Front Matter

The Great Decline

A Novel

By Petre Nakovski (Translated from Macedonian to English and edited by Risto Stefov)

The Great Decline A Novel

Any similarity is by chance

The Great Decline – Chapter 1

“Are we all here?” asked Vera. “If anyone here is under sixteen then she should go home.”

“You, you there in the corner, how old are you?” Vera asked.

“In a few months I will be sixteen...” she replied.

“Good. Now go home and I will call on you when you turn sixteen. Go home… Today, ladies, I will not talk,” continued Vera in her Kostur dialect, “about the struggle led by our brothers against the Anglo-American imperialists and their Athenian lackeys here at home. I will only say that the mountains are free, Gramos is free and turned into a free territory and every day victory is closer.”

Vera’s hands and fists were alive, lightning fast, expressive, leading and threatening. There was a tone of certainty in her voice, resolute and angry. She looked proud, ruthless, angry, destructive, fiery, cruelly profound, victorious and filled with faith. The only thing missing was lightning and fire falling from the sky and turning the enemy into ash. She had the power of persuasion and her every movement, her every word, her every glance, fell on fertile ground...

“Ladies, fall is coming and will soon be followed by winter which will bring cold, rain and snow. Our fighting brothers will need sweaters, socks, gloves. Who will give them these things if not we, their sisters? We need to knit day and night. Am I right or am I not?”

“You are right!” a number of voices were heard saying.

“If that’s the way it is, then let us knit all these things for our brothers so that they can stay warm while they are fighting…” concluded Vera.

“You are right Vera, but we don’t have any yarn!” a voice was heard saying.

“I know you don’t have yarn. I also know that you don’t even have wool. But please don’t tell anyone what I am about to tell you, we don’t want the spies to know. There, at Gramos, there is a free territory where we have herds of sheep and piles of wool. The piles of wool are high but we don’t have anyone to weave them into yarn... Yesterday or the day before, young ladies from the villages D’mbeni, Kosinets, Labanitsa, Smrdesh and the Koreshta and Prespa villages passed by here. I don’t know if you saw them. No? Too bad! You should have seen how cheerful and full of fighting spirit they were. They are already in Gramos and they have began to weave the yarn and knit the clothing. The young ladies from the Ianovo villages we there even earlier doing the same and were the first to deliver sweaters and socks to our fighting brothers… I hear you were the only ones left behind. Why is that? Did no one come and tell you? When I heard that you were the only ones left behind I said to myself: ‘Shame on those whose duty it was to let you know and didn’t.’ But not to worry, let us not look for faults now, we will find them tomorrow and set those responsible straight. I came here in person to ask you if you want to go to Gramos to weave the wool into yarn and knit sweaters, socks and gloves? I know that the young ladies here knit the best sweaters and socks with beautiful decorations and patterns. Is it like that or not, eh?” concluded Vera.

“You are right Vera!” a number of voices were heard saying.

“What do you say, will you got to Gramos?” asked Vera.

“Yes we will!!!” thundered the crowd.

“Good! Very Good! Now that you want to go, please go home and get your spindles and knitting needs and some bread for a day or two. You should be back home in a week or two. Don’t worry about food and cooking, there will be plenty of bread and cheese. You will also receive a cooked meal every day. There will also be boiled, baked or fried meat… Go and be back here in an hour… Go…” ordered Vera.

With Vera leading, the women left before sunset. Vera looked dignified, confident, energetic and resolute and with every move she made she looked like she had something military about her. She was

well-educated, trained for observation and to show an example... Behind her were the young women with bags on their shoulders, walking in two’s or three’s out of step in crooked lines, stomping hard on the dry soil and raising a lot of dust…

“Vera, can we sing a song?” one of the women asked.

“Yes we can, why not?” replied Vera.

“To battle, to battle, to battle…” a young woman’s voice was heard singing.

Then immediately the other women joined in:

“Macedonian people! For the people’s holy freedom With songs and joy we proceed…”

They arrived in Kalevishta before midnight. Vera asked where the village Board was located, which at the same time served as a kind of Headquarters for receiving young women. When Vera found it, she, along with those responsible, assigned the young ladies quarters in the various houses. Strangers were sleeping together on the bare floor covered with old worn Italian military blankets. Cramped one beside the other, they slept in the fetal position with their legs up on their chests and arms crossed under their chins. The places reeked of moldy hay and rotting leaves.

