PART TWO - Part 05

that there were Macedonians in the prison. Given the chance the Bulgarians thought of ways to turn the situation to their advantage, so they figured that if they freed them then these Macedonians would work for the Bulgarian cause in Greece. And so, with help from the Bulgarian Embassy in Athens, they released 27 prisoners, all top activists including the Vlach, Andreas Chimas, a lawyer from Rupista, who later served as an ELAS representative in Tito’s Supreme Headquarters, and two who were Madzhiri (Turkish Christian colonists). They too were released because they said they were Macedonians and because they spoke the Macedonian language. All together 24 ‘Macedonians’ were released, some of them had been senior officials before the war, such as Andrea Shipov, who was a member of the CPG Central Committee as well as other regional and district secretaries, as well as city party committee secretaries. The condition for our liberation, said Ianis, was to say that we were Bulgarians. Some, including myself, said that we couldn’t do that, we are Macedonians, but he said that this was a party directive and party directives are the law. And so we, 27 communists, came out of Akronaplia as Bulgarians. We were given party tasks in the cities and the party appointed us to organize a resistance movement against the occupiers...” concluded Labro and stopped short of telling the whole story.

The stick with which Labro was digging the soil in front of his feet broke. He grabbed one part of it and said:

“When I speak about this something inside me breaks, just like this stick...”

“What happened after that Uncle Labro?” asked Kole.

“What happened after that? After that the people from the party said that the important work we were assigned to do couldn’t be entrusted to Bulgarians. There was a storm of outcries not only in Akronavplia Prison but also in other prisons as well as in the terrain, calling for an end to ‘Bulgarians leading the Greek resistance’. It was simply unacceptable because if those ‘Bulgarians’ won they would be making all kinds of demands on Greece. That was one reason why the ‘Bulgarians’ must not be allowed to lead the Greek resistance. ‘Do you think that after their victory those autonomists

wouldn’t make demands?’ And whether we like it or not, at the behest of the party, we declared ourselves Bulgarian. The party said we were Bulgarians period, like in the children’s game where the donkey can fly. And those who said the donkey can fly wailed like donkeys. Or something like this joke: ‘It was rumoured that a painter in front of a shop in Kostur was painting Jesus Christ. A passing Vlach stopped, stared at the picture, and when he saw that the Jesus in the picture was barefoot, he told the painter: ‘You must not have Jesus barefoot. Paint him a pair of red, pigskin moccasins immediately.’ The painter didn’t want to and said: ‘But sir, Jesus is barefoot everywhere.’ The Vlach insisted so the painter gave in and painted a pair of red moccasins on Jesus’ feet. When he was done he moved to the side, sighed deeply and said: ‘My poor Jesus, - the painter not wanting and the Vlach insisting - you are now wearing red moccasins.’ Something like that happened to us... From our not wanting and from the party insisting we became Bulgarians. Party discipline, you know, then and now, was and is the law... After that, out on the terrain, they began to hunt us down. We were again arrested. They shot Lazo Trpovski, Tashko Karadza and others. Some fled to Bulgaria, others to Yugoslavia. We stayed in the mountains for a while. I remained alive and loyal to the party. And after the liberation, when the beloved Zahariadis again took over the party, I was re-activated in the party and faithfully performed the tasks entrusted to me. And you said that they called you Kole and that you aren’t in the party?” asked Labro.

“No... I’m not in the party,” replied Kole.

“You don’t need the party... It’s a big commitment. Sometimes you have to do things that are against your will that your conscience won’t allow... Come to the gathering this evening. I’m going to give a talk and there should be someone more educated than me, like yourself...” said Labro.

Called by their first and last names, the people gathered in the large hall of the local inn, or as they called it the “common cafeteria”. The men were drenched in sweat wearing their unwashed overalls and dirty rubber boots. There were portraits hanging on the front wall of Stalin, Beirut and Zahariadis and the table underneath them was covered with a red tablecloth and beside it were four chairs.

