On the Road of Time – Chapter 2 - Part 01

On the Road of Time – Chapter 2

About two kilometers from the foot of Bigla, at an elevation of 1,700 meters above sea level, is the Vlach village Pisoderion (Psoderi in Macedonian). The houses there are built with carved stone and above each door are placards which, in the winter when cable cars carry thousands of skiers from all over Greece, offer rooms for rent with various domestic village food specialties consisting mainly of beans and a variety of pastries. The languages spoken here are Vlach, Greek and the older people speak the local Macedonian dialect. There is a hotel being built above the road on the slope of Mount Bela Voda. The old road has been widened and paved with asphalt. During Ottoman rule this road was, then as it is now, a link between Lerin, Korcha and from there, via Durres by ship, to Italy and the rest of the world. The road snaked down the hill. I had to drive slowly and very carefully because I couldn’t get the story of the tragedy that had taken place in Lerin about sixty years ago out of my mind. Then I was distracted by a road sign that read “Holy Trinity 1 km” with a blue arrow pointing in a direction away from the main road. I turned and took the narrow, curvy path hidden in the shadow of the old and tall beechwood trees. Behind the end of the last curve was a wide parking lot and inside a stone yard was the Holy Trinity monastery. We entered the yard and breathed an aroma of freshly cut grass. Clear and cool water was flowing non-stop out of a five tap spring. We toured the monastery yard and on the western wall we noticed a Greek inscription carved in stone that read: “Agia Triada” (Holy Trinity) and underneath it was written the date “1050”. The entrance door into the monastery was not locked. An older man came out of the lodge and after greeting us in Greek we continued our conversation in Macedonian. He said that he was from the village Psoderi and his job was to look after the monastery and the lodge. We lit a number of candles in front of the altar, in memory of the fallen that had guarded Bigla and the road to Prespa, and left. Lying nestled at the base of the mountains, divided by the River Bistritsa, we were greeted by the village Andartikon which, in the past and in the memories of its inhabitants, most of whom are now spread all over the world, was better known as Zhelevo. Zhelevo is remembered as the place where permanent scars were left in the history of the Macedonian resistance, especially during the Greek Civil War. Zhelevo was the village, as was German, where the first Macedonian schools were opened. It was November 1947 and the region was engulfed in the Greek Civil War. It was here and in German that the first Macedonian teachers were mobilized to teach Macedonian. Eighty demobilized young men and women, who had primary and a few years of gymnasium education in the Greek language, still dressed in their military uniforms received orders to learn to read and write in the Macedonian Cyrillic alphabet. They were given fifteen days to do it in and after that were sent to complete an even greater task, to teach children to read and write in the Macedonian language. Burdened with this knowledge and loaded with a saddlebag full of newly delivered books from Skopje, they set off to the various Kostur and Lerin Region villages carrying the burning torch of enlightenment for the Macedonian people. Classes were held at night. After dark students gathered in cold classrooms and during the night, for the first time, by dimly lit lamps and shimmering candlelight, they learned how to read and write in their native Macedonian language. Learning by day was out of the question, no noises and laughter could be made by students in the daytime because of the menacing iron birds that flew over and beat anyone learning written or spoken words in that language. Unfortunately that fall was misty and very sad for the people. Day and night news arrived at an alarming rate; bad news, undesirable news, the church bells kept ringing, signalling more death and more mothers were forced to wrap themselves in black.

The winter passed in tears and sobs and when the dogwood tree began to bud and the first swallow arrived, the flame of the dimly lit lamps and shimmering candles illuminating the schools died out. Then when the migrating birds began to fly north, mothers abandoned their pride and joy and happiness from their arms, laps, homes, yards, neighbourhoods, villages. And when the fragrant blossoming spring arrived, there were no children to welcome it…

