PART TWO - Part 07

“Now I want cry... Now I want to cry quietly and for a long time. I want to cry for myself and for all those who I knew that never made it, whose bodies were left among the rocks in Gramos. I want to cry for those who were left alive but were mutilated. I don’t know if I will have enough tears to cry for all the calamities, for all those who stayed behind in those wild mountains they call Gramos, where in every footprint there is dried blood. Wherever you step, you step on blood, you stumble on bones... Now I want to cry, I want to cry a lot. Maybe the crying will ease my pain, maybe it will ease my pain that comes from my heart and soul, and not from my legs being cut off… maybe it will ease my pain. Gramos was a big grave… but I don’t know who dug it. I don’t know how many were never buried and are still burning under the hot sun? Who is to blame for all that? Who committed these sins? Mothers everywhere are crying, in the cities, in the villages, in gathering places and on the roads that lead to nowhere. There are no homes… only desolation… There are bad people who have spread malice, hatred, desolation and who have spawned bad fate. They have unleashed terrible sins against those who are left alive. There were also those who watched the slaughter with their binoculars from the distance, scanning the hills, looking

for movement, looking to mow down another life. And when they did spot someone, behind a rock, behind a stone, behind a tree, on this hill, or on that hill… they pointed at them with their finger and waited for them to fall. And as they fell, their life was snuffed out of them, those watching jumped with joy. They never asked whose child they had just killed… They didn’t want to know whose children they had ordered to be slaughtered, to be exterminated. Now I want cry, now I want cry very, very much... But I have no more tears, so I will cry without tears… I will cry a heavy and painful cry. Painful! I will cry for myself and for all the mothers whose children were left behind on both sides of the rocks.

Sofka covered her head with the sheet which long trembled over her mutilated body. The nurse came in to calm her down and take her on a pushcart for her regular outing to the high dunes from where she could view the sea, and from there to the gym for therapy. This was her daily routine - a breath a fresh sea air and then exercise in the gym.

After exercise Nurse Teresa returned her to her hospital room and, with the doctor’s help, laid her down on her bed. Sofka was tired. The exercises for her legless body were hard and painful. Her waist hurt, her shoulders hurt and even the smallest parts of her body hurt. Her soul also hurt. And she suffered. Looking at the ceiling a swarm of questions swirled inside her head for which no one had answers. The only thing she had to do was look at the ceiling, endure and think. This was her life. Sometimes she thought of collecting all her pills, counting them one by one and then swallowing them all. To end herself... She wanted to do it. To be gone... But all around her were the people in white who comforted her, promising her things, reassuring her that, even as she is, life was worth living. She would learn the language which would open the way to the open world of life. She doubted it but slowly those assurances were working on her, encouraging her...

Dr. Barchikovski (this is his real name) entered the room smiling and sat on the edge of the bed in which Sofka lay and, in a low and quiet voice, said:

“I’m very, very glad that your left leg is healing well. You are recovering. The right one worries me… but only a little...”

“What’s the problem…?” asked Sofka.

“You are a brave girl... Don’t worry. Everything will be all right,” replied Dr. Barchikovski.

“By all right you mean you’re not going to cut it off?” asked Sofka.

With a cotton swab Dr. Barchikovski wiped the drop of sweat that appeared on Sofka’s forehead and quietly, in an almost begging tone of voice, said:

“We will treat your leg but if the treatment doesn’t work...” Dr. Barchikovski didn’t finish his sentence. He got up, caressed Sofka’s cheek and said: “We will save what can be saved from your body, but we will surely leave you with something… the most important thing… your life... Let it sustain you...”

“Life... what kind of life will that be?! I’m a cripple...! You say I’m brave... Will that make me happy? My face is deformed, my forehead is one big scar and now you tell me to be brave?” replied Sofka.

“We will remove the scar from your face and you will be beautiful again...” said Dr. Barchikovski.

“Oh, Doctor Barchikovski, you bring us all comfort... But tell me what would be the point of being beautiful if I have no legs?” asked Sofka.

“They will love you even without legs... To convince you I will ask all the young men in the hospital. I will say to them: “Boys, tell me is Sofka beautiful or not. And let someone dare say that you aren’t. Everyone will say that Sofka is the most beautiful girl in this hospital...” replied Dr. Barchikovski.

“You are a great person Pan Doctor. As they say in my tradition: ‘You aren’t just a man, you are pure gold...’ You know how to console a hurting soul...” said Sofka.

Dr. Barchikovski leaned over her head and quietly and gently whispered:

“I’ll tell you something but let it stay between us. I know a rascal who loves you very much. Today, during my visit he whispered in my ear. He said: ‘Doctor, go and see Sofka and tell her that I love her very much...’ And then he said: ‘That girl is very dear to me. She’s not only always in my mind but in my heart as well, and it doesn’t bother me that she has only one leg. Even without legs I would still love her… even more...’ This is what he said... Now rest, think of life and rejoice that you are alive and that not one but many love you very much. And if you want to know, darling, I too love you...”

“Uh, you too Doctor…? You big joker you...” replied Sofka.

For the last few days Sofka had been experiencing severe leg pains and by now had realized that she was soon going to lose her other leg. Doctor Barchikovski had also come to the same conclusion...

Two days later Sofka lay in her bed without her right leg.

Staring at the ceiling she spent all day with questions running through her mind. She didn’t ask for any answers. She just wondered.

She didn’t laugh out loud. She laughed with her eyes. In those eyes there was laughter and joy, pain and sadness, long solitude and disappointment... And slowly, but painfully, she got used to the idea of being a cripple...

In the meantime the meeting in the chief physician’s office continued for a second hour. It was a long and tedious debate.

“Gentlemen, this is a military hospital and I am a military doctor here and I’m treating soldiers, not party secretaries. That’s my

job...” said chief physician Dr. Bogdan, addressing the Greek party secretary and all those present at the meeting.

“Our job, Comrade Doctor is to strengthen the fighting spirit of our fighters every day. They aren’t here to relax in the very good conditions that your people’s government has created...” replied the Greek party secretary.

Dr. Bogdan looked at him and, in a calm tone of voice, said: “Comrades, Greek partisans, again I must emphasize that this is a military hospital governed by military rules. You comrades, Greek partisans, can’t make a party school out of my hospital. My co-workers tell me that you had late-night party meetings with our patients. This is unacceptable and against the rules for all our patients. Yes, we have patients here, not partisans... and your party members are also patients here. And you, while you are here, you too are patients...”

Dissatisfied with the explanation the party secretary said: “Caution must be observed. We have information that there are those, among the Slavo-Macedonians, who are distrustful of our party...” But before the Greek party secretary could finish his sentence, Dr. Bogdan abruptly interrupted him and said:

“Excuse me, what did you say? Slavo-Macedonians? Can you please explain to me what that means?”

“Of course, Doctor... They are Slavs living in the Greek part of Macedonia and, unlike the Greeks living there, we call them Slavo-Macedonians...” replied the Greek party secretary.

Dr. Bogdan smiled and quietly, in a tone of astonishment, said:

“According to your logic, the Poles in Poland should be called Slavo-Poles, right?”

“No!” replied the Greek party secretary.

“No?! Why not?” asked Dr. Bogdan.

The Greek party secretary looked at Dr. Bogdan with a distasteful look and, pretending he didn’t hear his question, said:

“Let’s get back to the subject at hand. Namely, the Slavo-Macedonians have been gathering separately from their Greek comrades. They have been singing war songs that are very similar to the war songs sung during the war in the Serbian part of Macedonia. These are Tito’s songs and we already know what Tito’s role was in the international Communist movement and our struggle. And one more thing... We have information that they are preparing to do a theatrical play they call ‘Bloody Macedonian Wedding’. This play was written by one of Tito’s writers and has been frequently performed in Tito’s theaters in Skopje... And I would like to point out to you that we have also seen some irregularities with your co-workers. For example, we have noticed that your nurses wear necklaces around their necks with the image of Jesus Christ. It’s wrong not to say something about that. We find it unacceptable for our fighters to see such symbols. We are educating them to be fighters, not religious worshippers...”

Dr. Bogdan looked at him and said:

“Please understand comrades, Greek partisans, that this is a secret military hospital which has strict military rules. Religious feelings here are a personal matter for every member of our medical staff. That shouldn’t be your problem. And please don’t get involved in the healing process. I don’t understand why you harbour such suspicion towards your fellow Macedonians. They are disciplined, meek people and have a very good attitude towards the whole collective. They feel free here in our country. They speak their language freely and follow their own customs and traditions which, I understand, have been banned in Greece... You, I have the impression, don’t trust anyone. You are in doubt of everything. And I will say this again; please don’t get mixed up where it’s not your job. I’m asking you, soldier to soldier, to be disciplined patients... This meeting is over. Go back to your rooms and abide by the prescribed rules… And leave the Macedonians alone. I don’t want my military hospital used for party rallies… And stop taking disciplinary action against our patients...”

“Doctor, you can’t do this to us... We will protest...” objected the Greek party secretary.

“Dr. Bogdan didn’t say anything. He gently rubbed his forehead, and after he calmed down he asked:

“What’s your name?”

“Captain of...” replied the Greek party secretary.

“I didn’t ask for your rank, I asked for your name!” interrupted Dr. Bogdan.

“Karamouzis...” replied the Greek party secretary.

“And yours?” asked Dr. Bogdan pointing at the person standing next to the Greek party secretary.

“Parisis...” he replied.

This man had lost an eye but one eye was all he needed to see bad things in people... He was evil, a type of bad person, suspicious and full of malice... He had a weird and sickly smile...

Dr. Bogdan turned to his assistant and asked him to get the head nurse.

Nurse Ianina showed up immediately.

“Nurse, please bring the patient charts for, what were your names again?” asked Dr. Bogdan.

“Karamouzis and Parisis,” replied the party committee secretary.

The nurse pulled out the two charts and handed them to Dr. Bogdan who carefully went through them and then gave them back to Nurse Ianina. He then turned to Karamouzis and Parisis and quietly said:

“Comrades, you have recovered well and we don’t want to keep healthy people in this hospital. We will release you like we have

released hundreds of patients who have recovered here and you can go to your refugee centre in Zgozhelets. Nurse, please prepare the patient release forms for Karamouzis and Parisis and bring them to me to sign. Tell the attendant to prepare some clothes for them. One suit, two shirts, one necktie, a coat, a hat, shoes, two pairs of socks and several undershirts and pairs of underwear each... Provide them with food for two days and everything else they will need in accordance with the rules... You, gentlemen, forgive me, you comrades, Greek partisans, remember that this is a secret military hospital where we treat wounded fighters, not party propagandists...” concluded Dr. Bogdan, hit the table with his hand and said: “Meeting is over...”

14

“I made new braces for you but they won’t be the kind that go well with the looks of a beautiful girl such as yourself,” joked the prosthetics craftsman. “But, even though they couldn’t match your beautiful legs,” he tried to convince her, “your new braces will be good enough for you to dance the waltz at the next dance. They will let everyone see what a good dancer you are. They will squeak a little but everyone will think the newly laid parquet floor is doing the squeaking…”

Pavel put the braces on her legs, tied the belts and helped her get up. He then held her under her arms until she was able to stand up and pushed her slightly forward.

The first step was difficult, the second even more difficult. Each step became more and more difficult, painful and exhausting. She pushed forward hard while leaning with her hands against Pavel.

“I can’t!” she kept saying with a weeping voice. “The braces are too heavy and the belts are too tight. I’m in pain…” while clasping both of her hands tightly around his neck.

“The first step will be difficult and the second even more difficult. You will get used to them; it takes a lot of patience and practice.” She reached the wall with difficulty, leaning on her hands, standing with her back turned to Pavel.

“I can’t!” she kept saying with a weeping voice. “The braces are too heavy and the belts are too tight. I’m in pain…”

“You will get used to them; it takes a lot of patience and practice. We’ll start your practice tomorrow. Step by step we will walk up and down the hall from one end to the other, and when we have that

mastered we will go for a walk in the park and then we will walk along the seaside,” explained Pavel.

Every day she spent hours practicing taking steps from one end of the hall to the other and back. At first she used a crutch but a week later she went without one. And as she learned how to walk better her confidence level grew and she felt, in no time at all, that she could walk on her own without any support. She practiced every morning and afternoon with tears in her eyes, with a hardened heart and soul. Her muscles became used to it, but they still hurt and she still yelled and cursed but mostly cried in pain begging Pavel to stop. Her days were spent with several hours of exercise. Pavel insisted that she exercise, even when she cried and begged him to stop.

“No my dear, you must endure, walk, one small step for now, another and bigger step later. I can see that each step you take today is better than the step you took yesterday. Push yourself...” Pavel used to say.

“And how much longer will you torment me like this, my dear Pavel?” Sofka used to say.

“One more month my dear… Like I told you before until the first waltz you dance with me like I promised you. Please continue to exercise. Only with practice will you achieve success. Go on and think of the waltz...” Pavel said jokingly and pushed her to get moving.

