of my clothing, including the holes in my belt, and for days and nights did not leave me in peace to nap or relax. All day and all night they were biting me… a terrible insect, sucking my blood. The only way to destroy them was to squeeze them between my nails. Except for one time when they brought some white powder which they sprayed on us… and that was it. Thanks to the ants my clothes were now free of lice...

* * *

We waited for the attack and while waiting I had just one big desire: to stay alive...

Having that desire made me feel at peace and stare at the top of the trees, watching the glimmering sunlight pass through them, watching the sun’s rays cut through the branches. I felt the sun’s rays more than I could see them. The direct sun I could not see.

Just a little to my side direct sunlight was shining on the ground. That’s where I moved my automatic rifle… so I could lie down in direct sunlight. It was a tiny beam the size of a pea but it was shining boldly, penetrating through the overhanging branches. This way I could have the sun shining on me without me having to raise my head above the trench or move if off the butt of my rifle...

We only came out of our bunkers and trenches in the dark; just to do some stretching. Those from over there, the opposite side, knew that and fired at us a volley or two, just to send us back to our holes in the ground. Then, through loudspeakers, they invited us to dinner. They boasted about the plentiful supply of bread, wine and ouzo and finally swore at us and cursed us with the most disgusting words.

We thanked them and declined their invitation with our cone funnels made of cardboard. They would not leave us alone, even in the night. They shot colourful rockets into the air illuminating the hills, disturbing the peace, our work and our dreams. They shot balls of yellow, red, white and blue lights over the hills and made the night look like day. We had to hide in our burrows just to avoid them, to get some rest and some sleep. Our opponent wanted us to stay awake and watch the balls of light rise above the hills, explode into thousands of little stars and slowly fall down on the ground. Some stars lost their light as they came down, others continued to glow even after they fell on the ground. If this was not a war we would have thought that these little suns adorned the earth and night sky. They decorated the mountains, hills and forests like it was some great long-awaited holiday. The lights glimmered, beckoned, ordered, announced, informed… those little suns which made the darkness vanish… those little suns that turned night to day… And when it was day the airplanes flew and pounded us, they pounded the earth and made the ground moan and shake, sending soil and rock up into the air. They pounded the forests and trees and set them ablaze. And then when the airplanes left, the cannons took their place pounding us with exploding shells, crushing the ground we stood on, scattering soil, rocks and trees, covering the earth with suffocating smoke and debris.

Horror prevailed over our trenches and bunkers and long cries for help came from muffled voices… from people in pain...

* * *

I was trapped in my trench. The earth above me crumbled and fell down raising dust and, combined with the thick smoke all around me, made it difficult for me to breathe. I heard the chilling whistle of

a shell passing over me and then came the crash and falling dust and soil. It was always the same, first the whistle then the explosion and then the falling of debris. One never knew when a shell was going to land inside the trench... With every falling shell I coiled myself into a ball and waited for either more debris to fall or shrapnel to hit me… and wondered which part of my body was going to hurt the most...

I was afraid, terrified, when I heard the sharp whistle… and blast of the exploding shell. After the explosion I uncoiled, but only a little… waiting for the earth to stop shaking and debris to stop falling on me… and when it did stop, I inhaled deeply, spit the bitterness from my mouth and said to myself: “I am still alive...”

* * *

Another flare rocketed through the sky when the infantry charged. They were not running but kept in step and approached erect. And the closer they came the more they bent forward. When they came close enough for our machine guns to cut them down, they lay down on their stomachs. They did this today, yesterday, the day before and so on… and days grew into weeks.

Time was not measured in hours, but in days and nights during which we were attacked in waves... We defended ourselves and those damn hills and every day we became fewer and fewer...

Everything all around us was plowed. Trees were knocked down and branches ripped and scattered all over and mixed with them were ripped out human body parts; arms, hands, legs, intestines… They belonged to us. My sobbing echoed and mingled with the groaning and cries for help in the ugly silence.

From mouth to mouth the order to “retreat” was being passed on.

We grabbed our belongings and ran, jumping over tree trunks, rocks, holes… and regrouped on the other side of the brook where we took attendance. How many of us did we leave on that dreaded hill of horrors? We took our new positions and were given new orders:

“We were to remain there until our last breath! No one was to take a step back!”

