The Great Decline – Chapter 8 - Part 02

Going down the steep slope Fimka heard all kinds of sobbing, wailing… cries of mourning… from the women waiting and looking for their children, from the women carrying the wounded and from the women who had just found out that their children had died… killed in battle… Some mothers just simply cried… for their living children who never grew up properly and who did not deserve to be plunged into this terrible, senseless war… Watching the pain and desperation in these women… mothers like herself… Fimka cried some more… for them, for their children and for her own children; for her older ones who were fighting in the war and for the young ones who were taken away from her and sent to foreign countries...

And as Fimka listened to the woman in front of her pray and sob, she felt pain and anguish. She equally felt this stranger’s, this woman’s, this mother’s pain as she felt her own… Day and night… Uphill and downhill… traversing the paths of doom, Fimka’s pain grew larger with each encounter and with each passing day. Could there be any greater pain? What kind of pain could there be that was greater than the pain all these mothers were feeling?

Fimka began to cry out loud… It was a mother’s cry of desperation which sent shockwaves throughout the column inching its way down the steep, breakneck mountain slope. It was a cry of desperation meant to be heard by all the children… older and young… It was a mother’s cry for her children…

Fimka found it impossible to tune out the resounding sorrowful cries of all those mothers... She felt a sharp pain in her chest. It felt as if someone had gripped her heart with their hand and squeezed it tightly...

“Now please let me take your shoes off... So that I can wash your feet…” said Fimka with an almost visible smile on her face. She then gently pulled off Tsilka’s torn boots, then her socks; wounded leg first. “How long has it been since you last took your shoes off?” asked Fimka.

“Honestly mother, I don’t remember… I was up there on the mountain ridge…” replied Tsilka, looking up towards the mountaintop. “There… we were not allowed to take our boots off.”

“Oooh, your feet stink! Cover them quickly before the flies attack them…” said Fimka with a tiny smile and a funny look on her face.

Fimka grabbed her canteen to wet the cloth. There was no more water in it. She tipped it and only a few drops dripped out. Fimka wrapped Tsilka’s feet in the moist cloth and then began to rub them. Only then did she notice that Tsilka was missing the nails on her big toes.

“What happened to your toenails?” asked Fimka with a shocked look on her face and before Tsilka had a chance to reply Fimka said: “Not only your toenails but part of your toes are also missing…”

“They froze…” replied Tsilka.

Fimka sighed deeply and said: “I am going to the brook to get some water. I don’t think we will be moving out until dusk… I will be right back!” Then as Fimka rose to her feet she noticed that Tsilka’s braid of hair was missing. “Tsilka,” she asked, “what happened to your braid of hair?”

“It caught on fire and burned, mother… when I was shot at...” replied Tsilka.

“Oh, I am so happy that you are alive. Your hair will grow back,” said Fimka, staring at Tsilka carefully, examining her head with her eyes.

Fimka sighed deeply again and said: “No other girl in the entire village had a more beautiful braid of hair than you did. Your hair was shiny and straight and your braid was as thick as an arm. When I watched you coming back from the spring fetching water, I used to say: “My daughter has the most beautiful braid of hair in the entire village.”

Fimka put her hand over her own head and showed Tsilka how she (Tsilka) carried the pitcher of water on her head. She then said: “You stood straight and glided through the air, only your braid and hips swung from side to side with every step you took.” Fimka then smiled, remembering something joyous from her life’s experience. But she felt poorer now, seeing that the braid that once gave her pride was gone… But then, she thought, the hair would grow back and meekly smiled at Tsilka looking into her big beautiful, moist dark eyes. She smiled and then she remembered that this was the first time in a long time that she had smiled and felt happy and warm inside.

Fimka took out the comb from her bag and said: “Please let me comb your hair… my child.” She then smoothed down Tsilka’s hair, stroked it, kissed it and combed it and being unable to accept that it was gone and, with a sorry and disappointed tone of voice, said: “No other girl had a braid such as yours… no one… your hair will grow back and you will have a beautiful braid again...”

About half an hour later Fimka was back. She had returned with a canteen full of water and with Tsilka’s clothes all washed. On her way back she gave the wounded person she had been carrying a drink of water. Then, while going towards Tsilka, Fimka heard a man’s voice say something. She turned and looked. A wounded man was sitting down, leaning against a huge pine tree trunk. He looked into Fimka’s eyes and said: “Give me some to drink…”

Fimka looked at the man and noticed that he had no hands. The ends of his stumpy arms were wrapped in blood-stained, dirty bandages.

She placed the canteen of water at his mouth and the man began to drink slowly, then greedily gulped down all the water.

“Take it easy… Drink slowly… I will get you more…” said Fimka.

“Please mother, bring more…” he said. “But first may I ask if you have some bread? No? You don’t have any? How about a cigarette? Do you have a cigarette? No? Can you please find someone who does? Ask… Please ask around… dear mother… Someone… You ask… Please ask…”

Fimka left and shortly after returned with a lit cigarette. She placed it in his mouth and the man immediately took a long puff and looked up at the patches of blue sky visible through the branches of the tall trees.

“Please hold my cigarette for a moment dear mother. May I ask you to get me a little bit of bread? Can you please find some for me? No? You don’t think anyone has any? Perhaps they will bring us bread after dark…” said the man, pausing for a moment and then asking: “Are you related to the girl?” pointing with his head in Tsilka’s direction.

“She is my daughter… she… she is wounded...” replied Fimka, looking down.

“She is wounded?” asked the man, sighing deeply and looking down. Then after a short pause he quietly said: “Well, this is better, mother… than being left up there permanently…” pointing at the mountain with his eyes. “There are many, dear mother, left up there… left forever… I should have been left up there too…” he said, pausing he looked up at her and said: “Please bring me the canteen.” Fimka placed the canteen with water at his mouth and he drank greedily with large gulps. “Thank you… Thank you… God bless you dear mother… Thank you,” said the man in a serious, sincere and thoughtful tone of voice. “I should have been left up there too… forever...” he again said, “That would have been better…” He then raised his arms. “Look! Both my hands...” he said, shook his arms and turned his head away from her. The pupils of his eyes were swimming in tears.

Fimka went closer and stroked his head and in a sad voice said: “Please don’t say that… don’t talk like that… Please don’t do that…”

“Well, what should I be doing if not crying… I am without hands, am I not? How will I do anything for myself? How will I hug my children? This is bad… wrong… very wrong… This happened to me… to me, a person that has wronged no one. What have I done?”

Fimka didn’t know how to comfort him. She couldn’t find the words to say that would calm him down and alleviate his pain and suffering. She stroked his head again and left without saying a word.

“What is wrong mother? Why do you look so sad?” asked Tsilka.

“Do you have some bread?” Fimka asked without replying to Tsilka’s questions.

“Are you hungry, mother? Do you want to eat? Tsilka asked.

“When I see you all like that,” said Fimka, sighing deeply, replying to Tsilka’s first question, “only bitterness fills my heart… my child...”

“Here mother, I have a piece of bread in my pocket. Take it... are you hungry? Are you very hungry?” asked Tsilka in a puzzled tone of voice, attempting to understand what was going on.

“No, no Tsilka, it is not for me. There is a wounded man over there, the poor man has no hands; he is the one who is hungry… Oh, how sorry I feel for him…” she said and wiped her tears with the corner of her black head kerchief.

“Here, take it to him…” said Tsilka.

The stranger stuck his lips out, as if expecting a kiss, and took the dry chunk of bread in his mouth. His jaws began to move playfully and his eyes brightened up. He gulped the piece down and looked into Fimka’s eyes.

“It was very little,” he said, “but it was delicious… God bless you mother…”

Fimka kept staring at him and still could not find the words to console him. She had seen many wounded and many of them she had carried on stretchers and horses. She had seen them cry and she had seen them die. And always she had been thinking of her own children. It had almost been a year since she had started doing this job and every day, without exception, she had asked about her children… and nothing…until today. Today she should be happy that she had finally found at least one of them, wounded but alive, and her heart should be filled with joy and happiness, but instead her pain had intensified. And while sitting beside Tsilka and talking with her non-stop, there was one nagging question on her mind. She wanted to ask Tsilka if she knew anything about her brothers Risto and Tashko and the other children in her village. But she could not find the courage in herself to ask. She was afraid of bad news. There was a saying among the women who delivered ammunition and wounded that: “Bad news travels fast and will hit you when you least expect it.”

Fimka returned to Tsilka. Just now she noticed how much Tsilka had changed since last year when all the girls in the village were gathered together and taken by the partisans. Fimka sat down, looked at Tsilka and began to think, counting the years since Tsilka’s birth. She counted eighteen harvests not including this year’s. This was how she counted the ages of all her children: after harvesting the crops, after harvesting the grapes, after sowing the seeds and after bad times. Fimka associated Tsilka with the bad times. She sat next to her, thought and said: “You have grown up my child…”

“I have grown up? Do you think so?” asked Tsilka smiling.

“You have grown up my daughter, you have grown up… in the mountains and in desolate places…” Fimka replied.

“We all have mother…” said Tsilka pointing with her head at the wounded. “All of us here have grown up and matured in the

mountains… And home? How are things at home, mother?” asked Tsilka.

“Home...” replied Fimka in a strained tone of voice and then went silent.

Home was everything to Tsilka. That’s where her grandparents, younger sisters and brothers were. She was tied to home like water to the shore and like birds to the sky. It had been almost a year since she had been home and seen her family. Home was where the fireplace was burning warm and bright, especially when it was snowing or blowing cold air outside. Home was the place where the family sat behind the window while chestnuts and potatoes baked and loud sparks shot out of the fireplace. Home was where her grandfather told great stories to his grandchildren, about beautiful princesses, fairies and dragons, while they excitedly listened to every word he said with eyes and mouths wide open. Tsilka was always the last one to fall asleep. She closed her eyes, listened to her grandfather telling his stories and imagined herself being the beautiful princess. She particularly enjoyed the stories of the princess helping the lame, the blind, the hungry and the thirsty. She also imagined being a fairy with long blond hair, dressed all in white, dancing in the green meadows and collecting flowers or playing with the bunnies and squirrels in the woods.

Thoughts of her grandfather snatched Tsilka from her dreams of being a princess and a fairy and sent her off into a different dream, a dream of her grandfather returning from Kostur and bringing gifts for everyone. Home was where the children ran down the yard to greet their grandfather returning from market, bringing back all kinds of sweets and delights for them.

Just at that very moment Tsilka remembered one particular story her grandfather had told the kids. It was of the time when he was returning home from market and had a run in with one particularly nasty dog.

“And when I came near the edge of the village,” he said, “returning from the market in Kostur, where I bought gifts for everyone, that stupid dog belonging to the Nanov family started barking at me.

Bark from this side, bark from that side, he was all over me. I defended myself with my staff but the dog wanted to bite me, to pounce on me. It refused to let me pass so I had no choice but to throw a dress at it… I threw the dress I had bought for Tsilka. So when the dog went after the dress I passed by and came home alive and well...”

When Tsilka heard this story she quickly opened her eyes and returned from her dream of being a princess and complained to her grandfather: “Why Grandpa? Why did you have to throw my dress to the dog?” Then she complained to her mother. “Mom, tell Grandpa to take my dress back from the dog and give it to me!”

So, grandfather, to make his little granddaughter happy, resumed telling his story with a different ending:

“But then… but then…” he said in a soft, quiet voice. “After returning home and dropping off all the other gifts I was carrying, I went around the back of the Nanov house and quietly snuck in, waiting for the dog to fall asleep. When the dog closed its eyes I snatched the dress from it and brought it back here…” After he finished telling his story, Tsilka remembered, he tapped his tobacco pipe on the red clay tile he used for warming his feet and said to mother: “Go ahead, take the children to bed now…”

“Home...” said Tsilka out loud in an extended quiet tone of voice, sounding as if she spoke in a dream.

Home was much more than that for Tsilka. Home was where the annual cycle of life repeated, beginning with planting and ending with harvesting; filling the stores with life sustaining crops, grains and flour. Home was where the wheat, flour, cupboards, table, wide pans, the oven and the rolling pins resided... Home was where Tsilka excitedly followed her mother around the house watching her making dinner, baking bread… First she prepared the yeast in a small earthenware bowl, then, early in the morning, she kneaded the dough. She then covered it with a thin cloth and patiently waited for it to rise… just right. For daily consumption bread was made from a mixture of wheat, rye and corn flour and baked in the large outdoor oven. A different kind of grain mixture was used to make bread for

those without teeth, like grandfather and grandmother. For them Fimka made sour dough with two parts wheat flour to one part rye flour. This bread was baked in the coals of the fireplace in a pan covered with a dome-like iron cover.

For holidays, celebrations, name days, baptisms, village fairs, when entertaining guests and when donating bread to the army, only refined wheat flour was used. A variety of breads were also baked for special occasions such as Easter and for church. It was customary for the women to give out small homemade buns of bread at church along with other donated foods such as boiled wheat, homemade feta cheese, olives, fish, etc.

Zelniks were a little harder to make. But in time Tsilka learned how to properly mix, knead and roll the dough into paper thin layers, how to chop, mix and fry the ingredients consisting mostly of well fried leeks, onions, fried pork, etc., what proportions to use and how to bake them in the fireplace in a wide pan covered by an iron dome cover. Zelniks were also made with squash, pickled cabbage, feta cheese, cottage cheese, eggs and in the spring with nettles, sorrel and dock mixed with cheese, eggs and cottage cheese…

More difficult to make than zelniks were the bureks. To make a burek Tsilka had to learn to roll out the dough in four or five thin layers, add the ingredients consisting of feta cheese, mixed with cottage cheese and eggs, twist them into a long cylinder resembling a thick rope and then curl the cylinder into a winding circle inside a wide round pan. Bureks were also made with dissolved sugar, honey, fruit jelly and other sweets.

Another difficult pastry to make was maznik. The layers of pastry were similar to that of a burek except that they were made to fit the pan and laid one on top of the other in multiple layers with filling added in between. The ingredients for making the filling included rice, eggs, beans, lentils, etc. Maznik made with rice was called an oriznik. Maznik made with eggs was called mlechnik because it also contained milk (mleko).

All of the pastries were covered with layers of sheep’s butter or pork lard to keep them flaky and so that they browned nicely during

baking. Ingredients were properly soaked, baked or fried before they were added to the layers of pastry. More layers of dough made a richer maznik. Mmmm, finger licking good...

“Home...” Tsilka was again heard saying in a low, strained tone of voice while keeping her eyes closed.

Home for Tsilka was where clothing for the entire family was made, where wool was turned to yarn and where yarn was knitted to make sweaters, gloves, socks, etc., and woven on the family loom to make carpets, rugs, bed covers, aprons and even dresses, pants and vests. Tsilka pictured her mother and her grandmother sitting side by side near the fireplace carding and spinning the wool and turning it into yarn. She then pictured her mother bent over the loom weaving and weaving, all night long… She wove cloth with a white background and added patterns of black and red to it and then switched to white, then black, then red and with each thread she added she wove a row of joy, a row of sorrow, a row of desire and a row of suffering… And as such, the chests were slowly and painstakingly being filled with the dowry and wedding gifts for her Tsilka...

Home for Tsilka was where she and her friends and other village girls got together and while telling jokes, dreaming about boys and singing love songs, they knit socks, sweaters, hats, gloves, purses and other necessities of life… And the boys, making fun of them, circled around, playing with beads and chains, twirling them around their fingers, nervously waiting to be noticed and anxiously looked for the girls to toss a look in their direction. That was home...

Home was where the yard was full of sheep, goats, oxen, cows and horses, where young lambs ran playfully. Home was where a cow named Belka, two oxen named Balio and Sivko, two horses, a mule, a cat and a dog named Sharko lived. Home was where a pear tree grew inside the yard, where almond, walnut and chestnut trees grew in a place called Old Meadow. Home was where the gardens bloomed; where the vineyards flourished and from whose grapes barrels of wine were made…

Home was where the family got together to work; in the meadows, the vineyards, the fields, the gardens and at home, where young and

old sang together, where Tsilka learned her songs from Fimka; captivating, joyous, tearful and sad songs. These were beautiful times that warmed the heart and filled the soul with happiness. This too, for Tsilka, was home…

Tsilka remembered singing together with her mother and when the two sang together the sun was brighter and the atmosphere was warmer. Those were the good times. Tsilka remembered many people in her village, and in the surrounding villages, say:

“When Fimka sang the sun looked brighter and felt warmer. Her sweet voice warmed and soothed souls. People felt calmer, less anxious, less troubled and their hearts were filled with bliss.” That too was home…

“Home...” she again said, searching her memory for things that reminded her of home.

Home was where the old, blackened from years of smoke, Virgin Mary icon hung in the corner with its tiny oil lamp always burning… where they whispered prayers quietly; for health… for prosperity... for safety… for thanks… Home was where the swallows made their nest under the eaves and where their chicks chirped incessantly... Home was where the flowers and the red roses grew, on whose leaves dew drops collected… Home was all that and more...

“Home, mother… How are things at home?” Tsilka asked again.

At the sound of the question Fimka felt a cutting pain in her stomach and all the bitterness and sorrow that had collected and was pushed into a tight lump, she felt, was about to fall out. The question gave her pain which she felt all the way down in her soul. She sighed and moved her hand. From her hand gesture Tsilka understood that something dreadful had taken place…

“Home… My dear daughter... there is no home... Everything was burnt down… Turned to ash...” replied Fimka, taking a deep breath and placing her hands over her face attempting to control her emotions. Tsilka looked at her with disbelief. Fimka began to

tremble. She looked exhausted and in despair. Her heart was pounding and her muscles were tightening. She became oblivious of the voices, the quiet whimpering and the complaining of the wounded and all other sounds around her. Her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Tsilka looked up at her face. Tears were running down between her fingers. Tsilka placed her head on Fimka’s shoulder and hugged her tightly. She too began to cry. She sobbed quietly and in her soft sob she carried a great burden; Fimka’s burden; Fimka’s pain and despair. Fimka dropped her hands down from her face, embraced Tsilka and, with a whimper, said: “We have no home, my dear child… we have no home…”

“What about Grandpa, Grandma and the children?” asked Tsilka in a broken voice.

“I took your grandmother to your aunt’s place in Labanitsa. Your grandfather was taken by the government army. I was taken by the partisans to transport ammunition and carry wounded. The village was burned down by the government army two months after you were taken. They bombed the village with cannon fire from Nestram,” replied Fimka.

“What about the children, mother? What happened to them?” asked Tsilka with a tone of desperation in her voice.

“They took them too…” replied Fimka.

“What?! Who took them?!” asked Tsilka.

“Those from NOF (National Liberation Front) and AFZH (Women’s Anti-Fascist Front). They came to the village, went from house to house and invited everyone to a meeting. They told us that a big battle was coming, everything was going to burn. The rivers and the wells were going to evaporate from the heat and the fire was going to reach the sky. The airplanes were going to drop bombs of fire and burn everything. Everything living, they said, was going to burn… They said the government army was coming and was going to take all the children to the islands where they were going to brainwash them and turn them against their parents and siblings. They were going to turn them into snitches and spies. They were going to turn

the girls into servants so that they would cook and clean for the rich... That’s why, they said, we should give up our children from ages two to fourteen so that they could send them to some other countries and save them. There, they said, the children would have good food to eat and new clothes to wear. And best of all, they said, they would be able to go to school and learn… and become teachers and doctors. It was difficult for us to give away our children… to strangers… Who knows what will happen to them… And who to trust...” replied Fimka.

“Oh, mother, mother… Why did you give them up?” asked Tsilka disappointed.

“What choice did I have? They took them…” replied Fimka. “They took you and they took Risto and Tashko… Do you think they asked me or any of the mothers if we wanted to give you up and how we felt? No! They gathered you and took you. They gathered the little children and took them before we even understood what was happening…”

“Well, perhaps you are right. They were young and would have been in grave danger… Where are they now?” asked Tsilka.

“Young you say, daughter... And you think you are old? I know, Tsilka, I know how much it hurts and I constantly ask myself why they did that... I think this was planned… Someone wanted this to happen… They wanted it to turn this way, I am certain of that...” replied Fimka.

The conversation slowly withered and died out. Now there was only silence between them. Their sight began to wander as they looked away from each other; up at the trees and the clouds sailing above the tall pine trees. Sometimes they peeked at each other wondering who had suffered more and whose fears were greater.

Fimka crossed herself and began to cry. Her throat tightened and she found it difficult to speak, but with a broken voice and with great pain she said: “Why did I give them up? Do you think I gave them up? They took them… They took them… First they took our

children then they took one third of our sheep. After that they took our goats, two goats out of every five we owned.

They came back and took half of our grain; our rye, wheat and corn… ‘It was all for the struggle,’ they said. Your aunt was not so lucky. Because her husband Laki did not return to the village from Kostur, after he went to apply for a visa to go to Canada, they took her and put her in jail. Then they went back and gutted her entire house. They took everything. They told her that she and her husband were enemies of the people and ordered her to write a letter to Laki and ask him to return and answer for his crimes… They wanted to grab him, like they grabbed you Tsilka, and send him up here to fight. They ruined everything Tsilka… they destroyed everything… And your grandfather, when they were gathering the children… the most…” Fimka could not finish her sentence because she completely lost her voice. She paused for a while and resumed: “He cried the most… He cried, the poor man and cried… and kept saying: ‘I will never see my grandchildren again…’ He swore… he swore something awful…” Fimka paused again, wiped her tears with the corner of her black head kerchief and at that very moment Tsilka noticed peace and tranquility in her face.

“And the cherries, dear Tsilka, this year there was a bumper crop of cherries... The branches were loaded. There were more cherries than leaves,” said Fimka “But there was no one to eat them… The children were gone…” Fimka took a long sigh and in a broken voice said: “They were gone…”

A white butterfly took flight beside them and in the ensuing silence Tsilka thought she heard its little wings flap.

Tsilka after thinking for a long time, with hesitation, broke the long silence and said: “You know mother, about fifteen days ago they brought eight young partisans to our detachment. They were children. Someone said they were brought back from the countries. At the time I did not understand what that meant. The security services from the second division wanted to know who was spreading such rumours. I don’t know if they found the person but I do know that the boys were all killed in battle in the first few days. And you don’t dare say much or ask any questions up here because

even the trees and rocks have ears.” Tsilka paused and looked around and with relief, quietly said: “Our children are very young… They will not be bringing them back…”

At that moment Tsilka grabbed her mother’s hardened hand with her good hand, brought it to her lips and gently kissed it several times. Then she smiled with a smile full of sadness, as if thinking of something very close and very dear.

“Mother,” she said quietly, looking into her eyes. “Your hands used to smell of fresh bread, milk and cheese, hay and wheat, fresh apples and baked pears, of wine and honey, flowers and basil, of freshly plowed soil and ashes from our fireplace and from our oven. Now...” Tsilka paused mid-sentence and did not want to say what her hands smelled of now. She lowered her gaze and turned her head the other way. She did not want her mother to see the tears in her eyes.

Fimka patted her on the head like she used to when she was little and she held her in her lap and felt her warm breath. This gave her joy and warmed her heart. Fimka had not felt this relaxed since her young children had been taken away and since her older sons and daughter had been drafted into the partisan army. This was the first time since last year that she felt relieved. Her only wish now, at this very moment, was to prolong this feeling and make it last days, weeks, months and years.

“On your feet!!!” a loud commanding voice was heard yelling. “On your feet and begin loading!!!” It was their leader calling on them to get ready to move out.

The circle came alive. Horse hooves were heard stamping on the ground and the air became filled with women’s voices talking, horses neighing and wounded, moaning, groaning, complaining and swearing.

“Line up single file and form a column!!!” the same voice ordered.

The women who had been carrying Tsilka earlier came over and waited. “Let’s go dear…” one of them said, bending down and grabbing the stretcher.

“And you sister, are you the girl’s mother?” asked the shortest woman all dressed in black.

“Yes, she is my mother.” replied Tsilka.

“You are lucky… you are so lucky sister. And don’t worry; we will look after your daughter with much care… Go; go to your wounded person so that they don’t yell at you,” and without looking the women bent down, lifted Tsilka and placed her on the stretcher.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” the leader yelled out again.

“Goodbye… Tsilka… be well…” Fimka said while trying to smile. “And be careful, my child, be very careful…” Fimka then bent down and they hugged. Fimka did not cry, but deep inside she hid the pain and anxiety that only a mother could understand.

“Goodbye mother...” said Tsilka, turning her head and looking at the start of the column. She did not want her mother to see the tears in her eyes. But Fimka could tell she was crying by the vibration of Tsilka’s shoulders. A long column of wounded was forming in front of her. Looking up towards the sky, Tsilka listened to the horse hooves pound the hard mountain soil and stones. She listened to the women’s pig skin slippers and bare feet rustle in the leaves. She saw a women trip and stumble over a rock. The wounded person on her stretcher complained.

Fimka looked towards the head of the column, stuck her arm out, as if attempting to get someone’s attention, and with a sober look on her face, whispered: “Go in good health my dear daughter and look after yourself…” And then she stood there and watched the women carrying Tsilka until they disappeared from her sight. After that, Fimka untied her head kerchief, raised her arms up in the air, looked up at the sky and said: “O Mary, mother of God, who understands the pain of motherhood, please protect my children…”

A purple radiance emanating from above lit the mountain peaks. The last cool, reddish rays of the setting sun showed themselves behind the low flying clouds. The sun, looking like a blazing disk of

fire, slowly descended behind the mountain. The sun sank quietly, fading behind the hill and behind Fimka’s tears. The column continued to pass by. In the twilight Fimka noticed a stretcher with a man with no arms pass her by. There was another man walking beside him on crutches. He was looking down. It was hard for him to keep up on crutches. The man without arms turned to the man on crutches and, pointing towards Fimka, said: “The poor woman, she looks so sad, so much pain and suffering…”

“What are you talking about? You are telling me you don’t know that woman?” asked the man on crutches.

“What did you say?” asked the man without arms.

“I asked you if you know her?” replied the man on the crutches.

“Who, her?” asked the man without arms.

“Yes, her!” replied the man on the crutches

“No! I don’t know her… Who is she?” asked the man without arms.

“Oh, you stupid ox, she is the woman from last fall… The woman you coaxed into giving you gloves and socks. You remember, the woman you told that you knew her son. You remember her, right?” said the man on the crutches.

“Socks? Oh, yes… socks… wool… thick, black wool socks, right? How could I forget them? Very warm socks. I wore them until spring. I remember wearing them. But her, the damn woman, I don’t remember…” replied the man without arms.

“Don’t swear!” interrupted the man on the crutches.

“Do you think it was her? My God? Wait a minute… She was the one who gave me water today! Wait! Stop!” replied the man without arms, yelling for the women carrying the stretcher to stop but they ignored him. He then yelled out: “Call her to come here… Call her… She also gave me bread… and I never… I don’t know her name… What a wonderful woman… Stop! I said stop! Hey, stop!!!”