PART ONE - Part 02

Krstovitsa was sitting on the ground leaning on a cold stone and, through her teary eyes, struggled to look into the distance and see her house through the fog of tears. She felt like she had already lost the Mother of God’s light, eternal warmth, goodness and sad look. She remembered lighting the oil lamp in front of her icon which burned incessantly every day and night. That light had now disappeared. It had been extinguished. The eternal and quiet beauty as seen from the tall balcony had also died. The grape vine woven into its bars had withered and dried. Dried bunches of grapes hung from it. The old apple tree in the yard had been burned down. Flying swallows and wind circled under the smoke saturated eaves and with them carried the aroma of the marigolds and basil which grew in abundance in the yard. The house was desolate... Abandoned... Krstovitsa raised her hands and grasped her cheeks. She wiped the tears flowing through her fingers… She wiped them again... She felt very weak for an instant and feared something was going to break in her. She cried some more from the heart... quietly, without trembling, without loud sobs. After that she felt some relief and a long-awaited calm. She tried to stand up but despite all her effort she remained on her knees. She looked around and listened for sounds in the dark. It seemed like there was no one near her. A step or two away from her a cricket began to sing in the grass, at first quietly, intermittently, shyly. It would stop as if listening for a response. It sang again but briefly. It was interrupted by a passing firefly that flashed several times as it made its way along the roadside. The cricket moved a step further and again began its penetrating loud song that filled the darkness. Krstovitsa turned her head the other way and heard a silent insidious roar in the distance and felt a slight

tremble in the night air. She listened. It seemed like the trees in the vast forest that surrounded her were roaring. The wind blew quietly on a hot August night. It touched her cheeks gently. She felt like something in her was coming alive, something that has been buried with the ruins of life. “God, am I dying or going crazy?” she asked herself in a calm voice without fear. She began to feel her strength returning and pain in her knees from kneeling. “Am I kneeling? Before whom? Why?” she quietly asked herself while slowly getting up.

People and their flocks began to line up in columns under the veil of darkness. When the forest and hills merged into one, a thunderous voice ordered them to march and they all leaped into the unknown in the dark. Step by step the long columns kept moving in the impenetrable dark under the huge sky. It seemed to them like the stars too were moving along with them...

Dawn was breaking. A frowning, pale pink sky was appearing above Bela Voda and light was lazily spreading across Lake Prespa. Krstovitsa readjusted her red woolen bedcover and threw it over her shoulder. She placed everything else in her big bag and threw it on her back. The weight of it made her bend forward looking like she was walking against a strong wind. She walked along the desolate dusty road following in the footsteps of those who walked in front of her. She didn’t turn to look back. It seemed to her that death had passed her by. It hadn’t stopped for her at the roadside where she spent the night. Death looked at her tears and turned away, taking the path behind the hills by the lake in the reeds and in the vast field of Mala Prespa.

The weak ones, the ones stumbling, took breaks on the side of the road, enough time to catch their breath, to moisten their dry lips with a drop or two of the muddy water that lay in the deep muddy potholes on the road, to extinguish the fire from the long and burdensome walk that was burning their feet and to relieve the burning backache and pain in their shoulders from carrying this lifesaving great weight they undertook to bear.

Mitre stopped to transfer the large, heavy bag he was carrying from one shoulder to the other. He took short and slow steps that matched

those of his wife Mara. Mara too was carrying a lot of heavy stuff and often needed to stop to switch shoulders. At the moment when she felt shaky with a severe burning sensation in her shoulders, in the bag over her left shoulder she was carrying plates, spoons, forks, cups and a small pot. In the bag over her right shoulder she was carrying the gium (large metal container used for holding and boiling water) which at that time was half full of water. After taking several short steps Mara begged Mitre to stop so that she could switch shoulders. The rest of the people in her group continued to walk at a fast pace.

As he watched her struggle and double down, Mitre, in a grunting voice, said: “I told you Mara to leave the gium home but you insisted on taking it. What are you going to do with it? Why would you think you would need it…?”

“We will need it, Mitre... we will need it… that’s all I’m going to say. I’m not going to throw it away...” After she switched the bags over her shoulders Mara picked up the pace and started walking past Mitre. Mitre then said: “Do you remember what your grandfather used to say about that gium, may God bless his soul? The poor man used to say this gium was older than him. Yes. He said that. He also said that when he was a child, when his father’s house was being built, he used this gium to serve the workers water. Did you forget what your grandfather used to say about this gium?”