We lay down on bare ground. There were no trenches and no bunkers. The earth was naked; stony, hard, dry, cooked... Further over there were cracked rocks. During the night we broke some of them into pieces and arranged them so that we could hide our heads behind them.

Tomorrow they will pound us by air and by ground.

Who is going to be stronger; the rocks or us?

I sat down behind the rock pile I had just prepared for my defense and leaned my back against the rocks. I looked up at the cloudless sky and felt alone. There was a strange silence in the air.

I continued to stare at the cloudless sky. I saw black dots approaching from the north. They grew larger and larger.

They were very large when they poured fire over us.

* * *

The space all around was becoming narrower. Our opponent was becoming stronger and pounding us harder. The more we were squeezed the closer our opponent came. He used large machinery to widen the narrow goat and donkey trails and dragged his cannon closer to the hills and mountain peaks. He dug wide roads so that his trucks could transport crates of shells and everything else that was needed to pound us and run us out of these hills and from behind the rocks. Step by up, he came closer to us, to our trenches, bunkers and burrows and to the holes made by his bombs and cannon shells. The hills became narrower the further and the higher up we withdrew… we were now standing on the bare, arid peaks.

As I said, we had no trenches and no bunkers at our new positions. We hid our heads behind a couple of stones covered with a few handfuls of soil...

We continued to move higher. The hills up there were bare-naked. The rocks and stones were bleached by time; washed by the storms and cracked by the sun. From what were we going to defend ourselves first? From the shrapnel or from the fragments of stone and fire that was falling on us? The pain is the same; being hit by a piece of shrapnel or by a piece of stone. What were we to defend ourselves from? Shrapnel or rocks? The day was long. We waited for help only by night. We could rest easier in the dark. Have a bit of rest and pray the night, the dark, would last a long time... But the dark did not last...

They fired flared into the night sky; white, blue, red and yellow flares. There was nowhere to hide on bleached mountain tops and barren hills.

We were on one hill and our opponent was on the opposite hill. We were tied, connected together by the glowing bullets that we fired at each other in the dark of night. Strings of bullets, short and scant strings delivered by our side and long and dense strings delivered by their side. Our strings were delivered by German machine guns and lost strength over the brook that divided us. Theirs were delivered by American heavy machine guns that had no problem reaching our scant defenses. The whistling of bullets flying over us motivated us to dig deeper… with our knives and hands… we dug deep enough to hide our heads.

Then we were charged by the government troops under the light of flying flares.

They had us and the hill that we defended in the palm of their hands and they were firing at us with long machine gun bursts...

At daybreak, under the deafening explosions of bombs dropped by their aircraft, we welcomed the 70th day and night of warfare in Gramos.

And after that?!

Well, after that we ran down the hill, crossed the river and, in the night, regrouped in Slimnitsa Valley. We were all gathered there, like a colony of ants. Something was up, quiet orders were given verbally and, up the hill, there was heavy gunfire, a lot of shooting. A unit took the lead and the entire column followed behind.

We rushed out of the valley, running, running to somewhere, anywhere, leaving this place as soon as we could. We ran along the valley fast to escape the openness. We then ran along a brook, rushing to somewhere, just rushing, to get somewhere before daybreak, before sunrise...

We ran fast, breathing hard, unable to catch our breath. At dawn we crossed a river and began to climb up a sharp hill. From there we could see a blur of Mali-Madi hiding behind the fog.

Over on that side was Vicho and Prespa.

Our salvation was there...

But until when?!

* * *

On fire and in flame, we left behind us the mountain peaks, hills, cliffs, ravines, forests, the broken-down trenches and bunkers, our burrows in which we rotted and built up our fear of death, our fear of thunder, lightening, rain, snow, ice… Our fear of being shot by a bullet, torn apart by shrapnel… Our fear of the roar of cannons, the whistle and the crash that followed… Our fear of the silver bird watching us… Our fear of the roar of aircraft and falling bombs from the sky… Our fear of fire splashing on us from the sky… We left all that behind… We left everything behind… the fear of fatigue, hunger, thirst, sickness, sleep, grief and with them we left our youth along with many, too many of our young men and women... We left behind seventy-two days and nights of tragedy and horrors...

We left behind the bones of our young men and women to be gnawed by the predators and to be washed by the mountain torrents...

There we learned to hate evil and to love kindness. There we became acquainted with death and stood erect before the gruesome horrors and despair...