When everyone was settled Labro began to speak:

“Now comrades, now that we have recovered from the bad times, thanks to the party and to the people’s government, we are opening a new front in our struggle. There is a big battle ahead of us that we must win. And that’s the battle with Titoism, you know, right? To the Titoists we will declare an open and merciless war, that is, to exterminate Tito’s agents and spies. We will annihilate those who are among us and those who are in the homes and schools with our children. Our party demands this from us. We have already started this fight. The other day the party removed the teachers from the homes and schools. They didn’t teach the children the way the party wanted them to. They decided on their own to put ideas into the children’s minds about a so-called Macedonian rather than a Slavo-Macedonian alphabet and some Macedonian, not Slavo-Macedonian, language. Those teachers have now been replaced with loyal party people, comrades above all who came out of the hospitals... healthy fighters. And let me tell you the good news that the grammar of the new Slavo-Macedonian language is being written in Bucharest with full support from Comrade Zahariadis. It is being written by a very good and educated friend of mine with whom I spent time in Akronavplia prison. He is a good and honest communist. The party will take care of educating the new teachers. The party will send a group of older children to Bulgaria to learn the craft. The teachers who now teach in the boarding houses aren’t teachers by trade but, with help from Greek and Polish teachers, they will be able to learn something. Tito’s clique has its agents everywhere. That’s what the party says… Tito has his agents and his own people everywhere. Party vigilance doesn’t sleep. Slowly, one by one the party will find them and, in its own way, will punish them. So, for example, in addition to the great damage Tito did to us by closing the border, he did more great damage. He did a great deal of damage to our children in the homes where they live in the people’s democratic states, which rescued them from the war. Tito put teachers in these schools to teach the children Tito’s alphabet and language. This is what the party has decided and this is what the party will do,” concluded Labro Moskov.

Someone in the back yelled: “Wait, Comrade Labro! So those teachers we, the parents, sent along with our children, you say are Tito’s agents? They are our people, our relatives from our villages, how can they be Tito’s agents?”

“It’s true; the party estimates that they were put in these positions by Tito’s agents. So he was there, that bastard Kolishevski and his comrades, they put Tito’s teachers in positions to teach our children. But the party’s watchful eye doesn’t sleep. Resolutely and vigilantly, day and night, it’s breaking that clique. It took the party one night, in a militant way, I would say like Bolsheviks, to make the purge. The party expelled those agents along with their alphabet and language, outside the schools and homes. And in place of Tito’s masters the party put conscientious party faithful masters. And my friend from Akronavplia prison, wait, what was his name... Well, I don’t remember at the moment but when I do I’ll tell you... He is an educated man and a very good communist, he is from Bapchor. He is now in Bucharest completing his party assignment, writing a new grammar that reflects the real Slavo-Macedonian language. (In 1952, the Publishing House “Nea Ellada”, a Macedonian division, based in Bucharest and under the total control of the CPG, published a “Grammar in the Macedonian Language”. The grammar was authored by T. Peikov who wrote an editorial in it in which he said: “The composition of this grammar for the glorious Macedonians of Aegean Macedonia is the legal result and blueprint for the tumultuous progress of our people. It attempts to formulate the grammatical rules of the Macedonian language as it was formed today in Aegean Macedonia, especially following the introduction of the Macedonian language radio broadcast on the radio station “Free Greece”. The Macedonian department of the publishing house “Nea Ellada” is convinced that this first Macedonian grammar for the Slavo-Macedonians from Aegean Macedonia will greatly help our youth and Macedonian language teachers in the proper teaching of the literary language and Macedonian language in general. It is to serve as the main bibliographical guide to grammar composition: Bulgarian grammar by Dr. Lybomir Andrejchin, Nick Kostov, Enno Nikolov - Sofia 1947 And Grammar Russian Language, A.S. Matiychenko, 1952.”) Personally, by party line, I found one Russian, one Ukrainian and two Bulgarian grammar books for him and took them to him in Bucharest. When I gave them to him I told

him to write the new grammar day and night. I said make it Slavo-Macedonian like the party wants it... And so friends, thanks to our leader, we’ll soon have a new Slavo-Macedonian alphabet and a new Slavo-Macedonian language now being written and created in Bucharest... and he, what was his name? Ah, I remember now, Atanas Peikov is his name. There, in Bucharest, he’ll make the Slavo-Macedonian language exactly how the party wants it. And while he works day and night, we here, comrades, need to write a letter to thank the Poles for what they do for us refugees. In order not to waste our time, the letter has already been written and approved by the party. It says:

‘To the Central Committee of the Polish United Workers Party

Dear Friends,

On behalf of the refugees who are taken care of at Meindziguzhe, we extend our warmest thanks to the Polish United Workers Party and to the entire Polish people for the help and fraternal tenderness they have offered us.

We are deeply moved by the solidarity, brotherly feelings and the extraordinary care shown and continued by our Polish comrades both during our journey and during our stay here in Meindziguzhe.

All of advanced humanity knows that we, the Vicho refugees in Macedonia, are direct victims of Tito’s fascist gang and Rankovich, Kardeli, and Gilas’s open betrayal, who shamelessly served the American and English imperialists to instigate a new war against the Soviet Union and against the people’s democracies. Tito’s clique along with the belligerent Greek Monarcho-Fascists have stabbed and continue to stab democratic Greece in the back.

Without the open betrayal and blows inflicted by Tito’s treacherous clique, the Monarcho-fascists could have occupied our free regions. They were unable to conquer them for three years, despite the enormous and repeated assistance they received from the American and English imperialists.

And as such, the Polish People’s Democracy, led and inspired by its avant-garde party, the Polish United Workers’ Party, in a gigantic and peaceful step of renewal for a better life, we have seen with our own eyes that its supreme law is its international birthright.

We saw our children, who were shown paternal and maternal hospitality, thrive. We almost didn’t recognize them because of the great improvements they experienced in their stay here.

Thank you for all you have done for our children, for us and for the people of Greece. You will always live in our hearts. Thank you for the unshakable determination of your people who gave their all for freedom and independence. Thank you for your help, for all you have done, for your righteous work in assisting the struggling democratic Greece which will finally be triumphant, no matter how much it will have to sacrifice.

Long live PORP

Long live the heroic Polish people

Long live the People’s Republic of Poland

Long live struggling democratic Greece

Long live the world democratic front and peace with the invincible Soviet Union leading the way under the bright leadership of the great Stalin.

For the Committee

Sterios Datsos Nikolaos Serbedzis Marika Elkova Fotios Urumov Petre Asparuhov Mahi Pilaeva German Petrov Ianis Naumis,’ concluded Labro.

(The original of the cited letter is in the Polish State Archives under signature 237 / CII - 425. The letter is in Greek, handwritten, translated into French and typed on a machine. German Petrov has signed the Greek text with Cyrillic letters, while the French text is signed with Latin letters. The other signatures are in the Greek alphabet. A copy of this letter can be found in the archives of the author’s collection.)

Labro stopped reading and, after he coughed and spit under the table, slammed his hand on his papers, as if wanting to shake off the dust, and said:

“That’s all comrades, with this letter we the refugees here in Poland have expressed our gratitude and great faith in future triumphant struggles. Does anyone want to add anything? What do you think? It’s good, right?”

There was silence as if everyone’s mouth was taped.

There was a loud cracking of a chair in the back. They all looked...

Mitre slowly got up, raised his hand and began speaking. He said:

“I, comrades, want to say that it is well written. Everything has been said, I mean written. It has been written in a way that the party wanted it to be written, with big and audible words, which I, my apologies, don’t understand, especially the words at the end of the letter. Does it miss anything? As a matter of fact, I say it is good, it doesn’t miss much. But it seems to me that we have been used to accepting all kinds of written material without understanding what is said and we have made this our habit. I don’t know what others think, but I think that it misses something. It misses that it isn’t written in our language. It should have been written in our language. Some of us who know and understand the Greek language have understood what the matter is and what to say to those who don’t know a single word of Greek. I think that we, who are Macedonians here in the agricultural economy of Kunuv, need to thank the Poles in our Macedonian language which is similar to theirs. We have our own language; why not thank them in our language, huh? We already work with the Poles here, working in this agricultural

economy, and some of us also speak Polish. If these Poles we work with here in the economy understand our language, and we understand theirs, then those above who are educated I’m sure will understand what we’re saying if we write the letter in our language, right? But why is it that those above, at the top of the party, don’t want to hear… not a single word of our language? This is what I think. And since you asked the question if we want to add something then I say it would be nobler to thank the Poles in our language than in the Greek language in a letter which others wrote for us. And to the other person reading the letter sitting next to you, comrade Labro... I say no one understood anything… like it was written in French... And now, Comrade Labro, I remember, and until recently it was, I think, at the time, there, in our village gatherings, lots of letters, newspapers, appeals and other things, written in large and clever words, were read to us, which we simple villagers didn’t understand and approved by clapping our hands. Was it like that or not? And finally, to say that there’s nothing to be added to what is written... and if there is anything to be said it is in which language it should be written, and the language will tell who wrote it...” concluded Mitre.

Labro, it seems, wasn’t happy with what he’d just heard, so he stood up and with both hands leaning against the table and body leaning forward, yelled:

“You, you, there in the back stop clouding the issue!” Labro then raised his hand and angrily and threateningly shook his finger and yelled: “We know about people like you!”

His last words sounded like a threat and a warning, and they all realized that the shaking finger had not only threatened Mitre, but everyone who was there.

The gathering was finally over. Glancing at the cloud of doubt, speechless, in silence and without saying goodbye, the people emptied the hall and walked away in steps of disharmony, in which the sound of Labro’s threat began to fade away in the distance of time...

Labro hastily collected his papers that had been scattered on the table and, as he was about to leave, stopped, stared at the back of the crowd leaving and with his hoarse, but powerful voice, yelled:

“Wait! You, the comrade who spoke after me, you stay!”

Mitre, realizing that he was the comrade being summoned, turned around and slowly walked towards Labro. Standing one step away from the front of the table, as calmly as he could, but not comfortably, Mitre asked:

“Are you looking for me?”

Without looking at him Labro cried out: “What’s your name?!”

“Mitre… People call me Mitre...” he replied and then asked: “What’s the matter Comrade Labro?”

“What’s the matter?!” growled Labro. “The matter is your negative comments, do you understand? What was all that you said about, huh? What were you thinking? Who do you think you are speaking like that? Do you know that everything you said isn’t in the spirit of the party? Look at yourself…” screamed Labro and slammed his fist on the table as if wanting to permanently nail every word he said, creating small patterns on the table top with each blow, disturbing the smoothness of the red cloth that covered it.

Mitre took a step forward and with the same tone of voice asked:

“Is that what’s troubling you, Comrade Labro?”

“What else would you think is troubling me, Comrade Mitre? I follow the party line, I struggle, I try, I sacrifice and you contradict me...” replied Labro.

“And here I thought that you wanted me to take you among the people. Come, Comrade Labro, stay with me for a day or two and listen to their complaints… Listen to the cries of the women, hear the mothers and widows cry, hear the heavy and painful sighs of the fathers... Come, Comrade Labro, come with me and I will take you

to the fathers, mothers, women whose husbands and children died to defend what was forbidden, come, tell them that by party decision your friend in Bucharest is creating a new language for them... A language which is different from the one they learned from their mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, which they in turn learned from their older generations, the only language they understand. Come with me and find out what else they don’t know. Come and listen in which language they mourn their loved ones that they lost in support of the party. Come with me and together we will look for them… for the living because we still don’t know how long we have to stay here and where and to what ruins the evil will take us...” said Mitre, stopped talking for a moment and, after swallowing his bitter saliva, continued:

“Come, Comrade Labro, let me take you to our people, and together with them you can roll up your sleeves and work all day in these endless fields. So you too can feel the great pain which we continually have to endure every day. Let us endure it together…” said Mitre, paused for a second, and very quietly said: “As if you haven’t poisoned us enough already…” And then, without hesitating, Mitre turned around and, with a confident step, headed toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, he stopped, as if to remind himself of something, turned around and slowly went towards Labro. He then leaned on the table with his left hand, waved his finger at Labro and slowly, as if a sigh had interrupted his voice, asked:

“Tell me, Labro, about the language you spoke to us...

“Which language?” Labro asked, surprised.

“You know the one that somebody out there in Bucharest is creating...” replied Mitre.

“And does that bother you? You prefer the artificial language Tito invented over the real one that is being created?” asked Labro.

“This language, the language which you and I are speaking now; who invented this language? Tell me so that I will know. When you were a child what language did you speak with your mother and

father? And your mother and father, what language did they speak with their mother and father? And what language did their mothers and fathers and grandparents speak? Will you tell me?” asked Mitre.

Labro standing there stunned, while staring into Mitre’s eyes, said:

“In our language, Comrade Mitre... They knew no other language, other than our language...”

“So why do you want to change our language and use someone else’s?” asked Mitre.

“Because that’s what the party wants. The party claims that Tito invented our language and the party has to be trusted because the party is never wrong...” replied Labro.

“That’s what those in Athens (the Monarcho-Fascists) also say, that Tito is guilty. Right? What’s the difference between them, Tito and the party? Labro, Labro, it’s not up to Tito, or anyone else for that matter, to decide what our language should be. We have our own language with roots that extend back to our grandparents and to their ancestors. If that wasn’t the case, today we’d be at home plowing our fields... And let me tell you one more thing Comrade Lazo, they are all working to eradicate us...” said Mitre, spat the bitterness out of his mouth to the side, and without saying another word headed for the exit.

Labro stayed behind along with the bitterness of the words spoken.

About ten days after he had his conversation with Labro, two strangers came from the city. They said they were looking for someone called Mitre. They had something urgent to tell him.

They didn’t have to wait long; someone found Mitre and brought him to them. Then, after they had a short conversation, the three of them made their way to the city.

They immediately took Mitre to the party committee headquarters in the city. They placed him in a semi-dark room that hadn’t been aired for who knows how long, in front of a desk behind which sat the

party secretary in a deep leather armchair. Without any greeting, the questioning began much like a hearing.

“We know that you, comrade, what was your name…?” said the secretary.

“Mitre...” replied Mitre.

“So, Comrade Mitre, we have come to the conclusion that you, there in the kolhoz, in Kunuv, are spreading hostile propaganda among the kolhozians, which has made its way to the other kolhozes where Slavo-Macedonians work. Here we have a written statement about what you said and how you said it. What you said is punishable and we here in the party committee are considering not reporting you to the Polish authorities, provided that you repent and give us your word that you won’t behave and speak as you spoke at the gathering about a week or so ago. You will also say publicly, at a gathering, that you were very wrong...

Without getting up, the secretary handed Mitre a piece of paper and a pen and said:

“Sign here to admit that you are sorry and that...”

Mitre took a step forward, leaned over towards the secretary and slowly and eloquently said:

“They asked me to say sorry and have remorse in the Greek prisons and concentration camps. I didn’t repent then and I won’t repent now. And as you know this isn’t Bulkesh here, and if I did something that broke Polish law then let the Poles themselves come and get me. You aren’t in power here and don’t forget that. You are no different than me here. You can wipe your nose with this sheet of paper...” said Mitre in an angry voice and felt like spitting all his bitterness on the secretary’s face, but restrained himself, turned around and without saying another word left.

Late that night Mara (Mitre’s wife) was freed from the threshold of fear.

In the meantime the party committee in the city summoned Labro, to briefly explain to him that they had received a radio telegram from the party headquarters in Bucharest saying that the party had decided to send Labro to do party work in Bulgaria, where he was needed to clarify the new situation to the Macedonians.

Even though he felt uneasy, Comrade Labro didn’t reject the offer and quietly said: “I will do what the party decides. Consider it done! Goodbye comrades!”

Labro took a train to Sofia where, after less than two months, the committee received news that they didn’t fully understand. They didn’t know for sure why Comrade Labro had died; was it because of health reasons, because of the hard party work he had to do, or due to drinking. The party report also didn’t explain whether or not Labro had managed to convince the Macedonian people in Pirin Macedonia that the alphabet and language they were learning, in the newly opened Macedonian schools in the Pirin villages, wasn’t Macedonian but a language invented by Tito...

In the meantime people gathered in the big, party committee hall in the city and honoured Comrade Labro by singing Lenin’s march. At the same time the party committee summoned Mitre to their city headquarters for the second time. From there they took him to the State Security Administration, where the interrogation lasted only about half an hour. After hearing Mitre’s statement, the chief opened a grey envelope from which he took out the statement the party committee had made about Mitre’s hostile activities and slowly began to tear it up. He threw the pieces into his waste basket and said:

“You are free to go. Go home. We have more important things to do here... When you do something against Poland, I mean when you break Polish law then I’ll bring you back here myself... Goodbye!”

At the time the Communist Party of Greece, in Poland, and in every other country it had set its foot, began a manhunt, hunting down every one of the refugees who didn’t follow the party line and didn’t obey party directives. People were attacked in public and humiliated. Fingers were pointed at them followed by all kinds of

threats. Even yesterdays most trusted allies today were humiliated only because now they didn’t think like those in the party. People felt they had no choice but to isolate themselves. They felt there was no one they could talk to who could be trusted. So they talked to no one, everyone was suspicious of everyone. And that’s exactly how the party wanted the people to feel. To be silent; to even be afraid of their own shadow. Great fear was sown, opening a wide gap between the people, allowing the stormy and murky river to flow not only full of fear, but also full of mutual hatred and suspicion. The spectre of fear circled over them incessantly. Exactly that – only fear could bring order over those who wanted to think differently than the party. Fear of a sharp axe hanging over their heads held by a flimsy thread. The party wanted the people to remain silent and without objection and to accept what the party said as truth. It wanted them silent and to accept its promises and deceit in silence. That was what the defeated party needed. Just like back home, where the Greek state did the same…

Back home they were at the forefront of the state and here in Poland and elsewhere in the Eastern European countries, they were at the forefront of the party. Back home professors, academics, ministers, bishops, judges, officers, gendarmes, priests, teachers, journalists… all strived to prove to themselves, to be convinced that they didn’t exist in the state by their own name, and if anyone claimed otherwise the road to the concentration camps and dry islands was wide open. Here in Poland and in the other Eastern European countries, they are spreading the doctrine that the Macedonians are not who they think they are. Everywhere they are inventing fictitious names like Slavo-Macedonians, and artificially created Macedonians, to convince the world and themselves that Macedonians don’t exist. And for those who refuse, the party has its laws, courts, judges and judgments.

The people back home and the people here carry the same yoke around their necks, the difference being is that those under the right wedge were carrying the entire Greek state and those under the left wedge were carrying the Communist Party of Greece. They hated each other to death but they didn’t give up on the yoke under which they were wedged...

So tied by the same yoke they together pulled the plow, disparaging and destroying those who were different from them and didn’t think like them...

10

The 1949-1950 school year was already under way. It was decided that preschool and school children who were with their mothers or with both parents would gather at the Zgozhelets state reception centre.

There was a large poster posted on the door of the dining room inviting all those who had children to come to the evening gathering.

“I was sent here by the party committee to tell you that we’re going to collect all the children that are here with you and take them to the central boarding house in Zgozhelets... They will live and study there together with the children who left last year,” said the man from the committee.

Someone in the back yelled:

“You took our children two years ago and you made soldiers out of the bigger ones... We haven’t forgotten the cries and screams of the mothers in Prespa who saw their children dressed in military uniforms and with rifles over their shoulders. We still don’t know if those children are alive or if they were killed in battlefields. Now you want to take our little ones too…?”

The persuasion was hard and long.

The hall was buzzing like a beehive.

“I’m not giving up my child. Two years ago you took three of my children and I still don’t know where they are and if they’re alive... Go back where you came from. Enough with the collecting...” yelled a woman.

“No! We aren’t giving them up! First, bring back the ones you took and we’ll see! Where are our other children and where are you planning to take these ones?” yelled another woman.

“People, people calm down. Take it easy, don’t yell. We aren’t taking them far. They’ll be close, in the city. The ones who aren’t here are probably in Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania and Yugoslavia... They’re alive and well. These children who are with you, some will find their brothers and sisters there... Some children from neighbouring kolzozes have already been taken there and have met their relatives, and some their brothers and sisters. In the homes they’ll have everything; food, clothing, education... everyone will have their own warm bed... And all school age children will go to school,” replied the man from the committee.

“Yes, but that is a school for Polish children… Not for our children…” yelled another.

It wasn’t easy to convince the parents... Not only because they had been lied to in the past but also because they had no confidence in the party committee to give them passes to go and see them, at least once a week. They were still carrying great pain and sorrow from their children being taken in 1948 and sent to the Eastern European countries.

Eventually the children were taken and transferred to the two central children’s homes. Those older than 15 were housed in the Uiazd barracks in Zgozhelets, later renamed Trpovski, where they learned various crafts. The others were housed in the Biale Koshari central barracks later renamed Zahariadis. The little ones were sent to the kindergartens.

For the many mothers who were scattered around in the agricultural holdings, this was the second time their children had been taken from their bosoms. Their days and nights again became silent and empty of their children’s laughter.

Lina, the mother of two children who she’d hid in the barn, in the wet cave and in the rocks back home, was now left in an empty room, all alone. She wanted to pray but she had left her icon of the

Virgin Mary in her house back home. “How far away was it?” she wondered.

“Where’s my icon of the Virgin Mary?” Lina whispered. “Where is my icon to which I always prayed to keep my children safe and to never be separated from them? Why did the Virgin Mary allow me to be left empty-handed and with an empty lap and an empty bed? What did I do that was so wrong…?”

This was yet another wound. A big wound that constantly ached, for many it was opened for the second time before it had a chance to heal from the first. But in those lonely days and nights, in the gloom of a long winter’s night, something was whispering in their ears telling them to be patient and not give up hope... All the women and mothers heard the same quiet whisper and with their prayers they inspired hope, which made their aches less painful.

Mind, heart, soul, body, thought, hope, faith, patience, waiting... It was as if everything had been thrown at the crossroads on an open road. And with all that there were many unanswered questions: “Who did this to us and why?”

“Who crushed the hearts and souls of these mothers in black...?”

It was already December. The days were short, cold and dry and snow drizzled like light sand. The nights were long, dry and cold. Saliva on people’s lips froze and glued their lips together. Even the warm breath coming out of people’s mouths froze before it got too far. The cold was penetrating and was felt down to the bones.

Everything here was alien. The sky, the day, the night, the snow, the cold, even the fog, which in its frozen morning mist dressed the terrain pure white.

At the state training centre, in addition to the Polish director, the Greek party committee decided to bring a Greek director from Romania. His name was Rigas. Once he took office, he did everything that was contrary to the already established Polish order. Rigas’s biggest supporter on all issues in doing his job was the old schoolmaster Bakolas. Bakolas didn’t tolerate the Poles and the

Poles didn’t tolerate him. When they spoke among themselves the Poles never referred to him as Bakolas. They had a nickname for him; they called him the “ugly Greek”. His head was bald on top and elongated like a melon. He combed his long hair that grew at ear level up to hide his baldness. He combed his sparse hair from his left ear to his right and vice versa. He had only three teeth in his lower jaw and they were black. His voice resembled that of a crowing crow. His breath stunk like a village toilet... Whatever their reason, the Poles not only didn’t like him, but they didn’t tolerate him. Comrade Bakolas was not a “towarzysz” (comrade) for them, he was the ugly Greek. His closest friend was Comrade Zogas, another Greek teacher whom the Poles also didn’t tolerate. Was it because one time he slipped up and told them that his teachers had taught him not to tolerate the Slavs, or because he was always scratching himself below his navel, in the front and in the back. So they avoided him, saying he was full of lice.

Rigas had a number of demands regarding the upbringing and educating of children. One of those demands was to have nationally mixed groups in homes, schools and classrooms. He also demanded that this request not be waived. During meetings he spent a long time trying to convince people that mixed classes would help the Slavo-Macedonian children speak their language less fluently, and they would learn Greek faster by communicating with their Greek friends.

This is what Rigas asked and this is what Rigas got. Unfortunately the results were contrary to expectations.

As a result an open meeting was called at the pedagogical collective in order to debate the issue. And here is what was said:

RIGAS: “You don’t work at all according to the pedagogical rules of the great Soviet pedagogue Makarenko,” he told the Polish educators and teachers.

BEATA: We know who he is… You know what kind of children they were. And are the children you have entrusted to us to have a Makarenkian upbringing? Did you get that from your parents? We, Comrade Rigas, have no need to re-educate. We teach but not like

Makarenko. We will, in turn, say educate, not re-educate...” Beata replied.

Rigas didn’t pay attention to what Beata was saying. He lent his ear to Bakolas and in a whisper he asked:

“That guy, the bald one, who is he?” asked Rigas.

“The tall one?” asked Bakolas.

“Yes, the bald one,” replied Rigas.

“He is the main director, his name is Kopciński. He is the one who didn’t allow older children, teachers and educators to be mobilized...” replied Bakolas.

Ah... let’s see what he will tell us...

Kopciński stood up, looked around and began his presentation. He said:

“At the request of your top leadership we contacted our state film institution and asked for a film to be made about the lives of your children in our homes. Top experts in the field of documentary films were hired. The shooting lasted almost a year. An entire day of school, sports and other activities were covered as well as the children’s living, upbringing, educational and other conditions. The film was taken to Warsaw where it was subjected to a commission evaluation by prominent Polish pedagogues, psychologists, professors, including Poland’s Education Minister Sksheshevski. When the movie ended the lights were turned on so we were able to see the faces of those watching it. I didn’t see any excitement, or pleasure, but deep thoughts which to me looked like disappointment. The minister began to write something down and his pencil broke. He pushed the sheet and the broken pencil aside, wiped his sweaty forehead and, after he looked at us all, stood up and said:

‘We saw a lot of children but we didn’t see a single smile on their faces... We saw a lot of sadness and pain in their eyes... They didn’t look like happy children in the movie... No! No, no sir, this movie

can’t be shown by any means,’ said the minister.” concluded Kopciński.