Mitre caught up to her and said:

“Please Mara stop walking. Let me get some water. I’m thirsty and my throat is dry. Lower the bag so I can get some water...”

Mara leaned forward and tipped the gium to its side until water started to drip out filling Mitre’s hand. Mitre sucked a bit of the water and with the rest he moistened his face, forehead and lips. He then moistened the end of Mara’s head kerchief and, with a gentle movement, wiped the sweat and dust off Mara’s face.

They continued walking...

Men, women, weeping children as well as very old men and women gathered together in groups and squeezed and pushed their way onward. Mothers carried their children under their arms and together with the old, the young, the sick and the crippled moved along hungry and thirsty eager to find a little shade and hide from the hot sun, which dried their bodies and drank their sweat and tears of misery. They leaned on each other, added strength to each other and shared their pieces of bread and drops of water.

“Move, just a little longer,” yelled the leaders, “just a little further to over there,” but they wouldn’t tell them where they were going and where over there was.

There was a large column of people and animals walking ahead of them but not everyone could keep up the pace. Those who were overtired had difficulty breathing and were falling behind. Ristana was also falling behind. Her feet were bare and swollen. She walked on the road of no return barefoot just as she had on every other road during her entire life. She was poor before she was married and poorer afterwards. The man whom she married was ten years older than her. He spent most of his time playing cards and gambling in the village inn. He was the first to arrive and the last to leave the inn. He won some but lost more. The last thing he lost was the only field he owned. He lost it playing cards. But instead of quitting he continued to stubbornly play and became even more indebted. Some forgave his debts while others demanded that Ristana work for them to repay them. Ristana was forced to work as a domestic in houses that had no men, in the homes of the migrant workers who had gone abroad to work. Not once but many times Ristana came home crying. She wasn’t sad about the youthful years she’d lost, she was sad about the situation her husband had landed her in. She begged him to go abroad and get a job just like the men had done for whose families she toiled. “Go abroad like the others, like Pando. His family was poor, but look at them now… I work for them...” She used to say these things but her husband refused to listen to her and this is what made her very sad, sad enough to shed tears all night long in the dark of night, bitter tears that wet her straw-filled pillow from top to bottom.

In the village Ristana was the first person to get up early in the dawn and was the last to go to bed at late dusk. For as long as she remembered Ristana always worked from dawn to dusk for someone else in the village. She worked for a handful or two of beans, lentils, a piece of cheese, a little cottage cheese and for a kilo or two of flour. By doing so she was able to feed her half-naked and tatter clothed children who more often than not went to bed hungry. On one shoulder she carried a small bag with one or two slices of bread, a little cheese, or just bread and salt. On the other shoulder she carried her hoe. With this hoe she was able to feed her two children and her husband. She had no regrets when she sent her children away, who, along with the other children in the village, were taken to the Eastern European countries. She figured wherever they went they would probably be better off and have enough food to eat and perhaps some clothing to wear so they wouldn’t have to go hungry, half-naked and barefoot... The same day her children were taken Ristana was left alone. They grabbed her husband and, like hundreds of others, gave him a horse and a job to work for the war effort. His job was to transport cartridges and hand grenades from the depots to the front line. But during one of those trips, in the early dawn, his cargo was attacked by an aircraft. After that he was never heard from and Ristana was left alone.

Walking on the dusty road next to Ristana was Baba Ilina. She was a small woman, the wife of Dedo Tode. Behind her was Baba Dochka. All her life she had been alone. At a young age her beloved husband went abroad to work as a pechalbar (migrant worker) and was never heard of or seen again. He simply disappeared. She waited for him, believing that some day in the course of time he would return, but he never did. She had no job and what little she earned came from cleaning the church where she was constantly and loudly heard arguing with the swallows, which repeatedly stained the floor. She had a big house in which she lived alone but in poverty. She never remarried. She lived her life alone. This time she wasn’t alone. She was a small part of a large crowd behind which her shadow was drawn. All those who felt like remaining behind were forced to move forward by a new wave of refugees who mixed with them, gathered them in front of them and took them with them...

So in the great rush to escape the danger, Baba Ilina, who moved slowly, was separated from Dedo Tode. He got lost in the large crowd of strangers.