At grey dawn they awakened them and gathered them at the blacksmith shop. They called them up by name, took attendance and lined them up in front of a cauldron. Mountain tea was simmering in the large cauldron used for melting pork fat. Steam was rising and spreading the tea’s aroma. They were given a slice of dark rye bread and a piece of thick marmalade that had an unusual rotten smell. They ate and drank silently with frowns on their faces. Some had red and swollen eyes from crying and lack of sleep.

“Line up!” a man’s authoritative voice was heard ordering. They moved slightly and looked around. They did not understand the command and they did not know who the man was. “Line up!” the

same voice ordered again, this time louder. Vera suddenly appeared out of nowhere. She stood by the man. He was wearing an officer’s belt, carrying a leather briefcase over his shoulders and holstering a handgun on his hip. Vera and the man spoke but none of the girls could hear what they were saying.

“Girls, listen to me. Gather in separate lines according to your villages. All those from Kosinets stand here; all those from Labanitsa stand there and line up, stand one beside the other. When our Comrade Commander says ‘Line up!’ you stand one beside the other just like I told you. Do you understand? Now do as I explained, quickly, quickly, just like that...” ordered Vera and smiled with a satisfied look on her face. She then turned to the commander and said: “You see? This is how it is done. Not like you, suddenly yelling ‘Line up!’ Do you think they came here already trained?”

“Ok, ok...” replied the commander. “Don’t worry. We will train them. Come back in a few weeks and you will see. Line up!” he again yelled. “Like that, side by side...” The line was long and curved. “Now turn towards the hill and ‘forward march’ on my command. Walk behind the boys carrying guns.”

They left, and as they marched their line broke up. Some moved ahead of others. When they came to an opening they turned left. The narrow, rocky path took them to a forest of tall pines. The place smelled of rot and resin. The front of the line entered the village Ianoveni. The leader ordered rest. The remainder of the line arrived. The girls sat down on the warm rocks or lay down on the baked soil. It was noon and it was very hot. The girls wiped the sweat off their foreheads and shoulders and rubbed their legs and sore feet. They were burning from thirst. Old, bent village women carrying water in copper and earthenware jugs approached them. One after another the girls drank and poured the precious water over their shoulders and chests and washed their arms and necks. All around them and far ahead were tall mountains separated by deep ravines. Alevitsa was on their left. They had heard of Alevitsa when they were little children. There, seven years ago, the Greek army had persistently fought against the Italians for weeks. Alevitsa was bombarded by aircraft and cannons, but the Italians failed to take it. They say the

tip of the mountain was demolished but the concrete bunkers held out. Directly ahead, far away was a tall spiky mountain. One of the partisans leading this column said that this mountain was Gramos and behind it was Ioannina in Epirus. All the mountains in this mountain range bear the name Gramos. And the mountains in front of Gramos, the partisan said, were called Krastavets, Flamburo and Charno.

“On your feet! We are going!” a voice was heard ordering.

The human line began to move, crossing over a long, narrow wooden bridge under which the river Bistritsa flowed. The large volume of untamed and enraged foamy water thundered as it rolled downhill colliding with each rock it passed. When the water crossed all obstacles it quickly settled and cleared reflecting the sky which made it look like it was painted blue.

By nightfall they reached the meadows of Miroslavitsa. Vera was not among them…

There were trenches dug under the tall pine trees. Some were covered with tent tarps and others with blankets and rags. It was dark inside. They were stepping on a thick layer of leaves. Exhausted from walking all day, they lay down on the wet leaves and straw, one beside the other, body next to body, squeezed together like sardines in a tin can. They tightly embraced each other trying to avoid the cold and attempting to keep the moisture from getting under their skins. They silently breathed on their hands and then placed them on their faces and foreheads, they also breathed on each other’s backs to keep warm. The blankets they were covered with were short, narrow, rotting and smelled moldy. The tarps and blankets that covered the trenches above them were damp with dew and often leaked droplets on them, thump, thump, thump, thump… Tsilka could not sleep. She counted the dripping droplets in the dark and listened to the sighs and moans of the tired girls sleeping next to her. The sound of the falling droplets kept pounding inside her head like a ticking clock measuring time. The monotony made her eyelids heavy and she was slowly overcome by drowsiness. Then, suddenly, she was awakened by a rifle shot followed by a burst of machine gun fire. Everyone was violently awakened from their sleep. They

were terrified. Some were frozen with fear and others were sobbing and running away from the trenches, yelling...

A man’s thundering voice was heard yelling in the dark: “Stop! Be quiet, girls! Look around you. It was a false alarm! Get back in the trenches! There is no danger! Look around you!”

The girls trembled in fear and cursed until daybreak.

After breakfast, which consisted of a slice of dark bread, a piece of dry marmalade each and a portion of mountain tea for every five people, they were divided into thirty groups. Each group was then assigned a leader and together they began the first hours of preparations which they would follow from today onwards.

“Girls!” began their leader, “Today and in the next twenty days, we will first assemble here and then we will go up the hills to exercise... When you learn what you need to learn, then you will be allocated to a unit...”

“What exercises and units are you talking about?!” interrupted Mita in a shrill voice. “They brought us here to weave wool into yarn and knit sweaters, socks and gloves for the Partisans,” she added, pulling out the spindle and knitting needles from her bag and going closer to show him. “Do you see these? We were all told to bring our spindles and knitting needles. Now take us to the place where the wool is so that we can do the work we came here to do. This is what we were told. Right girls?”

“That’s right!” a chorus of voices were heard yelling.

“Quiet! Quiet!” yelled their superior. “You will not need your spindles here. So take your spindles out of your bags and put them over there. Is that clear? You did not come here to sit around! Is that clear?!” he said in a loud, insulting and threatening tone of voice. “Put your spindles over there in a pile! Do you understand?!” he yelled and then looked up towards the woods. A burst of automatic rifle fire broke the tension. Bullets whistled over their heads and the girls ran wildly in the opposite direction only to be met with another

burst of automatic rifle fire from the direction they were running towards.

“Stop! Come back here. This is part of your training. Soon you will learn not to be afraid of gunshots and whistling bullets. Day and night you will be hearing rifle shots and bursts of machine gun fire but you will get used to it. Now put your spindles here in a pile!” he said. And then when they did, he collected some dry grass and some sticks of wood, placed them under the pile of spindles and lit them on fire. “Now, from today on forward you will be learning things from me. I, your superior, will wake you up and line you up in front of the cauldron. Others, who we call instructors, will then teach you how to be soldiers and how to handle weapons... Silence over there! Now take a little rest and after that the instructor will come and teach you how to handle a rifle...”

A man of medium stature, dressed in a pre-war Greek officer’s uniform, with no markings on it, stood staring at the boys and girls who had just been brought there. He coughed, dropped his cigarette on the ground, stepped on it with his dirty boot and said:

“Today we will be together until noon and together we will learn. If you are paying attention you will learn quickly. You must pay attention because you will need to learn. You must pay attention at all times even when you want to think of other things. Today,” he continued, “we will talk about the rifle. What is a rifle? The term rifle, with a capital or lower case letter has many meanings and serves many purposes. But it all comes down to one thing: shooting or killing, which is essentially the same thing. That means that shooting or killing is a skill. Knowing how to use a rifle is therefore a skill. The use of a rifle is nothing more, except what?” he asked. The question was unexpected and no one had an answer. “No one knows?” he asked. “Well, that’s okay, in time you will learn that too,” he answered and continued. “My dear, first you must learn how to use a rifle. In other words, you must learn how to shoot and how to kill... I already told you that shooting is a skill and that that skill can be learned. Learning that skill will begin today and will last for the next three or four days. You will study it and study it until you learn it well... before you go into battle. Then when you are fighting in battle you will convince yourself whether you have

learned it well or not. In short, today we will learn to shoot or kill and please do not be afraid of the meaning of those words,” he said and began to laugh out loud while his thick rolls of fat jiggled under his chin and his pot belly danced on top of his old, fat officer’s belt.

“I want you to know,” he continued, “which means I want you to remember well that with one shot, which is best... to hit the target with one shot, otherwise the target will hit you before you have a chance to take a second shot with what we called a rifle. And like every one of you has a head, eyes, hands, feet and... Yes, the rifle has its own purpose and parts, which means that a rifle,” he now raised his voice and spoke louder, emphasizing every spoken word he said, “is a firearm designed for destroying living things. It is well for you to remember that the rifle’s purpose is to destroy live targets. This means that you, you and you will be destroying live targets with what I am holding in my hands here.” He paused, lit a cigarette, took a long puff, exhaled the grey smoke out of his nose and continued: “In other words, the best results for live targets which can be uncovered, targets which can be hidden, meaning falsely hidden, moving, or suddenly appearing… Do you understand the word ‘result’? No? Well of course not... because you have finished high school and university?” he said sarcastically. “So, how do I explain the word ‘results’ to you?” he exclaimed.

“Does it come from the word ‘shame’?” someone yelled and the entire group broke out into laughter.

“Who said that? Let me see who said that!” demanded the instructor.

There was silence... Just silence...

“I did…” quietly said the girl with the round rosy face, glittering black eyes and long thick braid of hair resting over the left side of her chest.

“What’s your name?” demanded the instructor.

“Vasilka, but at home they call me Tsilka...” she replied.

“Do you mean Vasiliki?” asked the instructor.

“That’s what I am called in Greek,” she replied.

“Be careful young lady, you all be careful of your words... Remember that. And you, what did you say they call you at home?” asked the instructor.

“Tsilka…” she replied.

“Just remember Tsilka, you are a fighter...” said the instructor.

“In malina…” another woman replied and the group broke into laughter.

“Silence! What is this ‘malina’?” the instructor demanded to know.

“Look at her; she is wearing a dress, a knitted dress.... The dress Tsilka is wearing is knitted with a single needle,” explained another woman. She then took out a long needle from her bag and said: “Like this one…”

The group broke into laughter again.

“What else do you have in that bag?” asked the instructor.

“Well… I have yarn and… unfinished stockings and… nothing else…” she replied.

The instructor went silent for a moment and then angrily asked: “Who was the idiot that brought you here with knitting needles, eh? Will someone answer my question?”

“I,” said Tsilka, putting up her hand. “I think it was the woman whose orders were to bring us here. She told us to take our spindles and knitting needles because there would be wool where we were going and that we would be making yarn and knitting clothing for the partisans. This is what she told us and this is what we did. So, here we are…”

“All of you listen and listen carefully! You became fighters of the Democratic Army of Greece (DAG) the day you arrived here. Forget about your needles and thread and the many other things you were doing at home in your villages… forget about them. Here, I am sure you will forget everything… You are in the army now! Quiet! And don’t talk over there! Don’t you know how to stand there and be quiet? You will learn, you will soon learn!... Silence! Silence over there and pay attention. Let us continue. Where did we stop?” asked the instructor.

“You asked if any one of us knew what... No...” replied one woman.

“You asked whether any one of us understood the word... What was the word? Yeah, I remember now… ‘shame’…” another woman piped up.

“No. No. She meant the word ‘result’...” remarked the woman standing next to her.

“Okay then… and please do not interrupt! Is that Clear?” asked the instructor, looking at everyone and resumed talking. “So, the best results, or if you prefer the words ‘best outcome’ of the rifle is achieved at four hundred metres. But during a fire fight with many shooters and a group of targets you may find yourself at a distance of eight hundred to a thousand metres. How well you do at this distance depends on the sight of the rifle. But most likely you will be shooting from a closer distance. You may even be shooting at low flying aircraft flying at about five hundred metres. The rifle is the primary weapon of the infantry, but it is also used by other corps of the army. You should know that the rifle is also used in hand to hand combat. The rifle butt can be used as a club. A knife can be mounted on the front of its barrel and it can be used as a sword. So, when you carry a rifle never think of knitting and needles and, generally, you must forget about thinking of love. You will be loved and you will love the army. I am telling you this for your own survival…”

He paused and looked around. He noticed that no one was paying attention to him; they were all looking somewhere behind him. He turned around. About fifty metres away a column of civilians was

passing by. They were carrying wounded on horseback and on stretchers. “Hey, over here!” he yelled at the people he was teaching. “Pay attention here. What I am saying should be more interesting to you. Do you know why? Because I want to teach you things!” He paused for a moment, turned, looked at the column and then said: “Well, look over there… how do I explain it to you… This is reality, but I don’t know how to explain that word in simpler terms; just remember the word; it will be a reality that you will soon experience... They carry wounded... Yes, that is a reality... Yes, that’s right! Maybe tomorrow they will carry one of you and that will be a regretful reality for you. But, but if you learn how to operate a rifle or a machine gun in the next few days then they will not have to carry you. They will carry those you shoot at. Remember that girls!

If you don’t kill the person at whom you are apparently pointing your rifles, then you can be sure that that person will kill you. Only one thing can happen: you or the person on the other side will remain standing. One of you will fall and bite the dust and if you are not so lucky, you will be crippled for life because the rifle not only kills but also cripples. It is best to kill or get killed. Bam… and it’s over... That is why today, tomorrow and the day after I will teach you to shoot and kill. Then other instructors will teach you how to hide, how to throw hand grenades, run, communicate with other soldiers, dig trenches, bind wounds, etc.

I want you to remember: if you don’t kill you will be killed. Remember that a rifle is a tool like a knitting needle, a spindle or a loom.” The instructor paused for a moment, laughed out loud and said: “Let us now continue. This is a rifle and it consists of… You over there stop talking and pay attention... You too… over there... This is the chamber, mouth, tube and ring. And this, from here to there, is the barrel. A bullet passes through its inner part. Here is the sight and this is a switch for the sight. You over there, at the end, pay attention and stop looking at the clouds! This is the bed for the bullet and this is called the main opener, which is composed of a pin and a hammer spring. This is a tongue or a trigger. When you pull it back, the needle hits the capsule of the bullet and, if you aim well, the devil will take the person on whom you placed your sight. And the rifle ends with...” he concluded.

“The rifle butt!” thundered Tsilka.

“Bravo! Bravo! And how do you know that this part of the rifle is called a butt?” asked the instructor.

“When the gendarmes and soldiers came to our village they beat us with their rifle butts...” she explained.

“Yes, it is true. And us in our village too, they beat us with rifle butts,” a voice was heard saying.

“They did the same at our village…” another voice from the other side was heard saying.

“They beat us with rifle butts because we sang our (Macedonian) songs which we learned from our mothers and grandmothers. My God, they hit us on our shoulders, heads and faces... They were hitting us with their eyes closed...” piped up another woman.

“They hit us with rifle butts and beat us with sticks, punched and kicked us... They hit us all over our bodies, wherever they could reach...” another woman said before she was interrupted by the instructor who said:

“Ok, ok, ok... You will have to inform the political commissar about this... Now, never forget that you always, and this is necessary, must check that there is no bullet, accidentally or by negligence, left in the chamber. You can check in two ways. You can look through the barrel, or”, he straightened his little finger and pushed it slowly into the barrel, “you can check with this finger...”

“Can you check with this finger?” asked one of the boys who sat at the side and who now spoke up for the first time. Everyone turned around to look and suddenly broke out into thundering laughter. His right hand was raised up and all, except his middle finger were curled in his palm. His middle finger was pointing directly at the instructor’s face.

“Yes you can, young man, but...” in the loud and continuous laughter those laughing were unable to hear the rest of what the instructor said, except for those who sat close to him. They heard a string of profanity.

“Enough! Enough with the laughter! Let us conclude: So, the rifle is made up of about thirty parts which together do only one job. Which is?” the instructor asked.

“Kill…” a few voices were heard saying.

“That is correct!” replied the instructor. “We will now take a short break and smoke a cigarette and then we will resume the training. Please don’t leave this place and don’t mix with the other groups.

After the break the instructors disassembled and reassembled a rifle, paying special attention to the rifle’s opener.

“You all need to remember that if you, yourself don’t know how to disassemble and reassemble your rifle and its parts, especially the opener, then someone else, and that someone else can only be the enemy, will disassemble you permanently. Do you understand? Day and night, in snow and in rain, in storms and in fog you should know how to and be able to disassemble and reassemble your rifle… Yes… And one more thing, which is very, very important, your rifle must always be clean... Your soul,” the instructor raised his voice, “can be dirty but your rifle must be clean at all times! Why?” the instructor asked as he took a sweeping look at everyone. And before anyone had a chance to answer he asked again: “In what condition should your rifle be?”

“Clean...” a few voices were heard saying.

“Why?” asked the instructor.

“So that it can do dirty deeds…” piped up Tsilka.

“That’s right!” a few other voices agreed with her.

“The rifle does not do dirty deeds. Dirty deeds are born in people’s heads. The rifle is simply a tool, like a trowel, hammer, shovel, etc... When I say ‘hammer’ what do you think of? What do you, over there, think of?” the instructor asked.

“I think of hitting something or someone...” replied the person to whom the instructor pointed.

“What do you, over here, think when I say ‘shovel’?” asked the instructor.

“I think of digging a ditch or a hole to bury someone or...” replied the person pointed to.

“What do you think when I say ‘trowel’?” asked the instructor.

“I think of flattening out and smoothing down, let’s say, things that you don’t want seen…” replied another person.

“When I say ‘rifle’ what do think?” the instructor asked but there was no response. He looked into the faces of his audience and said to himself: “In this collection of villages that stink like manure, why is there nothing, nothing revolutionary?”

“Hey you, over there, tell me what you think when I say rifle?” the instructor demanded an answer from a student.

“I don’t know...” he replied.

“I don’t know, I don’t know... I do not want to hear your vulgar words. I don’t know! You over there, you also don’t know?” piped up the instructor.

“I know!” replied the person singled out.

“Well then tell me!” demanded the instructor.

“I think of a clean and well oiled operational rifle, always available and ready to be used at short notice for shooting… a person, ready to kill… I think of carrying it in my arms or over my shoulder. Even

if I think of carrying it like a stick it still does the same dirty deed: it kills. When I hold it in my hands I think I am holding death. When I hold it in my lap I think I am holding death. When I hold it between my knees I think I am holding death. When I look down its barrel I see death. When I look through its target I see death. A clean or dirty rifle always spells dirty deeds, dirty thoughts, dirty conscience, dirty soul...” concluded the person.

“So, that’s what you think!” remarked the instructor. “Okay, but always remember that you must maintain a clean rifle at all times... It must always shine. There must be no dust and not even a single hair on it. You can be dirty and unwashed for days, you can wear a dirty shirt, dirty socks, your face can be dirty, your feet can stink, your armpits can stink, you can look like a manure pile but your rifle must always be clean. Your rifle must be so clean you should be able to see your reflection on it. You should be able to see your dirty face on it. Do you understand? I don’t care how dirty and dingy you are and if you attract flies around you, your rifle must be clean! Got it or not?” concluded the instructor.

During the days when the group first started shooting they heard a lot of yelling and screaming. It was a new experience for them. Those who stood close to the instructor even got sprayed with his spit.

“You over there!” said the instructor pointing at Tsilka, “You, tell me what you think!”

“Me?” replied Tsilka with a surprised look on her face and put her hand on her chest.

“Yes, yes, you... Come over here,” ordered the instructor.

Tsilka went up and stood beside him.

“When I say ‘rifle’ what do you think?” the instructor asked while pointing at the rifle with a stick he was holding is his hand.

“I don’t know...” replied Tsilka, raising her shoulders.

“You don’t know?” asked the instructor.

“I don’t know...” she said again.

“What do you know?” asked the instructor.

“Well, I do know how to knit, cook, clean, milk and make cheese... Well, I know almost everything that is done in the village...” she said shyly.

“Excellent...” replied the instructor stretching out the word. Tsilka, in the meantime, felt like she was being praised in front of everyone.

“Now pick up the rifle,” the instructor ordered.

Tsilka pulled away and showed fear in her eyes. “No, I can’t…” she replied.

“What?” yelled the instructor, looking surprised. He then looked into her fear-filled eyes and said: “You are afraid? Why are you afraid?”

Her lower lip was trembling. She kept staring at the stick the instructor was lowering and raising. She then crossed her arms over her stomach, took a sudden step away from the instructor and hid her hands behind her back. Her eyes filled with tears and for a moment she thought that she saw her old teacher in front of her...

The commander called Tsilka over and, with a sharp tone in his voice, said: “Tsilka, your instructor complained about you. He said you told him that the rifle does dirty deeds. Did you say that to him? My superior scolded me and asked me to punish you. And I will punish you. Tomorrow morning instead of going to training you will be cleaning leaves off the paths connecting the trenches…” he ordered.

It was fall, leaves were yellowing and the sky was taking the colour of steel. It was the last gasp for summer but the golden mountains were still warm at noon. Without pause leaves kept falling and filling the pathways connecting the trenches. The leaves broke off

and as you stood there with your hands open, thinking they would fall into them, the wind would blow slightly, take them away and drop them in the pathways connecting the trenches. Tsilka was sweeping the leaves with a broom made of branches and when she reached the end of the pathway, she turned back and swept it again. The pathways were constantly covered with leaves as if they had never been swept. And as her superior watched her work, he kept kicking the young trees with his heavy boots, dropping even more leaves and smiling.

The women spent an entire month in the wet trenches. They became accustomed to sleeping with their eyes half-open, sitting up, kneeling and crouching next to one another. Their elbows and feet were bare and full of sores from running and crawling in the woods and in the meadows. They routinely did the same thing every day, from morning until night, like beating snare drums with sticks. If there were no exercises then there would be lectures, songs and dances. The same slogans and the same words were repeated daily; many words that brainwashed their minds and filled them with hatred, strange words that carved deep awareness and erased the subconscious. They were taught to only remember what their commanders, Party secretaries and instructors told them. They had no free time at all, not even for a moment. If they had free time they would be thinking of home and of their loved ones and those were unnecessary things to think about. Here thoughts like that were considered distractions, distractions from their mission and from their fighting spirit. Only when darkness came, when they huddled together in the trenches, when the stars came out, each one of them stole some private time before they were conquered by their need to sleep. They constantly dreamt of home and wished they had wings to fly away… They were saddest in the dark... And then they had Mitre in a neighbouring trench coughing and coughing and coughing. The commander tried to teach him not to cough. He asked him:

“What kind of fighter are you going to be, constantly coughing and coughing…? You are keeping everyone awake with your constant coughing... How are we going to get close to enemy strongholds when you are constantly coughing?”

Mitre always fell behind when the group ran or marched. Sometimes someone had to help him out by pulling him along or propping him under his arms. So what if he is like that… Quotas needed to be filled… Some complained to the commander, but he got angry and said:

“I don’t see anything wrong with anyone in my unit. No one is sick, lame, or blind. This was what I reported to High Command and this is what they accepted. Now you want me to tell them that I have inducted a sick person? No! I also reported to High Command that you all have high fighting spirits and faith in our struggle. What we don’t have is sufficient clothes, shoes and bread to eat, things about which you should be complaining. And you know what High Command said? They said bravo! That’s how we like to have things. The only thing those up there care about is your fighting spirit and faith in the struggle... That’s all...”

The commander went back to his trench, took out a notebook from his officer’s briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper and silently began to read:

“To the unit commanders, political party secretaries and commissars,

In order to increase the fighting spirit of the fighters in your unit you must not leave them any spare time. They constantly need to be busy with training and exercises, and after that cleaning their rifles.” The commander paused and looked up. What kind of rifles are they talking about, the commander thought to himself, when we don’t have any? “They must not be allowed to have collective conversations, collective reading, singing, or dancing. They must not be allowed to be alone because they will start to think about things that are not associated with boosting their fighting spirit and with preparation for future battles and victories. A fighter or a soldier who has individual thoughts is not a good fighter or a good soldier. The soldier must not be allowed to think. He is to execute orders. Leaving him free time will not only allow him to think, but to also take the opportunity to evaluate, judge and reason out things. And then you will have an undisciplined fighter. And another thing; if there is nothing to be done other than what was stated above,

order them to wash, bathe, or clear ditches. All these things can be done collectively. This way they can create a collective sense of courage, bravery, determination, self-sacrifice...”

The telephone rang loudly, interrupting the commander. He put the guidelines aside and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Training command…” he answered.

“It’s me, number two...” the person on the other side said and continued, “Please report on the situation, and are things taking place as planned? I need an update.”

“We have completed training. All that is left to do is clothe and arm them...” replied the commander.

“Good. Tomorrow you will receive a plan and a schedule for the units. They will receive their clothing and weapons before they are deployed. Is there anything else?” added the voice on the other side of the telephone line.

“I have twenty lame girls and eight with dislocated hips. The number of sick has also increased. A doctor has not yet come to examine them. What should I do with the lame women? They are not even able to walk, let alone run and march... should I send them home?” asked the commander.

“What? Are you crazy?! You don’t do anything unless it’s approved. Hold the line I will go and check,” said the person on the other side of the telephone line. There was silence on the receiver… “I am back. We here have decided to send the lame girls to the main hospital. There is work for them there. They can do laundry, clean rooms, etc., which will be part of their military service. In time they will also learn to care for the wounded. Is that clear? That’s all!” concluded the voice on the other side of the telephone line.

There was a long machine gun burst. Bullets whistled over the trenches. The boys and girls ran outside. But this time they were not afraid...