Half a year later, after many difficult exercises, which usually ending with Sofka crying, Sofka was asked to see the hospital director. It was a short, military style conversation. She was told that she was completely healed and able to take care of herself.

In the evening before the lights went out, according to hospital rules, Nurse Teresa quietly entered Sofka’s hospital room. There was a strange satisfied look in her eyes and a big smile on her swollen puffy lips. She sat down next to Sofka, held her hands in hers and, caressing them, whispered to her:

“I have good news and better news for you.”

“Please give them to me...” Sofka said impatiently.

“The good news is that a decision has been made and you will be leaving the hospital next week. That’s what the boss decided...”

“Finally, like all the others, I will be joining the world. And the other news, Nurse Teresa?” asked Sofka.

“For the other news you’ll have to close your eyes and take a deep breath,” said Nurse Teresa with a trembling voice and sweaty palms.

Sofka opened her eyes wide and loudly said:

“Please Nurse Teresa, speak up! What’s the other good news?”

“Your mother...” replied Teresa.

“My mother, my mother…” said Sofka as if centuries had passed since she had uttered that word. And again she said, “My mother, my mother…” but she didn’t cry.

“Your mother, Sofka, is alive and here in Poland...” said Teresa.

“My mother? My mother? My mother?” said Sofka and tears began to run down her cheeks.

“Calm down, my dear. Your mother is alive and well. She works in one of our agricultural holdings. We found her through the Greek party committee in Zgozhelets...” said Teresa.

Sofka covered her eyes with her hands and began to yell like she had when she was little:

“Mamo!!!”

“Tears began to flow between her fingers.”

“Mamo, mamo, mamo!!!” she kept yelling just like when she was little.

Sofka got up, fell into Nurse Teresa’s arms and cried out loud.

“Calm down my dear…” begged Nurse Teresa, stroking her hair. “Calm down. I have something else to tell you. Stop crying and listen to me carefully. It has been arranged for you to meet your mother next week at the train station in Vrotslav. She will be there waiting for you... And now get some sleep. Good night...”

Sofka didn’t sleep that night. All she could think about was her mother who she’d last seen six years ago, in the evening, when she and the other girls were collected and taken away. She left behind hard times but she never stopped thinking of her mother. Sofka kept looking at the ceiling trying to remember what her mother looked like, trying to remember her face. She remembered her mother had dark hair, sad blue eyes and a gentle smile. She remembered getting big warm hugs during her childhood…

A week later the large hospital gate and the world opened wide for Sofka. Left and right stood the doctors and nurses. Nurse Teresa gave Sofka a big hug, secretly placed an envelope in her pocket and quietly said:

“I’m giving you my mother’s address and a little something for you. Please write me through my mother and let me know how you are doing. That way we can stay in contact.”

The doctors and nurses with whom Sofka had spent a long time were all there. Some were smiling and others crying. Just as the jeep started to pull away they all began to wave goodbye. Dr. Barchikovski broke away from the others and ran towards the jeep. He grabbed Sofka and hugged her. He held her in his arms for a long time. He then said:

“Good luck, my child.” (As chief surgeon at that time, Dr. Vladislav Barchikovski was one of the main founders of the most modern equipped military hospital, which occupied 27 blocks (barracks) in which about 2000 wounded DAG fighters were treated. His

impressions and experience were published in 1988 in a book entitled “Szpital grecki na wyspie Wolin” (Greek hospital on Volin Island). Under utmost secrecy the hospital was founded by the Polish government in July 1949 and disbanded in 1952. As a reminder, Volin Island was home to one of Germany’s largest air bases, where V1 and V2 missiles were designed, manufactured and fired over Great Britain.)

Sofka had been in this hospital for two years and was leaving much of herself behind. Both her pain and gratitude were engraved on her face and in her tearful eyes. A new world had opened for her in her long stay here. How could she leave it, how could she say goodbye to it? The jeep would take her to another world where she would be among other strangers in a land she didn’t know. She looked ahead, carrying the cross of pain on her shoulders. When she said goodbye to the doctors and nurses it wasn’t with words. She kissed their eyes, cheeks and foreheads and expressed her gratitude in silence.

She left the hospital but with her she carried the faces of all the doctors and nurses. She carried the face of Pavel, the prosthetics craftsman who sent a report to the hospital management in which he wrote that he had great success with Sofka, but estimated that in order to achieve even greater success; he proposed that they send her to the prosthetic institute run by the renowned German prosthesis specialist, Dr. Willy. She carried the faces of all the staff who were kind to her. She was wholeheartedly grateful for their words of consolation, their looks in which there was more hope and every day less pain and much, much affection. Everyone loved her and she loved them. Now, as she was leaving the hospital and the jeep was far from the big gate, Sofka realized that she was leaving for another world. An unknown world... Would she be able to cope, as she had coped and overcome the pain during those two years, the pain of the very feeling of being mutilated? She then remembered the words Barchikovski said to her when he said goodbye:

“You won’t be lost in the world. It won’t be the world it will be you who will put it under your feet. Leave deep footprints behind, like those on the sand by the sea...”

15

Donka arrived at the Vrotslav train station at noon. She was told not to forget the platform number where she was supposed to wait for a train to arrive. Donka was impatient and her entire body trembled as she took each step pacing back and forth measuring the long and empty platform from one end to the other. From time to time a hoarse voice was heard making announcements about trains arriving and leaving which made her even more anxious.

One announcement said: “Opóżniony pociąg pospieszny ze Szczecina do Przemyśla przez Poznań-Wrocław-Opole-Katowice-Kraków jest opóżniony pół godziny.” (The high-speed train from Shchechin to Pshemipli via Poznani-Vrotslav-Opole-Katovitse-Krakoni has been delayed.)

About thirty minutes later the same voice said:

“Opóżniony pociąg pospieszny ze Szczecina wjeżdzia na peron pierwszy...” (The delayed high-speed train from Shchechin is now entering platform one.)

People waiting to board and those waiting for their friends to arrive ran for the train. The station warden wearing a red cap on his head and carrying a yellow paddle in his hand gave the signal. The locomotive whistle blew, a cloud of steam puffed out and the train slowly began to move and, a short time later, disappeared.

There was another woman at the end of the platform. She was limping her way towards the other end of the platform, carrying a backpack over her shoulder and a suitcase in her right hand. She was leaning on a crutch with her left arm. She could hardly move her legs on the concrete slab. She walked slowly, looking ahead. She paused for a moment and looked left and right and, after taking a deep breath, continued to walk ahead. She stopped, turned, looked

and started walking again. She did this several times, giving the impression that she was looking for someone. She stopped and sat down on the nearest bench. She took off her backpack and leaned it on the bench. She looked all over the platform. Sitting on the bench she waited and watched the trains come and go and the people getting on and off. She watched people shout, talk, meet, hug, laugh and rejoice. She wasn’t jealous of them. She was happy for them. She kept saying to herself I too will meet her, welcome her, hug her, kiss her, look into her eyes...

Trains continued to arrive and leave. Where do so many people come from? Where do they go? She sat there and watched. She often got up to see if the one getting off the train was the woman she was looking for. She would wave her arms, shake her hands, shout… It wasn’t her. She would return to the bench. In time she began to feel anxious. She was breathing heavily. She crossed her arms and watched the many people get off and on the trains, shouting and wishing each other a good trip… And saying, ‘see you later’.

The whistle blew, the locomotive rumbled and the train left. Moments later another train arrived.

Pacing back and forth along the platform Donka kept looking around. Finally she sat down on one of the benches. “People, people, so many people…” Donka said to herself as she watched and wondered why her daughter hadn’t got off one of those many trains that passed by here. “She probably missed her train. Or perhaps the train is late. She is definitely late. There’s another train arriving. Please let it be this train… Please let her be on this train…,” Donka said to herself.

Donka got up from the bench and walked towards the limping woman coming from the other end of the platform, whose steps were banging loudly and evenly on the tile floor. She went past her a few steps then stopped and turned around. She looked at the woman and watched her approach and pass by. Donka kept watching the woman from behind as she distanced herself. She listened to the loud banging made by her crutch hitting the pavement. The woman went to the end of the platform and turned around. Donka waited for her and as she got closer she began to look at her more carefully.

When the woman came close to Donka, she stopped. They both looked at each others faces and eyes.

The platform was empty. There were no trains. There were no people. The benches were all empty.

She turned around and, without stopping, looked at her again. “No, it’s not her... It can’t be her…” she said to herself again. She couldn’t imagine her daughter looking any different than what she had looked like the last time she saw her; tall, slender, stout... This woman was bent over, disfigured and lame, as if she had no strength in her legs and looked sickly.

When the woman went further down the platform and the pounding of her crutch was less loud, Donka stopped, turned around and watched her as she braced herself on the crutch and swung from hip to hip. Donka whispered: “Poor woman... Young and lame… What kind of mother would push her to travel on a train like this? Maybe she’s waiting for someone?”

Another train arrived and the platform became crowded. People rushed, pushed, shouted, hugged and said goodbye. The whistle blew, the locomotive roared and the train left. Those left behind quickly left the platform and went to the city. Only the two women remained on the platform. They walked back and forth in opposite directions passing one another and secretly looking at each other.

Donka suddenly stopped. Her blonde hair, her long blonde lashes, her round, white face, all sank into Donka’s eyes. She stared at the woman with the backpack and crutches for a long time.

“Is it her…? No, it’s not her... this woman is lame…” Donka whispered to herself and again looked at the woman’s hair. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from her blonde hair, blonde eyelashes and white face.

“It might be her…” she whispered trembling with excitement. Only she, her Sofka, had such blonde hair and such long eyelashes. Whenever Donka thought of her daughter she always remembered her blonde hair, blue eyes and her beautiful long blonde eyelashes.

They reminded her of the clear blue sky. There was no other girl like her in the whole village. Only her Sofka looked like that...

Donka quickly turned around, caught up to her and asked:

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yes. For my mother...” she replied quietly.

Their eyes met. There was fire in their pupils and excitement on their faces. They stood there staring at each other. They stood face to face looking at each other, stiff, cheeks trembling, incapable of speaking...

“My mother... I’m waiting for my mother...” said Sofka.

Donka immediately recognized her voice and began to shake and weep.

After she regained her composure Donka said: “Are you… Are you…” but she couldn’t get her words out because her voice kept breaking. Donka then stretched her arms out and threw them tightly around the woman. Her embrace was so forceful it made the women look like they were one body. Donka’s strong and warm embrace bound them together. They hugged for a long time in silence. They were hugging in the middle of the platform and whispering to themselves:

“Are you really my child…?”

“Are you really my mother…?”

People passing by looked at them curiously as they rushed to catch their train.

The whistle blew, the locomotive roared and the train left. Another train came after that and more people poured out and left the platform. Only Donka and Sofka remained behind, standing in the middle of the platform tightly embracing each other, face to face, tears running down their cheeks, inhaling and exhaling, joined

together as if they had one heart and one soul. They stood in their tight embrace and quietly, barely audibly whispered:

“My child…”

“Mother...”

The two women, alone on the platform, hugged and kissed as tears washed their faces from the ills of their separation, inflicted on them by the wild times...

More trains came and went. More people descended and ascended. The platform was filled and emptied time and time again but the two women remained in an embrace for a long time. They hugged in an inseparable embrace and with a gentle, quiet, warm and caressing whisper, mother and daughter slowly began to calm their nerves and heal the great pain...

“My child…”

“Mother...”

Would the great joy take away the gloom that reigned over them during those painful years of separation?

Trains were coming and going. The platforms were filled and emptied and the two women were still hugging...

It was fall.

The soil was still breathing the aroma of a golden, Polish autumn and the Indian summer warmed the decorated, golden leaves above the trees.

It was fall and the end of a second year in exile for the refugees...

After meeting her mother, Sofka suffered another setback. Donka was hit by a heavy truck just two steps away from her. It was an accident that took place on the corner of a street. Sofka could have

prevented it had she had the strength to grab her mother and move her out of the way. She felt like she had let her down...

16

The prosthesis institute was on the outskirts of the city, which hadn’t suffered from the so-called “carpet” bombing by American planes. The beautiful palaces, museums and everything else that stood there, built over centuries, were destroyed. Some said that the city, one of the most beautiful in Europe, had been destroyed for no reason. The car stopped in front of a large iron door, where an armed soldier was standing. He asked for a pass and, after looking at it, let the car enter the yard. Everywhere it was green, lots of flowers and clean paths. Sofka stood up slowly and, while two nurses held her by her armpits, walked down a long hallway. There were wooden handlebars mounted along all the walls and stairs, and wheelchairs, crutches and canes left leaning against the wall along the hall. The nurses took Sofka to the gym, sat her down and told her to wait. She didn’t wait long. A middle aged man dressed in a white coat came into the gym with a confident step and a mild smile on his face. He greeted Sofka in German but she didn’t understand what he said. She just nodded her head to return what she assumed was a greeting. A few minutes later a woman translator arrived and asked her in Greek:

“Do you speak Greek?”