About two kilometers away from Zhelevo, towards Kostur, on the opposite side of Oshchima there was an intersection with a sharp right turn and before it there was a sign with the words: “Πρεσπες” meaning this way to Prespa. We made a right turn and took the wide, winding uphill road. We passed several passenger cars and buses going in the opposite direction. Then as we passed the last curve we found ourselves at the peak of the hill. This place is called Prevolot, a place where we stopped and had a look at the two beautiful Prespa lakes all nestled in the surrounding mountains. From here we saw and were fascinated by the enchanting picturesque and lush surrounding scenery. We saw the reflection of the mountain tops and the dense green oak tree forests in the lake waters. And looking up we saw a clear blue sky all decorated with puffy white clouds looking like cotton balls. We saw black and white storks, following the warm current of the wind, flying in wide circles over the waters, climbing higher and higher, reaching heights above the highest hills of Pelister and Galichnitsa. We saw proud pelicans regally and masterfully cut the lake waters, leaving a long wake behind them. There was fog above Mount Galichnitsa and a cloud was lazily making its way on top of the lake. A rainbow could be seen forming, connecting the bases of the great mountains. The colours of the lake began to change as the reflection of the sun in the water was slowly replaced by droplets of rain. The road from Prevolot leading down to Prespa was treacherous and full of sharp curves but eventually straightened in front of the intersection where a new road is now under construction. The writing on the blue road sign above the arrow that pointed to the left said “Mikrolimni”, but under it, hidden, was the old Macedonian village name “Lak”. Above the arrow that points to the right there are a number of village names written in Greek. These are “Karie-Levkonas-Kalites-Plati-Milonas-Lemos-Agios Germanos”. But no matter what the Greeks call these villages, the people of Prespa have their own Macedonian names which are “Orovnik-Popli-Rudari-Shtrkovo-Medovo-Rabi-German”. We decided to turn left and visit the village Drenovo, even though it was not shown on any traffic or tourist sign. The village “Lak” now called “Mikrolimni” (Small Lake) surprised us by its tidiness. We circled around while driving on the paved streets, delighted to see so many new houses with blooming flowers in their yards. We noticed that almost every house had a sign offering rooms for rent for tourists and visitors. We stopped in front of a café and after greeting the person sitting closest to us in Macedonian, we asked which road would take us to Drenovo. “To Drenovo!!!” he said out loud in a surprised tone of voice. “Are you from there? I don’t recognize you…” “No, we are not from Drenovo,” I replied. “Are you from Skopje?” he asked looking at the licence plate of my car. “We live there,” I replied. “Ah, I understand. You are from this Macedonia. Please, come out of the car and let’s have coffee and after that we will go to Drenovo together,” he said. Before praising the coffee I praised the village. He agreed and said: “This is a beautiful village especially since it is full of people. But we are only very few… of our kind… We built our houses with money earned from Australia and America, some from Germany and some from selling fish. The streets and roads were paved by the municipality, in other words the state. And don’t think that the state used its own money. This country is milking Europe and is doing it whenever it feels like it. Before entering Europe we had nothing, we were very poor. Now we can even afford to have guests, tourists and visitors. Many come here from the big cities looking for clean air and peace and quiet. They breathe polluted air in the cities and come here for clean lake and mountain air. Only a few of our people ever return and fewer remain here. The old died out abroad and the young that were born there go to the sea for their vacations.

I tell them ‘whoever wants to have good health, come here, to Prespa.’ Do you need a room? I have one available. Would you like to see it?” “We would like to go to Drenovo first,” I replied. “Why do you want to go there? It’s a wasteland. There is nothing there. Nothing!” he repeated. “That’s okay,” I insisted, “if there is nothing then we will see nothing.” “Okay. If you want to go that badly then let’s go. Leave your car here and we will walk. You can’t go there by car, only on foot or by boat,” he said. “Then we will go on foot,” I added. I repeated and stressed the word ‘on foot’ out loud, not by chance and not without reason. The road was narrow and almost hugged the lakeshore. “Here is Drenovo,” said our companion after we arrived on the other side of the great boulder hanging over the lake water. “This is Drenovo…” he repeated while making a circle with his hand. The place was desolate, abandoned, tame and quiet. Except for the waves caressing the rocky shore, there was no other sound. One cannot conceive of the idea that here, in this abandoned remote corner of the world, the entire village was a “gathering place” for the enemies of the people. They used to call this “a gathering place” and not a jail or a camp. Here, the people’s self-appointed government, from the beginning of October 1947 to August 1949, for punishment without trials and judgements, sentenced many fathers, mothers and women with young children as well as those who had abandoned their rifles and fled to the other side. They had no problem referring to these people, some of them being close relatives, as “enemies of the people” and plundering their homes until empty, in the name of the “people’s government”. The jailed men and women, healthy and capable of work, were placed in formations of two and made to walk to Orovnik and Rudari barefoot. There they were given shovels, pickaxes, hammers and metal wedges and forced to dig tunnels at the foothills of the mountains. They took them in and out blindfolded so that the enemy would not find out what these tunnels were used for and that they were actually stashes and warehouses for storing weapons and ammunition. They cursed sunrise and sunset. They cursed sunrise because from the first to the last rays of the sun they were made to dig holes in the rock-strewn mountains. They cursed sunset because from the last to the first rays of the sun, exhausted, hungry and thirsty near water they were frequently awakened and forced to listen to the moaning and cries of those who were beaten, burned with a hot wire, their heads submerged in buckets filled with human filth and, during the day, exposed to ridicule.

And by such means, the power of the popular people’s government was demonstrated. Those simple, ignorant shepherds, ploughmen, cow herders, servants, janitors and simpletons, where and from whom did they learn to be public judges and cruel tormentors? Noted in a report sent to communist high command were the words: “We are teaching the enemies of the People's National Movement and the People’s Struggle to love the struggle for freedom and to work for it and through their effort to be free…” The last words of the report horrified me and reminded me of a similar so-called “meeting place” that existed far north where people were also freed through their hard work and effort. They were reminded about that every day by the writing above the entrance door and by the chimney bellowing black smoke non-stop. But in Drenovo there was no writing on any door and no bellowing chimney. There was only beating to unconsciousness, burning with a hot wire, exhaustion from work, a piece of dried up dark bread not exceeding one hundred grams per day to eat, half drowning in a bucket full of filth and public ridicule and humiliation. Mothers and fathers were coerced into signing pre-prepared letters which, by various means, were delivered to the sons who had moved to the other side, begging them to return to the Partisan ranks with promises that the People’s Government would forgive their sins. And those who did return… by no means were they free. Three times a week they had to report to the police station and every day police agents shadowed them. It was said that one particular man felt so much pressure and remorse that he returned because he believed that his mother, father and wife and two young children were suffering because of what he had done. He was killed at dawn in the grove above Drenovo upon his return. The People’s Government did not forgive his sins. And this was not the only time that an individual was murdered in this grove and in the surrounding area. Automatic rifle bursts were heard there on a regular basis. Early one morning two armed men with automatic rifles went into the cellar of one of the houses in Drenoveni and woke up the General of the Partisans, a general who had been sentenced to death because of “the failure” to capture Voden. The story goes something like this; A few hours before the attack on Voden it was said that this particular general advised the men and women fighters to take a rest. The fighters were very tired, hungry and sleepy after a long march in bad winter conditions. It would be better, the general suggested, if they were given some time to rest, sleep, eat something warm and dry their wet uniforms before they attack. Another general, however, a member of high command who was well rested and well fed and rode on a horse and who had arrived over the Yugoslav border and did not take part in the march, gave a different order. He ordered the fighters to commence the attack immediately and without delay. As ordered, the fighters attacked and in the process many drowned in the freezing Voden River, were blown up by mines and were cut down by machine gun fire in front of the enemy bunkers and naturally the battle was lost. While the fighters were being massacred, this particular general from high command slipped out of the battle and, traveling via Yugoslav territory, returned to Vineni and reported that the other general was at fault because of what he had said. A judgement was passed against the general in absentia and he was sentenced to death. When he returned from the battlefield he was captured and imprisoned in Drenovo. His name was Georgiadis. The two armed men who had awakened the general that morning told him that it was time for his usual morning walk. Looking through a crack in the cellar window, in the dim grey morning light, the general recognized one of the men. He was a Unit Commander in one of his brigades. The general smiled at the men and greeted them and without saying anything else, proceeded to walk ahead of them.

They walked at a slow pace looking like they were measuring the road, turned left uphill and then entered the grove. The general stopped, turned towards the men and asked if it was far enough or should he take a few more steps into the forest. The men took their automatic rifles off their shoulders. The general unbuttoned his leather shirt and from the inside pocket pulled out a piece of paper that was folded in four and said: “Comrade Captain, this is a letter addressed to my daughter who lives in Athens. Please make sure that it is delivered, but if you can’t then let it be known that I fought honourably and I am not a traitor.” The general took a step back and with his legs spread apart, stomped on the ground several times as if checking if it was hard enough to support him. He then lifted his head up and looked at the peaks of Mount Bela Voda. The sun was just about to rise when a volley of machine gun fire was heard above Drenovo. The two men returned to Vineni by boat. There were thirty bullet holes in the general’s leather shirt. One bullet was not enough for the Partisan general… Several days after that incident they brought twelve more men to Drenovo. Rumours were that they were caught at the border attempting to escape to Yugoslavia. They were not tried in a court of law because a long time ago an act had been passed which gave their captors the power to execute them without a trial. In fact anyone caught attempting to escape across the border or even thinking of escaping across the border was to be executed. Among the twelve prisoners was a famous clarinet player who had won first prize at a local Greek music competition held in 1936. No wedding took place in Prespa or in the entire Belitsa River Valley without the presence of the famous clarinet player known as Karatimio. Before sunrise, as usual, they took the twelve to the grove above Drenovo. Only one was allowed to return, that was Karatimio’s son. He was a minor. That spring day in 1949 was the day when nightingales stopped singing in the thick lush grove above Drenovo. Drenovo; a beautiful and peaceful place nestled between the forested base of Mount Vrba and the coastline of Lake Mala Prespa. Drenovo; a place of suffering, an ugly picture from which the bad and evil, perpetrated against the poor, innocent Macedonian people by the Macedonian and Greek communist leaders, cannot be erased. That ugly picture was etched in the memories of all those who experienced it. It was taken to far away places by the survivors, the wives and mothers from Kostur and Lerin Region. It was taken to the migrant working husbands and sons in Australia, America and Canada and, like a nightmare, it was etched into the memories of their children and grandchildren. We took to the road and silently walked from Drenovo back to Lak on foot. We walked slowly and it seemed as if we could hear the quiet steps of the barefoot men and women who, with shovels and pickaxes over their shoulders, walked alongside of us on this cross bearing road. It seemed that we could hear the cries and moans of those suffering in the cellars of the Drenovo houses. It seemed that we could hear a clarinet playing for one moment and then going silent for another… We walked in silence as if returning from a funeral, moving slowly, quietly walking away from the forgotten loneliness…

While driving on the main road we turned right at the intersection leading to Kula-Peroo. Our aim was to visit German which, by population, was at one time the biggest village in Mala Prespa Region. Some of the houses here looked like they had been restored, others were in the process of being restored and still others, by the cracks in the walls, the sagging roofs and the dented chimneys, looked like they had been left to the mercy of the elements. To the left of the wide paved road in front of the old weathered down wooden door, braced by iron nails, was a man sitting at the rotting doorstep. Leaning his elbows on his knees and bracing his chin with his crossed palms, he sat there in silence staring at the yard full of overgrown nettles and weeds. Slowly and quietly he switched his view between the roof and the chimney and then stared at the windows and, for a while, at the front door. He tightened his lips with his fingers and looking at him all shrunken and sad I did not know if he wanted to talk, cry, or scream. After I greeted him he sat up and adjusted himself, making room for us to sit at the doorstep beside him. Then, after being silent for a while, he pointed to the yard with his hand and said: “People took me from this yard when I was just a little boy and others returned me in front of this door as an old man… It was like this;

The first to be collected were the young men, seventeen to twenty something years old, and two or three months later they collected the young ladies. After that, in the spring of 1948, in March when all the mountains around Lake Prespa were covered with snow, they collected us, around four hundred and fifty children ages two to fourteen. The children aged fifteen and sixteen were left in the village but the year after that they drafted them and put guns on their shoulders. So I am telling you, they took four hundred or so children and made us walk on foot from here to Dolno Dupeni and from there to Liuboino where we spent the night. The next morning we were loaded onto trucks and taken to Bitola, to the railway station. There they loaded us onto rail cars and took us to Brailovo where many children from Prespa, Kostur and Voden Region villages had been taken. Days later more children arrived from various other regions and villages. Every three or four days, children were loaded into rail cars according to village of origin or some other kind of list and I don’t know where they were taken. Nobody was talking. They put us in barns where we slept covered in hay and straw and for food they gave us a small piece of cornbread. Was it enough? No! We were all hungry all the time, a hunger that pushed us to go begging from house to house. But instead of giving us bread the residents swore at us, cursed us and chased us with sticks, sending their dogs after us… And they were right, how could they feed us when they had nothing to eat themselves?… Brailovo was very poor at the time and the only thing we received there was a load of lice and dirt. There were too many children for them to be able to do anything for them… One day my cousin Kote and I decided that we had had enough of the kindness which the leaders of this excursion, with a woman named Vera in charge, had told us about in German and at every other stop we had made. We made up our minds and decided that it was time to go home; to return to German. We figured that we could walk back to Bitola over the rail line that had brought us here and then ask which line went to Prespa, take it and walk back to German. We left and walked and walked for several hours and I think we may have made it to the half way point when we were caught and taken back to the Brailovo barns. Unfortunately we could not sit still and desperately wanted to return home. So even before a week had passed, we left again and walked on the rail line back to Bitola. This time we were wiser and every time we noticed someone or something unusual we hid in the ditches, in the brush, or in holes under the rails. We managed to evade capture during the first day and spent the night in a ditch. The next morning, before dawn, we arrived at the entrance to Bitola. We were frozen and very hungry. We were afraid to go on the road so we went to a cemetery and there, between the graves, we could see many cats and dogs gathering. We figured they were coming to eat the offerings the living had left for their departed… We chased the animals with sticks and stones and collected as much of the bread, apples and pieces of pastry that we could find. We ate what we could and the rest we stuffed in our pockets. After that my cousin Kote said: “From what I heard from my grandfather, our people, some time ago, used to come to the Bitola market from our villages. They took the road from Dolno Dupeni, Liuboino, Braichino and came out to a village called Kazani and from there they went straight to Bitola.” We asked a very old woman to show us the way to Kazani. She asked us, “Why do you want to go there?” Kote lied and said, “We are looking for work as shepherds…” “Go straight, only straight, past the mosque then follow the river up past the meadows and after that you go straight again…” she said. We left and walked for about an hour on the road and another hour hiding from people off the road in the bushes and in the willow groves… We then reached open space from where we could see a dark snow cloud forming over the mountains and coming our way.

We continued to walk until we came to the outskirts of the village Kazani where we hid in the first barn we ran into. We spent the night there. In the morning we asked an old man if this road led to Prespa? “Yes it does,” he said and disappeared into the narrow village lane. A few minutes before sundown we came up behind a mountain. There were mountains to the left, mountains to the right and in the distance in front of us we could see the lake and beyond that a long mountain. All the mountains were snowed-in. “You see that mountain far away?” my cousin asked, out of breath. “I see it, so what?” I replied. “We can see it from our village… Do you see that slit in the mountain that makes the mountain look like it’s broken?” Kote asked. “I see it, but so what?” I replied again. “That slit can also be seen from our village. So if we go to the left from here we will get home,” he said. So we took the path to the left and walked until dark. It got very dark and we were cold but we dragged our frozen feet until we arrived at a village. I don’t know what time it was but the villagers were asleep and so were their dogs. We broke into a barn and spent the rest of the night there. At the break of dawn we went above the village and continued our trek. Kote, who was a couple of years older than me, remembered the mountains. He stopped and asked: “You see that mountain there? It is called Vrba. And that one, left of it, do you see it?” “Yes I see it…” I said. “Well silly boy,” he yelled out loud, “that one is called Bela Voda…” When he said that mountain was Bela Voda I jumped with joy and yelled: “And under it is German?”

We were so happy to be so close to home that we hugged each other and laughed, forgetting our misery and hunger. We took to the road again and headed for Mount Bela Voda or what we in German call German’s mountain. We kept moving and stayed to the left of the villages, avoiding being seen. We arrived in Liuboino by early evening. We recognized the houses and the large church… but our fear told us “stay away from the people…” There was a barn at the end of the village so we decided to go there. In the yard we saw a pile of leeks. Quickly we picked up a bunch and quietly entered the small barn door. Then, as soon as we had tucked ourselves in the hay, we began to eat. We were very hungry so we ate a lot of leeks but things did not go well for us. Before dawn when we came out of the barn and took the road to Dolno Dupeni, we felt tired and exhausted; we had lost our strength; we could hardly walk… we had terrible diarrhea, we figured from eating too many leeks… We could not go on so we hid in a big church above the village and rested. From there we could see the tall peak of Mount Tsutse and to the right of that was Tsrveni Steni. That’s were the border was. We recognized the mountain peaks because they were also visible from our village. We decided that if we traveled along the brook we would arrive at Tsrveni Steni and from there it would be easy to get to German, so we left. The snow was frozen. My cousin Kote was wearing military boots and was able to break the snow and create holes. I walked behind him barefoot (my moccasins were torn to pieces). We arrived at the top of Tsrveni Steni and stopped beside a border marker. From there we could see our village. But soon the mountain was covered in fog. We welcomed the thick fog because it was easier for us to cross the border undetected. Unfortunately when we arrived at the bottom of the other side, the Partisans caught us and took us to the militia station. There they asked us many questions and we told them everything. Unfortunately, in spite of what we said, they insisted that we tell everyone that all the children in Brailovo were alive and well, that they were well dressed in new clothing and that they were sleeping in beds with white sheets and that there was plenty and all kinds of food for them to eat and that they could eat whatever their little hearts desired… When they saw me barefoot, they gave me a pair of military boots and after that they let us go. Hey, do you know what happened to me after that damn Brailovo? After having to spend all that time getting there, after having to sleep in barns and after being frozen and hungry? And here I thought once I arrived at home, my father, sisters and brother would welcome me with open arms and hug me. My father would let me sit on his knee, pat my head and give me a warm embrace. My sisters would cook something good for me to eat and bring it to me nice and hot with plenty of bread. They would bring me nice woollen socks and sit with me by the warm fire. Then when I got nice and warm I would fall asleep in my father’s lap and in the morning when I woke up under a warm blanket I would drink warm sheep’s milk… So I thought, as I walked home with a heart full of joy, hopping, dancing and feeling like singing… Then I felt sudden fear, which made me want to get home faster… When I got there I found the door locked. I banged and banged, then I listened. I banged and listened again and again, once, twice, three times harder and harder but there was no answer. I got desperate and began to pound the door with my fists, with my knees and with my hard military boots. They would not open the door. I thought they must be out somewhere working and wherever they were surely they would soon return. The sun was still shining over the Drenicheto Hill on the other side of the lake and there was plenty of time until dark. I sat at the threshold of the gate and waited. I placed my elbows on my knees and covered my face with my hands and then waited and waited and waited.

It became dark but still I waited and refused to move even after I got the shakes from the cold, feeling like ants were crawling up my legs. My face turned white from the cold, my fingers became numb and my ears felt like they were on fire. I felt sleepy and began to lose consciousness. I could not tell where I was and what time it was when I felt a shake on my shoulder. I came to and heard a woman’s voice asking: “Who are you child? Get up. There is no one here in this house…” She took me home to her house. She gave me bread and cheese to eat. And while I ate she told me slowly, word by word that my entire family, my father, my sisters and my brother were taken, mobilized by the Partisans and sent to the front. She told me that my brother had been killed… The bread and cheese I was eating fell out of my hands, my throat tightened, I saw sparks before my eyes, I began to shake and wanted to cry but I had no tears, I wanted to yell but had no voice, I wanted to run away but had no strength… And… and at that moment I felt utterly alone, I felt a great pain inside of me, I felt broken. And this is how I have remained to this day, all alone… Everything for me became desolate. But as they say, life goes on… They treated my foot sores with all kinds of potions for months and my feet eventually healed. Then I took on a job as a shepherd… and worked from April 1948 to August 1949. More and more people were taken from the village during that time. Men and women capable of fighting were mobilized and taken to the battle zones. Older men and women and some younger women were mobilized and given the task of transporting ammunition from the Prespa warehouses to the Gramos battle zones. There was no day that passed that the people in charge, led by some woman named Vera, did not come to the village, take the people to the school, tell them that victory was near and ask them to give everything they had. And the people did give everything they had. They gave their bedcovers, pillows, forks, spoons, plates, cups, socks, shirts, sweaters and lives… there was no day when the church bell did not ring signifying the occurrence of a death. There was no day that bad news did not arrive of so and so being killed. Crying and wailing was an everyday regular occurrence in the village. And every day the village became poorer and more desolate; a wasteland… There were no children my age. Except for the babies, there were no children at all… Mothers wept and wailed, took to the highway and waited at the border looking into the distance… They thought that by doing so their children might return. That’s when I realized that our people had been robbed of their greatest joy and deprived of their most valuable… happiness… their children. One day in 1949, I don’t remember which month, at Prisoio, near the border where my sheep were grazing, my father appeared to me. He was dressed in a military uniform and told me to quickly bring him clothes from home. I ran home and brought him some. He quickly changed and after he hugged me I thought that he was going to take me with him. But he didn’t. I don’t know why he didn’t. So again I was left alone… One day, I think it was in August, in the afternoon, Partisans riding on horses ran into our village. They ran up and down the village streets going from house to house banging on doors with the butts of their rifles and yelling: “Leave! Leave! Leave! The front has been breached! The Greek army is coming and it will slaughter and hang everything it finds that is living!!!” Like a sudden storm, like a wild fury out of hell, like a flood spawned by a hailstorm, like a swollen muddy river and a cloud of fire, the frightening and terrible news was spread from house to house and from mouth to mouth. Great fear made throats of grown men tighten, hands tremble, knees buckle, faces distort, eyes sink, skins crawl and minds become confused. “Leave! Leave! Leave!” thundered the hoarse voices of the horsemen, headlong and frantic, sowing the seeds of fear.

Widespread fear was sown everywhere. When the fear of one becomes the fear of many, it becomes universal and nothing can stop it. And those who ordered the fear surely knew of its power… The villagers, whom I came to know, already gripped by fear, now overpowered by the yelling of the horsemen who forcefully pushed the people to leave, quickly gathered their belongings, everything that they could carry from their homes. They took their bed covers, woolen blankets, etc., and some food and loaded them onto their wagons, donkeys (their horses and mules were confiscated by the Partisans), backs and shoulders. They also took their livestock; oxen, sheep and goats and ran for their lives.

We first took the road straight for Markova Noga. The border was close so we figured that we could cross it quickly, but when we reached the Sveti Jovan Church our Partisans closed the road on us. They began to yell and told us to return to our homes. One of the villagers explained what had happened and begged them to let us pass so that we could go to our relatives in the villages in Dolno Dupeni, Liuboino and Braichino where we would be safer than going back home. The man told them that most of us had family there and that we would remain there until the worst was over and then we would return to our homes. But our Partisans said, “NO!” and pointed their rifles at us. “Back!” they yelled, “Go back and take the road to Peroo and from there go to Nivitsi, Orovo and Grazhdeno.” We refused to budge as more and more people kept arriving with their wagons, oxen, goats, sheep, donkeys… But they insisted and kept yelling, “Back! We order you to go back to Peroo!” And as the crowd swelled up they opened fire with a couple of machine guns. The whistling bullets flying over our heads made us even more afraid. But still they refused to let us cross the border. We turned around and took the road to Peroo. The people from German and Rabi crossed over the bridge first then were quickly followed by people from the other villages; Orovnik, Poply, Rudary, Shtrkovo, Medovo… We, the people who crossed the Kula-Peroo bridge first, spent the night hiding in the sparse trees along the road. In the morning we could see airplanes flying over the mountains Lisets, Moro and Chukata. We could see piles of soil fly from the ground as the airplanes dropped bombs and then moments later we would hear the thunderous explosions. After that we saw tanks and soldiers running behind them, rushing towards Prespa on the other side of Prevolot. And on Bela Voda towards German, Partisans were running to the level part of the mountain base where more and more people were coming and rushing towards Peroo. Then the airplanes appeared in Bela Voda and flew at high speeds towards the level part of the mountain base. “Quickly, quickly, quickly, move, move, run, run, run fast, and don’t stop,” we could hear voices calling and yelling at the people. Some of those running tripped and fell while others jumped over them and stepped on them. Lost in the mad rush, some people were calling out, crying and looking for their friends and relatives. We could hear the screams of babies and young children and the cries of mothers and women, the mooing of cattle and the bleating of sheep. Among the people and on the sides ran men and women Partisans and they too were yelling, shouting, stopping, crouching and firing their weapons. The airplanes dominated the sky all day, flying in shifts. There was one way to salvation for those people – Kula – so everyone ran for Kula. “Leave!!!” a voice was half heard calling amid the roar of the airplane engines, which for days had dominated the skies. Airplanes were flying in and out of the area firing their machine guns, dropping their bombs, tearing up the earth, tossing soil into the air and blanketing everything with dust and black smoke. The tanks too were doing their bit adding to the chaos and ploughing the ground with their steel treaded tracks. The entire plain between the two lakes and every inch of land up to Peroo was full of people frantically running to escape the fire falling from the sky. Non-stop the aircraft persisted, flying low with engines thundering, firing long volleys of machine gun fire, dropping bombs that exploded into fireballs, giving rise to terrible flames that rose above the plains and burned people and everything in sight. Non-stop loud cries and wailing could be heard, people were dying from bombs exploding and from burning flames. Those alive were running, running, frantically running towards Peroo, falling and getting up again... There was salvation in Peroo, they would be saved if they reached Peroo but first they would have to cross the bridge, run across to the other side of the lake, take to the mountains and hide in the bushes and in the forest.

To do that they would have to avoid the airplanes flying from Bela Voda, turning half circle and from high above firing their machine guns and dropping their bombs and grenades. They would have to pass through the fire, the smoke and the cries and screams of the wounded who had fallen all over the plains. When the airplanes flew away we thought that they would not come back, but that was only wishful thinking. Soon after one group left, another group arrived, again dropping bombs and firing at the people with machine guns. Some were dropping bombs of fire. When the airplanes were changing shifts the cannons took their place pounding the plains. It was non-stop, one thunderstorm after another. The tanks were rolling, dominating the area between Orovnik and Rabi, firing their cannons during the time the skies over Prespa were free of aircraft. Then suddenly there was a great big explosion. The bridge in Peroo and the lake flood gates were blown up. The masses of people left behind had nowhere to go. Without a bridge to cross and with water flooding the plain, many were left in peril… Some were lost to the bombs and now many were left to drown. The strait between the two lakes was too narrow to fit all of them. They jostled one another, shouted and screamed and, to save themselves, they jumped into the wild rushing water above which, every several minutes or so, aircraft flew and while doing so fired upon them and unleashed their bombs and rockets. Then immediately behind them, other aircraft flew and dropped the kind of bombs that spread fire and raised a lot of flames burning everything living and dead in their path. When the tanks and infantry arrived a vicious and bloody battle ensued. The aircraft began to bomb the coastline and the road that leads from Kula-Peroo to Vineni. The road was lined with dismembered bodies of people and animals. We took that road and sought our salvation on it…