They continued walking...

The trek was burdensome and exhausting. The deep pain of exhaustion was present on everyone’s face as people moved along bitterly, terribly disappointed and boiling with anger, rage and grief.

They walked, and the great hopelessness made every step that much more difficult to take. They were plagued with terrible thoughts and questioned and wondered if they were victims of some great deception and that this was their next step to being deliberately eradicated?

They walked mostly in silence questioning and for a long time, wondering if there would ever be an end to this trek. They kept repeating to themselves: “Who did this to us and why?”

They knew what evil was behind all this as they knew they were victims of this same evil, but no one really wanted to talk about it out loud.

They continued walking...

The crowds were too large for the dusty narrow paths and people and animals were squeezing together to a point of being trampled. Many fell down but got up again and continued to walk along the narrow paths, sometimes coming close to steep slopes and dangerous ravines

“Keep going! Don’t stop!” a man’s voice was heard echoing in the air. “Follow me!” he yelled and with his hand pointed to the path that was unfolding in front of him.

They followed him but no one knew where this road led. No one told them where they were headed. People silently followed him, listening to the hoarse voices breathing heavily, coughing and for the occasional yell of people tripping and falling. Crowds and

crowds of people mixed with cattle, sheep, goats and all sorts of burden animals, flowed along the dusty road like the tip of a dry river after a rainstorm. They kept walking choked by the dust and baked by the scorching sun, hoping that someone would signal them to stop, even if only for a moment, to sit down, spit the bitter dust out of their mouths and have a few drops of water, even if it came from a muddy puddle. Their throats were sore and their lips were cracked from lack of moisture. Their feet were swollen and their shoulders burned with pain. It was a heavy burden to walk on the road of no return and a heavier burden to have to carry their perceived necessities with them on their shoulders. It was an even heavier burden not knowing where they were going and how long it was going to take to get there… if there was even a “there” to go to. Many lost their families and friends in the great flood of people and were anxious to find them, talk to them so that they could soothe each other’s suffering and pain in their souls and have a chance to calm down.

Under the weight of their bags, sacks and other possessions they furiously and mindlessly picked up the pace and rushed uphill, pushing their livestock ahead of them and after they crossed the peak, without restraint, slid down the hill and spread themselves in the level valley below.

The sun was baking hot. It was harvest time and the fields they were passing through were being harvested by Albanian villagers. They collected the long stalks that held the precious grain in large bundles.

Dedo Tode and Boris, who was several years younger than him, sat down and began to rub their legs, knees and feet to ease their pain. As they looked at the fields they began a quiet conversation.

“Look at those people,” said Dedo Tode, “they’re harvesting their fields and will have all the grain they need to make their bread and more. And at home, in our place, who is going to harvest our fields? Now is the right time to harvest the grain before the spikes crumble and the grain falls out. Who will collect our wheat? Who, huh?”

Boris had no answer for Dedo Tode. There was something else, a different pain that was tormenting him so he said:

“At our place back home, those people, from the leadership, came to our village to tell us that when the battles start approaching our village we should only take things that we would absolutely need and hide the rest. They also told us to leave nothing standing in the fields and gardens before we left. They said burn everything to the ground and turn it to ashes so that there is nothing left for the enemy to take. Let the enemy find only ashes... This is what they told us and we, the obedient ones, I don’t want to say fools, set fire to our own fields and burned our grain with our own hands. We set fire to our own crops, over which we had toiled all year, and nothing, neither from the fields nor from the gardens, was left standing… nothing... And that is exactly what the enemy wanted...”

“Do you think anything was left standing and not burned down at our place when we left?” interrupted Dedo Tode. “Our fields of wheat and corn had grown very tall, high above our heads. Our corn had long and straight cobs and was ready to be harvested,” added Dedo Tode with his arm raised up above his head showing Boris how tall the corn plants were. Then, after he let out a big sigh, he continued talking: “We set fire to them ourselves ... we watched them burn and we wept... To tell you the truth, when I now think about this I feel a pain down in my soul from which I will never recover. I will never be able to find relief or forgive myself for the sin I committed. It’s not only bad but a great sin to set fire to your own crops with your own hands. I should have harvested them... We wept as we watched our crops, the bread which we were going to make from them, burn. That’s what they told us too – burn everything and just leave ashes for the devil... And the wheat, I tell you, it was tall with long spikes as long as a woman’s hair braid, I tell you, and the seeds were huge. They would have made lovely bread, I tell you, but we burned them all down with our own hands... We committed a great sin, I tell you...”