“Yes, I understand but I’m not fluent,” replied Sofka.

“That’s fine, I’m sure we’ll understand each other,” said the translator and began to explain things to Sofka. She said: “They brought you here to the famous professor and master craftsmen of prosthetics. Tomorrow you will start with the professor, as he put it, to collect data on your current treatment, and then, when all the necessary examinations are completed, the exercises will begin. So today, come with me so I can introduce you to other patients, show you to your bedroom, the dining room and then, after you rest, we

will go for a walk in the park where the professor will explain the many things about the exercises you will need to do.”

Professor Willy had a thorough conversation with Sofka.

“Where do you live in Poland?” he asked, looking straight into her eyes.

“In Vrotslav… in a boarding house for the disabled...” she replied.

“Do you like the city?” he asked.

“It’s a big city, with wide and long streets for the trams to travel. Vrotslav is a city with many parks that have blue and white lilacs. They are the most beautiful and fragrant in the spring and so is the aroma of jasmine. I like the small streets that are lit with lanterns. I often walk on those when I go to the park in which there is a pond. It’s a pleasure to watch the two swans swimming together. And in the autumn, Vrotslav is golden...” she said but before she could finish the professor interrupted and, in a quiet and sad voice, said:

“I was born in Vrotslav. I grew up there, graduated from college and became what I am today. I lived in the western part of the city. To go home I walked from the city centre west along a long two-way street. Wild chestnut and linden trees grew on both sides of the street. When they bloomed they spread their heady scent everywhere. People couldn’t get enough of their aroma. There was a beautiful park across the street. It was all green. My street was close to the end of the long street. If you went left then right you would have ended up on my street. First I walked down that old cobblestone road, that’s the street you mentioned, the street lit with lanterns... I remember watching an old gentleman riding a bicycle every day after sunset with a stick, which he used to light the lanterns. The surroundings were filled with uninterrupted intimate light, scent from the linden trees and songbirds. There were many birds with a variety of chants. My house was also there. It had a ground floor, two floors above that and an attic. It was located in a large yard with pear, apple and plum trees planted on both sides of the path. Lots of roses too...”

The professor pulled out a large handkerchief from his inner pocket, wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck and, after a long silence, continued:

“The Soviets bombed the western part of Vrotslav, which German command had declared an inextricable fortress. This was the northern suburb of that big and beautiful city we used to call Breslau, which the Poles now call Vrotslav. My family and I left the city under coercion and fear mainly from the strong propaganda waged by the German authorities claiming that the Soviets were killing people. I left my favorite city and my villa with only a few prosthetic tools and instruments and a few medical books in my hands. We left everything else there. I even forgot to take the keys to the villa... We traveled on foot. Our column was attacked by Soviet aircraft. The road led us to this city. And so my dear lady, by decision of the victors myself and millions of other Germans have become refugees. We were expelled from our own place of birth. The choice of where one lives during peacetime isn’t the same as being forced to leave during a war where there is death and destruction. The new Communist authorities, in the Deutsche Democrat Republic, welcomed specialists like myself and gave us houses, work and excellent working conditions for, of course, our silence. We are silent here about who we work for. But we know for whom we make our braces and we take good care to keep our patients satisfied. We treat them as if they have perfectly healthy legs. That’s the kind of legs we make for them,” concluded the professor.

Throughout her stay in Germany Sofka had frequent walks and talks with the people in the workshop, the gym and most notably in the park where during the long walks, which were designed for outdoor exercise, Sofka was very happy with the new prosthesis, taking steps, turning around and kneeling... She did well in both the gym and long walks in the park. Her contact with people also helped her learn a few German words. She felt better and had less pain with each passing day. Professor Willy was pleased with her progress and had confidence that Sofka would steadily become better.

One day, at sunset, with some slight uncertainty in his voice, Professor Willy said:

“When you go back to Breslau, now Vrotslav, I want you to do something for me.”

“Be assured, doctor, I will do it for you. Just tell me what you want me to do,” replied Sofka.

“Go to this street’, the doctor told her the German name of the street and then said, “the Poles must have changed it by now but the house should still be there because that part of Breslau wasn’t bombed. I told you where it was… near the street with the lanterns. If you go there before sunset, maybe someone will light them. Turn left and you’ll see my villa. It’s certain that someone lives there now. Ask the new owners to let you in. You already speak Polish well and you’ll be able to communicate with them. Ask them to let you in so you can have a look, to see what’s there... outside. Promise me you’ll go... You’ll do me this favour. I love that house with all my heart. I dream of it often. My father was an architect and he built it with great love. My mother was a professor at the Academy of Applied Arts and she helped him. Promise me you’ll go and see it.”

“I will, Doctor. God willing I promise I’ll do it and next year, if I’m healthy and alive, I’ll ask to change my braces and I’ll tell you everything I find out. I’ll do my best to look at the entire house, every room and every corner. Trust me and thank you for your trust. I’ll travel back by train tomorrow. You don’t need to take me to the train station; I’ll go on my own. I’ll write you a letter from Vrotslav in my language, in Macedonian, and let you know how things went. There are a few disabled people here who are Macedonian and can read it for you... I’ll send you the letter through a trusted friend and not through the regular mail...” said Sofka.

Sofka returned to Vrotslav. A few days later she went looking for the villa. It was evening. The street was already illuminated by the lanterns but she saw the man slowly riding his bicycle, finishing the job. Disturbed by the night breeze the blue flame flickered inside the lanterns lighting and dimming the cobblestone street. Sofka stood on the side of the road and watched the lanterns for a long time.

The next day, at noon, she entered the yard. The yard gate was open. She knocked on the front door of the house. A short, fat lady opened it and said:

“Come on in, who are you and what do you want?”

“Excuse me, Madam… Walking along the street I noticed this beautiful, beautiful villa and said to myself, go and see what’s inside. I hope that’s okay. Excuse me, dear lady, I didn’t mean to disturb you...” replied Sofka.

“Bronek, there’s a lady here who wants to see the villa...” yelled the woman.

A tall, skinny man came to the door. He looked sickly and was holding a white handkerchief over his mouth. After a long and painful cough he said:

“Welcome, Madam, let’s go inside,” and then invited her in with a wide swing of his arm. Sofka went from room to room, first on the ground floor and then on the first and second floor examining each room carefully.

“Here, Madam, in this villa,” Bronek began to explain, “lived a prominent German architect and orthopedic doctor, best known for making excellent prosthetics. As you can see nothing was changed here. The same furniture, the same beds, the same paintings on the walls… Everything was done with great care to preserve it. And as an architect myself, I decided not to change anything here. I saw no need. Nothing has been changed... It has remained as it was arranged by the previous owners...”

After Sofka looked at all the rooms, Bronek asked:

“And what did you decide? Will you join us in living in this villa? You have the freedom to choose your own room. I, with my Ella, am already old and sometimes need modest help... We would be very pleased if you would join us and help us out... for example go to the pharmacy to get our medicines? What do you say to that?”

“With great pleasure I will be at your disposal, dear Sir. Although I am a severely disabled person, I don’t mind going to the pharmacy or the store. Even the doctors advised me to walk. Most often I go on foot, and rarely by tram...” replied Sofka.

“Are you working right now?” asked Bronek.

“Yes, in a disability association...” replied Sofka.

“What do you do there?” asked Bronek.

“Toothbrushes, clothes, shoes, slippers...” But before she finished speaking Bronek interrupted and asked:

“What kind of education do you have?”

“No education at all. I grew up in two wars. The first as a child in the village and the second as a fighter at age seventeen... I was heavily wounded and the Polish doctors healed me in a beautiful hospital where I stayed for two years and learned to speak Polish... My nurse cared very much for me and we had long conversations about everything around us...” replied Sofka.

“You have mastered our language well...” said Bronek.

“Thank you...” replied Sofka.

“Now let’s go to the yard. There too everything is as it was before. Only the apple, pear and plum trees are older. The cherry tree unfortunately dried up and died but we planted a new one. We also planted new roses,” said Bronek.

“Bronek?” yelled the fat lady, the architect’s wife, from inside the kitchen. “Enough walking, the coffee is ready…”

While drinking his coffee Bronek told Sofka that from her accent he had the impression that she wasn’t Polish.

“Yes, Sir, I’m not Polish. I’m Macedonian but I wouldn’t want to waste your precious time telling you the story of how I got here,” replied Sofka.

“Okay then. You can tell me more… You can tell me everything the next time I see you Madam. I have the impression that you are a sincere and good-natured girl... I can see it in your eyes and can hear it in your sad voice. But before you go just tell me one more thing, where are you from?” asked Bronek.

“I am from Macedonia, from the part that Greece took,” replied Sofka