There we learned to love and respect each other… there we became soldiers and men and women who did not differ in battle.

There we were soldiers… males and females...

There we quickly mastered the rifle, the automatic rifle, the hand grenade, the mine launcher, the machine gun...

There we were persistent, pressing, patient, resilient, obedient...

And brave…

Gramos was burning in flames behind us...

The hills were burning and burning in them were our hopes and dreams...

In Gramos we lost our faith, our trust in ourselves, our belief which supported us in battle…

The source from which our courage and strength sprang!

Behind us we left our enthusiasm and, although broken and unfulfilled, our hopes and dreams...

We were everything there; we were sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty year-old girls and boys in our prime...

Behind us we left a scorched earth… desolation.

Gramos was charred and we were weary...

That’s how it was...

Chapter - 2

We left Gramos and took new positions in Vicho.

We conveyed much bad news to many mothers and covered them in black.

There was much crying of pain and anathema...

The bells tolled for the dead...

But no priests…

From dawn to dusk, the silver bird flew high in the sky, watching the entire so-called free territory but gave us time to rest, eat, change our clothing, arm ourselves and listen to speeches and slogans about new victories.

On the fifteenth of September we crushed our opponent in Mali-Madi.

In our charge we reached the gates of Kostur. Nobody was defending Kostur. Orders were given to turn back. We turned back and we were beaten by aircraft and tanks. We attacked Voden in the winter, in the worst cold.

We came out of that battle mutilated.

Yugoslav troops had to take us from Kaimakchalan in the dead of night and drive us on trucks to the hospital in Katlanovo. I was wounded in two places. I was hit in the shoulder and on my leg, below the knee; severely injured.

This was what the doctors said.

Two days after I left the operating room, I was told that both operations had been successful and that my leg would require some further treatment. I could not feel my leg; it was coated with thick hardened plaster and felt as if I was bound to a wooden block at the hip. I lay down and a nurse, a woman with a very sad face, who only

occasionally smiled with a slight smile, constantly fed me and told me that I would be well for my wedding and that I should not forget to invite her.

There were twelve girls in the hospital room belonging to various military units. The beds were placed so tightly together there was hardly any space in between them. With help from the nurse, a few days later I was able to lie down and have a conversation with the other ladies in the room. There were four girls there who did not understand Macedonian so, for the most part, we spoke Greek. What did we talk about? What could possibly be discussed in a military hospital? Illnesses perhaps…? The things that we talked about the most about were how we existed in the mountains, how we lived in cold burrows, trenches and bunkers… We talked about the long marches in the night, in the rain, in blizzards, storms, snow, cold… We talked about the hunger, the pain, the isolation that we all endured… We talked about the fear of being killed, wounded and maimed… Our conversations were often interrupted. And in the long silence many thoughts and memories swarmed our minds, sending us back in time...

The girl who was lying next to me sighed a long sigh and, while looking up at the ceiling, quietly said:

“My dear friend Tinka… she was unable to cross the swollen river. The muddy waters took her away. She was only seventeen years old and that day she was carrying her machine gun and a backpack full of bullets. When I told the commander that Tinka had disappeared in the muddy water he spat and asked:

“What happened to her machine gun?”

There was silence; only long, painful and sickly sighs...

“And my friend, her name was Tsana. They cut her legs just below the knees at the hospital in Korcha. We did not hear her voice for an entire month. She kept to herself. When they came from headquarters to see how we were doing and if we were well enough to be taken us back to the front line, that’s when Tsana spoke. She said:

“And me, take me to the front... She uncovered herself and showed us her legs… her mutilated legs... which had walked for nineteen years...

There was silence; only long, painful and sickly sighs...

“My corporal, the most beautiful boy in our unit was crippled but still alive when he was hanging on the barbed wire in front of our opponent’s bunker. We watched him but we could not get close to him. They kept firing at us with long bursts... we left him there... he was barely twenty years old...”

There was silence; only long, painful and sickly sighs...

“Field medic Stoina, our unit nurse, was carrying a wounded young man on her shoulders when…” but before this young lady could finish what she was saying she visibly became very emotional and lost her voice...

There was silence again. Only sad, muffled, broken sighs... Silence... And the sighs led to more tragic memories...

