BROTHERHOOD UNITY - Part 11

An unfamiliar man, a stranger, walked beside her. He adjusted the shmaizer (rifle) hanging over his shoulder, took a look at her and stepped up his pace. The two walked along the uneven road covered with twisted and tangled roots sticking deep into the dry dusty ground. Two people walking, one quietly, gently, finely, lovely, carefully and barely audibly, making her way with a slight bounce. The other, hesitant, uneven, stretched out and slack on the right foot and dignified, flat and heavy on the left foot noticeable by the large military boot he was wearing. His left wooden leg squeaked with every step. Engraved under the bleeding knee were thick leather straps. The woman slowed down, straightened up, untied her black kerchief, closed her eyes and wiped the sweat off her face. He slowed down too. Adjusted his shmaizer, brushed his unshaven face with his left hand and with tears in his eyes looked at the sun and said: “Only courage… only courage…” he tore every word, as if chewing them. He turned towards her but she had already moved on. He gave her a measured look and continued talking, “You too will reach your destiny the way it’s ordained…” He paused with a gaping mouth as if he had forgotten something. He unbuttoned the canteen from his belt, took a couple of sips, straightened himself, looked at the old lady again and followed her at a stepped up pace. When he caught up to her he said: “Only courage and because the road is dusty, you sister, go ahead and don’t look back… Only courage… In a few moments the sun will disappear behind the mountain… And tonight the night will be peaceful…” attempting to distance himself. “Yesterday’s and the day before and the day before that, sound of machine guns, bombs, explosions, blasts, will only ring in our ears and not in the hills and mountain tops... Courage and only slowly,” he muttered, “and even though the woolen blanket you are carrying with you is heavy, go on, continue walking on the dusty road for as long as the heat does not subside and for as long as the first drops of dew do not fall. And if it happens that the night shall fall quietly, then you too shall fall, alone, among strangers and surely those strangers will pay their last respects and steal your woolen blanket. They will toss some burned and trampled soil on you or they will cover you with some dry twigs or green branches which they will gather in a hurry or they will toss some stones on you… Well, you are not a soldier, but if you happen to fall on this dusty road, which the soldiers soiled, you will have a military burial, our type of burial, a Partisan burial… Those passing by will look at you without care, cold and will continue walking towards the unknown on this or on that dusty road of no return…” He slowed down a bit but continued walking. He unbuttoned his canteen and gave the old woman a drink. She moistened her lips and soaked one edge of her black kerchief. Walking, from time to time, she moistened her parched lips with the wet cloth to slow the burning and cut down her thirst; just enough to ease her pain. The man shifted the shmaizer to his other shoulder and as if his words weighed more, he sighed deeply and unreserved tried to encourage his walking companion: “There will be no more explosions coming from these mountains and from these hills. Oh mother, squeeze your soul and endure a bit longer… Courage, just a little longer and the sun which bakes us will disappear, dusk will soon be here, and then the night will be peaceful… Come, follow me. The heat will subside and soon the dew will fall, and until then don’t turn and don’t pay attention to the explosions. There they only bring death. Look, here the soil is the same, the rocks are hard and the road is dusty, trampled and it seems like there is no end in sight… Only, here, I the fool, I mumble away, I don’t know, poor me, if anyone where you are going, will know why you have brought the woolen blanket?” He stopped talking. There was complete silence except for the silent sound of their feet walking.