Boris asked: “Did you leave home alone?”

“I left with my wife,” replied Dedo Tode, “and now she is lost somewhere in the big crowd. I looked for her but it was useless. She

got lost and probably went some other way. I’m sure we will find each other later. I hope she will be alive and well...”

“Get up! Let’s go!!!” a loud and hoarse voice was heard yelling.

Their conversation ended. Dedo Tode’s lips stuck together and his words faded away. Their break in the wide plain was short with enough time to take a long breath, brush the dust off their clothes, wipe the dust and sweat off their foreheads, straighten their backs and stretch their legs.

“Get up! Let’s go!” cried the same voice.

They got up, picked up their bags and other things that they were carrying, came closer together in a group and set off on their trek towards the setting sun, which for the moment was still shining but with only minutes remaining before it was gone. The high hill above cast a long shadow over them. Dusk was mercilessly descending upon the plains and upon all those traveling over them; the people, their oxen, their sheep and their burden animals. Now only a small semblance of sunlight remained above the hills, the day was slowly dying, and the sky was burning with a purple flame.

“Stop! We will camp here until tomorrow!” cried the person leading the group.

The people began to unload the weight off their shoulders. There was a feeling of relief in the air. They would finally find some peace in the dark to rest their tormented bodies and souls. In the dark of night they should have enough time to take a long breath, to eject the bitter dust out of their noses, mouths and bodies, to make a meal, to soothe their pain, to cry a little, to find each other and reflect on what was happening to them.

Dedo Tode sat down on the edge of a shadow under which others who had arrived before him were already sitting. He lay back in the thinned shadow and with his mouth wide open he thought of the places he had left behind forever. He thought of the alley that led from his home to the church. He thought of the road that led to the fields, vineyards and gardens, to the fountain and to the spring near

the church of Sveti Atanas, from which under the roots of the old oak tree water flowed from time immemorial. His thoughts of back home were vivid like living pictures. He felt pain in his soul which burned like hot coals. He dragged his memories with him with every step he took. The last thing he saw before leaving his home was a black cloud that overshadowed the sun. The place was in ruins and he carried those ruins with him. The great pain for what he had lost wasn’t just simple pain but a heavy blow like a stab in the heart with a sharp knife, the kind that hurts the most and makes you die fast. He now carried with him that pain and the sharp blow that came with it. He was one of many who believed in the revolution. Now he spat with bitterness at everything that was promised to him…He dragged his old body on the path of great danger. Behind the crowd, with messy hair and arms stretched praying desperately Grozda cried out inconsolably:

“People, people, my children, my children are gone... I can’t find my children!”

When the children were collected last year and sent out of the country, she had kept her children home. She hid them. Now, in the mad rush to escape, she was looking for them, shouting and praying.

A large crowd had swallowed them and dragged them away like a swollen river. She found them there...

The night fell upon them and wrapped them with its black cover of darkness. This was their first night spent in a foreign land which brought neither relief to their bodies or comfort to their souls. Many of them awoke in the suffocating and misty dawn to find their herds of cattle, sheep and goats gone. They had left the camp during the night and scattered themselves along the gardens, meadows and slopes. There was word that the Albanian villagers had now gathered them. No one was allowed to go looking for them.

Those who led the group refused to let the people go and look for their animals. They ordered everyone to start moving again… and they did...

“Let’s go people, get moving!”

During one of those short breaks, with a cough and a raspy voice Baba Petra said:

“Lost happiness cannot be reclaimed... They are forcing us into exile for nothing...” That was all that she said before her throat dried up and she could speak no more. She was silent for a long time. She had been one of the most talkative women in her village… She was always cheerful. She was the number one singer and dancer when she was young. She was now confused and rarely spoke. People remembered her for her great amazement and inexpressible disbelief in an event that had long been talked about and eagerly awaited.

This is how it was:

Nearly two years ago, when the autumn rains began to appear and the mountain peaks lay beneath a blanket of snow, an unknown girl dressed in a military uniform came to the village. She told the village board that she was a teacher sent there to open a school. She lifted the heavy backpack from her shoulder, opened it and one by one removed the soaked primers and arranged them by the stove to dry. Pointing with her finger, she said:

“They aren’t Greek. They are Macedonian. The primers are written in the Macedonian language and children will be able to learn Macedonian from them.

The villagers had taken the desks from the school, which the partisans had burned down to prevent government forces from using it as a lodge, and placed them in an abandoned house that belonged to a long-time widowed woman who last year had left for Canada. Children ages six to fifteen, there were no older ones left in the village, gathered together in the evenings and, in the dark of night by the light of a gas lamp, read out the Cyrillic letters, words and sentences loudly from their primers. This was the first time since that part of Macedonia was occupied by Greece that Macedonian words had been taught in a school. The school was closed during the day because deadly flying machines dominated the daylight sky. After chanting their Cyrillic letters through the night the children ran home before daylight and chanted some more:

Forward, Macedonians, forward For freedom and for life, all forward...

This is how the Macedonian primer made its way into the Macedonian village schools. But that wasn’t all. Leaflets printed in the Macedonian language began to appear in Macedonian homes. The Macedonian presses “Nova Makedonka” and “Bilten” were busy printing countless leaflets with slogans inscribed on them and they were pasted everywhere on house walls, in schools, churches and even on rocks. Every message written on the leaflets and spoken at village assemblies and in general conventions was about fighting… about joining the armed struggle... The cry to battle was heard everywhere… in the villages, in the mountains, in the forests, in the partisan bunkers, during raids… the call for freedom was thundering... After many years of darkness in the Macedonian home, the people finally began to talk about light.

Many didn’t believe that the Macedonian language would be taught in their village school, even though it had been long rumoured that a teacher would come and open the school.

The least convinced of all was Baba Petra. In her conversations with her lady friends she used to say:

“Oh, my dear ladies, do you really believe that a teacher would speak to our children the same way we talk to each other now? You should know that even if I see it with my own eyes and hear it with my own ears I still won’t believe it…”

The villagers knew and remembered how Baba Petra defied the Greek authorities by openly speaking that forbidden language in the middle of the village square, and a few days later being summoned to Kostur to pay a five hundred drachma prostimo (fine). There she told the judge that she wanted to pay one thousand drachmas so the next time she was caught she wouldn’t waste her time traveling to Kostur because she planned to continue to speak her language at home and outside of it.

Baba Petra wanted assurances that the teacher wouldn’t speak Greek, wouldn’t hold a rod in her hand as the former Greek teachers had and beat the children on their palms until they swelled up, wouldn’t drag the children by their hair and ears and slap them around so that those hondrokefalo (fat head) children would learn Greek.

Baba Petra quietly and secretly knelt in front of the partly open door of the classroom and with an open hand over her left ear, she couldn’t hear from her right ear, she listened. She began to cross herself because she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She immediately ran off, anxious to tell the other women. She kept yelling:

“It’s true! It’s true…! The teacher is speaking to the children as we speak to each other! It’s true… There is a God ladies...”

In the evenings Stefo used to read the Greek newspapers to the villagers, from which they learned what was happening in their country and in the world. But after he learned the Macedonian alphabet he discarded the Greek αλφαβητα (alphabet), threw all the Greek newspapers in the garbage and enthusiastically began to read the news from the Macedonian newspapers and leaflets in his daily readings for the few elderly villagers in the inn who couldn’t read for themselves.

And as the year 1947 thundered by a new year came into existence and during the best and most beautiful time of this year, when flowers blossomed in the meadow, when the white geese and storks flew over the village on their long way north, when the swallows began to build their nests, a voice came from afar saying “save your children!” This was a call that came from far away, from Belgrade, from the Balkan youth who had gathered at a convention… Unfortunately we were never told whose idea this was and who was behind it.

Children ages two to fourteen were gathered together and along with their mothers walked in long columns from their villages all the way to the Albanian and Yugoslav borders. It was a painful journey full of tears and wailing which ended with even more pain, the pain of

separation between mother and child. The mothers had to go back home while the children were sent on a wild journey, which for them began in foreign lands and ended in distant and unknown foreign lands.

Staring behind them on the dusty road stood their mothers with their empty embrace.

The villages were robbed of their youth and children’s joy and laughter and felt deserted and desolate. All that was left for the people now was their own bare life and great hope that they would see their children again, a gift sown into them by the communists. There were no church bells ringing in the villages… no liturgy… no weddings… no baptisms. The churches might as well be closed because the people gave up celebrating religious holidays. What was good for the soul had been abandoned including the soul songs often sung in church. The only songs that were sung out loud now were those that celebrated conflict, war and battles which day by day were being lost.

After that?

Gramos thundered and burned for 72 days and nights. Forests and people alike crashed and burned...

After that?

Everyone and everything that was left alive and loved went to Vicho where new preparations were made for new and bigger battles...

After that?

First, on September 15, they attacked Mali-Madi, attacked the government army and reached the outskirts of Kostur. They didn’t take it.

After that?

This was during the worst time of the year. Bloody battles were fought over Negush, Voden and Sobotsko Regions in heavy snow and bitter cold.

After that?

The partisans were ordered to attack Lerin which caused a great cry, much wailing, great sadness and much cursing as a black cloud descended upon the surrounding villages and flooded them with pain and anguish.

Lerin was covered in blood...

After that?

A new slogan was coined and shouted out in a cave located above the village Vineni in Prespa. The slogan proclaimed that: “The enemy will never reach Vicho!”

And everyone, men and women capable of holding a pick, shovel, axe and saw were summoned to dig trenches and build bunkers. They connected every hill at every height with rows of trenches and bunkers built with thick beechwood logs, stones and earth dragged by pairs of oxen, or carried on their shoulders...

In the meantime US General Van Fleet, addressing the army near Kozheni and looking over a military map, circled the area held by DAG and proclaimed “an area the enemy will never reach” with a red pencil. The said area, along with all the mountains, hills, rocks, and brooks, was no bigger than Van Fleet’s palm on the military map.

Being reminded of this and of the many events and happenings that she had lived through and experienced in the past seven or eight years and of many other events and happenings from the recent turbulent and ugly times, Baba Petra kept cursing...

The leaders changed. The new ones yelled louder than the previous ones. They yelled:

“Let’s go people, let’s go!

The people got up, shook the dust off their bodies that had accumulated, spat out the accumulated bitterness, collected their bundles, grabbed their bags and followed the voice that no longer yelled “run”, but “let’s go”.

Fiery and suffocating heat was frying them from above like a burning oven.

They kept going...

At one place there was a crowd. At another there was a line. Someone was left behind on the crowded road. Black clouds were gathering far above the high mountains overshadowing the sun. People watched the clouds and prayed for rain.

“It’s going to rain!” said someone staring at the frowning cloud.

Wind began to blow. It began to cool the sweating faces.

The crowds and lines were endless. More and more people were coming and going. Their faces were covered with white dust. Their lips were cracked and burned from the heat and from thirst. They looked exhausted, breathing heavily and walking sluggishly. Cries of babies were heard. They were being carried under the arms of their mothers and wrapped in bundles and carried over their shoulders and backs. The lines and crowds weren’t decreasing. There were many more coming and going but no one was counting.

They walked and walked until dusk, until the sun hid behind the mountains. Darkness engulfed the day and brought night. The exhausted people lay down on the warm bare ground, boiling from the daily heat. They lay down on the beaten grass cooked by the hot sun. They wiped their foreheads and examined their swollen shoulders engraved by the ropes. They rubbed their swollen and bloodied feet.

It thundered once and then again. A lightning bolt struck and tied one hill to the other. The flash in the black sky illuminated the

people who were gathered close together in groups. And in those short and long lightning flashes the people could see one another in the deep darkness. They didn’t sleep through the night under the torrential rain. They were drenched by the rain and waited for daylight, soaked. They continued on their way wet.

The leaders walked ahead and were followed by a dusty, grey cloud of people stretching in a long column behind them.

They were going but no one told them where they were going. All they could see was what was ahead of them and when they reached where they thought they were supposed to be they took their bags, bundles and sacks off their shoulders, sat down, wiped the sweat off their faces and necks with their head kerchiefs, squeezed it out of them and swore and cursed – through which they found some relief. Then, with curses on their lips they again got up and walked. Following behind was the dust of fear. They went and stopped, went and stopped looking at new sights, then went again and stopped at a different place looking for relief and a brief rest. And this continued on repeating again and again...

How far would this road take them?

How long is this strange road? Is there an end to it? They couldn’t help but think of the things they had lost before they took to this road. The great pain of what they had lost was inescapable, following them like a relentless hunting dog sniffing their trail and barking with a furious bark like that of a rabid jackal, causing them despair…

What day is today? Which month? What year? What moment in time? What kind of moment in time?

In which country would they be when the sun set?

They kept moving...

Here in crowds, there in long lines, some lonely.

They kept moving...

They walked the dusty road and only stopped for a moment, long enough to move the weight from one shoulder to the other and take a deep breath...

They walked down the strange road where some found each other and others lost each other...

They walked down the road and remembered that until yesterday they were adorned with words of great promises, being told that they were following the road to victory and a bright future, and now they, the same people who made those great promises, were leading them but to where?. Those who made all those great promises were now silent, their lips tired and glued together with the slimy promises they had made. Walking in front of them, those who yesterday had made the great promises were now headed for the narrow gullies, for the great dust, drought and scorching heat, but wouldn’t tell the people where they were going and how long it was going to take to get there...

They kept moving...

They stopped, but only for a moment to see if they were still together with their loved ones, to take a long breath, or God forbid to stand up if they had fallen... They shook the dust off themselves, spit out their accumulated bitterness, picked up their bundles and resumed walking, following the voice that was no longer screaming “Run!” but calling on them to “get moving…”

They walked and in their hearts and souls they carried the burden of being deceived, of being lied to and of being betrayed. They were morally wounded and felt defeat as they made their way to the invisible and unknown...

They kept moving...

The long black column of refugees quietly trampled the cobblestones of the road leading down the middle of Pogradets and arrived in front of a wide shrub overgrown with thistles and thorns.

And those who led them said: “Rest here.”

The people immediately offloaded the bundles they were carrying and began to loudly shout lively cheers, howls and screams. They immediately began to search for their loved ones whom they had lost on the road or in the dark of night. They gathered together and questioned one another and used the opportunity to find out more about both their living and dead relatives and friends. Unfortunately the answers they received didn’t bring much relief. For many the lakefront plain had turned into a killing field. Many civilians died there screaming, yelling and crying in despair. There was no end to their great pain...

Across the coastal road, on which about twenty trucks were lined up, there was a great deal of water. Lake water, clear water, small waves jumping over one another and gently smashing against the rocky shore. As they took the bundles off their backs, men, women and children ran like mad towards the water. They ran to quench their thirst, to wash away the dust, the sweat, the tiredness and the fear that had accumulated in them on their long journey into the unknown. Relaxed on the shore they felt refreshed. Their bath in the lake water brought new life into them. They now sat on the shore washing their laundry and squeezing the water out of it. They stood there in the warm sun waiting for their clothes to dry.

A few steps away from the people, a low, muffled mournful moaning sound was heard coming from the shoreline reeds. It was the sickly, squeaky, screaming voice of a female. Someone pushed the reeds apart and, after being stunned for a moment, yelled:

“People! People! There’s a woman here giving birth…!”

The voice and the call quickly dissipated along the lakeshore and into the plain. Mara was the first to run towards the reeds. Curious onlookers gathered on the shore and circled and knelt in front of the woman. Mara stripped her to the navel and comforted her with a

caressing voice. Then, when part of the baby’s head appeared, Mara shouted:

“Mitre!!! Fill the gium with water and bring it here...”

Mara, who was squatting in front of the woman, gently held the baby’s head in her hands while begging the mother to inhale and exhale again and again, encouraging her to push one more time and use her strength and life-giving pain to finish the labour.

“Push! Push my dear… Push again… You are doing well…the baby is coming… A few more times and it will be out… Push my dear!”

“Mitre !!! Where are you!” cried Mara while gently pulling on the baby.

Not knowing what was going on Mitre became frustrated and frightened, thinking that something bad had happened to Mara. Then, when he came close to her he was stunned. Mara, without looking at him yelled:

“Mitre, bring the gium, fill it with water and boil it. Hurry! Don’t wait... Run!”

Mitre ran back, picked up the container, filled it with lake water, grabbed two stones, made a fire pit, collected some dry grass, placed it between the stones, added a few dry sticks, lit the grass and placed a stump on top of it. He then placed the container on top of the stones and waited for the water to warm. And while the water was warming, Mara’s wide open palms were curled up against the crying baby’s body, whose cry was now echoing in the lake reeds.

Mara turned to Mitre and, in a warm voice, said:

“Pour some water Mitre so that we can wash the baby.”

“The water is still cool,” replied Mitre with a tone of concern.

“Pour some I tell you. So what if it’s still cool. The baby will endure it. Pour some... Now pour some more... Now rip a thick thread out

of my sash and tie the baby’s umbilical cord with it. Did you get the thread? Tie it here. Like that. One more time. All right. And now cut the cord here with your knife. It’s a girl, don’t be afraid. God bless her and may she live a long, healthy and happy life,” concluded Mara.

Mara raised the little one up in the air and tapped her on the back in hopes that she would take deeper breaths. Then, after blessing the mother and baby with many blessings for a good, long and healthy life, she gave her to her mother who immediately placed her on her breast to suckle. Mara then cut off the lower part of her shirt and made a blanket for the little girl.

“And now,” said Mara to the new mother, “give her your breast every time she needs it, hug her, breathe in her face with your warm breath and keep her warm with your love and embrace...

Just before sunset, the moment the last ray of sunlight faded above the summit of the high mountain, the mother and newborn baby, wrapped in her blanket, were brought back to the group adding one more cry, that of a baby, to the already grieving and moaning crowd. The full moon and all the stars around it were reflected in the baby’s dark eyes...

On the road to the unknown, new little souls came into being in this world and joined the refugee crowd. They were all delivered by Mara’s hands...

Mara had helped many mothers deliver their babies not only in her village but also in the surrounding villages. She had learned how to do this from her grandmother. She always helped mothers give birth and taught them how to deal with their pain. She did this often outside in the fields, during harvest time, while collecting the grapes from the vineyards and even in dark mangers in the warm breath of farm animals.

The night slowly descended upon the crowds. They gathered together at dusk yelling and making inquiries and only then they offloaded the bundles and bags they were carrying and went to sleep. The warm soil received the fallen bodies well.

The tired and overwhelmed crowds slept in silence, once in a while interrupted by a crying baby. Their mothers fed them, rocked them lightly and sang sad lullabies to them to put them back to sleep.

5

Dedo Tode was limping from the pain he had in his right leg. His heel looked like it had been eaten to the bone by his shoe. He was limping here and there asking if anyone had seen Ilina. He described her as a short skinny woman, dressed in black, with a black head kerchief on her head carrying a woven, lace cloth bag on her shoulder.

Ilina was not among the people in this valley. By now Dedo Tode was sure she must have gone with some other group and had landed in some other place. He was sure poor Ilina would be looking for him just as he was looking for her...

The day was coming to an end and the crowds began to disperse. Darkness was slowly setting on the lakeside plain. Truck headlights began to illuminate the road and surrounding space in the late evening hours. Then, a man with a large funnel, made of thick cardboard, yelled loudly for the people to start climbing onto the trucks.

“Okay, no pushing now!” he yelled. “First the old people then the children, after that everyone else with their bundles, bags, sacks and other possessions. I said no pushing! Take your time, there is no hurry. There will be room for everyone in the trucks. No one will be left behind...”

Dedo Tode turned to Boris and, with a suspicious tone of voice, quietly asked:

“Boris do you think they’ll be taking us back home or will they take us further away? What do you think Boris, huh? Speak up so I can hear you... Speak up...”

Boris turned to Dedo Tode and, with an angry tone of voice, said:

“Ask him!” and with his hand pointed at the man with the funnel in front of his mouth. Boris then quietly said: “They will take us Tode somewhere that no one wants to talk about. That’s where they’ll take us. Now keep quiet, play stupid and let’s get moving…

The crowd lined up in front of the trucks and began climbing, some with difficulty because their legs and feet were sore and others because they had to carry the big bundles, sacks and bags on their backs and shoulders. As they stood in line many were calling for their loved ones to come and join them. They were afraid of being separated and of losing one another as many had done so many times on the road and in the dark. After the last person got on, the man with the funnel ordered the trucks to start moving!

The trucks left and drove nonstop all night.

It was still dark when the trucks arrived and stopped on the road in front of the entrance to Pegin. The man leading the convoy, perched on the passenger entrance of the leading truck, through his paper funnel, yelled: