On the Road of Time – Chapter 1

On the Road of Time – Chapter 1

There was a whole pile of books and folders, full of magazine and newspaper clippings, on my desk. They were excerpts from archival documents and published memoirs of political and military leaders from both warring sides of the Greek Civil War. There were selected notes from boastful people who brandished invented lies and testimonies from collaborators. In separate envelopes there were notes from the plain, simple and vivid narratives of the war participants and witnesses who preserved their experiences authentically. All these documents were like bad dreams sealed in distant memories. While leafing through the piles of papers, reading and re-reading them, there was a constant thought turning in my mind; in what literary form should I publish them: a novel, a travelogue, a report, a memoir? If I had one more choice then let it be a bit of everything but with a single desire; to preserve the entire experience. With a little bit of effort I was ready to brush off and clean the dust resting on the papers and allow the memories to flow regardless of how grievous and painful they might be. Driven by the thought that these memories would be forgotten over time, I, together with my wife Ditta, on the eve of the Greek Civil War marked by the terrible defeat of the Democratic Forces, decided to take our notes, a living testament of the war participants, and once again bravely revisit the road of our uprooting and eviction from our homeland. We went back to this time because it reminded us of who we were and of our existence - rooted in our great grandfather and grandfather’s land, blessed with our own rituals and religion, devoted to goodness and filled with faith, but cheated and left with lost hopes. Ever since then it has been our wish to dust off, at least part of the experiences, and document them with “written” words so that they might forever remain engraved on paper and in the collective and individual memories of our people. Many years have passed. The generations that experienced and survived the evil are slowly diminishing. The multiple layered wish to return to our native homes has turned into a life long struggle. The few wooden crosses with no names written on them, placed over hastily dug graves in which those who had died in the battles were buried, in that three-year uneven, bloody war – are lost. They were levelled along with the soil placed over them, where today one can find it easier to trip over the scattered pieces of bombs, grenades and bullets than to trip over the broken tombstones, crosses and the remnants of what once used to be our homes. These remnants are now the only reminders of the evil that once took place in these Macedonian villages and mountains. For us it is a terrible

evil which must never be forgotten. We must remember who did this and for whom the worst is over. In following the traces of these experiences we endeavoured to save the pieces of a larger whole of human suffering from the darkness of oblivion. Harnessed under the yoke of a great desire to document this past, we set off and took the road of time, following the footsteps of memories which are now part of our survival and existence, which, as some wise men would say, are a large component of our past and a small component of our present...

In the café at the end of the road in Kato Kaliniki (Macedonian name Dolno Kleshteni), the endopi (natives) – this is what the Asia Minor colonists and those south of Mount Olympus call the original people (the Macedonians) here and in all of Northern Greece – told us that the road to Kostur over Bigla is nicer and more pleasant to drive. You can, they said, go over Lehovo and Vicho but if you want to see a panoramic view of the Lerin valley then it would be best to take the road over Bigla. They also advised us to drive carefully because the fines for traffic infractions were hefty. We took their advice and set off for Lerin, the city which, short of one hundred years ago, was renamed Florina, as the large traffic sign outside the entrance indicated. Upon our entry into the city we were surprised by the large church and immediately after that we were amazed at the charming new town square which filled the city with beauty, making it attractive with its well thought out décor. We drove around in a circle looking for parking but all the parking spaces were taken. We kept looking and eventually we were lucky to spot a narrow slot, if one could call that luck, in which our little SAHO just barely fit, making the exit out of it very difficult. From there we went to the nearest café to catch our breath and for a little rest. The place was clean and well-lit and music was pouring out of the well-positioned speakers in the corners. The melody was familiar and reassuring. We listened to the lyrics for a moment, which warned us not to trust the swindlers from Bitola who promise things but never deliver. At that moment it seemed like we were back home in a Bitola café, where only yesterday we had heard the same song being played. Our musing was interrupted by the waiter, a smiling young man who greeted us in Greek and who, with a wide sweep of his arm, showed us to our table. “Oriste, parakalo, kathiste…” (Please sit down…) he invited us in Greek. “What are we going to order?” I asked my wife. “Are you from there?” the waiter asked in Macedonian while pointing to the north. “Yes,” I replied, “but with roots behind those mountains…” “Ah, that’s what I thought,” replied the waiter. “And you?” I asked. “I am from a village in Kostur Region… I found a job here…” replied the waiter. “Do you speak Macedonian?” I asked. “I do speak, but not very loud because there are still rofiani (scoundrels) around…” replied the waiter in a quiet voice, while looking at a table on the other side of the café. “We speak a bit more here in Lerin Region… we also sing… in Macedonian… What can I bring you?” “Coffee and water,” I replied. “Greek or cappuccino?” asked the waiter. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, “as long as it’s good.” After drinking our “Greek” coffee and paying for it, we went outside and walked down the road towards the market. The closer we got to the market the more we heard people speaking in the Macedonian language. It seemed to us as if the Lerin market was very similar to the Bitola market and so were the café’s and small restaurants. The only difference was the Macedonian language in Bitola was freely spoken whereas the Macedonian language in Lerin was spoken quietly, carefully and only in the company of friends. Today is market day in Lerin and, from the language spoken, there is very little to distinguish Lerin from Bitola. On every corner travelers would be surprised by how often they would hear people speaking Macedonian. They would even be more surprised to see a sign on the wall of a multi-story building with the word “VINOZHITO” written in large letters in the Macedonian, Greek and English languages. This is the headquarters of the European Free Alliance - Rainbow POLITICAL PARTY OF THE MACEDONIAN MINORITY IN GREECE. I read and re-read the writing and I asked myself, “Are there new winds blowing?” I asked myself this because I knew and remembered from my childhood years that here and in the wider region, no good, gentle, tame and generous winds ever blew from the south.

It has always been my experience that only restless, hurricane-like, harsh, foggy, and merciless, the kind of winds that silence voices and spoken words, sow fear and drive and blow away all hopes, usually blow from the south. I looked at the sign again; I listened and again heard quiet voices speaking words of greeting and farewell on the streets in the marketplace, in the restaurants, in the café’s and eagerly, very eagerly I asked the wind from the south to blow generous and warm air nonstop and allow people to freely and peacefully sleep with the hope that the next morning they would face a cleared dawn… Our greatest desire was to visit the burial place of the dead, those killed during the great battle for Lerin, towards the end of the Greek Civil War. It was not easy for us to ask where to find it because we were hesitant about who to ask… We sat on a bench on this side of the bridge. To the right of us was a marble pedestal with a statue of Kote, a supposed legendary Greek hero – a strong man, who, for a few Judaic gold coins, a payoff from Karavangelis the Greek Bishop of Kostur, beheaded Lazo Pop Traikov, a Macedonian freedom fighter and revolutionary. “Kotas” was written on the monument. The “s” after Kota is there to affirm that he was a Greek. But “Kota” without the “s” means “chicken” in Greek. His dress and coat were stylized to agree with the time of his collaboration and spying but his moccasins were made of cow hide. The sculptor did not remove them because he wanted to preserve the symbolism of his external and internal poverty which together with his insatiable greed led him to fall from grace with his own people. Incidentally, it is not just in Lerin that one would find monuments of such scoundrels, collaborators, spies and enemies of the Macedonian people, there are plenty of this kind of monument erected by the Greek state in a number of villages in both Lerin and Kostur Regions. The Church glorified them because it alone created them and fed them with Judean silver from its own treasury. The state shamelessly showed pride in their work of collaborating and spying on their own people. As an example, this kind of pride exhibited by the Greek state is how it educates the new generations of Macedonians. The moment these very young children begin kindergarten, the Greek educational system, drop by drop poisons their pure and innocent souls with the poison of alienation about their own birthright as it is written in the books with a Greek fountain pen. (Author’s note: “as it is written in the books with a Greek fountain pen” denotes the Greek laws with which the Greek state changed the personal names of the Macedonian people, the public place names in all of Greek occupied Macedonia and made the use of the Macedonian language illegal, punishable by hefty fines, imprisonment and death.)

“It is here,” the man said quietly and carefully so as not to draw attention and risk being discovered and insulted and cursed. We begged him to take us to the place of the mass grave in which are resting, according to some, 704 and, according to others, 1000 DAG (Democratic Army of Greece) fighters. “It is here,” the man said with a heavy heart and tears in his eyes. He said nothing after that. He removed his hat, crossed himself three times and left without saying a word. We could see pain in the man’s eyes and a deep fear in his silence… We parked at the side of the road and silently made our way to the barbed wire. The place was once a beautiful meadow, a field, now it was overgrown with tall grass and weeds. There was no other sign to indicate that it was anything different. We stood there motionless, petrified, suspended and overwhelmed by the deafening silence, sickness and depression that lay underneath the soil before us. My heart felt tight and my thoughts went back to a bloody time when the young men and women, lying forgotten behind this rusted barbed wire, the only monument of their existence, were alive and fought for what they believed. Then one by one we lay down fresh carnations through the fence and after that we dug a bit of soil, collected it into a pile and placed some candles in it. While kneeling we lit the candles… to give the souls of those thrown into the abyss of oblivion some light… The Lerin church bells do not ring here and do not call for prayers of remembrance and tribute; no fire burns here in the memory of those whose dreams were filled with hope… there was only burning pain… there was only silence here, no one dared break the seal of silence… The candle flames quivered in the gentle breeze of the wind, spreading light over darkness. Once in a while the everlasting silence was stirred by passers by, people who knew the deep secret and who offered silent payers in the memory of those lying in the abyss… This day there are only a few living witnesses who remember that distant, fatal act of hatred, treachery and unforgettable shame, but powerless to act from fear, they walk the path before the barbed wire in silence… Their memory of it is dark, sick, tortured and very much hidden and greater than that is their shame… The ongoing hatred and attempts to forget the past and to erase traces of that great pain still exist here... The voice of time is a constant reminder of that fateful February 11 & 12, 1949 winter night when the order to attack Lerin was given. It has been said that a great snowstorm took place that night. The wind was strong and cold and a lot of snow fell. Nevertheless, the DAG fighters did their best and followed orders to attack from the steep mountains and thick forests only to be blown up by mines and cut down by machine gun and automatic rifle fire at the approaches of the city. The adversary knew in advance of DAG’s intentions to attack the city and was well prepared for its defence. The next day the attack ended in the afternoon. Three hundred and sixty women were mobilized from the Prespa villages to remove the wounded from the bloody battlefield. The open fields in front of Psoderi were set up to accommodate 1,500 wounded. They were carried here uphill by hand on stretchers through the deep snow and under constant attacks from artillery and machine gun fire. Then from here the wounded were loaded onto trucks and taken to the hospitals in Albania. And down at the approaches of the city, in the minefields and in front of the gun holes and bunkers, everyone was left where they fell, both wounded and dead. There they were tied by the neck with barbed wire and dragged behind the lines where soldiers waited with trucks to pick them up. The snow on the road

was red from their spilled blood which led straight to a meadow where bulldozers were digging a mass grave. The horrible news travelled at lightening speed throughout the villages and a loud, inconsolable and great cry was heard like it had never been heard before. And that day and the days after, all the villages and mountains became walls of tears… There was a report written and submitted to the highest political and military leadership about the 360 women, which in part read: “It is recognized that in the fulfilment of their most noble task – transport of the wounded, they demonstrated affection, devotion, self-sacrifice and resolve. In some cases even under very difficult field conditions, under enemy fire, they transported our wounded. As a reward for fulfilling the task they were given a pair of army boots.” Unfortunately they did not write why they had not given the women such warm army boots to wear before the battle. Years later a witness wrote the following about that day: “A great tragedy played out in Lerin after our withdrawal. At dawn the Royal Army collected all prisoners who were still alive and called on the Lerin city residents to come out to see them. Afterwards they dug a massive hole in the ground and tossed all the dead bodies into it. Those alive they shot in front of the crowd, making sure that the people witnessed the executions and then tossed their bodies into the hole among the dead. The wounded they did not execute but tossed in the same hole with the dead and then covered them with the bulldozers while they were still alive. These were the kinds of horrors perpetrated and experienced in that damn battle.” And about that horror, the DAG Headquarters and Military Council, only a day later, met in the cave above the village Vineni in Prespa Region and in their final analysis could not conclude who was responsible for the Lerin defeat. They could not find who was liable for the fiasco! And why?! After many years had passed one of them wrote the following in his memoirs: “No one led the battle. All day we heard gunshots, but we did not know what was going on. It was difficult to establish a connection on the phone. Radio links were only established after the event. The only thing we could do was wait for darkness to fall and then give the order to withdraw, but even then the order did not reach all the brigades. The world has never seen such a disgraceful act of leading combat.” And while looking for similar mass graves everywhere, the world, to this day, has yet to find this one. There is only silence. And does he who remains silent approve of this atrocity? Who was he who threw the curse of silence over this atrocity and over this mass grave?

The bloody footprints and puddles of blood were covered up by the snow and washed away by torrents of rain destroying all evidence. The dead along with the wounded have disappeared, buried in the same ground, covered by the same soil in the same common mass grave that no one wants to think or talk about. And the guilt? Who and what covered up the guilt?

Burdened by our recollection of the bloody Lerin battle we left Lerin and headed for Kostur. At the city’s exit, on the steep slope above the road, there was a construction site. In it there was a high concrete support wall and written on it, in black graphite letters were the words: “11-12 February 1949”. Was this put here to commemorate this black day in our history? Or was it put here as a warning to remind us of the ferocious, cruel, wild and raw episode that took place here that fateful day and that the same wild, blind, deaf and mute hatred exists to this day and is baked under those large black graphite letters? The road, which still carries a stench of the past, is now paved with asphalt and its sharp curves have been rounded off as it snakes its way uphill. There are tall beechwood trees to the left and to the right of the road in whose tree trunks one can still see deep scars, remnants of the shrapnel from the exploding cannon and mortar shells that wounded them. At the exit of the thick beechwood forest the road ended and beyond it was a large parking lot with clearly marked parking spaces for cars and buses. Ahead was Bigla and at its base, immediately where the forest ended, was a café-restaurant with a spacious terrace. From here one could view the beautiful panorama of Lerin and the Lerin valley and further back in what seemed like the end of the world, was Mount Kajmakchalan, whose peak was covered with snow. To the left there were the bare peaks of Bela Voda and to the right was Lundzer, a difficult fortress to breach during the Greek Civil War, built by the hands of the Macedonian men and women villagers. At the end of the parking lot, at the very edge of the cliff leading to a deep brook, there were wooden benches. This is the best place where one could sit and watch Lerin nestled between the mountains Bazdrovitsa and Giupkata and to the east one could view the wide open Lerin valley. We took pictures of the valley below and of the surrounding mountains all covered in thick beechwood trees, which portrayed a certain beauty with their green foliage. And while we both sat there admiring the sights, we did not notice that two old men, distinguished by the wrinkles on their faces, had sat down beside us on a bench next to us. They were staring ahead in silence. I was amazed by how long they sat there staring into the distance, saying nothing. Then I noticed the moustache of one of the men moving and his cheeks quivering, a moment later, I heard a long, difficult, sad and quiet sigh. “Yes…” said one of the men quietly and stood up. “That’s how it was…” answered the second man in confirmation, and then followed the first. I gathered from the long stare into the distance and from the silence that they were remembering their common past – the road of big dreams and hopes, the road of youth lost in the difficult, uneven and bloody battles, in the long night marches, in the cold bunkers and trenches, in the hospitals and under the sky of distant countries; a long road which had now turned into a swarm of memories like beads on a silk string. They walked away in silence, one beside the other, stepping softly with one leg and hard with the other. Their prostheses’ swishing quietly like fluttering leaves in a gentle summer breeze. They entered the café-restaurant. The waiter kindly took them to the table prepared for lunch. We sat beside them at an adjacent table, pretending we did not understand the language they spoke and listened to their conversation. One of them spoke at length. “Down there,” he pointed with his hand, “where the parking lot ends, two women carried me in a blanket. I remember the whole place was filled with wounded lying all over the place. I could hear some were in extreme pain, some were yelling and others were swearing. At nightfall the trucks came and we were quickly loaded on board. That’s all I remember. I don’t know how many days I was out and which day I came to but I could not feel my right leg, it was missing.

I yelled, cried and swore… They gave me something and put me to sleep. When I woke up I thought – that is that, here is where my road ends… But, as it turned out, my road had not ended, I still had time. I spent a long time in hospitals, sanatoriums and on courses where they pushed me to learn a trade. I learned to cut dog hair… The benefits were bigger than the pension I was getting as I spent my days with the ladies, the owners of my spoiled four-legged friends, filled with joy and satisfaction because I remained an old bachelor… No obligations, no worries. That was my life in Brno, Czechoslovakia, from where I moved to Skopje. I had a two room apartment in Brno, not as good as the one in Skopje but always full of guests. And here I found it very boring. Every day I went to the same café, met with my friends and until noon we reminisced about the good old days when we were young and talked about the nonsense we had watched on television the day before. Then I went home for lunch, napped sitting with the newspaper in my lap and spent the rest of the evening yelling at the television, arguing with people who thought the world revolved around them. There was no end to their drivel. Brother, life was good in Brno. I didn’t have a colour television and I didn’t need one. It was impolite to watch television when you had guests. My most frequent guests were students from the socialist countries who managed to gnaw away at my pension money from paycheque to paycheque. And believe me brother, once you allowed them to massage your back they would gnaw away at your pension and your hands would become numb from caressing them. But I am not one of those whacked on the head that would constantly whine and complain. There was always give and take with me. I had a passport and frequently travelled to Poland and democratic Germany. In Poland I crossed the border on foot pushing an old bicycle in and pushing a new bicycle out. My gain was three to five times. And when pantyhose and other delicate things worn by women under the dress were in style, I took the road to Dojche Demokratishe with permission to go and have my prosthesis repaired. I would fill the hollow part of my wooden leg with these items and from there go straight to Brno, where I personally and with my own hands dressed my dear female students from the socialist countries. And to those dunce customs people, it never occurred to them to notice the new bicycle or to check the hollow part of my wooden leg. My friends like me, some with a single leg and others with a single arm, but married, always gave me advice: “You fool why don’t you get married, find someone and live like a person and not like this…” “You are the fools,” I used to tell them, “I too am with a woman every day and I am not bored…” “Okay, but,” he continued with a tone of great injustice in his voice, “my neighbours got tired of me and reported me to the police. One day I heard a knock on my door. I opened it and what did I see, two policemen. “Dobre otpoledne,” (good afternoon) one of them said and asked if I was so and so. “Aho,” (yes) I said and with a wide sweep of my arm I invited them in. I then politely asked them to sit down, like a good host should, and offered them something to drink. I placed crystal glasses on the table in front of them and then asked: “Would you like some schnapps or something more western?” They said either would do but with some appetizers. I cut a couple of thick slices of ham and asked: “What is the purpose of your visit?” “Do you know, comrade Pavel, your neighbours have been complaining that it’s been noisy here at your place and have asked us to tell you to be a bit quieter…” They said nothing about having to stop receiving guests with whom the neighbours may have thought that I might be spreading some sort of immorality and breaking the law, but all around, quietly and politely they made their point as educated people should. “I, comrades,” I said in a meek tone of voice while filling their glasses, “am a friendly, honest and hospitable citizen and would like to help all those who need help.

If you want I can help you as well…” “There is no need,” said one of them, “but please do tell us what do you do with those young ladies who come here?”

“Oh, that? Nothing bad, I just help them with their studies. For example, those who were here today have a test tomorrow and came to have their knowledge tested.” “In which subject?” asked one of them. “In Marxism…” I replied. “The men broke out in loud laughter and drank my entire supply of Dojche Demokratishe schnapps and all of my more western booze. And if you want to know, that was quite a hefty punishment for me.” There was silence at the table as the man put sugar in his cup, mixed it and began to tap his wooden leg with his spoon. There was a dull echo coming out of the dry wood. “Do you hear that?” said the man while tapping his wooden leg loudly then quietly then, but only for a moment, waiting for the echo to die out. “They injured it badly at that damn battle in Lerin then they cut it off at the Elbasan hospital in Albania and then they brought me to Budapest… But, it serves me well so that I can travel the road that remains to be traveled…” He then slammed the wooden leg hard with the palm of his hand sending cold shivers down my spine, making me feel as if I had been hit by a volley of machine gun fire, gun shots and strong thundering grenades, from the distance… Leaning on their elbows with their chins tightly packed into their crossed palms, deep in their thoughts, I wondered if now, overwhelmed by the silence, their thoughts were gone back to the trodden road of their past. Was the reel of their young life unwinding and passing through time? Were they re-experiencing the storm that had taken place down this great hill and across on the other side where their great hopes and aspirations ended? Could they see, with their blurred eyes, the great and swift defeat that took place in front of them? The man, who until now listened, straightened himself and tapping on the table with the fingers of his left hand, asked: “Do you know what I thought about?” looking our way and without waiting for an answer, he asked again: “Why is it that only in the winter, during the deepest snow, cold and frosts, after long and exhausting marches, frozen and hungry did we attack the cities? We attacked Konitsa in Epirus on Christmas Eve in 1947 and we ended with many casualties. In Macedonia we attacked Voden, Sobotsko and Negush late in December 1948 and came out with even more casualties. Then we attacked Lerin in February 1949 and experienced an unprecedented defeat...” The question sank in their eyes, nailed their lips and then there was silence. Watching them there sitting in silence, deep in their thoughts, I wondered: “Will anyone break the silence and give us an answer?” The strangers, who in a short span of time had become close to us, paid their bill and went outside. They stopped at the edge of the hill which had a view of Lerin. Their eyes became focused on the bare peaks of Bela Voda and on the rocky hill on top of Lundzer. They stared at the great mountains for a long time and then, with their hands, they pointed at them. Then they turned around and one of them spread his arms, pointed at the slopes of Bigla and Plochata and made a circle. The space occupied by the café-restaurant, the parking lot and the wide part of the road in the close vicinity was in the centre of the circle. “Here,” we heard him quietly say, “was the key to the door that led to Prespa and Albania. Here the residents of the surrounding villages, together with the Partisans, were digging trenches and bunkers for nearly a year, but only during the night because the airplanes and cannons were bombing the area during the day. Their primary tools were the handsaw, the axe, the shovel and the pick. The cut beechwood tree trunks, cut from the nearby forests, measuring several meters in length, were carried uphill on the shoulders of older men and women. They were placed on top of the bunker one log beside another in parallel and more rows were added, each running perpendicular to the one below. Stones and soil were added on top of every row. These bunkers were the necessary key to defending the road from government forces attacks and to block the tanks from entering the region behind our backs.

I told you the key was built with the sweat and blood that ran from the bleeding shoulders and hands of the Macedonian villagers. This place was the key – a fortress to stop the enemy at Vicho, like the slogan said. After that they brought a unit, consisting exclusively of invalid veterans and called it ‘ταγµα θεσεον’ (positional battalion). In other words they brought in men who lacked the physical ability to abandon their position and gave them orders to defend the place to the last one. I don’t know if any of them survived this place and remained alive… What I do know is that they fought hard to hold the key, but in different places, before the massive government push came into effect, the keys and the strong doors were penetrated. Some say that others also helped...” According to tourist maps, Bigla is now one of the best and well known winter sports centres in the region. There are three cable cars in operation and a fourth is currently being built. The cable cars, hanging from a thick cable, stand by until the first snow arrives and then carry people to the summit. The remnants of the “positional battalion” are now covered with a thick layer of concrete on which now cars, buses, bars, cafés, restaurants, cable cars and parking lots rest… There is no monument or symbol to mark their existence… Even though they were once dedicated, powerful in spirit, faith and determination, today the fighters still remain nameless!