In front of them, like a black cloud, a wave of refugees was fleeing. Sounds of babies crying, cows mooing, people yelling could be heard coming from their direction. “If I may ask you, mother. What do they call you?” asked the man. “Krstovitsa…” she answered softly and continued to walk ahead without engaging in the conversation. At one time they walked one beside the other, ever so slowly, it seemed like they were shadows on the go. And as they continued to walk along the long dusty road, she fell behind, the further they walked the more behind she fell, and to him it seemed like someone or something was touching her from some remote distance, choking up and breaking her words. He listened quietly, walking in front of her, hardly ever turning to look at her. Some distance later he stopped, sat down and leaned against a tree stump. He took his shmaizer off his shoulder and braced it on his knee. Eventually she caught up and stopped beside him. They both stood there in silence. “So,” he broke the silence, “we walked and walked and we ended up in this place. I am saying ‘in this place’ because this here is our place. Only a few steps in that direction, that’s all that remains of what was once ours. This much is also left of our great hopes and aspirations… Look and have your fill; be happy and ecstatic, as long as we are in our place, our place, we are still on our land and please don’t cry. If you cross this band of land, you will have no reason to be happy and you will have plenty of time to cry, feel horrible, swear and curse, that’s why dear mother now you should be happy as long as we are in our land, for as long as we are in our place, for as long as we are still on our land. Over there it is not ours. With a single step you will cross this narrow band and you will enter, dear mother, into foreign land… Sit down, take a break… Sit dear mother, sit down and let us both catch our breath. The road under our feet will not go anywhere… That too is our fate and it will be done as it is written… Please sit, so we can have a conversation sitting down… so we can have a few words while we rest… Sit, rest, the road is not going anywhere; it is our fate to take it to where it will lead us… They say it will be done as it is written… It is called fate… destiny. Come, sit and let me see what you are hiding there in that spool. Let us open it up together. Don’t hide it, let me see it. Let us put that reddish black string behind us, let us tie it to this rock or to that oak tree and along it, like blind people, tapping and feeling our way with a stick, we can find our way, hold on to the string so that we can both find our way to the source from which we were uprooted… Come, take that sack off your shoulder the rope is cutting your shoulder, take the sack off and open the woolen blanket wide. Come, sit and let us talk. Where are we? We are at the end of our road but still on our land, and over there, look, is the road to alien lands leading away from our homes. Here, take it, hold on to the string of memories, don’t let them fall into the wrong hands, hold on to them as though you are holding on to your most cherished wishes. Oh dear mother, I can see that the string in the spool is coming to its end. Now unfold the memory leaves and tighten your soul, tighten your heart, as our old people always used to say, those poor people, they turned their pain into songs. Sit. Your chin is shaking and a tear is being squeezed out of your eye. The wrinkles on your forehead are tightening and your lips are quivering. Why do you look angry and restless? Do you want to say something? Do you want to pray? Do you want to curse? Let the ravens crow and let the vultures circle and find their carcass from up high. We are not the first from our race and God let us be the last to share this fate. Where are we? On the road? On whose road? Is it taking us home or away from home? Give it to me, give me the spool so I can let some string out… Perhaps tomorrow we will follow the string back and it will lead us to our home?

Here, hold the string, don’t let anyone tear it… If someone tears it you will never find your way back, you will never be able to return home. All you will have then is your dismal desire and your great worry. Oh, dear mother, the spool is small and the cord and golden silver thread on white and black is weaving like our yesterday’s and today’s destiny. Let some string out, unfold the old yellowed memory pages and in place of prayer – curse, because the truth and memories are protected in the curses. And what are memories if not desire for survival, if not a shade drawn from the past…? Let the ravens crow and the vultures search for carrion with a sharp glance from the sky…” he spoke the last words with a deep sigh. He lost his voice and threw his head back. Krstovitsa looked at him with fear in her eyes. She felt his forehead. It felt hot. She unbuttoned the canteen from his belt and poured a handful of water onto his face. “He is burning… he has a fever…” she said to herself. “He is burning up…” She took the black kerchief off her head, poured some water on it and placed it on his forehead and face. He was hot to the touch. “He is burning up,” she repeated and looked around helplessly. Apart from the dust that remained from the people who had passed by them in a hurry earlier, she could see nothing and no one. She felt his forehead again. The kerchief was dry. The stranger moved and as if nothing had happened, lifted his head, took the kerchief off his face and with a tired, exhausted and sleepy voice asked: “Did I, dear mother, fall asleep?” He did not expect a reply. He looked up at the blue sky, and then looked around, wrapping his eyes around the scorched earth and dust and while attempting to gather his thoughts, said: “We released some string from the spool and with it we found our way here. The spool was small, the string ended here, who knows how long the road ahead is, in what valleys and hills, forests and brooks… Unstitch, dear mother, unstitch some more string from the woolen blanket and with it we will trace our way back home, our footsteps will be covered by dust; water will wash the road, unstitch string from the woolen blanket so that we can find our way back home…” His throat became hoarse and he stopped talking. As if lost, he looked at the sky, took a deep breath and said: “Unstitch dear mother, unstitch some thread from the woolen blanket so that we can mark…” He was unable to complete his sentence. The old woman interrupted with a sharp tone of voice: “Take your dirty hands off the woolen blanket and don’t even dare look at it! The road has already been marked… by you and those...” She did not finish saying who ‘those’ were. The curse got stuck in her throat. She stood up, put her woolen blanket over her shoulder and without saying a word, stepped away. Without looking, she crossed the barrier that so many uprooted people before her had crossed. She did not look back. She continued walking down the dusty road and he, without saying a word, stood up and followed her. They walked slowly, one beside the other. Once in a while the old woman paused to wipe the sweat off her face, catch her breath and adjust the woolen blanket on her shoulder. They kept going. Not used to the slow pace, he tried to stay with her and catch her when she stumbled and she, with a choked voice, with broken words began to tell her story… She spoke, unfolding twists of her experience, of what was hers yesterday. He listened silently, moving forward, rarely looking at her. The sun was about to set. The heat began to subside… He stopped and sat down. He took the shmaizer off his shoulder and braced it on his knee. The old woman, leaning forward, put down her woolen blanket, wiped the sweat off her face and stood there. She looked at the crowd of people gathering under the trees… He pulled out a small bag of tobacco, ripped a small piece of paper from a newspaper, twisted a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled a deep puff and slowly exhaled the smelly smoke.

He spit to the side, puffed and spit again. He looked up at the blue sky and with eyes closed, asked: “Did you say the woolen blanket was a gift and that you brought up your children and grandchildren on it? Did you say you left your house open and that you covered the burning coals in the fireplace with ashes? The coals will smoulder in the hearth for a long, long time. They will smoulder and wait. Look, the grove is emptying. The people are leaving. Let’s go, let us take the road that awaits us. Just like this, put the woolen blanket on your other shoulder so that your arm, holding the black copper jug, does not become numb. And when I tell you to stop, pause to catch your breath. And now, let’s go and don’t turn back, don’t look back. I will say it again, if you fall your people or strangers will surrender you to the earth and will steal your woolen blanket. Did you say we will return to our homes, to our old houses, we will uncover the smouldering coals and light a fire? Did you say that then you will lay down the woolen blanket on which your children and grandchildren grew up… Did you say, dear mother, your oldest lies under some stone on Ivan Mountain? And do you know where Ivan Mountain is? Look to your right. Over there, the one standing high, that’s Ivan Mountain… Is this where an Italian grenade cut him to pieces? And about your two grandsons they told you that last year they were left resting on Bel Kamen and that they saw your granddaughter at Charno resting beside her machinegun? And did you say she had blond hair, big blue eyes and a beautiful face with a sweet smile? Oh, dear mother, many at Charno blackened and turned to coal, burned by the living fire… At Treskavets, Aliabitsa and on every hill in Gramos…” The man, as if wanting to ease the old woman’s pain and anguish which she carried with her, repeated again and again the words the old woman had spoken and, after moving a few steps ahead, would not look back. He knew very well what was happening there. And if some commander stopped in front of him, who now like him roamed the roads of the bordering country, if he stopped in front of him and told him: “Back you son of a bitch, back! Back to your post!” then without hesitation he would circle back and continue on the dusty dirt road back to the place where he would be ordered to die. Eight years with a gun over his shoulder he formed the habit of listening and doing as he was told. In his younger years he did not even want to think for himself. What soldier is a soldier if they think for themselves? In what army do they teach soldiers to think for themselves? A soldier is trained to obey orders without asking questions. To listen, to do and not to think, it was drilled into their