DESCENDANTS OF A DEAD ARMY

DESCENDANTS OF A DEAD ARMY

We explored “Mother” Maria Vasileva’s legacy after we returned from her funeral. She had left behind one black handkerchief with opposite corners tied to each other. It looked like a vagrant’s sack. It was packed tight; we had difficulties untying it.

The head kerchief was packed with photographs, letters, orders, assignments and acknowledgments, written in the late 1940’s.

The room was silent. We passed each photograph around, from person to person, in silence. Each one of us looked at a photograph or read a letter.

Some of us held onto a photograph or a letter for a long time; clutching it, looking at it, feeling pain from it… no one said a word. There were people there from everywhere. John (Vane) Dimovski and I came all the way from Canada to attend our “Mother” Maria’s funeral.

There was a thin child in one of the photographs, skin and bones, a small child with a bandaged hand and a stunned look...

John passed me the photograph and said: “George, this is your brother Mite in front of pavilion No. 4 in Tulgesh!”

And now I remembered...

I remember hiding in the valley under the thick canopy of the tall trees, scared out of our minds from the airplanes spreading death. At night the men came down to the houses in the village, stealthily crawling and carrying flour, salt and all the other things that they managed to acquire. The women kneaded bread and made zelniks. But this lasted only a short time. What lasted long was the cold, the hunger, the crying, the lack of sleep, the lack of children playing… Everything that made people unhappy lasted a long time.

When it was the coldest, everything that dripped froze. During one such evening my mother dressed me and my brother Mite in our

new clothes and gave us the eggs to eat, which she had kept for father in case he returned from the front.

Maybe everyone did the same thing then, I don’t know, but I thought to myself this must be a holiday. After dinner my mother leaned over and whispered: “Son, tonight we are leaving...” Some time later people, partisans with guns came to our house and discussed things with the older people.

It was night. The column of sadness was off. It was hard to be separated from our mother. Our tears continued to blur our vision for a long time... We saw huge flames behind us. The village was burning and the houses were turning to ash. I was little then and I could not understand the great tragedy that befell us… what truly happened to our people...

The further away we went from our birthplace, the more I thought about what happened and I could not find an answer for it. What have we done to these people, how much have we sinned against them, for them to want to drive us out of our homes… to force us to leave our birthplace… to exile us from our warm fireplace... The small ones, most of them sleeping, were riding on horses resting inside bushels. The older ones followed on foot. We traveled at night very slowly. Our mothers, one by one, kept disappearing from the column, finding reasons, any reason, to leave… Only a few mothers remained… only those who were required to look after us. We walked a long way but my mother was nowhere to be found... It was a hard separation. When we climbed on the hill we looked behind us and saw huge plumes of smoke… Dawn was breaking when we arrived in Brailovo. They assured us that the airplanes, of which we were the most afraid, would not fly there. They divided us into two groups; the older ones were put in one group and the younger in the other, my brother in one group and me in the other. My brother cried a lot that morning. I watched him and thought: “Mother was never that bad, she will come… she will not leave us. You don’t need to cry... she will catch up to us...” “Mother” Maria Vasileva was telling us the same thing.

We went back to the column wearing our new shoes and home spun vests and we, the older ones, carried our little bags over our shoulders.

We looked like a defeated army.

We saw a train for the first time. We boarded it one by one, one after another, until the car was full. The metal door then flung shut. The line then moved to the next car until that one was full and so on. In the opposite corners each car had large and small buckets with water and for other needs. My brother was in another car. I did not want to be separated from my brother but... Then I saw that the others too were separated. When the train stopped little heads crowded and pushed at the iron grates covering the windows, yelling: “Mother…! Mother…! Father...!”

By evening we were all tired and sleeping. We lay down side by side, like arranged earthenware pitchers on the car floor, on top of the straw.

The two “Mothers” Maria Vasileva and Paraskeva Ilioska cried the most when we were asleep. One time I listened to “Mother” Paraskeva, all in tears, telling “Mother” Maria all sorts of things… terrible things… that would bring you to tears. She said:

“One spring morning they came to my house and took my children with the intent of sending them to the islands and turning them into ‘Janissaries’, so that the partisans couldn’t have them… like these children here... I was left without a husband and now without my children. My husband Petre died in Gramos. I refused to give up my children but they forced me to the ground and threw them into a truck with the other children they had gathered. Lena, my youngest, I held in my arms and refused to let her go. Her little arms were locked behind my neck and she begged me: ‘Mommy, please don’t let them take me... Mommy, please...’ but then came two policemen. One hit me with the butt of his rifle and the other tore my child out of my arms. They then grabbed me by the braids of my hair dragged me like a rag on the dusty country road and tossed me out of my village... I defended myself as much as I could but I was in pain from my hair being pulled so hard. They both had wrapped my

braids of hair around their hands. When they threw me out they threatened me not to try and return or they would have me shot.

After they took the little children they closed down the school in Kostur. They took them down south to Greece, possibly to some island...”

After a short pause, sobbing, “Mother” Paraskeva then said: “Everyone is looking to rob Macedonia...”

I thought all night about what I had heard. With my head buried in the straw I thought about my mother, my grandparents but mostly about my father and kept asking myself: “Why has this woman come with us and left everything behind…?”

But these “Mothers” in this rusted and rundown car were everything to us. They looked after us and over us day and night. They never slept or complained. They gifted us with their motherly love and warmth.

The next day we were starving. Some who were poorly dressed woke up trembling. We were all cold and afraid. We crowded ourselves into “Mother” Paraskeva and “Mother” Maria’s laps. These two “Mothers” were now our only hope, comfort and companionship in this car… pulled by a noisy, whistling locomotive...

These “Mothers” shared our fate. They gave us courage, wiped our tears, helped us fall asleep, woke us up, held us in embrace, promised us that one day we would return home, told us we would find our mother and father, brother and sister… and they along with us believed that that’s the way things would be… cheating the bitterness out of our destinies...

In the blush of dawn the train puffed several times and stopped. The iron doors of the car unlocked and flung open. They offloaded us one by one; two men grasping each child under the arms.

That’s when my brother broke his arm. He did not want strangers to carry him off the car and jumped out on his own. He suffered a lot…

At the pavilion in Tulgesh we moved like a swollen river and gathered like jumbled up laundry on the pavement in the big yard. We looked for one another but the hardest thing was not to be able to find your own mother. There were many children at the home who did not even know their name or place of birth. We were hastily collected across the border and some of us, for years, existed as shadows constantly asking for our loved ones without knowing who they were...

To be equals, or who knows why else, they took our names away in Kalimaneshti. They took away the last bit of individuality that identified us with our homeland and with our nationality. After that they tied large coin-like metal plates around our necks, which had on one side an engraved image of General Markos and on the other a number that replaced our name.

I was named number 521 and when they addressed me I was expected to respond in Romanian with the words “Cinch sute douzech shi uno” (521). My brother Mite was buried with the number 125. He died in pain missing our mother deep down in his soul. He was only three years old. We were not allowed to go to the funeral of deceased children. It was truly stupid because I was the one who found him dead.

In late 1948 we headed for Poland, again by train. At the border the Poles greeted us with professional attendants and medical staff. The doctors conducted a detailed examination of each child, while we were still on the train, to determine if treatment was needed and what kind of treatment. The Poles were very kind to us and at the same time they were terrified by how it was possible that these children of partisan parents, who were still fighting in Vicho and Gramos, had no names?

When we arrived at the “Barburka” home they took us to Novi Rubi and asked us to undress and remove every piece of clothing we wore. Every piece of clothing was then tossed in a big pile. We looked like we were in a newly liberated military camp. Life was often fraught with cruelty and fierce drama. We called the Poles good uncles and aunts. We loved pan Piotr Pshezhinski the most. He

loved us too and he called us “descendants of a dead army”. He was an experienced old Pole, a former businessman and philanthropist. He had served time, many years, in the prison camps. He felt sorry for us and told us that we shared a similar fate. He had served in a number of camps but without the character of a leader. “Your destiny is more difficult than mine,” he used to say, “because they hung General Markos around your necks that you must now wear...”

Many months went by, seemingly like centuries. I wondered: “Why have my mother and father not come?” Many of the children began to receive letters and corresponded with their families. But I, all I could do was grieve...

One day I was ecstatic. I trembled when “Mother” Paraskeva gave me a letter from my mother. She wrote: “My dear son Giorgi, I will come to take you and Mito and we will go to Russia to be with your father. Please look after my Mito...” I try hard not to remember that part. My mind from that time is empty… grey space...

A few years after the Greek Civil War ended, they began to close down the homes that housed refugee children. The pavilions became deserted and tall grass, weeds and shrubs began to take over the yards. It was sad and scary to look at them.

The weather was pleasant in August 1952 but our separation was very emotional. We were separated from our “Mothers”, from our friends and from our lives that we had lived up to this point. This was the final time we were going to be together. Those who developed good friendships held each other by their hands. Every one of us was thinking: when would we be seeing each other again...?

There was a rail line running near the home “Barburka”. It went to Shkiekin, Zgorzelets and Warsaw. We headed for the high end of the platform.

When the group arrived at the station “Mother” Paraskeva looked very sad, like her heart had been torn out. We all knew that the hour of parting was near.

We hugged each other and said our goodbyes in silence. Everyone turned their heads to hide their tears. She tried to hide her feelings for a long time, waving her black headkerchief, not knowing where to go, who to go to, because each one of us walked along with our parents. She was a strong and dependable woman with clear blue eyes. That’s how I remember her. None of us offered to take her. Pity because she was not a stranger, she was our “Mother” for a long time. Perhaps she remained there for ever and ever… I don’t know...

My mother and I went to Tashkent. The train was full of refugees, mostly women and children. It was very hot outside as we slowly approached Tashkent with an air of uncertainty in our souls. My mother hung over the window tightly clutching my arm. I had not seen my father for many years. The platform was packed with people. It was full of commotion, people yelling and calling names… then ghastly cries and strong hugs. I was drowning in desire to meet my father. My mother had told me: “Your father will appear with his arms spread out and you will give him a great big hug. This is how you two will get to know each other…”

I remember seeing three tall men standing on the platform.

I let go of my mother’s hand and ran towards them. I stopped about half a metre away from them. I looked into their eyes. None of them spread their arms out. The men silently looked me. I turned around and slowly, weeping, I went back and grabbed my mother’s hand.

I then said: “Why do you lie to me, mother? Father is not here!”

“Giorgi my son!” I heard a man’s voice calling from behind me.

“Turn around, I am your father!” he said.

I slowly turned around. I was completely confused. I looked at the man who had come a few steps closer. I stood there in front of him, looking at his face. He looked old, wrinkled and had a huge scar on his cheek.

“You’re not my father!” I said to him angrily. “My father will spread his arms wide open and hug me!” I added.

“I can’t my dear boy, my wonderful Giorgi, my child, my son… I can’t open my arms and lift you because they are not mine... They were not mine!” he said and then asked:

“Where is Mitko? I want to see how much he has grown…!”

When we left for the suburban camp “Ialangach” number 12, I grabbed my father’s cold prosthesis after years of longing to hold his warm hand.