I stayed in the Katlanovo hospital a long time and as a result I missed the battle for Lerin. They brought me back to the frontline at the beginning of the summer. Our battle lines were now at Bela Voda Mountain separating Prespa from Lerin valley. They were high up. The mountain there was bare. It was covered with green meadows and springs of water. We were located a short distance from Kaimakchalan. To the east and west of us were the Prespa Lakes and Galichitsa. There was a long and curved line of trenches left over from World War I, overgrown with weeds, thorns and spikes. They said the French built them. Now we were digging and rebuilding them… so that the enemy would not pass. There was a dense forest of beech trees at the foot of Bela Voda. Forty pairs of oxen, together with many villagers from the surrounding villages, were mobilized to drag logs uphill. Most of the villagers were women. They were led by an old man with a long moustache and their task was to carry the logs from the forest to the bunkers on top of the hill.

Five, six, or seven rows of logs and between each row a layer of stones and earth – that’s how our bunkers were constructed. Command ordered us to make them strong, strong enough to keep us alive and the enemy out of the mountains.

They always praised us for a job well done… and then they were gone.

Before sunset, before the sun disappeared behind the mountains, a number of women from AFZH (Antifascist Women’s Front) arrived at our camp. They had been here before but had never stayed with us in the cold and damp trenches and bunkers. They met with us and told us that we were winning many battles against the enemy everywhere. It was true that we were fighting the enemy, but they never told us about the losses we were accumulating and why they were never there fighting along with us. They were not in Gramos, they were not in Voden, not even in the battle for Lerin. Among them there was one woman who could not stop talking. She had a big mouth and spat as she threw big words at us - crushing the enemy with her words. At the end of her long talk, she threw praises at us for the good job we had done building big bunkers and digging deep trenches.

Bravo! – She shouted – no enemy is going to pass by here! Bravo!

But, for as long as I have been here and watched the woman from the various surrounding villages carry logs uphill on their shoulders, I have never seen this woman with the big mouth do anything.

These women from the AFZH organization were our guests and praised us a lot and we humoured them... but we did not want them to tell us that up here, high on these bare hills spread under which were green meadows, stuffed in these large and frightening bunkers made of logs, stones and earth, that we needed to wait for the enemy... We already knew that…

When we were finished setting up in Bela Voda we were left with two lines. The battalion received orders to take defensive positions in the hills of Bigla and Lundzer. We arrived there early in the

morning and immediately took our positions in already prepared trenches and bunkers. Movement was forbidden. The silver bird was watching us from up high all day long. We waited for dark to do our exercises and prepare for the attack. After that we were lectured, with much conviction, that the enemy would never pass through the region of Vicho and that we were strong here and everywhere in the surrounding hills and that we had many cannons and mortars here with which we were going to crush the opponent.

We believed what they told us. But at the same time we began to have doubts when, on August 9th, we saw the opponent offload many trucks of government troops and cannons in the valley located between the mountains Mali-Madi, Vicho, Polenata and Roto. The soldiers set up tents. We saw them do that from our bunkers. The valley was lit during the night. They had lights in their tents. There was no shooting. It was silent on both sides. The night passed peacefully.

At five o’clock in the morning we woke up to the sound of airplanes. There were lots and lots of bombs and rockets dropped over our trenches and bunkers. The entire front was burning; all the hills were on fire and smoke was bellowing everywhere.

Unfortunately our mortars and guns were silent.

Why?

It was August 10th, 1949. We endured two days and two nights of pounding before we abandoned our positions. The order was:

“Bela Voda!” Go to Bela Voda to stop the opponent from breaking through into Prespa.

We ran along the gorge defended by our positional unit. This is what the units made up of disabled fighters were called. Because they were all crippled, these soldiers had no chance of leaving their combat positions on their own, so they were ordered to stay and defend the road to their last breath, until they were all killed, this time to stop enemy tanks from going to Prespa.

We arrived at our bunkers at midnight. We were tired, hungry and thirsty as we waited to welcome the morning attack. Our orders arrived:

The battalion was ordered to immediately move to the village German and from there cross to the other side of Lake Prespa.

There was no time to form a column, so we all ran…

The village German was empty. Padlocks hung on all the doors. There was no one there… no people… only cats and dogs. We went down hill to the village Rabi which was a target for the tanks. We ran along a stretch of willows along the shores of the larger lake and rushed towards the bridge. The airplanes came at us one behind another in streaks, lined up along the beach and dropped missiles and bombs, just like they did in Gramos, crushing and burning everything. We ran and ran and then suddenly - boom!

The entire bridge flew into the air.

It was our side that blew it up to stop the tanks and infantry from crossing over to the other side. We were cut off in the sandy, large open space. I heard a voice ordering:

“Go back!!! Go back towards the border!!!”

We were being attacked from the right by the government infantry. We ran in defensive waves and got back to the willow groves and from there we ran along the beach, shooting, falling… I was up to my knees in lake water. Suddenly I was interrupted by a begging voice:

“Kalina… Kalina… Help me!”

I turned my head. It was Lefka… she was in the water. Lefka was from my village. The water all around her was red… bloody red. She was wounded and drowning. I ran to her, grabbed her by her belt and pulled her ashore. Blood was pooling on the sand beneath her. She was badly wounded. I left her there. I left her behind begging, crying and shouting. I ran struggling through the thick

willows and listened to her voice begging behind me. I felt terrible. I stopped. I turned and ran back. Lefka lay on the sand. I lifted her a bit and went under her. I raised her and, with much difficulty, put her on my shoulder. I dragged us both along the coast. I did not even make it ten metres before Lefka was dead… on my shoulder...

We broke through the ambush before reaching the village Rabi and ran towards the border. Cannon shells fell all over the place; in front of us and behind us. The closer we got to the border the harder they bombarded us. The tanks were roaring behind us… Suddenly there was a long whistle of bullets at the border. I thought the Yugoslav army was attacking us. The tanks stopped.

Later that afternoon the battalion hid in the brook beside the border... The shooting had stopped, but not in the Prespa plain. The shores of Little Prespa Lake were in flames. The rushes were burning. The thick black smoke shaded the sun. During the night we collected our wounded, bandaged them and hid them in the brush and woods along the border. I could not stop hearing Lefka’s voice in my head. I grabbed the bag of bandages from the field medic, took my automatic rifle and ran back to where I had left her. She was not there…

I returned to the brook.

Our battalion commander, via courier, had made a special request to meet with the commander of the Yugoslav army. We were waiting for the courier to return. Sometime before midnight, accompanied by two soldiers, a Yugoslav major showed up at the border. Our Commander asked for me and said:

“Kalina, you come with me. You are fluent in the language. I am fluent in it too but I don’t want the assistant or the political commissar to think that I agreed to something they did not understand because it was said in Macedonian. I will speak in both Greek and Macedonian and you will translate when required... Let’s go...”

We met in a trench near the border line. The two army commanders greeted each other.

The talks lasted a long time. I stayed on the side and said very little.

Our commander requested to be allowed to pass through Yugoslav territory on foot and from there cross into Albania. The Yugoslav officer said he was prepared to permit that provided we surrendered our weapons at the border. Our commander could not agree with that and said that such an act would appear treasonous; similar to deserting, capitulation and used some other such words I did not understand. Our commander could not accept the condition to surrender our weapons.

That was it from the talks. Before our departure, our commander asked the major to give us some food and water and to receive fifteen of our wounded. He agreed. We saluted him and went back to the brook.

We were done transferring our wounded over the border a little past midnight. We dropped them off in the barracks where they examined them, changed their bandages, placed them on trucks and took them away. Both the wounded and we were relieved. This, unfortunately, was only a small part of the weight on our shoulders, weighing like a big stone...

Lying there in the brook beside the border we felt a sense of uncertainty and were burdened by a sense of insecurity.

In the dark of night we heard long machine gun bursts and watched lit bullets and flares fly over us. The sky over Prespa, the hills and mountains to the west and south, were all illuminated and embroidered with beautiful colours…

It seemed like our opponents there, near the Prespa Lake plain and in the surrounding hills, were celebrating...

He was celebrating his victory...

Someone lying beside me whispered:

“Well, look at them… they convey news of their victory with colourful bullets and rockets. Tomorrow all of Athens will shine under such lights...”

Our opponent celebrated his victory all night long until dawn.

We spent the entire night awake… until the shooting resumed in the morning. In all that noise I could hear church bells ringing. It sounded like they were announcing a funeral. But they were not! I remembered!

Today was the fifteenth of August. Greece was celebrating a religious holiday – The Great Mother.

The Great Mother was the protector of my village. The entire village celebrated on this day. We accepted guests from all the surrounding villages. I closed my eyes and imagined myself being at home. I could see my grandfather, grandmother and mother. The dining table was set for guests. Grandfather sat hidden near the stairs and waited... Was he waiting for someone? Why was he hiding? I was losing my image of him in my tears... my image of our stairs and yard, of our dining table and guests... I was losing everything in my tears...

I lay in the tall grass burned by the hot sun and listened to the ringing of church bells. I again imagined my mother, grandmother and grandfather in a room full of guests, sitting around a festive dining table. And again my vision became blurred with my tears and again I slowly lost the image of my grandmother, grandfather, mother, the dining table, and all the guests… They all vanished in a few drops of tears...

We stayed all day lying around the brook. We were hungry, thirsty, scared and felt insecure. There was great suspicion in our eyes. What would happen to us? We were lying in a brook in a place they called “dead frontier zone”, a no man’s land… How sure were we that this was ours… our place? Suddenly I felt a stabbing question in my head:

Were the leaflets they dropped over us in Gramos, the leaflets that fell from the airplanes… Was the information in them wrong… simply propaganda concocted by our opponent? Or was there some truth in it? The winds of doubt began to whirl in my mind…

It was July 29th or July 30th, 1948, nearly two weeks after the government army began its great offensive against us, during which time something happened that was unimaginable to us. There was silence in the trenches, silence in the bunkers and silence within us. We sat frowning in silence and sunk deep into our thoughts. We were looking at the hills beyond. The silence was interrupted by the loudspeakers that spewed curses and insults. I remember at the time I was scratching the wall of my trench with a piece of stick while occasionally casting a glance at the flyer, the same flyer that fell from the sky into my trench that morning.

Leaflets, thousands of leaflets dropped from the heavens to the earth. Thousands of leaflets came out of an airplane that circled above us. They filled our trenches, they covered the ground, they became stuck on tree branches and they rolled on the ground, picked up by the wind. We sat motionless, we did not move… we just lowered our heads and read:

“Tito sold you out!” the leaflet shouted.

That day the airplanes did not drop bombs. But the leaflets were bombs for us… terrible bombs. They wounded our faith and our soul, and somewhat broke our spirit.

That day the machine guns were silent and so were our opponent’s cannons.

They were pounding us with leaflets.

They were a terrible weapon… these leaflets.

They did not thunder, they did not blare, they did not crash trenches and bunkers… they simply smashed our spirits and razed our faith… they wounded our soul for which there was no cure.

There is no medicine for a wounded soul.

Our faith was wounded… The fact that there was strength behind us, helping us, became questionable...

Crumpled in our trenches, we kept silent.

These pieces of paper defeated us with the bad news they delivered, creating doubt in our minds. The silence lasted a long time; the silence and our command. It was not until the afternoon when the political commissar, who had just returned from headquarters, gathered us together, that we found out that the leaflets were only propaganda and...

But he was not very convincing...

The doubt lingered on... especially in the circles of young men and women from Kostur, Lerin and Voden regions.

On top of tossing leaflets at us from an airplane, our opponent that day, for the entire day raised large canvas billboards on the opposite hill from where we were, reading:

“Tito sold you out! Surrender to us!”

We were hit hard because we all knew that Yugoslavia was our biggest supporter in this struggle and no one wanted this to be true, so we fought back… with insults…

We spent the entire day hurling insults at our opponent.

But later, for days, even months, we were lectured and brainwashed by our own political commissars and party secretaries that Tito was indeed a traitor and we were convinced to hate him. They would say:

“Look, our Party is in the right! If it wasn’t for Tito we would have won the war.”

Listening to this made me think that if it wasn’t for Tito perhaps they would not have started this war at all…

But getting back to our predicament today, had we just gotten a whack on the back with a big stick? That’s what I thought! There were soldiers behind the border pointing their guns at us ready to shoot. And here we thought they were our allies and biggest supporters… We thought they were our friends because they supplied us with weapons and food and treated our wounded. But now, at this critical moment when we needed their help, they refused us… Did they want to enslave us, to imprison us in some camp or did they want to surrender us to our enemy? I don’t know. One the one hand we had them on one side and the government army on the other, only a couple of kilometres away, ready to pounce on us with their tanks. The tanks were not there waiting for us to return if they thought we had skipped over the border and had fled to Yugoslavia. They were there waiting for us to return…

I was worried about all this and kept thinking:

What will happen to us? How long are we going to lie in this brook surrounded by the two armies?

At nightfall the Yugoslav troops brought us food and water. While we were eating, the battalion commander busied himself thinking how to get us out of this brook… and out of this predicament.

Late at night the commander informed us that he was going to divide the battalion into three large units and each unit was going to withdraw from here independently and that the three units would regroup in Albania. He did not say what direction to take and where and when we were to regroup in Albania. This information was to remain a secret that was only known to his assistants. He also said that the breakaway was to take place at night and in complete silence. That silence was to be broken only if there was no other way out.

He then ordered an inspection of weapons and ammunition.

I only had six bullets in my revolver.

We did not stand up for attendance. We just whispered lying down when our names were called. Only ten of us remained between us. The rest had defected to Yugoslavia. They left their weapons in the dry grass and deserted. We had much contempt for the deserters. We did not pick up their weapons… Every comrade in arms has contempt for deserters… Every army in the world has rules for deserters… those caught are court marshaled and shot. Our military court never did judge them, or all the others before them who had done the same, and no bullet found them.

I don’t know what time it was when we left. One after another, step by step, we moved through darkness. There was no shade. Above us there were dense clouds. That’s how we wanted it to be. To avoid having shadows… us, the hills, the rocks, the brooks… all of us to be one in the dark.

We were forbidden to cough, sneeze, breathe loudly… we were to take light steps like a cat on a hunt... We went in the opposite direction from the horn of the moon which, for only a moment, appeared in the sky over the opposite mountain. To our right was the lake which we left behind.

I already knew we were moving south. We were traveling along the slope of the hill above the village German. We were headed uphill crouched and taking quiet breaths...

In the dense and foggy grey we lay in our bunkers and trenches in Bela Voda. I was relieved being here. I did not feel comfortable lying motionless in the brook. I had many bad thoughts that bothered me, especially about meeting our end being trapped between two armies!? Here, up high, on top of the mountain my bitterness, doubt and fear have disappeared, evaporated into the thin clean air.

We were quite tired that day. We were fatigued from having traveled a long distance quietly in the dark of night and from having to climb to the top of Bela Voda. We spent all the next day sleeping. We were awakened when it was dark.

In the evening we were gathered together by our commander. He informed us that our second breakaway was going to take place tonight. We were told that the same orders that were followed the night before were going to be followed tonight. Our destination, again, was going to be kept a secret. He underlined that we would be traveling only at night and that we would be passing through settlements, but only by their side and in complete silence.

We began our trek down the slope of the mountain passing through short bushes which hindered our stride. The column was led by the dead guards. A little after midnight we crossed the river Bistra and began our trek uphill towards Bigla. I knew these places. I had been here many times before. When we reached the foot of the hill, we were ordered to rest.

The commander took a dozen fighters and split from the unit. It seemed to me like he came back about a half an hour later. We all left after that and walked briefly. The place where we stopped was an overgrown dense beech tree grove under which was thick darkness. I heard a quiet knock on wood, then a sound of branches being tossed, then cracking of boards, like a door was opening. In the misty light of my battery powered flashlight I saw a huge black hole yawning between two large rocks. We entered the hole one after another. The area inside was quite large. There were crates stacked everywhere and piles of sacks. I just realized that this was one of our hidden storage places where we stored weapons, ammunition and food for the 40th Division. After we entered the opening the shelter door was closed off with thick planks. We lit torches inside. What a place! It had everything we needed here! The commander ordered us to open a few crates. They contained weapons, ammunition and several hand grenades. It would be nice for us to arm ourselves with automatic rifles. We then turned to the bags. They had sugar, flour, beans, pasta... we even found a bag of coffee beans and some bottles of wine. I asked myself: “Who up here, on these mountains, drinks coffee and wine?” In one of the corners I found a whole bunch of boxes. They were filled with chocolates. Further over I found more boxes full of new military boots, shoes and uniforms. There were loaves of bread, cheese and cans full of meat and marmalade. We were busy looking around until dawn and then spent the entire day sitting inside the cave.

In the many years I had spent in the whirlwind of war, this was the first time that I, we ate well and got some decent sleep.

We spent the entire day sheltered in the cave. Well-rested, fed and wearing new underwear and uniforms, new military boots and a backpack loaded with ammunition, we resumed our trek… we were headed south. After about an hour of walking the column stopped. The commander chose me and two of my friends to take the lead and scout for the column. It was our turn to replace the dead guard. With our weapons ready to fire, we walked about a hundred or so metres in front of the column. We were careful about where we took our next step in the dark. There was very little growth on the ground which made it easier for us to walk. This was the eighth or ninth time that I led the unit as a dead guard in this war.

Scouting for the unit on the march was a serious task. You had to move with your eyes wide open, looking in front of you and to your right and left. You had to be fully aware that someone in front of you may be hidden behind a stone, behind a rock, behind a tree trunk… watching you and holding you at gunpoint. If they fired and hit you then you saved the unit. And so we walked carefully and slowly down the slope and suddenly - boom!!!

I felt a strong and blunt blow to the side and on my head. I came to when they were bandaging my wounds. I was lying unconscious in the tall grass. I was hit so hard I could not take a step. I was not able to move. I thought they would carry me on a stretcher like the other time I was wounded, but...

Sitting beside me, my commander, in a low calm and begging voice slowly, as I remember it, said to me:

“Be brave Kalina… You and your friends walked into a minefield. You are alive but your friends did not make it. I feel very sorry for them and for you. The unit, however, must continue on its trek and is unable to carry you. I have decided to leave you behind. We will place you beside the road and tomorrow, when the government troops pass by here, the army will take you. I am convinced that when they see that you’re wounded, they will spare you. Stay here.

This way you may save the entire unit and hundreds of your comrades. This will be your heroic act... Stay here... I am not ordering you but I am begging you please... please... please... I am begging you!”

What could I do?

I could not hold up the entire unit just for me. It could be ambushed many times on its way and I could not have that on my conscience; to perish while carrying me on a stretcher? I could not have that!

I agreed and then asked my commander to leave my machine gun and one hand grenade with me; so that I could have something to defend myself with... Unfortunately they took everything… my weapons, my backpack and my military booklet.

They covered me with an army blanket and left.

I was all alone under the rain. Occasionally the hills flared up from the flashes of lightening and the mountains roared from the thunder. Black clouds covered the sky. The rainwater washed the clotted blood from my darkened face.

I endured a lot during that night but I hung on.

In the morning I heard the noise of a motorized vehicle. I saw a jeep with four soldiers approaching. I dragged myself to the middle of the road. I stuck my fingers between the stones on the road. I felt tears pooling in my eyes and mixing with the dirt on my face. I tasted bitter cold sweat in my mouth as I waited for the jeep to run me over.

I then heard the screech of brakes and loud cursing from the driver.

That’s all I heard.

Chapter - 3

I found myself in a military hospital where my wounds healed and all that remained were my scars.

They reminded me of my pain and of times and people gone. In moments like these everything that is nestled in the mind, heart and spirit awakens with bitterness and opens a very large wound, not full of pus but crusted over and flushed with blood. It lays deep in the soul and burns and hurts; a constant reminder of life which is carried in the mind, heart and spirit. And yes – in the consciousness. It is divided into two parts. One, obligation to help to save lives in the most difficult moments... Two, the personal part, my part, nestled deep inside me, which eats away at me, making me want to ask hundreds of questions that open more wounds, like this one...

The wound of the great, unforgettable memory which, however distant, has not faded with the passage of time is permanent, bitter and mean. No matter how hard you defend yourself it is stuck to you like glue, creating doubt and pain, disappointment and wanting to ask:

“Why did my friends abandon me to the whirlwind?!”

My wound was the question...

The wound of life... a bitter memory... A memory, no matter how close or distant, will not pale, will not be muddied by time, is permanent, bitter like wormwood, a bad nightmare, daily suffering, no matter how much you defend yourself it always reminds you to ask: “Why did my friends leave me?”

And is it not better then, when it hurts, not to tamper with the wound - memory?

My wound was the question...

Do I, in my consciousness, have enough strength to overcome, to spit out the bitterness that is embedded in my mind, heart and spirit?

My wound was the question...

That damn wound is still open and it hurts, it is a bloody wound that burns, disturbs, irritates and wants the question asked:

“Why?”

On the twentieth day of my treatment in the military hospital, I read something in the local daily newspaper that was issued to us to share, which among other things included the following: