The Great Decline – Chapter 3 - Part 01

The Great Decline – Chapter 3

There was a stench of moisture, sweat and unwashed clothes in the trench. Packed together and sitting on bags filled with leaves were members of the United Nations Inquiry Committee and about a dozen members of the Democratic Army of Greece (DAG). Among them were also an American journalist and his translator. A kerosene lamp hung in the corner of the trench and filled the space with dim light creating strange shadows on the faces of the attendees. Thick bitter smoke from the lit, homemade cigarettes hung in the air causing some to tear and cough.

“Comrade Fighters,” began the political commissar, “some of these gentlemen here have come all the way from New York, from the United Nations. They are here to learn more about the reasons for the struggle we are leading. Of course in Athens they told them three hundred stupid things, among which was that the struggle inside Greece was brought from the outside, from Yugoslavia and Albania. We, as you know, are struggling in this country for democracy and peace, mostly against Anglo-American imperialism. You know that with British intervention in Athens and the signing of the Varkiza Agreement, ELAS surrendered its weapons and the Greek reactionaries began the white terror and persecution of the Democratic people. These are the main reasons for the struggle and please relay this information to the gentlemen.”

The Commissar took a puff from his cigarette, blew the thick smoke out of his nose and then said:

“Gentlemen, the fighters are at your disposal. I assure you that they have nothing to hide and will tell you the truth and only the truth. Please do not get the impression that I have placed them under some kind of pressure. I will not be present, here, for all the conversations.”

The Commissar then saluted and left the meeting.

There was silence in the trench as the various people looked at each other.

“And you say,” said the Bolivian man to one of the Partisans, “that you are not receiving any arms and food from Albania and even less from Yugoslavia and that those two states are not involved in this war?”

“Who me? I have not said a single word. But if you ask me, then I will tell you that what you said about Yugoslavia and Albania is a lie. This is what they claim but I have not seen it with my own eyes. Why are you so concerned about what Albania and Yugoslavia are doing and not about us and why we had to flee to the mountains?” replied the Partisan.

“The Greek government in Athens claims that the war in Greece was brought from outside, from Albania and Yugoslavia. We are curious whether Albania and Yugoslavia are giving you weapons, food, clothing...” said the Bolivian.

“What? Do you not see that the guns and machine guns we carry are old English and German weapons? Do you not see the rags we are wearing? Food? My friend, we have as much food as the peasants give us... our own villagers...” replied the Partisan.

“Now please allow me to ask you a question…” said someone at the back.

“Please do, be free to ask, but please come closer…” said the Bolivian.

“You said you came from America. Right?” asked the man.

“From New York...” replied the Bolivian.

“Okay, New York... Some say that in New York, where many leaders gather, a decision was made to evict Macedonians from their homeland. Is that true?” asked the man.

“Why ask him?!!! Ask me!” another fighter piped up. “As far as I know, this is how it works. And here is what I think. If they decide to evict us then they will evict us. If they decide not to evict us, then we will not be evicted. This is what I think. And if they decide to

evict us today, they may decide to bring us back tomorrow. This is what I also think: it is better for them if we die, and it is much better for them if we all die and, if not, then those of us who manage to survive living in the mountains, will have to flee our motherland... And those of us who decide to remain here will have to sign and swear that we will be obedient and faithful and then the crunching will begin... Do you understand? And if a child is born, it will be like it was never born because it will be unborn… Do you understand? Like hell you understand! You understand nothing! If we had an understanding of how things work do you think we would have done the things we did and were told to do? Did you not tell me that you have a brother, a soldier fighting for the government army? And here you are fighting against him! Do you know that for generations we have been fighting each other that way right across Macedonia? Do you ever think of that and consider the implications? Of course not! This is because we allow outsiders to think for us and use us to do their bidding. For example, when the Italians came they told us that they liberated us and we were free to speak our Macedonian language and to sing our Macedonian songs. ‘We will not prevent you but we cannot protect you...’ they said. ‘You are obligated to defend yourselves. And to defend yourselves you need arms which you do not have. Since you don’t have them we will provide them to you,’ they said. And then some of our brainless idiots followed along and picked up arms without considering the consequences. The Italians then decided they did not want to fight anymore and left. And then Kalchev, a Bulgarian officer born in Kostur Region arrived. He visited Kostur and Lerin Regions, chatted up some of our villagers and told them all kinds of stories. He told them that we were Bulgarians and that we needed to defend our Bulgarian heritage. And so we now surrendered ourselves to the Bulgarians and picked up arms from them and again began to fight for someone else. It was true we loudly sang revolutionary songs from the Ilinden era but we never fired a single bullet. Then the Germans and the Bulgarians left and the Greeks came back and re-established their control. Then because the Italians and Kalchev gave us rifles we were labeled traitors and accused of collaborating with the occupiers or aiding the occupiers. And guess who got the beating for that? We all did! We slurped up the Italian and Bulgarian propaganda without considering the consequences and now we are being tossed at our crossroads. They placed us all

under the same flag... only under different slogans. We were happy cultivating our fields, planting our gardens, celebrating our holidays, generally doing things in our villages and minding our own business. Then, I don’t know what the devil got into these people who came to our villages and beat and tormented us? Some came, others left, beating us for speaking our language and for singing our songs. They even beat my ox. The police chief ordered the police to beat my ox for not obeying commands spoken in the Greek language. ‘Oxen and donkeys must obey commands spoken in Greek,’ he said! Donkeys too must obey commands spoken in Ancient Greek,” concluded the man who then looked at the translator and said, “translate that for them!”

“And you, what have you to say?” said the Bolivian to the man sitting opposite him.

“And now you found the right person to ask!” sarcastically replied the same man who had spoken earlier.

“And why not him?” asked the Bolivian.

“Because he stutters...” replied the same man.

“That’s okay… That’s okay…” Tell us slowly and don’t get so excited. Don’t get excited and your words will flow like honey and we will note and convey everything you say...” encouraged the Bolivian.

“I I s stutter be because my t tongue s stiffens… T they r ruined o our d dreams and d destroyed… d dreams…” replied the stuttering man.

“This guy just talks about dreams...” piped up another fighter.

“D do n not m make f fun o of m me you you id idiots!” snapped the stuttering man.

“Don’t get so excited, speak slowly... continue...” encouraged the Bolivian.

“I am not talking about any dream, you idiots, I am talking about our dream, the dream that we all want, to be like everyone else who is free... We here are all Macedonians and know each other by our Macedonian names and surnames, but they there do not like that and have forced us to add endings to our names like ‘idis’, ‘isis’, ‘poulos’, etc., ruining our names. They also changed our place names and ruined them too, making them alien and meaningless to us. We are afraid to go outside because we will get a beating if we say something to our neighbours and it’s rude to pass by people and say nothing. It’s even more rude and insulting to say something in a foreign, alien language…

They also ruined our holidays. I want to do my rituals in my language, which has meaning for me but I can’t even do that because I am not allowed to speak it. I want to baptize my son with an Orthodox name after my father or grandfather and continue our tradition but I can’t do that either because I am not allowed. I have to settle for an alien name that has no meaning to me. Now my own son is a foreigner. They are forcing us to christen our sons with alien names like Menelaos, Aristidis, Iraklis and our daughters with alien names like Andromaha, Antigoni, Persefopi, etc. And with names like these you can be sure no one will come to your home because we have no such name-days to celebrate (a name-day in the old Macedonian tradition was celebrated in place of a birthday). We celebrated name-days since time immemorial. There was always a holiday associated with each name and it was celebrated every year. We all had traditional Macedonian names like Ilia, Kole, Iane, Petre, Vane, Krsto, etc. If we had a person in the home by that name during a holiday, our doors would be open for everyone to come and celebrate with us.

Take me for example... From what my mother and grandmother told me, my parents wanted to name me Mitre. They went to the priest and made their request. The priest opened a book, turned a few pages and said ‘Mitre… Mitre… there is no such name in the book therefore you cannot name your child Mitre.’ ‘But father,’ said my grandmother, ‘we would like to preserve that name. It is a familiar name. We have been celebrating that name for many generations.’ ‘I know that,’ said the priest, but it is not possible… You once had a Mitre… You know who he was… and that is enough…’ ‘But

father,’ my grandmother insisted, ‘we want to have…’ ‘Get the hell out of here!’ yelled the priest. ‘You want to name your child after that bandit who was an abomination to the Church and to the State?’

‘If you can tell us where Mitre was buried,’ continued the priest, ‘I and the police chief will consider baptizing... the child. And if you won’t tell us then we will name your child from the book, we will give him a great name that you can be proud of…’ concluded the priest. ‘Go to hell!’ said my grandmother to the priest. ‘You can go to hell with your disgusting names.’ She then turned to my mother and insisted that she tell my godfather to name me Mitre and not to accept another name.

The priest called the police chief who then summoned my godfather to the priest’s house. Then, in front of the priest the police chief said to my godfather: ‘If you name the child Mitre while it is being baptized, then I will nail you to a cross, change your name and shave your head. You will name the child Odysseus, understand? Do you know who Odysseus was, eh? I will order my policemen, who are now patrolling outside of this house, to take you to the town square and beat the hell out of you in the middle of the day, belt you twenty times on your bare back and bare ass, then you will not only know, but you will forever remember who Odysseus was and you will tell everyone. And you priest, if you still want to be a priest, then, from now on, you will tell all the godfathers to follow the book. We did not liberate Macedonia so that they can christen their children with non-Greek names. Macedonia’s freedom, for which Greece spilled rivers of blood, must be protected by the eradication of unfriendly names and surnames, names of forests, meadows, fountains, springs, paths, mountains, hills, etc., and by their replacement with glorious golden Greek names, or otherwise there will be hell to pay in the village square… Understand?’

My mother and grandmother never mentioned the name Odysseus at home and always called me Mitre. My grandmother also called me Prle (baby donkey) because I was born at the same time as our donkey. Both I and the little donkey grew up to be healthy boys. When I asked my mother why grandmother was calling me donkey she said because when I was a baby she fed me with donkey milk and so we had two baby donkeys at home. When I turned five my

parents made a saddle for my donkey and I proudly rode it through the village streets... Why are you not laughing at this, you idiots?” yelled out the stuttering man, who paused for a moment, looked around and continued:

“Let me ask you this. Is it a dream to want to speak your own language without being beaten, dragged through the courts and jailed? Is it a dream to have a familiar name chosen for you by your parents and not an alien name chosen by the state? Is it a dream to sleep peacefully without having the fear that someone is crouching under your window or placing their ear on your door to hear what language you are speaking in the privacy of your own home? These basic freedoms for us Macedonians living in Greece are non existant!

Let me put it another way... It is like looking at the sky full of stars and then you pick a star and you look at it like it’s your own star, like it only belongs to you and it brings you great happiness and because of this you get beaten. Why do you get beaten? Because you want to have your own star! Should you be beaten for wanting to have your own star? Every person should be able to have their own star like they have their own wife. We Macedonians have eyes and can see colours but they don’t want us to see what we see, they just want us to see what they tell us to see. They want us to look only at what they want us to see and if we don’t then we get a beating. And that is not right! We have our own eyes and all we want to see is the sun, the light and nature’s colours, that’s all we want but it seems that we can’t even have that. But every time we look at something they don’t want us to see we get a lot of swearing, cursing and beatings. They denigrate the Virgin Mary the most with their swearing, which is not right given that they too are Christians. Some Christians…

Who in the world curses God and Christ? The Greeks do, the Greeks who have the most churches and priests. When they beat us they beat us terribly but not to death. They only want to maim and cripple us. Only the lucky ones die… We cry for them, bury them and they are gone. But the crippled ones, they remain with us day in and day out. When we look at them we fear them because someday we could

be them... And so when I am reminded of this my tongue stiffens and my words stop coming out...

They made us so fearful that we stopped dreaming... We constantly stare out of the window, we keep an eye on the door and we even look up the chimney to make sure there are no ears listening, especially when we talk to our grandparents who speak no other language outside of Macedonian. They also listen to hear what grandfathers and grandmothers tell the children and what husbands and wives talk about in the privacy of their own bed... When we gather around the dining room table, we are constantly reminded to keep quiet with the finger over the lips.

Why didn’t we seek help, you ask? From whom? Who was going to help us? This was going on in our own homeland. In my homeland! Let me ask you this. Is this my homeland or not? If it is my homeland then why does it not protect me like your homeland protects you? Do you have an answer for me? No you don’t. I have an answer for you but I also have a great fear. And where does fear drive people? To the forests! To the mountains! The mountains and the forests have become our protectors! Do you understand? I told you many things but I fear you understood very little… You, translator, ask him if he understood me?” said the stuttering man.

“He says that he understood you,” replied the translator.

“I don’t think you or he understood anything. Tell me, who cares and has an interest in us? You are telling me that he cares about our pain and suffering? Yeah right! They were told to come here and look around and that is exactly what they are doing. They came here to interrogate and question us but not about what is going on, not about our pain and suffering and not about why we are here. They came here to find out if any outsiders are involved in our struggle... Understand?” said the stuttering man.

“And you, how old are you?” the Bolivian addressed a young man sitting in the corner of the trench.

“Me? I am seventeen. Why do you ask?” replied the young man.

“Aren’t you a little young to be a fighter?” asked the Bolivian.

“No, I don’t think so. We are all young here. The oldest among us is twenty years old. Here is Tsilka, she is eighteen and Mita is nineteen... This guy here beside me is from Thessaly. He is twenty years old...” replied the young man.

“Are all of you communists?” asked the Bolivian.

“No. We have no communists in our squad,” replied the young man.

“And why have you came to the mountains?” asked the Bolivian.

The boy smiled a bitter smile and said:

“I have an uncle in America. When the war with Germany was over he started sending us packages. He sent me a red broadcloth coat in one of the packages. It fit me like it was made to measure. I wore it when I looked after the sheep. I was the village shepherd. Because I was out in the mountains I was often intercepted by the police and by the army and interrogated about partisans in the forests and if I supplied them with bread.

I always told them that I did not know anything about that. But one day, while talking to me they looked at me with stern faces as if they did not believe me, so they beat me. They beat me with their fists and kicked me hard with their boots and then they beat me with sticks. When I asked why they were beating me, they said because I wore a red coat. And because I wore a red coat, they said I was a communist. That day I herded the sheep back to the village, hung my coat on a willow tree and fled to the woods and joined the Partisans,” concluded the young man.

“So, you mean you volunteered…” said the Bolivian.

“Yes!” replied the young man.

“Where from Greece are you?” asked the Bolivian.

“Almost all of us here are from Macedonia except for this guy who is from Thessaly and this guy who is from Epirus. We have only four Greeks in our squad,” replied the young man.

At noon the Inquiry Commission, consisting of a Pole, two Ukrainians and the Bolivian, left for Kostur. The American journalist and his translator turned left halfway before reaching Kostur.

“Are we not following them?” asked the translator.

“No. We are going to this village,” replied the American, pointing to the map with his finger. “This is the closest village to our current position. Tomorrow we will go to another village. Conversations with ordinary villagers are more interesting.”

The political commissar, who occasionally entered the trench to eavesdrop on the conversations taking place between the DAG fighters and members of the Inquiry Commission, lined up the squad and, while pointing at Iani, said: “Why did you go off on a tangent talking about your house, your wife, your children, your sheep, your barns, your grains, your jail time, the courts, the beating, the cursing, the swearing and what not? Why did you not tell them that we are fighting for the national independence of Greece and against the Anglo-American imperialists, eh?”

“I did tell them! I told them exactly that! I told them everything Comrade Commissar...” replied Iani.

“You told them! You told them! You told them crap! There was nothing ideological or revolutionary in what you told them. Do you understand?” asked the Commissar.

“Revolutionary? Maybe not but I answered his questions. He asked me why I went to the mountains and I told him…” said Iani.

“Silence!” shouted the commissar, interrupting Iani. “The pledge you made? The oath you took, you dog?! Did you forget that? Let me remind all of you. Let me recite the oath you took: I, son/daughter of the people of Greece and fighter of the Democratic

Army of Greece, swear that I will fight with a rifle in my hand; I will shed my blood and will give my life to drive the last foreign occupier out of my homeland. I will fight to destroy any trace of fascism. I will fight and do whatever is required in order to defend the national independence and the territorial integrity of my country. I will fight and do whatever is required in order to defend democracy, the honour and property of my people... I swear that I will be an example of good behaviour towards my people...” The commissar paused, coughed to clear his throat and with a hoarse voice continued: “And here is the end of the oath that you must never forget: my ideal is a free and democratic Greece, progress and happiness for my people, therefore I pledge my life in the service of this ideal...”

With a howling roar the jeep took a sharp turn while climbing up a steep hill. After climbing over the hill, on the downhill the jeep encountered a huge mud puddle in the middle of the road. The jeep stopped. The driver took a stick and measured the depth of the puddle. He decided it was safe to drive through it. No sooner had the jeep crossed the mud puddle than it encountered another steep hill on top of which were barns. The barns had no roofs. They had been burned down. All the houses up to the centre of the village had also been burned down. The only building standing was the church but its belfry was in ruins. The church bell was cracked and a piece was missing. It had no clapper; it had fallen off and was resting beside the wall. The jeep stopped. Both men got off.

“It doesn’t appear that there is anyone alive in the village...” said the journalist.

“Look over there. There is smoke…” said the translator, pointing.

“Let’s go over there and have a look,” replied the journalist.

The yard was enclosed by a high wall built of stone. One of the thick, solid oak door wings was chopped with an ax. There was a tall cherry tree inside the yard and a crow was resting on the very top. It was staring somewhere ahead. It raised its beak and gave a long caw.

“Stop that you damn crow…” an old female voice was heard yelling.

They entered the yard. The translator greeted the old woman in Greek. She slowly turned and looked.

“She doesn’t understand,” said the translator and then greeted her in Macedonian: “Good day, mother...”

“Good day! Welcome!” replied the old lady, asking: “Who are you?”

“I am a fellow countryman and this man here is an American...” replied the translator.

“An American? What is he doing here? What does he want?” asked the old woman.

“Can we come in?” asked the translator.

The old woman waved her hand and gestured to them to come inside the house. The yard was laid with cobblestones and the house was old but beautifully built with cut stones. The room was clean and the floor was covered with a colorful hand-woven rug. To the left and right of it were spread thick, woolen red carpets. The fireplace was well-lit and burning hot.

“It is very, very nice here and very enjoyable!” said the journalist in English. “Ask the lady where she bought these beautiful red carpets?”

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He said the carpets are very beautiful and wants to know where you bought them,” replied the translator.

“My dear son, I wove the carpets myself. Those are the only things I have left. I had hidden them in the other pit… What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking with whom are you living? replied the translator.

“I have been living alone, my son, since Ianovden (St. John’s day). That’s when the army passed by here and the people fled to the woods… What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking why the people fled to the woods,” replied the translator.

“Because the army came! The people were afraid of the army that is why they fled to the woods to hide… What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking why you did not leave,” replied the translator.

“I did not manage to escape so I was left alone in the village. The army closed off all the roads and I could not leave. Where was I to go? There were soldiers here and soldiers there armed with guns and shooting everywhere. Where was I to go?… What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He wants to know if you have anyone?” replied the translator.

“Me? My dear son, I do. I have two sons, a daughter and twelve grandchildren… What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking where they are,” replied the translator.

“My daughter and her children are hiding in the woods… What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking where your son is,” replied the translator.

“In America...” she replied.

“Oh in America?!” replied the journalist joyfully with a broad smile on his face. “In America!” he again said and could not stop smiling. “Oh yeah in America...”

“America” was the single word that both the old woman and the journalist understood: he with joy and she with sorrow and cursing. “My son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren are in America, grandchildren I have never seen except in photographs,” said the old woman.

“America, America, damn America… my son is there…” said the old woman quietly with a small whimper. “My son, Mitre... What did he say?” she asked.

“He wants to know in which city your son is living,” replied the translator.

“Oh my dear son, I don’t remember...” said the old woman with a frown on her face, rubbing her forehead and half-closed her eyes in a desperate attempt to think of the city in which her son lived. She then adjusted herself, slowly got up and said: “Let me see...”

She went down to the pit and returned with a pile of papers and envelopes wrapped in an apron. She sat back in the same place and, one by one, she began to open the envelopes, remove the letters and place them in front of the two men. She then paused for a moment, looked at the translator and said: “Can you read this?” and then gave him an envelope.

“I don’t recognize the letters,” he said, “let me ask him.” The translator then took the envelope and gave it to the American.

“Oh, Detroit!!!” the American yelled out joyfully. “Detroit is my city!” he said in English and attempted to say the same in Greek.

“What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He said Detroit is his city, where he was born, where he has a house and where his family lives...” replied the translator.

“My son is there too… Ask him if he knows him… He doesn’t know him? Well, tell him when he goes back, what is the name of the place where he lives?” asked the old woman.

“Detroit...” replied the translator.

“Tell him when he goes back home to Detroit to look for my son Mitre, to find him and to let him know that I am okay... except, as you can see, part of my house was burned down and everything that we had in our home has been stolen... What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“And you, my dear woman, do you know how big a city Detroit is? Your son is living among hundreds of thousands of people, how will he be able to find him?” replied the translator with a frustrating tone of voice.

“Perhaps there are hundreds of thousands of people but there can’t be thousands of bakeries in Detroit? My son has his own bakery. He can inquire among the bakers. Bakers must know one another... What did he say?” she asked.

“He is asking since when has your son been in Detroit?” replied the translator.

“Since a long time ago. He was only twenty years old when he left. Tell him to tell my son that our oxen and sheep were taken from me and I have been left alone with nothing... what am I to do? These are bad times... very bad times... Perhaps things will calm down and the people will return to their homes... What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking if you have seen an army from Yugoslavia or Albania pass by here.” replied the translator.

“What is that?” asked the old woman.

“Soldiers, soldiers from Serbia or from Albania, did they pass by here. That’s what he is asking…” replied the translator.

“Is he is asking if a Serbian or Albanian army came here? No they have not. But I have seen many armies? Yes, I have seen armies. Tell him that I have seen many armies pass by here... What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking whose army have you seen?”

“Well, I was a child when the Ottoman army was here… After that it was our people, the Ilinden fighters who passed by here. After the Ilinden Uprising Greek armed bandits came. They were worse than the Ottomans… They wanted to make us Greeks by force. They burned houses, killed people, beat people, raped women, bribed people and turned people into snitches and spies... After the Ottoman army left the Greek army came... After that came the French army and brought black men with it. The French positioned their cannons up there on top of that hill and from there they were bombarding that hill over there. The French would send black people over on foot and they would come back wounded and mutilated. You should know that even though those men were black, their blood was red… just like ours… The English came after that and after them there was only the Greek army. When the Italians hit they bombed us here with cannons and airplanes. The entire place was plowed and burned down by bombs. The Greek army came here, collected us all and put us to work without pay. We dug roadbeds, baked bread and carried cases of ammunition and bombs... They sent us as far as the Morava Mountains. That mountain over there is Morava. Do you see it? The Greek army reached beyond that mountain. The Greek army consisted mainly of our men (Macedonians). They fought the Italians. They told us that they passed Korcha and went as far as Pogradets... They drove the Italians back. But, I don’t know what happened and why the Greek army came back and allowed the Italians and later the Germans to come here. After that a war started and many of our men and boys fought against the Italian and German armies. They used to say that was our army (Macedonian). They made an army from our (Macedonian) fighters but then it left. It went over the mountains to where Macedonians were in that Macedonia and joined many Macedonian soldiers... And afterwards the Greek army came back and with it came many policemen who beat us a lot. They encouraged the Madzhiri (Christian Turkish colonists) to rob us and our properties… What did he say?” concluded the old woman.

“He is asking which army was better?” replied the translator.

“Well, my son, he is asking me to tell him whose foreign soldiers were better? Let me say this. When they came no one welcomed them. And when they left no one invited them to come back. We only greeted our Ilinden fighters with joy and waited for them to return with tears. And when they returned we offered them bread, salt and wine and prepared a bed for them to rest... What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking why?” replied the translator.

“Why? Because they were our (Macedonian) fighters! We greeted them with bread and wine. We hosted the red shirts that came from that Macedonia and cried with joy listening to them speak Macedonian and sing Macedonian songs. We used to go to the church to light candles and pray to the Virgin Mary so that they would return to their homes and to their mothers healthy and alive. We protected and helped them because they were Macedonian soldiers who spoke Macedonian and sang Macedonians songs…What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking if you have any relatives among those in the mountains and forests?” replied the translator.

“My dear son, I do... My grandchildren and many relatives are in the forests... What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking if you give those in the forest food?” replied the translator.

“How can I not give to my own people? I give them food, clothing and a bed... But what I don’t understand is why they have joined the Greeks. That I can’t understand at all... Ask him if he knows why. Ask him… What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He is asking if you son Mitre writes to you?” replied the translator.

“Two years after the war my Mitre sent me letters, money and packages. I could have opened a shop and dressed up half the people of Kostur with the materials he sent me. But unfortunately the Madzhiri (Christian Turkish colonists), those thieves, followed the

army and attacked and robbed us. They dug under our foundations with pickaxes, broke into our cellar and found and broke into our pit. Come I will show you... Do you see? They tore everything apart and took everything. They only left the letters... Look over here… They broke my oak chest and took my wedding dress. They broke the cradle in which I cradled my children and they took my loom…” said the old woman, becoming visibly upset and began breathing deep and painful sighs. A few moments later she recomposed herself, crossed herself, sat down, placed her hands in her lap and began to talk again:

“What joy... what joy my people, what joy...” she said with a sad tone of voice, “what joy we had in this house... Three births, three baptisms, two weddings and countless banquets... Our cellars were never empty. Our land fed us all and the foreign soldiers… We had enough food for everyone… We had two pairs of oxen for pulling a plow and a horse just for weddings, festivals and to go to the market. We had seventy sheep, forty goats, a cow and two hired helpers... Then last year, during the spring, the Madzhiri came and stole everything that was not buried underground. Should I have complained? To whom could I complain? There were Greek soldiers stationed right there. They and their superiors were watching and doing nothing. A few days later I went to Kostur and complained but no one wanted to listen. So, what was I to do? I don’t speak their language so they looked at me as if I were stupid and worthless... And those Macedonians who do speak their language were afraid to open their mouth…” concluded the old woman.

The Journalist bent down and picked up a number of postcards. Some were of well-known cities like Detroit, New York, Washington, Los Angeles and others were of famous American monuments familiar to the journalist... The journalist showed most interest in the postcard from Detroit and looked at it for a long time. He then pointed to the upper part and, in English, said: This is my house…”

“What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He said the city he is looking at on the postcard is his city and he can see his house in the picture,” replied the translator.

“Ask him when he will be going home?” asked the old woman.

“He said in about a month,” replied the translator.

“Tell him not to forget to look for my son Mitre. He should look for him among the bakers... What did he say?” asked the old woman.

“He said he wants to take your picture,” replied the translator.

The old woman smiled. It was a barely visible sad and sickly smile. The wrinkles on her forehead and face became emphasized. She adjusted herself. With an easy movement of her hands she adjusted her long, black dress and put on her black, red beaded, fringed vest. She stood up straight and placed her hands on her head to cast a shadow over her eyes. She then placed her left hand on her hip, as if she was supporting her entire past life on her old frame. She stared in front of her into the distance with a long and begging stare and waited… Then something occurred to her…

“Dear boys… in all of our talk I forgot to offer you something... I have wild strawberry jelly. It is very sweet. Here, take some. Here is some water; I got it just a while ago fresh from the spring… To your good health…” she said as she watched the men spoon and eat the delicious jelly.

The mountain on the other side of the forest began to turn purple. The sun was setting. A cold autumn breeze blew from the north, dislodged a few leaves from the cherry tree in the yard and carried them down through the village streets... The color of ash was slowly enveloping the landscape. The old woman lit a kerosene lamp and placed it on the shelf above the fireplace. A tiny oil lamp was illuminating the icon of the Virgin Mary. The room began to darken. The old woman set the table, covered it with a white tablecloth and put a plate with cheese and half a loaf of bread on it. In the meantime the journalist brought a box from his jeep from which he removed a couple of cans of meat and placed them on the table. The three ate in silence.

A yellow glowing ball could be seen slowly drifting by the small window in the room. The moon was full. The old woman collected all the crumbs in one hand, stood up and said: “I will set a place for you to sleep here…”

Sitting crossed legged, resting his elbows on the table, the journalist, by the light of his flashlight, was writing something down. There was silence. The only things heard were the scratching of the ink pen and the gentle rustling of the paper. The translator was sleeping with his mouth open. The journalist continued to write through the night. There was a loud crow of a rooster. The journalist paused, got up, stretched his legs and went outside. The cold autumn wind hit him in the face. He returned to the room and woke the translator.

“Get up. It’s time to go!” he said.

Then, just as they were about to exit the room, the old woman appeared and in a quiet voice asked: “Are you going?” and before they had a chance to answer she said: “Be well and take care of yourselves. And you, tell him not to forget to look for my son Mitre in Detroit… May God be with you…”

The Journalist knelt down before the old woman, bowed his head, took her hand in his hands and gratefully kissed it…

Eight kilometres from the village the jeep struck a mine. Five Partisans left their posts above and went to investigate. The jeep was ejected from the road and the American journalist and his translator were lying dead in the ditch. There was a backpack lying beside them. In it they found a thick notebook with well-written, small legible letters.

“Is there anyone here who can read these letters?” one of them asked.

“It’s in English. I can read English...” another one said, taking the notebook, leafing though it and then said: “Let us sit, I will read it and tell you what it says… Yes, the first two pages are illegible. They are soaked with blood. I will start from page three...”

“I am sending you a photograph. I found it among many letters, old postcards and photographs. It is very old. Not only does it document her youth, but also shows the beginning of our century. It is the hallmark and confirmation of time and life that has taken place here for centuries. I do not venture publish it in any newspaper because I am afraid it will die along with the news. I want her to live forever. That’s why I need you to find it a place in your new home in the new country. I will send you two more photographs in my next letter. One I took at the threshold of a house of what a few days ago was your house, the house in which you were born and raised and from which you went into the world. All that’s left of that house now is one room, a small chamber on the ground floor. The rest has been destroyed. What remains standing is well-looked after with much love and is waiting every passing hour for guests to fill it. In the corner there is an icon of the Virgin Mary and in front of it is a tiny oil lamp with a tiny flickering flame. Your mother fed me with a piece of bread and a cup of goat’s milk here in this room. I have never tasted anything so delicious. One picture I will keep for me to remind me of that wonderful woman with whom I spent a few precious moments while I was here. When I return to Detroit I will frame it in a golden frame to remind me of the Macedonian Angel I met in your country...” concluded the letter.

“Dear Jim,

Your mother told me that for years she has been collecting dowries for your daughters... She has spun yarn, knitted sweaters, woven material and spent many nights sewing dresses. She told me that all mothers do that...

Here, my dear Jim, I sensed that there is hardship and I felt the pain of existence, here I also found roots deep rooted into the rock and cracked earth. This rugged, rocky, cooked by the sun, washed by the waters, polished by the winds and humiliated by its new masters, is your country adorned with the beauty and human warmth of your people. Dear Jim, I sincerely trusted the politicians in Athens but now I only have contempt for them and wonder if they have any sense of dignity. I also have to admit, though reluctantly, that I am a member of the so-called free and civilized western world, of which today I am ashamed... I have a feeling that this piece of land, an

eternal place of crossroads for innumerable conquerors, a place broken up by the greed of your neighbours through which the Great Powers found their accounts, because it is subjected to suffering, sorrow and anticipation, is the only place where a man can earn his bread with sweat, and without peace and quiet until the end of his days...

I watched your mother in silence for a long time. I remember every flicker of her wrinkled cheeks. She is a person who, despite her old age and wrinkled face, has preserved her beauty as a woman and her kindness as a wonderful human being. She showed me parts of her old wardrobe... I do not know how she managed to save and preserve it. She showed me her silver belt buckles, money from various times and rulers embroidered on her dresses and the handmade embroidery with red thread on white linen...

Her voice was like a sweet melody in my ears which seemed to me like everything was hers yesterday and today. And tomorrow? I, my dear Jim, I’m really stunned! Our discussion lasted all night. We sat on the doorstep of the burned down house. Above us were countless bright stars, the kind of which I have never seen in the United States. Here it seems like the sky is closer to the ground but more distant from the people and their destiny... Beside us was a broken cradle. Your mother said it was the cradle in which she cradled you and your siblings when you were babies... We sat and talked on the doorstep and all the while we watched soldiers passing through the village and climbing up the hill beyond the river. There were non-stop machine gun bursts coming from the mountains. The two sides were stubbornly defending and attacking each other’s positions. And we, on the other side, continued to talk all night, barely noticing the moon moving across the star-lit sky. A crowing rooster, from the lower neighbourhood, then heralded the coming of the new day. And what will this new day be like?” concluded the letter.

“Dear Jim,