THE AUTHOR - Part 04

passport when I returned from the USSR to Yugoslavia on August 25th, 1956 and for my son, born in Belgrade, both those first and last names were used. “What is your father’s name?” he asked. I said, “My father’s name is Nikola Balev.” “Where is he at the moment?” he asked. “In Canada,” I replied. “When did he go there?” he asked. “In 1928, as a migrant worker,” I replied. “We will see about that!” he said and asked, “What is your mother’s name?” “Nevena Baleva,” I replied. “Where is she located at the moment?” he asked. “In Yugoslavia, in Macedonia. The Monarcho-Fascists wanted to put her in jail so in 1946 she fled to Bitola,” I replied. Looking even more satisfied he said, “We will see about that too!” “Who else do you have in terms of relatives?” he asked. “I don’t have anyone else!” I replied. “And what is Mincho Fotev to you?” he asked. “He is my husband,” I replied. “Why aren’t you using his last name?” he asked. “We have not been registered, we have an agreement, our wedding was informal, a Partisan wedding,” I replied. “Good. Why did your mother go to Yugoslavia?” he asked again. “Because she was a member of NOF and the Monarcho-Fascists wanted to put her in jail, so in May 1946 she left for Bitola to escape,” I replied. I paused for a moment and continued: “Thousands of people fled across the border from the terror of the Monarcho-Fascists. Besides, our house was burned to the ground. My grandmother Iagna was almost burned inside had it not been for our neighbour Pavle Karadzhov who ran inside to save her. At the time the Monarcho-Fascists were shooting all over the place and wounded Pavle Karadzhov. He too is now in Yugoslavia with all the older people from my village,” I concluded. “Where is your mother now?” he asked again. “In Yugoslavia, Macedonia, Bitola,” I replied. “When did your father go to Canada?” he asked. “My father Nikola has been in Canada since 1928. He went to Canada to work as a migrant worker and now lives in Toronto. He has his own furrier workshop. I don’t know my father because I was barely two and a half years old when he left home for Canada,” I replied. “Do you correspond with your father?” he asked. “I did correspond with him up until 1940, but after the Greek-Italian war broke out on October 28th, 1940, during the German occupation, and during the Anglo-American intervention in Greece we did not correspond,” I replied. “When were you born?” he asked. “On August 2nd, 1926,” I replied. “Where?” he asked. “In the village D’mbeni, Kostur Region, Aegean Macedonia in Greece,” I replied. The translator kept translating my replies and the interrogator wrote them down. “You are an agent!” he said. “I am a Communist!” I replied. “You are a spy!” he said. “I am a Partisan!” I replied. “You are an agent of

the Intelligence Service!” he said. “No! I am a communist, a Partisan and you will write down what I tell you and not what you want to write!” I said. He agreed. He gave me the paper and I read his questions and my answers. I was pleased with what had been written and as I read it over I thought of the ten continuous years that I had fought for freedom for the Macedonian people. I had fought against the Italian fascists, against the German Nazis, against the Anglo-American imperialists and against the Greek Monarcho-Fascists. I told the truth about the Macedonian nation in front of the CPG and now I was doing the same thing in front of the SKP(b) agent. If that is a crime then they can execute me. Satisfied with what was written, during the night of January 7th and 8th, 1950, in Lefortovskaja tjurma in Moscow, I signed the first protocol drawn up by the NKVD interrogator. After signing the protocol the interrogator signaled the guards to take me back to my cell. I don’t know what time it was, but just as I lay down, I don’t know if I had fallen asleep or not, the tiny window in my cell door opened and someone said: “Padjom.” This meant that it was six o’clock in the morning and it was time for me to get up. From my cell window above I could see that it was still dark outside, then I heard the loud noise. It was like that every day, I don’t know what was making the noise, perhaps there was a factory or something like that nearby. They brought me my breakfast. It consisted of 200 grams of bread, 5 grams of sugar and kasha. I could not eat it. Lunch consisted of fish soup and a spoonful of porridge. I mashed the bread into the bowl of water and threw it in the toilet. I did that for a few days. One day they noticed that I was not eating the bread and told me to eat it and that I was not allowed to throw it out. After that I soaked the bread in water, cut it into small pieces and molded it into little people, little Partisans and put them on the radiator to dry. Again they warned me that I was not allowed to do that or distract myself with such trivial things. They asked me what my bread molds were. I said, “They were Marko’s little Partisans.” They took them from me and destroyed them. The days that I was not in interrogation I had to spend inside my cell either lying in bed or pacing back and forth from corner to corner. I constantly measured the cell with my feet: 16 long by 8 wide. I wanted to have contact with people and I didn’t care if they swore at me or insulted me. I desperately wanted to talk to somebody. The days were long and seemed like years. A week or two later I started exercising in the morning. I learned that I needed to do that from our political prisoners in Greece. They told me that in order to be healthy and in good condition in prison you must exercise. Unfortunately my captors were not happy about that either and caused me problems. They told

me “nelzja” to exercising. I said that I was doing exercise so that I wouldn’t get sick. I also started eating the breakfast they gave me and in time even the kasha started to taste good. I ate all the bread in the morning like it was dessert and I wanted more. I was given the same Moscow prison food or “adinichka”, as they called it, for 28 months. Only during their national holidays, on May 1st and on November 7th was I given “manna kasha” or “ovcijanka,” of which I will talk later.

Second Protocol

A few days later, just as they signaled me to go to bed at 10:30 pm, I was still awake when they opened the small window of my cell door and called out: “Na sledstvie, vstavat!” This time they took me to a different interrogation room. My interrogator kept changing the rooms based on the type of interrogation he was going to do. I later found out that by changing the ambiance, the pleasantness, the space of the room, whether there was old or new furniture, the person being interrogated, it was believed, may have felt differently, resulting in revealing something different, but for me all those things had no effect. I always sat on the chair in the corner, but not until I was told to. I was disciplined in that respect. The second protocol began with the question: “Do your mother and father correspond with each other?” I said: “How should I know?” “When did you see your mother last?” he asked. “On April 9 and 10, 1949, in Bitola, Macedonia, Yugoslavia,” I replied. “How did you get there?” he asked. “My friend Mincho took me there on April 9th. As a NOF delegate of the Main Board I, along with some of my comrades, was invited by the Macedonian Association in Bulgaria, Sofia, to attend the anniversary of the death of the revolutionary leader Yane Sandanski.” I had to explain to the interrogator who Yane Sandanski was and that the CPG sent us through its “Iafka” contacts in Yugoslavia. I also had to explain to him that my friends went there a few days before me and that I left alone because Zahariadis had given me permission to stay in Bitola to see my mother. “Zahariadis approved my stay,” I said. “Mincho dropped me off at the border during the night and an “Iafka” jeep took me from there to Bitola. Our contacts in “Iafka” were informed that I was going to the apartment where my mother lived at number 6 “Mirche Atsev” Street. I stayed there one day and one night and during the night I went to Skopje and reported to the Greek “Iafka” there,” I said. “With whom else did you visit when you were there and who are they?” he asked. “During the night of April 11, 12 when I arrived at the Greek “Iafka” in Skopje, I was taken to a building in the centre of Skopje, located on the other side of the Macedonian Ministry of Internal Affairs. There I met Dimitar Trpovski, a friend from my village who then lived in Skopje. He took me to see some elderly people from my village. After that I visited with some of the heads of NOF who had deserted in 1948 and since then had remained in Yugoslavia, in Skopje,” I said and then named each one of them. “They were Mihailo Keramitchiev, Vangel Aianovski-Oche, Steriana Vangelova-Slavianka, Lena Stoikova-Mirka and others. In our

conversation they criticized me and told me that we had ‘given in’ to the Greeks. I got angry and told them that they were cowards and deserters for hiding in Skopje and for leaving the people alone in the middle of a war, the people whom they had organized. I scolded them for leaving and hiding to save their own skins and their families, while we, the faithful to the Party and to our people had to stay behind to finish the job and even die if we had to. I got so angry that I bolted out of there and slammed the door behind me and went back to “Iafka.” During the night I resumed my journey to Sofia via Petrich. At Petrich “Iafka” sent me to a Macedonian man named Iani who put me up for the night with a Macedonian family. The morning after I left Petrich with an “Iafka” messenger and a state security agent and went to Sofia, where I was placed with the Greek “Iafka.” There I met my friends from the delegation, Pavle Rakovski, Todor Kochev-Viktor, Tane Naumov and Vangel Nichev from the NOF Main Board who had been sent there to attend the celebration in Sofia. While the rest left to finish the job in Eastern Macedonia, Pavle Rakovski and I remained behind waiting to leave for Prague in order to attend the Second International Congress of Peace,” I concluded. I read over and signed the second protocol. When I got back to my cell I couldn’t help but think, “Why was he asking me questions about my mother and father corresponding?” After thinking about it for a while I came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the Informburo criticizing Tito. After attempting to reconstruct past events I concluded that the Informburo attacked Tito because he was warming up to capitalism and they wanted to know how he was making connections with America and the western world. In other words, we the accused, as agents of the Intelligence Service, had made those connections for him with the West and my father and mother were in the middle of it. I was pleased and relieved to have come to that conclusion. I lay down and fell asleep. I don’t know what time it was and how long I had slept, but when they yelled out “Padjom”, I immediately got up feeling well-rested and in good spirits.

Translator Tsakalopulu removed because of me

I don’t recollect the days and dates when I was questioned because my interrogator continued the interrogations during both day and night and during weekends and holidays. That’s how it was for three months. One morning they brought me my usual breakfast but they brought me some good food for lunch. This lunch consisted of very nice borshch and kasha made of rice of course, on a small plate, but then that for me was very tasty. The next day they brought me manna kasha. I thought that the menu had suddenly changed and this food would be served from then on. The Interrogator had not called for me to go to see him so I thought that maybe now they would try me in court, but three days later we were back to the same routine. The interrogator asked me when I was with my mother if I had met with any other people, except those in Skopje, and if I took anything from Yugoslavia. I said, “I did not meet anyone else and I did not take anything from anyone.” He then asked me what education I had, to which I replied: “I went as far as grade three in high school in Kostur. There were no Macedonian schools in Greece so we studied in the Greek language. Then when the Greco-Italian war broke out in 1940-1941 the schools had to close because Kostur was close to Albania and my village was even closer and we were regularly bombed by the Italian air force. The entire city was almost all evacuated to nearby villages.” He then asked me if I had attended any other schools. I said: “From May 1945 until the end of July of the same year I completed a three month course at the CPM Central Committee in Skopje, Macedonia.” The interrogator smiled at my answer and went on to the next question. “Since when and what organizations were you in and what functions did you have?” he asked. “When I enrolled in the Kostur High School in 1938, after the Metaxa dictatorship, all the students were enrolled in EON, a fascist organization,” I said and explained what EON was. “They enrolled me without asking me, like they did my entire class. But I had no active involvement in that organization. Since 1932 a communist organization had existed in my village D’mbeni. All the teenage girls belonged to that organization and regularly participated in its activities. My mother had been a member of the CPG since 1932. From my mother’s family, my grandmother and my uncle had participated in the 1903 Ilinden Uprising against the Ottoman Empire. My entire village had a revolutionary tradition. In 1940 when I returned to my village, my neighbour Panaiot Karadzov enrolled me in OKNE (Communist Youth Organization of Greece). Panaiot died in Gramos in 1948. In 1943 I became a member of the CPG. When SNOF

(Slavo-Macedonian National Liberation Front) was formed I worked behind the scenes in the Kostur branch of the Organization,” I said. I then explained when SNOF was formed and by whom and continued. “In May 1944 we (SNOF) came into conflict with the CPG regarding the Macedonian National question and a group of ELAS and SNOF fighters, led by Naum Peiov and Atanas Koroveshovski, crossed over the border into liberated Yugoslavia and joined the NOF and Politburo units in Macedonia,” I concluded. While the interrogator listened to me speaking, the interpreter translated what I said and he wrote down my answers. I read the protocol and after some minor points were fixed I again signed it. We did this with every interrogation. Time and time again he kept asking me how and why we had joined the Macedonian units in Yugoslavia. Why were we sentenced to death by the CPG Kostur District Committee and why was that judgment advertised through leaflets in the Kostur villages and in ELAS. He wanted to know why we had returned to the ranks of ELAS under the CPG and NOF agreement. More precisely, he wanted to know details about the agreement between the CPG, NOF Headquarters and POJ (Partisan Units of Yugoslavia) of Macedonia. He was interested in many details. I told him for a second time that our Macedonian battalion had a disagreement with ELAS and that is why it had crossed over into Yugoslavia in October 1944. At the time Bitola was free and the First Macedonian Brigade consisting of Macedonian fighters from Greece was formed. I had given the interrogator all the details on several occasions. I told him that on November 7, on the occasion of the October Revolution our brigade took part in a march in Bitola and then attended a rally held in honour of November 7, in which Svetozar Vukmanovikj-Tempo gave a speech. This is when he went berserk. He got up from his chair and began to shout that, “That was not true; Yugoslavia does not celebrate the day of the October Revolution.” I said, “That’s not true! Even today there are busts of Marx, Engels and Lenin in Skopje square…” and before I had a chance to finish my sentence he got even more upset and interrupted me. He came closer, stood over my head and began to hysterically yell: “You’re a ‘zvoloch’, you’re an agent of the international bourgeoisie and you’re an agent of Tito and of Yugoslavia.” “I am none of those things,” I said “I am nobody’s agent. I am a Communist and a Partisan. I am Macedonian by nationality and I am telling you the truth the way it is. Ask your diplomats in Belgrade, let them check for you and then tell me if I am lying or telling you the truth!” I kept giving him the same answers no matter which way he asked the questions. No sooner had I finished talking than the

interrogator looked at the clock and left. I was left there with Tsakalopulu, the translator. The woman then told me that she was Greek from the Caucasus, that she was an officer in the Soviet army and that she had a daughter who looked a lot like me. She then started crying and said: “Don’t make yourself so angry.” She got up from her chair came closer towards me and handed me a handkerchief. My nose constantly dripped and I kept wiping it with my hand. She said: “Let the interrogator ask you difficult questions, you just answer him the best you know how, don’t be afraid.” “I am not afraid,” I said “but I did not expect to find myself in this situation in the Soviet Union. I had a different opinion of the first country of socialism.” The interrogator came back and started asking me what I had done in DAG. Just as I started talking about my involvement in DAG and the kind of organization NOF was, he again began to insult me calling me a “zvoloch”, an agent and a traitor...” He looked at the clock again and came towards me with a piece of paper in his hand. He asked me to read it over. Everything was correctly written but he was not satisfied. “No,” he said when I tried to sign it. “Yes!” I said. “We will see later when you admit to it!” he said. “Admit to what?” I asked. “I will only admit to what I am and to what I have done and nothing else!” I replied. He then signaled the guards to take me away. There were two NKVD agents, one in front and the other behind me. I was in the middle with my hands tied behind my back. They took me along the hallways and on the stairs. They kept tapping the walls with their keys to make sure that we did not meet up with another prisoner. They locked me in my cell. The protocols from interrogations kept piling up for a year and a half. I spent eighteen months in Lefortovskiot prison in cell number 105 on the third floor. They moved me to a smaller but more “comfortable” cell on the same floor but only for a short time. Then I was back in cell number 105. When the investigator called me in for the third time, Tsakalopulu, my translator was not there. An elderly man had taken her place. He introduced himself as Ioannis Ioanidis. He spoke Greek very well, he was a professor and he had been to Greece. Unlike Tsakalopulu he was very arrogant. He wanted to show his bosses, at any price, how loyal he was. He even asked me some questions of his own to which I protested because they were insulting. After some time they brought a third translator. His name was Aristotelis Papunidis, he was a Lieutenant in the Soviet Army. They used Ioanidis on very rare occasions, probably when Papunidis was absent. Tsakalopulu my first translator was removed because she was unable to put up with what was going on and possibly because of the sentimentality she expressed towards me.

Life in the prison cell – Not worth living and not worth dying

I was constantly watched through the spy hole in my cell and the duty officers reported everything that I did to the interrogator. I was not allowed to do anything that they did not first approve. The conditions under which I was put through were cruel and life was simply not worth living. At the same time they would not allow me to die, so life was not worth living and not worth dying. I washed without soap. I was allowed to have a shower only once in 15 days. Women took me to the shower room on the ground floor of the prison. They gave me a small piece of soap and before I had a chance to wash my hair they shouted: “Kanchaj” (finish). While I was washing they watched me through the peephole, both men and women, but they did not see me as a human being; they saw me as a beast. Then they gave me men’s long underwear and a long shirt to wear. I used my own underwear as a wash cloth to scrub myself with. I would grab it from the search station, quickly soak it in water and rub it with soap then use it on me. That way I would get my underwear washed. They searched me when they took me from my cell to the shower and again when they took me from the shower back to my cell. This was another form of psychological torture that I had to endure. But I endured it all and was determined to stick to the truth and not stray, no matter what they did to me. Since I did not die like a hero at the front they could kill me here as they wished. Occasionally I thought of Mincho, Paskal and the others and wondered how they were doing and whether they were well. Were they in the same prison in nearby cells? Perhaps! But thinking about them gave me courage to endure all kinds of torture, even to face a firing squad, but first I wanted them to publicly judge if I was truly guilty of something. As far as I was concerned, my only crime was that I was an honest Macedonian. I endured thirty-two months of interrogations, three months in Albania and twenty-nine months in Russia. Many volumes of protocols were written during that time. Surely they are kept somewhere in Moscow and can be made available to researchers and historians if they want to find out what we went through, how much we had to suffer for our nation and how much torture we, the Macedonians from Aegean (Greek occupied) Macedonia, endured after DAG’s capitulation. These documents, as I have been told by some Macedonian historians, have already been brought to the Macedonian Archives in Skopje.

I fell unconscious during questioning

Unbearable interrogations, the same boring questions asked over and over again and the same answers given again and again. This was not done by accident; it was done on purpose in hopes that I might slip up and give them something different to blame me with. Sitting on the stool in the corner of the room I had to answer all questions. Time and time again I had to tell them by whom and how our units were transferred to Yugoslavia, about the Aegean Brigade, about NOF and so on. I always answered each question truthfully exactly the way it was. I told the interrogator that some of those people I spoke about were here in Moscow but I didn’t know where; perhaps they were in this prison in some cells near my cell. Among the people I told him about were Paskal, Mincho, Poplazarov, Cholakov, Hadzhiianov, Pirovska, Rakovski, Kolentsov, but not Maliov because he wasn’t there, and some who were in Yugoslavia. About the others, I did not know where they were, some had been killed while fighting and others were in Greek prisons. I raised my voice for a moment and said: “It is a shame that you are holding my husband in prison, while his mother Alexandra with three young children has been imprisoned by the Monarcho-Fascists who first took her to Kostur and prosecuted her and then sent her to “Averof” prison in Athens but not before setting her house on fire because Mincho was a Partisan and now you have him laying in a communist prisons in Communist Moscow. What irony of fate is this for all of us? His juvenile brother Foti died in 1944 in the struggle against the German occupation.” “And where is his father?” the interrogator asked. “He is in Yugoslavia,” I replied. “He fled there to avoid being arrested and shot by the Monarcho-Fascists like so many thousands of other people from Aegean Macedonia!” “Where is Paskal Mitrevski’s family?” he asked. “Mitrevski’s family is also in Yugoslavia,” I said. “It fled with thousands of Macedonian and Greek families to avoid falling into the hands of the Monarcho-Fascists.” The interrogator kept asking all kinds of questions, wanting to know details about the others from my group; their names, surnames, the whereabouts of their families etc. I kept telling him what I knew including my mother’s address in Bitola. I said: “My mother Nevena lives at number 6 Mirche Atsev Street.” He asked me: “Who is Mirche Atsev?” I told him that he was a Macedonian hero. I kept telling him things and he kept writing them down but he kept asking questions that only interested him. He asked me why Mihail Maliov was jailed since he was never in Yugoslavia? I said: “You would have to ask Zahariadis

about that. He is the only one who can tell you for sure. I don’t know! Maybe because he was an honest and decent man and as NOF Secretary he was good at his job? Maybe because he refused to allow outsiders to influence NOF? I don’t know what to tell you!” In spite of my answers, the interrogator wanted to know details about Mihail’s background. It's what interested him the most. I told him everything I knew. Every day they took me to “sledstvie” at 11 pm and brought me back at 5 am the next morning. I was exhausted. The abuse was intolerable and I was without any sleep. It seemed to me as if every night was “Saturday night.” One time, as I sat on the chair in the corner of the office, I became dizzy and blacked out. I was unconscious for a while. I do not know what happened after that. I do not know who, how and when they brought me back to my cell. I don’t know how long I lay in my cell before I was awakened by a woman in a white coat and by the duty officer who yelled out: “Stavaj!” Both were standing above my head when I opened my eyes and was startled by their presence. I managed to get up somehow. They sat me down on my bed. The woman in the white coat, who I assumed was a doctor, injected me with something in my neck and put me back down to rest. I don’t know how much time passed (days and nights) before I again heard the annoying “Padjom.” I got up, washed and sat on the bed. I felt lost. I tried to gather my wits and to remember what had happened to me. After a while I felt better. Once I became focused I started to talk to myself. I said: “So here you are again. They will not let you live and they will not let you die. They want you to live, they will let you cling to life but will treat you like a beast. Vera, you must not allow them to take you down! You must hold on! You must stay strong! Muster all your strength and play your role. Do not let them turn you into something you are not!” After that I began to shout: “No! Never, never, no, no...” The little window in my cell door opened and the guard yelled out: “Malchi!” (Shut up!) A strange force overcame me and I quietly said: “I will not allow you to break me! I will not allow you to break me!” This way I gave myself courage to endure everything they threw at me. It is strange how these feelings work. Feelings like that can be understood only by those who have experienced such a thing, only they who had been through what I have been through, will know and believe me. “Vera,” I continued talking to myself, “you have done nothing against them. They can’t blame you for being born a Macedonian or because you went to Yugoslavia. They too have been to Yugoslavia and both Stalin and Tito honoured them for bringing victory over fascism.”

After passing out, there was greater “concern” for me

Like every other morning, the little window in my cell door opened and they handed me 200 grams of bread, 5 or 10 grams of sugar, a pot full of hot water and some dried fruits to use with the hot water to make a tea-like drink. This was the usual daily breakfast. For dinner they brought me fish soup with the bones still in it, more hot water and a tablespoonful of kasha or borsch. That evening however, they asked me for my spoon which they filled with fish oil. I received fish oil for an entire month; it was like getting medicine for my ills. Taking the fish oil helped me recover and I got my health back. Eventually your body becomes accustomed to starvation; I experienced that with my friends when I was a Partisan, when there was nothing to eat for days. I was reminded of May 1, 1946 when we fought three battles in the same day against the Monarcho-Fascists in Radush. After the battles we fled to Mount Vicho where we spent fifteen days with nothing to eat except beechwood leaves, sorrel leaves and other grasses and drank mountain water. But we were strong. We had no food because all the people from the surrounding villages had been rounded up by the Monarcho-Fascist army and taken to secure areas. The Monarcho-Fascists were looking for us but at that time were afraid to enter the forest. We survived then and I will survive now. They did not call me to “sledstvie” for several days. I couldn’t figure out what the date was because I did not know how many days I had been unconscious. I lost the sequence of days. Also it was very cold in cell number 105 in Lefortovska tjurma in Moscow those days. On the third day after I had regained consciousness, as usual I was awakened at six o’clock in the morning and given my breakfast a little later. I listened for the little windows, one after another to open in adjacent calls before mine was opened. The officer on duty called me over and said: “Davaj skorej krushki” (quickly give me your cup). I stretched out my arm and gave him my cup. He then filled it to the top with sugar and said: “Tsukjur, Tsukjur” (sugar). The Ukrainians call sugar “tsukjor”. Perhaps the officer was Ukrainian. It was the same at lunch and dinner. He always gave me the leftover kasha after he had served all the other prisoners. They did not call me to “sledstvie” and my meals were getting better so I thought that maybe something had changed, but what I did not know. The next day they gave me my “paak”, that’s what they called breakfast, but only what was allotted, without the extra sugar and no extra kasha. Then I thought that they had given me the extra food because I had passed out and because I was not well.

On the third day, when the officer who gave me the extra food was on duty, he again gave me extra food. He would say: “davaj krushki, tsukjer, davaj tarelki kasha”. This went on every third day for about 15 months in cell number 105 when that officer was on duty. He helped me become well. I divided up my sugar so that I could have some every day. Of all the officers in my wing he was the kindest to me, why I don’t know. Perhaps because I was the only woman in that wing of the prison or perhaps because I was a foreigner? I can’t explain it. Or maybe because he was Ukrainian, or maybe he was guilty of something he had done? There were hundreds of thousands of men and women in the Siberian camps condemned to spend their lives in Banderovtsi and Vlasovtsi. Perhaps he felt sorry for me because of the enslaved under aged girls used by the Germans to serve in their homes… It could have been anything and, in such circumstances, as the people say, you will find someone born of a mother. A week or two later they called me in for a day “sledstvie” in a pleasant and larger room. As usual I was escorted there by two guards, one in front and the other behind me and me in the middle with my hands tied behind my back. When I entered the room, as always I greeted the people but the interrogator never answered back. I waited for him to ask me to sit down before I took my seat in the corner of the room. Accompanying the interrogator this time was the translator Aristotelis Papunidis. The interrogator asked me how I was feeling. When I told him that I was well he started to scold me for not following the rules. “What rules do I not follow,” I asked, “when I am locked up in a cell with nothing to do.” He then made a sign reminding me that I had been exercising. That naturally made me angry and at the top of my voice I said: “I don’t want to get sick, I want to live and if you don’t want me to live and I am guilty of something, then execute me! Why are you torturing me like this?” This was the first time I had told him to “execute me”. The translator did not know the Greek language that well to translate properly so I struggled in Russian to say something that meant “shoot me, kill me, murder me, or execute me.” Time and time again he posed the same questions. Again he asked me: “Tell me more about your nationalistic activities?” I said, “If you think that our disagreement with the CPG regarding the Macedonian National Question is nationalism, then I don’t know what patriotism is.” I again told him the same details as to why we had come to disagreements with the CPG, about our departure to Yugoslavia, about the First Aegean Brigade, about the various people in the Brigade and about our October Revolution day celebration in Bitola. I told him that he could verify every bit of information I had given him through his

diplomatic services in Yugoslavia and if any of it was not true then he could sue me in a court of law. He again asked me provocative questions about my so-called “spy activities” in DAG. Like myself, the other Macedonian prisoners too, he alleged were involved in “podrevnuju rabotu” (spy work) in the ranks of DAG. I categorically rejected that idea. I said: “That’s absolutely not true! It is downright slanderous because we Macedonians, together with our fellow Greeks, created DAG. Something that you alone create you cannot knock down. The Macedonian organization NOF organized the Macedonians who participated in DAG en masse, Macedonians between the ages 14 and 80, both men and women, took part in the struggle. We suffered a huge number of casualties in the battles against the Monarcho-Fascists and against their supporters the Anglo-Americans. We are not the reason why DAG was defeated. The reason for DAG’s defeat lies in the hands of the CPG’s Central Committee, headed by General Secretary Nikos Zahariadis.” But no sooner had I finished talking than the investigator blew up at me, cursing and shouting ugly words like “bljat, zvolch, agent, vrjosh” and whatever else came to his mind. I endured his insults, slander and lies but for the protocol I told him to write only what I had said and not how he had responded, otherwise I would not sign. The interrogations continued day and night for days, weeks and months, constantly looking to find something different from what I had said before. But the truth is the truth and there was nothing there to change. Only a person who lies can make a mistake.

After seeing the Journal of the Second Congress in Budapest, I became “Verochka”

Besides my usual interrogator, I was sometimes questioned by Colonel Viktor Petrovich Firsof. He too asked me insulting and provocative questions but I later found out why. He interrogated Paskal Mitrevski and was comparing his answers with mine. I am pretty sure it was March 10th, 1950 when my interrogator Evgeny Konstantinovich seemed a little kinder towards me. I couldn’t get my head around it, as to why. He took me into a more comfortable room and, while shaking his head, came closer to me. He had never done this before. Then in a tender tone of voice he said: “Oh Nikolovskaja, Nikolovskaja, you now find yourself locked up in a Moscow jail.” “I can see that!” I replied. “You do not need to be here!” he said. “I know that!” I said. “But you brought me here. I know I don’t deserve to be here. I know I was made out to be the world’s greatest offender, but I am not!” “If you were not then you would not be sitting here; things would be different for you!” he said. I did not know what it was but I was sure that something had changed during this interrogation; perhaps they had found something new or this was a new tactic. When the interrogator left the room and went out to breakfast or dinner, my translator Aristotelis Papunidis came closer and said: “Oh Verochka, Verochka! It was March 8th, two days ago and you know we buy our women gifts on that day. I bought my wife the most expensive gift and during the evening of March 8th I took her to the movies. At the movie theater they were giving out journals from the Women’s Second International Congress in Budapest and when I saw your picture in it, a Partisan, smiling and wearing the same uniform you are wearing now, I shivered. My wife noticed and asked me what was wrong? I said it was nothing; I had just looked at some photographs of the Greek delegation. Some of the people fighting there took the time to come to the congress to tell the world that after fighting against the Germans they were now fighting against the Americans and they had not yet been freed. Oh, Verochka, Verochka, there is talk of making a film about you and you are here. What a great irony it would be if the movie audience knew that this woman was now in prison in Moscow!” “Such is our fate. When a people lose a revolution, the best fighters will pay for it,” I said. The interrogator returned and the first thing he asked was: “Kurite?” (Do you smoke?). Until that moment I had never put a cigarette in my mouth but I had always collected cigarettes and tobacco when I went to the villages and gave them to my fellow fighters. I also

kept cigarette paper, newspaper clippings and tobacco in my backpack. When my comrades ran out of cigarettes I gave them some of mine. They were always grateful. And now, even before the interrogator had finished asking, without thinking I replied: “Da, kuriu!” (Yes I smoke!) The interrogator left the office and when he returned he brought me some “papiroski” and said: “Vazmi, dlja zhenshtini.” I already knew about the women’s holiday from Aristotelis, who had handed me a few cigarettes earlier and said: “Hide them in your pocket and don’t tell anyone that I gave them to you.” The interrogator also gave me a few matches. March 10, 1950 was the first time I had ever lit a cigarette in my entire life. It was the brand “Boks”, one of the lowest quality cigarettes in the USSR. The ones Aristotelis gave me were “Kazbek” brand. From then to this day I have been a smoker. After this unexpected, pleasant ceremony they began the interrogation. He asked me how, with whom and for how long had I been at the Women’s Second International Congress in Budapest. I told them everything from A to Z. Here is what I said: The active body of military and political cadres of NOF was called to assemble on October 3, 1948 in the village Rudari, Prespa in Lerin Region. The assembly was personally attended by CPG General Secretary Nikos Zahariadis. The assembly, among other things, discussed the NOF situation and put a motion in place to remove Paskal Mitrevski as Secretary and Mihailo Keramitchiev as President (in accordance with the organizational structure, the Secretary was a political figure in NOF) from the Organization and to suspend them from the NOF Main Board. After the assembly was over, in the same village, Zahariadis, who then personally led NOF, in the presence of Interim President Vangel Koichev, Secretary Stavro Koichev and myself Vice President of NOF and Secretary of AFZH, called first on Paskal Mitrevski to ask him to accept his suspension from the NOF Main Board and his removal as Secretary from the Organization. After hearing what Zahariadis had to say, Paskal responded by saying: “I am a fighter and I will go wherever the Party sends me.” Zahariadis then said: “You are to report to DAG as an ordinary soldier.” Paskal replied: “I will; thank you for the offer!” and left. After Paskal left, again in the presence of everyone mentioned above, Zahariadis called Mihailo Keramitchiev and said to him the same things that he had said to Mitrevski. Keramitchiev declined the offer to go to DAG as an ordinary fighter because of health reasons; he said that he was suffering from epilepsy and flying aircraft had an adverse effect on him. In fact, prior to this meeting Keramitchiev had had two epileptic episodes as witnessed by Pavle Rakovski, one in the village Bukovo and the other in Breznitsa where he was ridiculed by

the people. “Okay then,” said Zahariadis, “where do you want to go?” “Well, you can send me to the ‘free territory’ where I can remain or you can send me for treatment,” said Keramitchiev. “Where do you want to go for treatment, to Albania or to Yugoslavia?” asked Zahariadis. “I want to go to Yugoslavia,” said Keramitchiev. Zaharijdis said: “Good.” After his meeting with Zahariadis, Paskal Mitrevski joined the DAG’s 107th brigade as an ordinary fighter. Mihailo Keramitchiev went to Yugoslavia to seek ‘treatment.’ He took with him 813 gold coins belonging to NOF. He took the money without informing the new NOF leadership, which now was responsible for the money. At that same meeting Zahariadis told me that I too should be going to DAG. I agreed. “You will go,” he said, “to DAG’s 18th Brigade as an assistant to the Political Commissar.” The Political Commissar of the all Macedonian 18th Brigade at the time was Tashko Gushevski-Maki and the Commander was Pando Vainata. “But,” Zahariadis said, “you will also work for both NOF and AFZH; you are not dismissed from you current duties.” After I tidied up things in the Organization, I held a meeting in the village P’pli during which I appointed Comrade Marika Elkova to act on my behalf while I was away. She was to monitor and manage the AFZH regional organizations. I left for the DAG, 18th Brigade at the end of October 1948. In November 1948 the 18th Brigade received a special assignment from DAG General Headquarters to “break the enemy’s back.” I left with the brigade and we went to Mount Siniachno where we led most of the fighting. I took part in the battle when we stormed the town Eratira-Seltsa. It was a successful battle for us and afterwards we conducted some mobilization. We had similar success in the town Siatista. Unfortunately we did not have the same success in Kailari and in the Kailari Region villages, the village paramilitary bands there were well-armed and we could not break them. We also failed to take the Neapoli Bridge because we were betrayed. Towards the end of November 1948, DAG 18th Brigade Headquarters received a telegram with orders for me to leave. The telegram read: “Comrade Vera and Alexi Parni are to leave for General Headquarters immediately!” Alexi and I traveled for two days and one night on horseback before we arrived in Prespa. Alexi Parni then was a reporter at General Headquarters. He later studied in the USSR to become a writer. He had a villa near Moscow close to Konstandin Sinoni’s villa. He praised Stalin well in his poetry. He now lives in Athens. Right away after our arrival in Prespa, I was received by Zahariadis who ordered me to immediately leave for Budapest. The other members of the delegation had already left a day or two earlier