“Where is this movie now?” asked Rigas.

“I don’t know…” replied Kopciński.

“Find out and give it to us immediately!” demanded Rigas in a certain tone of voice which sounded like an order to everyone in attendance.

Kopciński pretended he didn’t hear what Rigas said and continued:

We set up a new commission to evaluate where we went wrong and whether we made mistakes in the process of adopting and educating the children. We assessed that we hadn’t made mistakes... Do you know what shape the children were in when they arrived? The children who came from Romania looked like a group of prisoners… We received a number of chaotic children who were suspicious of the Polish doctors, nurses and educators. They were completely closed to the outside world. They all thought alike and had nervous, clumsy reactions,and acted like robots. They had deep psychological problems which were triggered by the sounds of running tractors, flying airplanes and other loud noises. The Greek Civil War certainly left its mark on them. Every time there was a buzz of an airplane, the children’s reaction was predictable. They grabbed their packs and ran for cover screaming, crying, squealing and wailing and hid under their beds and desks. When they saw a tractor they were startled and ran away crying. At night, when they slept, the children were haunted by nightmares. In their nightmares they saw fascists carrying machine guns and knives, climbing up the stairs, breaking in through the windows in their bedrooms, trampling their packs and them. There were children in all the groups who were always ready to run away. They often left their bedrooms during the night and went outside to wait for orders to leave. All this put a lot of stress and anguish on our staff including the educators and the older Macedonian helpers. Phobias, collective hallucinations, general mistrust, suspicions and the like… tells us that this group of children suffered a lot, was cut off from death, rescued, but afraid of the new, unsure tomorrow, a dreadful past

leading to an even more frightening future. The children didn’t believe anything we told them, they doubted everything, but gradually their distrust and suspicion turned to open sincerity and they expressed their gratitude in various ways. Their hearts finally began to open. We made sure the Polish staff was with them all the time, day and night. They played games with them, sang songs, danced, walked in the city, in the forests and meadows, beside the rivers and streams, in the parks. By doing that we managed to get their smiles back, calm them down, allow them to sleep peacefully and even dream of airplanes... They were free, cheerful, playful and sang songs. The shell of the postwar debris in them gradually began to crack. But unfortunately, I must point out the fact that after you came to the state training centre you brought in your own teachers and tutors, most of whom were military people, whom we cannot recognize as educators. They have no smile on their faces and they don’t know how to talk to the children properly or how to make them comfortable. And then when they arrive at the school, walk in the canteen or any other place, they walk with a military step and often sing military and war songs. The only thing these teachers allow the children to draw in art class are aircraft, rifles, cannons, knives, burning houses, smoke… I have never seen a child draw trees, flowers, streams, meadows, chickens, chicks, children dancing, balloons, balls... I haven’t seen anyone draw the sun... On top of that these Greek educators gather the children in the hall, after dinner and keep them there late, even past midnight, where they lecture them about the party and the leader and make them sing battle songs, chant slogans and call for a new war. This, unfortunately, reminds them of their past and tragic childhood... Because they go to bed so late some children often sleep in class... Your teaching methods are reminiscent of those used to bring up children ideologically. Comrades we want to ask you and your top leadership what kind of education we should be giving these children. Should we educate them to be the future builders of their destroyed homeland or prepare them to be the new partisans? What attitude should we be taking towards the continuing tendencies of your militant risk-taking educators? We often wonder if your educators and teachers forgot how to work with children... All of this, according to the commission’s conclusion, led to their parents feeling apathy, disappointment, powerlessness and endless sadness... I would also like to say a few words about something very

unpleasant. The Macedonian children were left without their teachers. We don’t have Macedonian teachers. Those who were removed from the educational centre were removed for reasons that are unfamiliar to me. Why were they removed?” concluded Kopciński. (A Copy of this document can be found in the archives of the author’s collection.)