MY FATHER’S LAST DANCE

MY FATHER’S LAST DANCE

After we buried my father we were returning to the island of my mother’s birthplace. It was April. The night was damp and cold. All passengers were sitting on deck. The sky was clear and the full moon was visible, looking reddish and rolling through the gentle waves like a dropped silver coin. The water was calm, there was no wind.

In the morning, when the spring sun was at full strenght, the island’s beauty was revealed, as if the night had awakened. It seemed like the Island had begun to breathe, taking wide and deep breaths. Perhaps that’s what I perceived watching the blue-green water ripple under the morning sun, looking like someone had spilled it over the island. The dry rock had changed its face. Everything was green, the bees were hovering and the aroma of the wild apple tree flowers was spreading everywhere.

The high cliff attracted the approaching ship towards the tiny dock like a magnet. The ship’s whistle blew signaling it was time to disembark.

Sitting in the sun on the supporting wall was my grandmother Kaliopa. My grandfather, who everyone knew by his nickname “God Bornei”, was also there. The villagers called him “God of the northern wind”. He was sitting on a huge rock, tired and exasperated, leaning slightly forward, with his fleshy nose sticking out of his sun-burned face. My grandmother Kaliopa, bony and fragile as glass, with her skinny body tightly wrapped in her coarse home-woven black vest, held her hand over her eyes, struggling to see if we were returning from my father’s homeland. I felt sorrier for my grandmother than I did for my grandfather. Now, looking like he was part of the rock, with his thick grey hair and his wild moustache, my grandfather really looked like he was some kind of god. He just sat there with his long nose sticking out and with bags under his eyes and did not converse with anyone.

He was tense and silent, walking among the travelers trying to avoiding their glances.

“Cleopatra! Hey, Cleopatra, they are here…” my grandfather called out to my grandmother, sounding like he had just awakened from some deep sleep. He then asked:

“Where is Bozhin?”

My mother and I kept silent as we continued to walk toward them.

He again asked, this time with a sterner voice directed at me:

“Simonche, where is your father?”

My mother, wearing a black head kerchief, broke into tears and barely audibly said:

“God bless his soul! We just buried Bozhin in his hometown...”

The ship, as if shaken by the strong whistle, left the dock. The passengers slowly ascended towards the village, located on a steep slope at the edge of the plateau, looking like a ruffled bird preparing to take flight into the blue.

My mother removed her shoes and began to walk barefoot the wrong way, the opposite way, climbing up the steep road. She walked over sharp stones oozing thick black blood from her feet. Pain was visible on her face but she continued to walk barefoot saying to herself: “Let it hurt, it eases my pain for Bozhin. He too walked like this on sharp stones. They forced him to. They wanted to break him... Let the blood flow... I want to forget my pain of him... the power of greed is pushing me to want to see him again…”

“Maybe I will see him in a dream, like I saw him for the first time...” she said.

She carries her sadness in her soul to this day.

My grandmother Kaliopa could barely walk and kept muttering words scolding my mother for going that way and begging her to come back. But my mother had already climbed up to the fortress, or as the villagers called it: “Home of the Gods”.

My grandmother suddently became very upset and began to scream loudly: “Bozhin! Bozhin! Bozhin…! Kleopatra…! Kleopatra…! Come back here Kleopatra…!”

My grandfather looked at me and said: “This is our fate. Let it be the way God wants it to be…” he then removed a photograph of my mother and father he had hidden in a chest pocket and began to weep. When he saw that I saw him crying he wiped his tears, opened his arms and hugged me tightly.

* * *

“You don’t know anything, but you need to know that they were your relatives too,” my grandfather on my mother’s side said to me and continued. “It was in the 1930’s when the Metaxas dictatorship struck the most against the Macedonian population. The reactionary regime in Greece at that time jumped on the Macedonian people in that part of partitioned Macedonia with great vigour, violently and mindlessly oppressing and suffocating them, robbing them of their most elementary human rights.

Their mother tongue, the language they spoke for centuries, was barred by law, not only in the schools but also on the street and at home. All the Macedonian villages were forced to open evening schools so that the people could learn to speak Greek. All adults were forced to attend these schools. None of the Macedonian people, in that part of partitioned Macedonia that was given to Greece, spoke Greek.

It was mandatory for all adults to attend classes, even those elders who were unable to walk. They depended on their younger relatives to carry them, in their arms if necessary, to school and back. Your father had to carry both your Macedonian grandparens Iankula and Lina because neither could walk on their own. Your father told me that. One time the President of Lerin and Kostur Regions, a man called Tsaktsiras, came to the village.

It was spring 1937. He was a known terrorist who worked against the Macedonian population. He caused terror for every Macedonian.

As private secretary he had a Macedonian from Kosinets named Markopoulos, a well-known Grekophile. Markopoulos always lingered with him. He had bloodshot eyes, red as plums, a sign of drunkenness. Markopoulos was asked to summon the villagers. When Tsaktsiras climbed the stairs at the entrance of the church, the assembled villagers began to clap and he in his fury addressed them with the following words: “I am not impressed by your applause. You don’t need to applaud my work because I know your past very well, I know about your grandfathers (he was thinking of the Ilinden era) and about the current activity of your youth. Just remember this; that the day will come when I will personally burn you from all four corners and will not allow anyone to escape alive!” Those who opposed him, even in the slightest, were forced to drink castor oil. After that speech it was very clear to everyone what awaited them… diarrhea and more diarrhea.

“This is what was happening! I wanted you to know this Simonche…” said my grandfather with a bitter tone of voice and continued, “But, like your father, these people had their pride. I am sure they loved their freedom and wanted to stay as independent as possible and most opposed the regime but the regime was stonger and used the police to pick them out and send them by warships to the island internment camps. There they were forced to do labour intensive tasks in the scorching sun including climbing the fortress. This was the habitat especially selected for them. They were left there without any care...”

My grandmother Kaliopa did not even open her mouth, she made no sound… she stood there stunned. The only movement she made was to wipe her face.

Suddenly she looked up and said to my grandfather: “Why are you bothering the child with that old story… you want him to worry?!” My grandfather then stubbornly said:

“We here on this island found out from them that a war was waged and that most of the fighters came from the land of the famous Macedonian kingdom. Have you never heard of Philip II and his son Alexander the Great? And you know that this island is cursed. It is a

dry island, completely devoid of vegetation. That is why it was named ‘Island of the Winds’.

They say god Ailos lived here and commanded the strong winds from right here. In mythology the island Anafi was called Aiolia, named after this god. The whole world knows about the great storms that appear like mountains. Odysseus passed by here when he was returning to his homeland from Troy. Even now the older residents know that Odysseus rested on those stones over there while seeking the blessing of the god of the wind. The god then stopped the strong winds and allowed Odysseus to sail and return to his beloved Penelope. Perhaps he had pity for Odysseus for being so much in love with his Penelope. You don’t know this but even the gods bowed before beautiful women. Legend has it that our ancestors were brought here with the intent to die but as you can see we are still alive, centuries later. Unfortunately we don’t know our roots and where we come from. The stronger ones take you wherever they want... But these people who were brought here during the 1940’s were from a tame and peaceful stock. They too were brought here to die. It is well-known that people like that will quickly feel their isolation from the world. Among them was your father Bozhin, a handsome and strong man. The strong don’t die that easily. It seemed like he was born under the sign of the ‘Oak’. Like all mighty oaks these people too were strong and powerful… but peaceful. That in itself is a great force that protects everyone. They do not submit to blood and disease. They are a proud and durable people.

Naturally they loved and appreciated their freedom, but also the freedom of others.

I remember it was summer. The hot wind blowing on the island was coming from Africa. It was unbearable for them and deadly for some of the people from that region. This is what this island of ours is like; dry and mangy, loaded with flies, mosquitoes and other bugs that love to bite people. But the worst thing was the winter; strong winds and storms on the sea. That’s when one should be careful and sure-footed, take short steps because these winds can carry a person like a leaf. Here even the tiny shrubs that grow slyly are subject to the winds. The little shrubs learn to bend very young in life, not to be rigid, this is the only way they can survive. Man too must do the

same. If man does not know what to do then he will find it difficult to survive. Among these people, the new arrivals, a strange disease began to appear; they dried up like trees without roots. They became skin and bones, with sunken eyes and puffy cheeks. They walked alone in the long winter evenings waiting year after year to see snow, which never falls here. They suffered from terrifying dizzy spells and their legs, arms and faces were filled with yellowish blisters full of thick pus. It was always oozing. They lived like that and spent their time lying under the walls, even in the winter with the cold wind blowing, biting them like a venomous snake.

They began to die. Nedelko died first. He was one of your father’s relatives. He died from anguish when he found out that their village had been burned down and the people who survived had fled abroad. Your father too was sick from the same thing, mourning the lost lives, but they were also meant to die here.

One day when Nedelko was out collecting herbs his hunger drove him to eat green figs and live snails. He immediately got sick and walked around with a swollen belly. His legs shook like broken branches. When he lay in bed he was in great pain and moaned a lot. It was torturous for him. His moans were loud and scary. They were heard all over the island. Even the gods themselves were afraid of them. Rambling on about his wife and child, Nedelko died three days later. Many others died on the stony ground collecting snails, crabs, mice and frogs. Initially they were fed putrid soup made from boiled internal organs from dead animals. They spent a lot of time vomiting. The regime that was set up in this camp was a cruel and intolerable regime. It was located on that huge rock over there above the sea. The camp had a certain lieutenant named Bougas. He saw himself as a great man with great responsibility, even greater than that of the then Minister Maniadakis. Bougas constantly taunted the prisoners with harsh provocations, blackmail and unworthy actions. He and his guards were very cruel and always reacted violently with armed action, even for the slightest infraction. Maybe your father too would have been dead, but... Nedelko’s tomb is in the stony ground. Look there, do you see the large pass? And maybe there are people still alive. They say that sometimes something comes out from the deep cave. But to get there, to the throne of the gods, I know from when I was a child that it is impossible. There were

many prisoners here; perhaps the gods took some of them. Perhaps they felt sorry for them. Among the prisoners there were many who were religious and who hated violence and wanted no harm to be done to others...

There is a spring of water there. That’s where we get our drinking water. Did you know that this is the only source of water on the entire island? Your mother and the other girls from our village brought water to our home from there. She met your father there... Maybe it was those memories that drove your mother to go up there now...”

* * *

Silence. As if the winds had subsided. From time to time I listened but in front of my eyes was the dance that my father was still dancing. I felt like crying but occasionally I tried to navigate my feet, pulling back, lifting my left leg to my toes, pulling back, kneeling slightly… after that I was disappointed.

I can still see Lerin Pole before me from the time when we traveled to my father’s village. It was very wide and loaded with greens and cereals. It was like an enormous sea of green stretching as far as the eyes can see.

“This land is like a paradise! We on the island live like convicts. Oh my dear, my dear, what injustice!” said my mother when she first lay eyes on my father’s homeland. My father smiled and was happy to be here thirty years later, after the war had ended.

It was as if nature was holding you by the hand and you shivered with joy at its beauty...

When we arrived in Lerin my father, with all his heart, bought my mother a new native Macedonian white dress. The vest was embroidered with colourful sterling silver and the hem of the dress was bordered with colourful lace of various shapes.

“You now look like a mountain flower picked from Mount Vicho. Oh, my dear Kleopatra…” said my father looking at her, like he had fallen in love with her all over again.

My father chose a linen shirt with colourful embroidery on the front and home-woven belts for his sleeves and for his waist. He was so excited, he looked as if he had found something that had been lost for a long time.

“It made you think of when you were young…” said the shopkeeper jokingly with a benevolent smile on her face. “The market does not revolve around love? It revolves around lost youth...” she added. My mother and father both smiled without saying a word.

Happy and relaxed we continued our trip to my father’s native village. We were lured by the aroma of spring and dazzled by the motion of the rye and wild grasses waving in the gentle wind. The sights and smells soothed our souls and made us very happy and relaxed during the entire walk. My father stayed a long time in the ruins of his house, telling us all about his family and about his life. We could hear music in the distance which attracted our attention.

“Here is where we had our wedding celebrations before the summer harvests, on Perovden (Peter’s day)…” said my father as we slowly headed for the church that was built on top of the flat part of the hill. A lot of people came to this beautiful church to attend a wedding celebration and to witness the moment the bride and groom come out of the church during their wedding. Everyone was captivated when they saw the smiling bride come out. She was a perfect and radiant beauty. Everything about her was beautiful; the gentle smile on her crimson lips, her radiance, her strange dress… everything made beautiful… her extraordinary shape, her harmonious balance, one could hardly believe that it was possible for such beauty to exist before one’s eyes. For as long as she was in sight she had a magnificent and royal look about her. And later, when she shyly held hands with her eternal partner, she looked quite small, loving and kind.

Every move she made was filled with love and grace.

She walked with the zeal and maturity of a future wife. When she endowed her relatives she spoke in a low and gentle voice. Her head was adorned with a beautiful, colourful crown made of gilded silver thread, making her look like a proud mountain flower. I accidentally looked over at my mother and saw tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Were you a bride like that?” I asked her. My father turned towards her and put his arm over her shoulders.

“No, our wedding...” said my mother and swallowed hard. At that very moment the music took away our attention. Now the bride walked with tiny steps, barely touching the ground with her toes, and with her filigree swinging she led the bridal dance. After that all the relatives lined up and danced the dances “Starskoto”, “Zhenskoto”, “Sitnoto”, “Mashkoto” shoulder to shoulder and “Bairacheto”. My father led the next dance. He specifically ordered the “Pushteno”.

My mother and I clapped our hands. Many then joined us. After the musicians began to play my mother began to give them money, sticking the bills on their foreheads and still clapping. My father was overwhelmed with joy.

When the dance was over my mother hugged and kissed my father. With undisguised pleasure I too hugged my father and said:

“Old man, teach me one of these Macedonian dances!” He smiled with pleasure. After that we heard voices calling. One of them said: “People, people isn’t that Bozhin?”

“It is Bozhin!” another one yelled. “Galib and Nedelko are here, they are alive. They are alive, people! And they have returned...” another one yelled out.

At that very moment the bride and groom passed right by us. They were going from person to person in some order. The bride leaned forward and kissed my mother and father’s hand. My mother rushed to find some money to give the bride as a gift. The bride in return thanked and blessed her with kind words. The groom turned towards my father and said:

“I am Nedelko’s son...”

My mother was shocked. She grabbed and embraced the young couple remembering Uncle Nedelko from the island. After that my father did the same.

“And you, who are you?” my father asked the little boy whom the newlyweds held by the hand. The boy was beautifully dressed in a Macedonian folk dress and had tousled hair and playful eyes.

“I am Grandma Trendafilka’s king!” he replied handing Bozhin the jug of wine he was carrying.

“Oh, you carry the wine? What is your name?” my father asked.

“Bozhin!” the little boy replied.

“Ah, Bozhin? The same as me!” said my father with a stunned look on his face.

“This is your son Simon’s little boy. Simon is my sworn brother,” said the groom. “It is like you were with my father. They are over there!” he added and pointed to the wedding guests assembling and celebrating.” At this point my father picked up little Bozhin and hugged him.

“Oh my God! He is so handsome!” said my mother. There was silence.

All the people turned their attention to us.

The little boy then ran off and yelled: “Grandma Trendafilka! Dad, Mom, I found my grandfather!” My father turned to us with eyes full of tears. The child happily ran and continued to yell:

“Grandma! Grandma Trendafilka! We found my grandfather!”

At that very moment I saw my father stumble and fall to the ground.

* * *

The funeral was magnificent.

They all stood there looking awkward, one beside the other trying to get closer to the coffin. With proud steps the child with a royal figure holding the jewelled clay plate came closer. He bowed and put the plate near the hands of the dead person. Large tears were rolling out of the boy’s beautiful blue playful eyes.

There was silence and tears. And when the gravediggers lowered the coffin into the grave, the musicians began to play my father’s favourite music he danced to.