heads, it was in their blood. But later, when he matured, first in the Partisan ranks of ELAS, then in the Aegean Brigade, after serving in the Yugoslav People’s Army, and after that in the People’s Militia, he began to think and his thinking was sometimes not on the same level as the orders given to him to carry out. He never had officer’s epaulettes on his shoulder. He was a regular soldier for eight long years, always hungry and the host of many lice. In 1937 they made him wear a Greek uniform; drilled him, taught him how to kill and, like in every army, taught him it was honourable to kill and assured him, like they do in every army, that his life was the most important thing that he had and must be sacrificed for his ‘patrida’ (country). The following year, 1938, he made a mistake about his ‘patrida’, for which his ‘patrida’ took his military uniform and exchanged it for a prison uniform. And why? Because in the unit where he was serving there were several ‘endopi’ (indigenous Macedonians) with whom he spoke in his Macedonian mother tongue. That’s right! He was sent to prison for speaking the language he had learned from his mother! The sergeant, who was also Macedonian from the same region, warned him twice to watch himself and that speaking the Macedonian language was prohibited.

He knew that it was prohibited but, being angry at something, he swore in his mother tongue and having drunk a little too much he and his friends sang the Macedonian song, “I hear the rustling of the beechwood trees” in the café. The song was sung quietly but loudly enough for others to hear. For that he was put in jail for six months, which he served on one of the dry islands in the Aegean Sea. Those six months meant a lot to him. He met many older, thoughtful and educated people. And each one of them, in their own way, explained to him the wrongs that Greece (which some called the anti-people regime) was committing against its people and made it clear to him why people were poor, hungry and dressed in rags. They explained to him that everyone had the right be treated fairly, as an equal. Everyone had the right to have a job and to be paid, and not in the way things were done at that time; you having to work and someone else becoming rich and having a rich life. He had difficulties understanding the concept of ‘society’ and ‘proletariat revolution’, but it seems that hiding in his misunderstanding was this mysterious power from which sprang his conviction. In the simple and still unpolluted soul of this ordinary Macedonian villager, exactly those unrecognized words created confidence and faith. What he liked most about this was that in this new society every day and night would be distributed evenly: eight hours work, eight hours sleep and eight hours learning and fun. And because he was very interested in learning he accepted the last part with mixed feelings. Of course this was understandable, but ultimately and unquestionably he accepted the truth that in this society everyone was going to be equal. “What more could I want than being equal?” he often thought to himself. “Is there anything better than being equal, for example, to a general? Congratulations to the person who thought of such a society. A nice society.” After six months, those who sentenced him, convinced that he was rehabilitated, returned him to a unit in which many like him also served. With their eyes fixed into the future and their heads filled with righteousness, which they barely understood, enthusiastically and trustingly they preached their ideals to others. In the spring of 1939 they took his rifle and his uniform and sent him home to his village, wearing his old worn out rags. It was Easter and after church service, in the town square, the music band began to play. He took a one thousand drakma bill from his pocket, spit on the king’s face, slapped it on Duro’s forehead, and said: “Bajracheto, play the Bajracheto!” He was first, leading the dance. He started out lightly, hopping gently, swinging his kerchief up high in the air when suddenly the music stopped. There, beside the bandstand, stood the chief of police with his whip, gently tapping in his open left palm. The man lowered his leg with which he was about to take the next step in the dance and stood up straight. His right cheek began to tremble and his eyebrows furrowed. He crumpled his open kerchief in his hand and with a measured steady step walked to the bandstand. With an angry but quiet voice he said: “Continue to play!” The old clarinet player, Duro the Gypsy, looked at the police chief for approval. “I paid you for this dance, not him!” said the man. “If it’s about the money, take it back…” said Duro quietly. He then went close to the man and whispered in his ear: “This police chief is a bastard and he will take away my right to play my instrument. Speak with him.” The man turned. The police chief was rhythmically tapping his left palm with his whip. He could see a challenge in the reflection of the man’s eyes. The man came close to the police chief and asked in Greek: “You sir, did you order this dance to stop?” There was silence. The whole place went quiet. Anticipation. There was a breath of fear in the air… “Sir,” now in a calmer tone of voice, “Mr. Police Chief, today is Easter. If you want to and if you can, celebrate Christ’s resurrection with us and share with us that happiness,” said the man.

“And if I don’t then what?” asked the police chief with a slight smile on his face and began to tap his hand harder with the whip. “Then gather your constables and get the hell out of our village!” replied the man. “Is that so?” asked the police chief. “And do you know that we know everything about you? For example, we know that you are a communist and that every day you speak in that prohibited language, which means you disrespect the law and you show contempt for the great and clever wise man, Yoannis Metaxas. And besides that, a while ago you spat on the king’s face!” The man wanted to say more but did not get the chance. With lightning speed the police chief hit the man across the face, with his policeman’s whip. It felt as if his entire face had been fried in hot oil. Without thinking, the man butted the police chief in the face with his head and at the same moment yanked the whip out of his hand and with it, hit him twice over the head. His fellow villagers cursed the man for a long time because that Easter day they were all beaten to a pulp. As for him, they took him to Kostur and after a short trial found him guilty of speaking the forbidden language at home and in public places, of swearing and of attacking the government. He was sent to prison. The ship, filled with men like him, set off from Solun and after two days of being whipped and abused, the prisoners were offloaded onto the dry Aegean Island, Aegina. He spent an entire year, with hundreds of people like him, breaking stones and building a new prison. This time too, like the last time he was in prison, there were those who filled his head with communist ideas. He listened well and looked forward to a brighter future. One day the party instructor asked: “In what language do you speak with your friends?” “In Macedonian…” he replied. “Is there such a language?” asked the instructor. “For us, yes there is, but for some others… maybe there isn’t…” replied the man. “Are you not Greek citizens?” asked the instructor. “On our land, Comrade, we have our native (mother tongue) and a state language. We have our own life and our own affairs. We also have two names and two surnames. One name is for our home, for our neighbours and for the entire village to use, the state uses the other [Greek] name. To some the state gave new names and to others it added the endings ‘os’, ‘is’ and ‘ou’. And this way ‘Popovski’ became ‘Papadopoulos’, ‘Ristovski’ became ‘Hristidis’, ‘Petrovski’ became ‘Petrou’… ‘Petre’ – ‘Petros’, ‘Yane’ – ‘Yannis’, and so on… The teacher, the policeman, the judge, etc., call us by that [Greek] name. It is the same here on this desolate island, the prison guards and our Greek communist comrades call us by the state name… And you, our Greek communist comrades, have now given us another name; ‘Slavo-Macedonians’… The name given to us by the state is in all our papers; government, church, military, police, prison, etc. We use our [Macedonian] names at home, in the fields, in the local market and with our friends and relatives… There, at our place, at home, we are known as Popovtsi, Nakovtsi, Petrovtsi… We were this way during Turkish times. We spoke our native language for centuries. We understood one another, we argued with one another and we made peace with each other, we shared our joy and we buried our departed in that language… That’s the way it was, Comrade… The Greek language, on the other hand, we learned under duress, with beatings, salted herring and castor oil…” concluded the man. “Are there no Greek schools where you come from?” asked the instructor. “Yes there are. There are schools, kindergartens and nursery schools. All the children are gathered there so that the parents can go to work without worry… And at night, all the adults go to night school and learn Greek by force and others of course learn the Greek language in prisons…” replied the man. “This will not happen in a communist society…” said the instructor. “We will see… Let me tell you this; there, at our places all villages, rivers, lakes, mountains, etc., have two names just like the people...”

replied the man. It was October 1940. Italy had declared war on Greece and the Party called: “All communists to the front.” The man was among the first to request to go. They freed him. “Here the state spends money on them to rot,” said the camp commander, “let them go there and get killed, from one side it’s the same, but from another, let them prove how much they love their fatherland.” The man loved his fatherland but he was unable to make the commander understand which and whose fatherland he loved. The man left and went to defend his fatherland. He was enlisted in the 28 Regiment of the Fifteenth Division. The entire regiment was made up of young men from the Kostur and Lerin Regions. He received a light wound at Ivan Mountain and was sent to Pogradets. And since then he had not put his rifle down. Since then he had no epaulettes on his shoulders to weigh him down. The only things that weighed him down were the belt of the cold metal barrel and ammunition which cut his shoulders and turned him into a hunchback. He went to the mountains with the first detachments and fought against the Italians. And when “Lazo Trpovski” the first Kostur battalion was formed, in which all the fighters and commanders were Macedonians, he left ELAS and joined a Macedonian Partisan detachment. He used to get angry, swear and fight bitterly with his friends when he heard that those “up there, above” the superiors, as they used to call them, argued among themselves, blamed one another and vilified each other, dividing themselves and taking this side or that. He stayed clear of all that and held his own side, the side that fought for a free, united and independent Macedonia. He cried with tears of joy and hugged the Macedonian fighter from across the border, from Vardar Macedonia, when they arrived in Kostur Region. He spent several days with them wandering around, talking and singing revolutionary and patriotic songs about Macedonia. But soon after that he became angry and remained angry and very disappointed when he found out that the army command in Vardar Macedonia had refused to allow the Kostur Region youth to join its movement and since then wondered, asking himself and others, why no one wanted to create an all Macedonian army? One of the commanders told him that it was up to the Parties and the Parties had some kind of understanding and things were done according to this understanding. He quickly realized that the Parties wanted a war of liberation with everyone fighting inside their own border. Anyone who did not follow those conditions would be labeled a separatist and prosecuted accordingly. The young people who took to the mountains to join the struggle were turned back and returned home embarrassed and mocked. When the war was over the Aegean Brigade, after the battles against the Balisti, was disbanded outside of Gostivar, the fighters were then dispersed to various services and he thought to himself, ‘the time has come when no new graves will be dug on Macedonian soil’. And every day new refugees arrived from the Aegean part, bringing bad news, saying that a new armed resistance had begun. He often wondered whether he should go or not? He was unemployed, living off the municipal cauldron. He reported to the People’s Militia and found work there. They told him his task was to continue the struggle against the People’s enemy. He continued to walk in front of the old woman, something made a strange sound as he stubbornly paced on the dusty road, baked by the summer heat. He looked, there between the branches of the old oak tree the sun blinked and for a very short moment his eyes stared at the burning sky. A heavy, stifling and dry heat fell all over his face taking his breath away. They reached the summit. To the left was a forest. There were masses of people and livestock under the thick and tall oak trees and all over the entire long and wide meadow. Above them there was a lot of shouting and a cloud of dry dust. The crowds arrived and rose, they thickened, they roared, they babbled, they pushed and swarmed and they filled the meadow and the woods.

And from another wilderness new crowds poured, women and men driven to run at the last moment after taking their belongings with them. Without order, without supervision the immense angry crowd was pushing, swarming, growing, gathering, squeezing, breaking, swelling, cowering, yelling, cursing… People and livestock mixed together, drawn here by the evil that had befallen them, pushing them deeper into alien lands… Someone yelled at the top of his voice, the sound put the crowd on edge, some ran downhill crying in panic and bewilderment. The surge was pounding, squashing, rolling, stampeding, pushing and no one could calm it down. Screams and cries of women and children filled the air; children who hung on tightly to their mother’s skirt. A horse got loose from its harness, loose and unbridled it ran high up the hill hitting and running over everything and everyone in its path. And as many times as the man wanted to say, he did not mention the dreadful, painful, terrible, frightening, sickly, sad, distressing sight which was now unraveling before his eyes. He stood there straight and dumbfounded; looking down at the large mass of people all red and black. His eyes were blurred feeling like darkness was about to overtake them. His mouth was shut tight giving the impression that he was keeping something somewhere deep inside him, preventing it from boiling out. Slogans buried in him a long time ago were about to bust out, slogans that called for the people to have faith and determination. Slogans telling people to look forward to a better tomorrow, to a better future; slogans, which in time grew, ripened and matured. His mentors told him and all those around him and beyond, that life would be as sweet as honey and he, stupefied, listened with an empty salivating mouth. Perhaps he was this way because the situation was so hopeless and he was caught up in the whirlwind without considering the consequences. Obedience, faith and trust in the leader and the Party were his road signs. From top to bottom his mentors had taught him that there was only one person who was wise and clever enough to lead and only he had the right to do the thinking and to run things. Up to now he had imagined this thought of a future with semi-educated Party secretaries, deeply rooted in the Party, running his world. Now, with desperation in his eyes, he looked at the hopeless situation they had created. He was confused and it seemed to him that he had not yet seen the light, the entire picture, and was about to realize what was really going on. And now he was beginning to wonder where the unshakable, unconditional, unwavering, blind, huge and unbreakable faith had gone? He looked at the mob yelling and crying with foggy eyes. He saw a vast canvas lying there covering the entire place. Again and again something was gnawing inside him, it seemed to him that some mysterious voice of reason, conscience and conviction, down from his heart and from the thick age-old oak trees standing across from him in the grove, was attempting to communicate; asking the question: “WHY? WHOSE VOICE HAVE YOU BEEN LISTENING TO AND OBEYING?” He was incapacitated, bare, torn and eroded. He felt empty, lost and deceived. To believe in what and to have hope in what? He isolated himself and felt abandoned. Had he made a mistake? Had he gone to the wrong side? Had he taken the wrong road or a wrong turn? He could not shake off these feelings from his conscience; he felt them like an open wound, like blow after blow and the pain, the suffering and the anguish, collected in him in layers and layers. The lost hope was hurting badly. He felt sluggish, lost, alone, bitter, mixed up. No longer afraid of what had happened but from what was going to happen. He stood on top of the hill defaced, naked and without courage. He understood now that there was nowhere to go, that there was no one to come to the rescue. In front of him there was desolation, behind him destruction and abandonment! Everything was burned, destroyed, turned to ashes.

He stood there mute looking at the destruction as the sun slowly began to set. In the grove, hidden away from the winding road, under the branches of the old oak trees, they were laying down the wounded. On the other side of the hill DAG fighters were pouring, coming down the hill. Some walked at a quick pace, others ran. They were all tired, cursing and swearing. A young Albanian lieutenant, speaking poor Greek, ordered them to go to the right. He said there they would find their own units. On a flat place near the road about ten freight trucks were parked and waiting. Another Albanian officer took some men and ordered them to load ammunition. He yelled and swore in Albanian at those who did not understand his orders. Some tossed the ammunition in piles and others onto the trucks. When they were done they stood to the side. They whispered suspiciously to each other, their eyes bloodshot from the smoke and lack of sleep. Some were tearing, tears which they wiped with their black hands, blackened from gunpowder. It was hard, difficult and shameful for them to accept defeat. They were ready for anything, to stay at their bunkers to the last one, bunkers that had taken months to build, bunkers that covered the entire Vicho terrain. They were ready to die but it was others who had made mistakes in their calculations. Perhaps deliberate? Suddenly there was the sound of a motorcycle approaching and a man wearing a uniform without markings, ordered: “Comrades! Everyone go to your own units. Prepare yourselves and follow that man! March!” He waved and left. The Great Lie – Chapter 25