A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 24

A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 24

After Numo’s departure Pando was left virtually alone. He spent most of his time on the hill, near the cemetery, and from there he watched the people in the barracks and horse stables roam around and line up in front of the cauldrons. The hardest thing for him to watch was the crowd running down to the road and chase the trucks. During those times Pando covered his ears with his hands so that he couldn’t hear the crying, yelling, cursing and loud shrieks. When the trucks left Pando leaned his head on his favoured rock and stared at the sky. More recently he also began to feel Kirche’s absence. He could not understand why the boys were not in the meadow doing exercises and why there was no music, songs, or marches. Day by day he became more and more convinced that the boys had been loaded up on trucks and sent to the front to fight. He just could not comprehend how they would be sending children to fight and die, to be torn to pieces by exploding cannon shells and ripped apart by bursts of machine gun fire. When he thought of these things he was afraid to close his eyes because images would flood his mind of trenches with the bodies of the children inside them… In the last little while Pando and Kirche had become close friends but now that Kirche was gone Pando missed his company, adding to his pain and loneliness. It was hard for Pando to make friends, but when he did make friends, he felt deeply connected to them and protected their friendship. Numo was about the only person in the camp with whom Pando had a deep connection and with whom he was comfortable sharing his troubles. He loved Kirche because Kirche opened his heart and soul to him. Pando often wondered why he cared so much for Kirche? Was it because Kirche was a child who carried the burden of an adult? Or was it because Kirche, from the day they met, sought Pando out as a friend? He also often wondered why, in this huge crowd of people, he did not want to socialize with others who were just as lonely as he was and would have appreciated his company and would have shared their pain and sorrow. Numo was different. Numo lived in two worlds, in Prenies and in a world where he was inseparable from his friends and loved ones. His thread of the memory was unbreakable and tied far back into his past. In this world Numo felt both pleasure and pain. He was not comfortable living in the world called Prenies and felt himself slowly vanishing as a human. Pando is now all alone without any friends to comfort him. The only comfort he gets is from his favoured rock on which he leans his head day and night looking at the sky and the mountains. He loses himself watching birds of prey jump off the cracked rocks, located on the mountain peaks, soaring, climbing higher and higher with each circle. He loves watching the eagles fly high and roaming free in the open skies and wide spaces in total silence. Sitting there thinking of his friends, he envies Numo and loves Kirche. Someone began to pound on the rail. It was time for dinner. Pando got up on his feet and began to descend down the gentle slope. He noticed the meadow down by the ovens, it was not empty. The boys were back. Pando was in no rush to stand in line in front of the cauldrons. And for the first time in a long time he felt real joy. Kirche was within reach now and Pando was rushing to see him. Kirche noticed Pando coming and went to intercept him. He then accelerated his pace, jumped over some obstacles and began to run. “Good evening, Pando, Sir” he called out as he got close. Pando was about to extend his hand and ask Kirche where he had been all this time, but then he remembered that military missions are secret and he did not want to expose Kirche to unwarranted discipline from his commanding officer, especially since Kirche was still wearing his military uniform. “Good evening, Kirche, son” Pando then replied. “Well, here we are. We got back today from campaigning in the mountains. We acquired three new officers and they will now be with us.

Did you hear what happened to the tall guy and his comrade?” asked Kirche. “No,” replied Pando. “They were killed on the road. Their jeep was hit by a truck. One of the drivers I met yesterday told us,” explained Kirche. Pando looked surprised. “Will you be lighting one?” asked Pando. “Oh, I almost forgot,” said Kirche, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Here, this is for you, Pando, Sir…, cigarettes. I saved a pack for you. I said to myself, I am saving this pack for Pando. Please take it, Sir…” “Thank you, Kirche. Where did you get them?” asked Pando. “From the military,” replied Kirche. “The military gave you cigarettes?” Pando asked, surprised. “Our new commander said that from now on we will be DAG reserves and we will be treated like regular DAG fighters... We will be doing exercises and attending school... All the time I was up there campaigning, I thought I would never see you again. I heard rumours up there that they would be sending us back to Prespa again. But as you can see, they did not send us. One of the drivers told us that the reason they didn’t send us is because many of our parents protested. The protests reached DAG General Headquarters. Apparently the rumour was that, if the children were not sent back to the countries they had come from, the parents would go on strike and would not build trenches and bunkers... That’s what I was told...” replied Kirche.

Pando sat down and stared at Kirche’s face. You are still a child, my son, you are still a child, he thought to himself. Kirche noticed him staring and asked: “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Well, Kirche, no offense to you, but all I see is a child in front of me. And please don’t be offended by me saying this…” replied Pando. “My own grandfather said the same thing to me when he saw me in Orovnik. He said, ‘Kirche you are a child and those who gave you the clothes you are wearing are crazy! They are mad! They brought our children back, dressed them like that and sent them to battle. What are those sons of bitches trying to do, eradicate us all down to our roots?!’ he yelled out at the top of his voice,” explained Kirche. “That’s what my grandfather said. That’s what many others said. And when we met our parents and relatives in Orovnik we stopped being soldiers and became children again. Our mothers ran through the lines looking for their children. And you know something, Pando, Sir, our mothers thought we were in school being educated while we were in the (Eastern European) countries. Oh, you would not believe how angry and disappointed they were. They could have torn the hearts out of those responsible with their bare hands. But quickly they again separated us from our parents. Our commanders assembled us in the woods during the night and returned us to our former camp near Goritsa. During the night we were caught by a bad storm. I knelt down in the corner of a trench and slept, leaning on my automatic rifle. I dreamt I was with my mother and with my grandfather who constantly annoyed me. I heard him curse saying: ‘May those bastards too, who are doing this to us, become uprooted and extinct!’ My mother looked very tired and her hair, under her black head kerchief, was turning grey. I remember that when we left she was not wearing black, so I asked her: ‘Mother, why are you wearing black?’ She then began to cry, which soon turned into wailing. She couldn’t bring herself to tell me what had happened. My grandfather told me that my father had died. And you know, Pando, Sir, when I was leaning on my rifle in the wet trench, I thought of every detail I had experienced in Orovnik. I then realized that I would never see my father again. I would never have the chance to share my experiences with him and do the things every growing boy does with his father… And then I blurted out: ‘What kind of life am I going to have without a father?!’ In the morning they gathered us in the meadow, lined us up, took attendance and told us to go to the other side of the forest. There they took our automatic rifles and gave us old military uniforms, the ones we are wearing now. People were arriving for two days, some in military uniforms and others in civilian clothes. They had a long meeting in one of the bunkers. When they were done and came out, we were ordered to line up. One of the officers had a large leather briefcase hanging from his shoulder and a pistol on his belt line. This particular officer came to our line and started asking questions. When he came to me he asked: “What is your name?” I said ‘Kiro Kostovski’. ‘How old are you?’ I said, ‘Four... fifteen...’ ‘Why are you wearing black?’ he asked. ‘My father died,’ I replied. I was not the only one wearing black… Many of the boys who mourned were wearing black on their hats and coats. When he was done with the questions he gave a speech. Among other things he said: ‘Today we are leading a bloody struggle…’ His entire speech focused on the fighting and on the struggle. He spoke for a long time, then paused for a moment, looked up at the mountains and said: ‘Tomorrow a heavy battle will take place behind those mountains. Sadly, you, on whom the Party placed much confidence, will not be there. Why? Because your parents complained! The Party, however, is kindhearted and will send you back to the (Eastern European) countries… We…’ He often said, ‘Us this… us that…’ so I asked myself: ‘Who are they and who are the others?

Are we not all the same? Why is my mother from the others? Do they not eat the bread my mother bakes? Do they not sleep on the bed my mother sets? Are they not protected by the trenches my mother digs? Are they not kept safe by the logs and stones my mother carries uphill to build their bunkers? Do they not use the ammunition my mother delivers in the dark of night? Do they not appreciate my mother’s help in carrying them out of the battlefields to the field hospitals when they are wounded? Why are they then on one side and my mother on the other?’ I wondered… The one with the big briefcase asked: ‘Does anyone want to stay voluntarily?’ But before anyone had a chance to reply he said: ‘We will send you back to Romania, you jackasses, so you can eat your cornmeal!’ After insulting us several more times, he turned around and left. The others rushed behind him, stepping up their pace and disappeared out of our sight as fast as they could, looking like they were in a hurry to get somewhere. ‘Turn left!’ we heard our commander order. We turned and faced towards Albania. ‘Forward march!’ was the next command. And then off we went marching in four columns, then in two columns and then in columns of three. We passed by the fort and arrived at the Albanian border during the night. I stopped to look behind me when I was approached by a chap named Done. That guy over there, coming this way, you see him?” Kirche asked Pando, while pointing towards Done. “That guy asked me: ‘What are you looking at, Kirche?’ I pointed towards the mountain with my head. He then urged me to get moving because we were falling behind. ‘What do you think, Done?’ I asked him. Again he said,

‘Let’s get going’. I asked him again, ‘What do you think about our situation? Will we ever come back home again?’ He never did answer. Oh, Pando, my friend, Sir, I grew up in this uniform. Will I ever take it off?” “One day you will, one day you will…’ replied Pando, turning his head and then said: “They are calling you Kirche?” “Yes,” Kirche replied. “I am going.” Pando left and went towards the other side of the road. Hidden from the road, he heard a bird singing beautifully in the tall grass. He slowed down, turned his head towards the sound and stood there quietly listening to the songbird. It had been a long time since he had heard a bird singing. He remained motionless for a while longer, then he moved his head and took another step. When the bird began to sing again he stopped and remained motionless. He did this several times. He felt good and was delighted by the experience, it warmed his heart. He moved forward again but didn’t know why, he had nowhere to go... This was how life had been for Pando here in Prenies, always on the go but nowhere to go. If he didn’t dig and bury someone, despite his few conversations and his waiting at the road in the morning and in the evening, he spent most of his day in the ditches and in the tall grass looking for letters, ordinary letters, the kind the soldiers wrote at the front. Folded in four, one end stuck in the other with an address written on it, sometimes only the name of the village... Pando parted the grass in front of him, moved at a slow pace and uncovered the wide leaves of weeds and thorn bushes that grew along the road looking for papers hiding under them. He stopped, bent down and picked up a piece of paper. He opened it and started reading it, but before he was done he stopped. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth as if he had just bit into an apricot seed. He sat down on a stone, wiped his forehead and mumbled: ‘Another one from our village... this makes it twenty-six. Our children are being killed off one by one. Will there be anyone left when all this is over…? Lord, my God!...’ On his way back to the barracks, Pando trampled on the dust; a broken man. He stooped forward looking down, his legs felt like they weighed a ton. He watched the dust puff away from his feet with every step he took. He tried to put on a brave face as he entered his cabin, remaining expressionless and avoiding being seen with moist eyes. He sat down on the side of the straw mat, rolled up a cigarette and lit it, puffing its smoke slowly, deeply, silently trying to make sense of this new revelation. Once in a while he secretly glanced at the women, among whom was Ristana. Her name was Ristana but everyone called her Krstovitsa after Krsto, her husband. The women were talking. All wrapped up in their black clothing, the women were sitting next to each other in a trance, all thinking something, remembering…

Pando put his cigarette out, leaned on the wall and began to stare at a beam on the ceiling. At first he did not want to snoop on the women’s conversation. But the letter he was hiding in his breast pocket was burning him from the inside and the pain was growing all over his body like moss on a rock. He did not know how to hide it from them and felt like the women were watching him. “I watched him from the small window walking in the yard,” Pando heard one of the women say and immediately thought they were talking about him, so he perked up his ears and listened. The woman continued: “He knocked on the door with his foot and straightened himself in a strange way, looked at me, remained silent for long moment, then, in our language (Macedonian – people in the camps were afraid to say Macedonian fearing retribution from the Greeks who were in authority even outside Greece’s borders) he said: ‘Mother, there are many killed along the cemetery.’ There was a battle fought all night around our village graveyard, located on a hill. I knew my daughter was in the squad that was fighting so this man’s presence here made me very uneasy. I almost passed out. I leaned on the post. I thought ‘God not her too…?’ Poor mother’s heart, it’s always ready to jump for good or for bad... The soldier took me by my arm and said: ‘We gathered all the dead near the cemetery. The partisans on one side have not been buried, they are burying the soldiers on the other side right now...’ He turned around and went, I followed. The soldiers were digging in the meadow beyond the village cemetery. The captain, or whatever rank he was, approached me and asked me: ‘Are you from this village?’ I kept quiet. I was quiet because I did not understand his language. The soldier approached the officer and said something. The soldier then said: ‘The officer is asking if you are from this village.’ I said, ‘Yes.’ They spoke again and the soldier said: ‘The officer says you should go there,’ pointing with his hand, ‘and see if you recognize anyone from your village.’ Another soldier grabbed me by my arm and took me to the dead. He pointed at each one as we went from body to body. They were all young... I said, ‘I don’t recognize any of them…’ Then I started crying. I was sad. They were all so young and among the boys were two girls. My daughter was not among them. The soldier took me back to the officer, and after he said something to him, the one who spoke our language (Macedonian) translated for me: ‘The officer said we will bury them, you take the mule that is grazing up there, go to the fountain and fill all these barrels with water, load them on the mule and take them to the top of the hill.’

After I loaded the barrels on the mule and began to climb uphill, I turned and looked back at the cemetery. Several soldiers were removing the crosses from all the graves. They collected them into a pile and later loaded them on two horses and took them with them. It started to rain and then the rain turned to sleet. The terrain became slippery and the horsed were sliding all over the place but finally we arrived at the top of the hill. There the wind was fierce, whipping the slush around. The soldiers started a bonfire, broke the crosses and threw them into the fire. They warmed themselves with the burning crosses, smoked cigarettes, spit into the fire and onto the burning crosses and laughed. I turned my head to look and saw Stavro Popov’s cross…” “Wasn’t Stavro killed in battle fighting against the Italians?” interrupted another woman. “Yes, him, who else?” replied the woman. “One of the soldiers started breaking Stavro’s cross. I couldn’t stand it any more and in our language (Macedonian) I said: ‘Son, the man died for your patridata (country in Greek) and you...’ The soldier said something and then called the soldier who spoke our language. The other soldiers began to laugh loudly. The one who spoke our language then said: ‘Mother, this guy said that a dog is your son and not him…’ I was very angry so I looked straight into the eyes of the one breaking the cross and stared at him for a long time. He was not at all ashamed; he dropped the axe and, one by one, he tossed the pieces of the cross into the fire. The flames engulfed the entire cross, slowly burning Stavro’s name. They will not even leave the dead to rest… They let me go in the evening...” There was silence in the cabin. Pando heard sighs. One of the women who had her back turned to Pando hurled a curse: “May they too burn by fire and may God give them the eyes of a mother so that they can see what they are doing…” The silence was broken by another woman who began to talk: “At our place, during listopat (October) the last vine leaf fell off the Petrevtsi vine in Kopanche on Mitovden. And even before the tears of the widow had a chance to dry, there was word that Stavre of the Pandov family was left in the snow in Nikulitsa, at Prechista. Kole of the Donev family was pierced in the knee by a bullet in Bukovik. The roots of the Kolev family were cut in sechko (February), when Iane was lost in Bela Voda. And in Tsvetnitsi (Palm Sunday), when the dogwood tree was flowering, weeping broke out in the Mitrashkov household. A bomb tore their daughter Marika to pieces at Ianova Glava. The Krstov family experienced their ordeal during Sveto Bogoiavlenie (Holy Theophany). We lost people in Giurgevden (St. George) and Spasovden and in Sveti Troitsa (Holy Trinity), we lost our Petre in Krusha. My brother-in-law’s son Riste was lost in Polenata. Pande and Mitre of the Lazov family were lost in Kulata and Ramna, two branches from the same tree. During tsrvenik (June, July) they burned our village and on Sveti Kostandin and Elena (St. Constantine and Helena) my poor father died, God rest his soul. Kosta and Pande were killed in Vicho in zhetvar (August). Iane was killed in Haro and Vasil in Gorusha both on Mitrovden (St. Dimitria). Gele was killed on Sveta Nedela (Holy Sunday) and spent his last day alive in Vrbitsa. All these young men were from our neighbourhood. We found out about Pavle’s death during the Assumption of the Holy Virgin holiday. They said he was left at Stenite forever. Krsto’s death dressed the Ristov family in black. Donka was killed on Krstovden (The Holy Cross) and Vene, from the Ianev family, was killed on Sveto Vozdvizhenie (Holy Elevation). Seven children from our village were left dead in Aliavitsa, Orle, Polenata, Bigla and Bel Kamen. There was no day without pain, heartbreak and crying... Old man Nachko was ringing the church bell practically every day. Every family was having memorials after three days, nine days, forty days, or three months after the death of a family member...

Our priest fled to Kostur because Lazo, the village sniveler, threatened to kill him. So the village was without a priest. When the mothers were mourning the death of their children, Lazo went from house to house telling them to stop crying and be happy that they died for their ‘patrida’ (country in Greek)… This is what those who came to the village at night to eat, drink and sleep for free, at our expense, told him to say to us and that’s what he was telling us. When I ask him if he had information as to what happened to my husband, he raised his head up and turned his back on me... They took my husband to jail together with Lazo but they released Lazo and sent my husband to Makronisos. People in the village said that Lazo signed the papers that they put in front of him and renounced his own kind. Maybe he did, no one knows for sure. And no one knows why one day our people (Macedonian partisans) took him away and he never came back. There were rumours that they hung him in Breznitsa and before that they beat him in Zhelevo... Our people were turning on each other... But someone else was to blame for this...” The woman suddenly went silent, sighed, wiped her face with her black head kerchief, looked ahead and then she said: “What am I supposed to think of him now? They pushed him around and yelled at him, he then turned for an instant and looked at me. I can still see the look in his eyes... A week later Lazo was back but I never saw my husband again... And as such, dear ladies, we are now all widows and without children. We gave birth to our children so that they could die in the mountains, so that they could lay lame and disfigured in some hospital and so that we can run after the trucks… Are we being exterminated, eh?” The answer was in the silence and in the weeping. “And what about me?” echoed another sad voice from the corner. “They caught me at my place…” The woman untied her black head kerchief adjusted herself, moved closer to the women and continued: “It was at our monastery near the Albanian border. Acorns were falling on our soil and on Albanian soil. The oak tree was divided by the border with the tree trunk on our side and some branches on the Albanian side. This is how our land was divided. Some of our fields were also divided like that with the border passing through them. When I went to collect acorns, they caught me and took me away…” “And how did you find your way back?” asked the woman sitting closest to her. “Look outside this window,” replied the woman. “See the place where the sun rises? That’s where we came from, being brought here by the trucks. The sun was always behind us or to our left. Now that you see where the sun rises, look at the mountain to the right, that’s where I went. But first I went to the hospital and asked a young, blond man: ‘My dear boy how did you get here, to Prenies?’ He said: ‘We crossed the border during the night and arrived in Korcha in the morning. From there we went to Bogradets and followed the lakeshore here…’ Then I thought the lake he was talking about must be the great water that can be seen from the top of the hill. So I thought if I follow the lakeshore I can find Bogradets. So, one day I hid in the ditch and during the night I followed the brook uphill and found my way to the top of the mountain. The moon was shining so I could see its reflection on the great water of Lake Ohrid. I went downhill and came out on the road. When I heard a voice or footsteps I jumped into the ditch or hid in a grove. After the third rooster, while dawn was breaking, I arrived near the first yards. I entered a yard. A woman came down from the second floor balcony and asked me something in Albanian. I said: ‘I don’t understand.’ She then spoke to me in our language (Macedonian). ‘Where are you from, sister?’ she asked. ‘I am from Kostur Region,’ I replied. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked. ‘I need help, sister,’ I begged her. ‘Please help me find my way home, so that I can go home, please I beg of you help me...’ She took me inside and gave me food and drink...

After a while her husband came in. He also spoke to me in our language (Macedonian). I begged him too to help me. Fortunately for me they turned out to be good people and were willing to do whatever they could to get me home. I stayed with them all day. When the sun set, the trucks passed by heading for Korcha. Before taking me the husband asked: ‘To which Macedonia do you want to go?’ ‘To the one with the war,’ I replied. ‘It’s going to be difficult to get you there,’ he said. The husband and I left the house in the dark of night. They gave me some bread and a canteen full of water. Before we arrived in Bogradets he said: ‘Follow this road and it will take you home.’ He then left. I was left all alone in the dark. I clenched my teeth and began to walk. Every time I saw a person, heard footsteps, or voices I found my way into the ditch. I spent the next day in a grove of oak trees. I traveled like a bandit, like a thief during the night darting from ditch to ditch, from grove to grove attempting to avoid everything; especially barking dogs. I hid from soldiers, from ordinary people, from shepherds and cow herders… until I finally arrived in Bilishcha where I went to Sulio… The people there were amazed at my gumption; a woman traveling all alone in the night in unfamiliar territory? They were also relieved that nothing bad had happened to me… I too was relieved and felt like a heavy weight was lifted from my chest. So, how do I get to my village from here I thought? I took my bearings again and figured that my village was on the other side of the mountain. When it got dark I took a straight path through the valley, following the road in moonlight and headed for the mountain. On the way I got caught in a storm. It got dark and began to snow hard. There was also a battle raging on in the Stenite. I had gotten this far and I wasn’t about to turn back so I mustered some courage, crossed the muddy river and began to walk uphill. It was hard to walk, it was dark and slippery but I continued to climb towards Telok. When I got to the monastery I went inside so that I could thank God and all the saints for bringing me here safely. I knelt on the floor in the dark and began to pray… I was familiar with the icons in the monastery and knew which saint was located where… What I don’t remember is how I fell asleep. Perhaps it was God’s will or I was extremely tired and passed out. I woke up in the morning when it became light. I opened my eyes, looked up and noticed the saints had no eyes! Someone had shot the eyes of the saints. I began to pray and realized that I was freezing. Then I began to cry and cried and cried and cried… Here I am, I thought to myself, here I am at home and I am crying for the dead. I cried because I was sad and I cried because I was happy to have made it back alive. When I finished crying I went outside. The ground was all white with snow. I got disoriented and instead of going to the left I took the path to the right and entered Albanian territory. Before realizing what I had done, an Albanian soldier grabbed me by my shoulder. He was a border guard. He caught me and without saying a word, took me to their watchtower. From there they took me to Bilishcha and at Bilishcha they put me on a truck and brought me back here... This is how I went back home…” There was silence for a moment. Pando lit a cigarette. The burning tobacco burned his tongue and parched his throat. “What about us?” another woman spoke up. Pando turned to look. It was Ristana who spoke this time. “At our place, in our village when they brought the new priest, some villagers didn’t want him. It was autumn, thirty-six (1936). He was one of ours (Macedonian) so they said he was no good because he didn’t do a good job speaking Greek. My husband got mad and yelled at the priest’s assistant in our language (Macedonian). The next day policemen came to our house and took him to the police station. They kept him there for two days. When he came back he was black and blue and had messed his pants.

They beat him and gave him castor oil to drink. We slaughtered our ram and crushed onions and wrapped him in its skin. Five months passed. My son came home from school one day crying. His hands were blue and swollen. His father demanded to know what had happened. He said his teacher beat him with a stick because yesterday he was heard speaking to his grandmother in our language (Macedonian). His grandmother doesn’t speak a word of Greek. How was he expected to talk to her? I don’t speak much Greek either. How am I expected to speak with my family? What cruel people! Anyway, my husband got out of bed, got dressed and went to the café. ‘Teacher!’ he called out. ‘Come out here!’ And from what the men who were there told me, the teacher, looking proud, came out and started yelling at my husband. ‘How dare you allow your son to speak that abhorrent barbaric Slavic language? Do you know why I am here, huh? I will do the same to you, you disgusting...’ My husband grabbed him by the belt with one hand and by the tie with the other, he then picked him up and dropped him in the snow face down. And as he raised his foot to step on him, the men rushed in and pulled him away. Who knows, he probably would have killed him... They almost killed him. My hasband was sent to jail in Kozhani for two years. When he returned he said: ‘Ristana I want to go to America, alone. Whatever happens, please do not sell any of our land. Not a field, not a meadow, not our garden. This place is ours. It was passed on to us by our grandparents and great grandparents and it must stay ours.’ And then he left. He didn’t even say goodbye to any of the villagers because no one spoke in his defense in the courts. He went to America and left me alone with my son Risto, who at the time was fifteen years old. My boy was doing fine during the German occupation but then when the Greeks returned he became apprehensive and began to shoulder a rifle. Letters, packages and money began to arrive from America. One day the Madzhiri (Pontian Greeks better known as Christian Turk colonists and settlers from Asia Minor brought to Macedonia during the 1920’s) came to the village to rob us but they failed because our people (Macedonians) were strong defenders...” “They looted us to the last needle!” piped up another women. “The day before Easter the village mayor went from house to house instructing people that from now on they must fly the Greek flag on their balcony on Sundays and during every holiday. My son Risto and others disagreed: ‘If this state is a state and if all the citizens living in this state

are equal then it should punish those who rob and steal from us. If the state does that then we will fly the Greek flag…’ After Easter the police took my son along with seven other men to the police station. When Risto came back he was missing his teeth and was soiled just like his father... The first chance he got, he fled with the first partisans and disappeared into the forest. Since then, two years have passed and I have not heard from him. I know nothing of what happened to him and no one has dropped a letter to let me know. Every day I run behind the trucks asking the wounded if they have heard anything about my Risto... I am waiting for a letter from him but nothing… I can’t even send a letter to my husband Krsto in America to tell him that I am all alone, to tell him that Risto... that I don’t know where Risto is and how he is doing...” “From here, sister,” said another women, “they don’t send letters out. Be careful and don’t do anything stupid. Sending a letter to America will get you into trouble. They will call you in and interrogate you. And believe me, you don’t need that. Did you not hear about a woman who gave an Albanian man a letter to mail? Did you not hear that they jailed them both? Somehow she came out of the ordeal somewhat unscathed but the Albanian, they say, was severely punished…” “And I,” continued Ristana, “if I had a chance, this is what I would write to my husband: ‘Dear Krsto, I am well, thank God and’...” She began to cry. After composing herself she continued: “About Risto I will tell him that I do not know where he is. I dream about him every night. When I wake up I talk to myself. When the trucks pass by I run, expecting to find someone who knows something about him, to toss me a piece of paper and to give me some good news about my son, well, there’s nothing for me...” The ringing of the dinner rail diverted their attention. The women began to fuss around looking in their bags and heading towards the cauldrons. There, a line had already begun to form and to grow as the women in black stood behind each other. Pando waved at Ristana to wait. The women stopped moving while he stood there silent, looking apprehensive. With a trembling hand he reached into his breast pocket and pulled something out. When he opened his wide sun-baked, cracked hand, the women saw a folded piece of paper, just like those found in the grass and in the ditches on the road. The women stood there unable to move. Each thought it was for her and each felt a tightness in her heart. Their chins began to shake as they stared at the dreaded piece of paper. Their eyes remained wide open and focused. The anticipation was killing them… Pando extended his hand and, as gently as possible, said: “Krstovitsa (Ristana)… this is for you… and… God rest his soul…” Suddenly there was a horrified look on Ristana’s face. She manifested several instant horrifying expressions on her face before she began to wail loudly. She was visibly in pain and the pain could also be heard in her voice. Her body shook violently like it was tossed into freezing water and her eyes were covered in a pool of tears. She felt trapped, the walls and ceiling were closing in on her and began to tighten around her body. Darkness enveloped her eyes and she was unable to see. Her legs became weak and her body felt like it weighed a ton. Her face looked bent and distorted as she tried to look around with a puzzled look on her face. She knelt down, sat on her legs and extended her arms out. She stayed like that for a long time while whispering, praying, crying, swaying from side to side, trying to make sense of her misfortune. She loosened her head kerchief and slowly began to unfold her long and thick hair braid. Her black curly hair covered her shoulders and extended almost down to the floor. After she braided her hair she bent forward and covered her eyes with her palms. Tears began to drip through her fingers. And while still kneeling, she laid her black head kerchief on the floor, spread her arms out and began to wail, calling: “Risto, Risto, my poor child, please wake up for me!”

And as she wailed she looked down and waved her finger as if speaking to his body and instructing it to awaken. It seemed to her like he was lying right there in front of her, in front of her knees. Her hand touched the floor and in a broken, barely audible voice, she summoned him to wake up, calling: “Get up, Risto, my son, get up for your mother…” Pando’s red and bloodshot eyes, from lack of sleep, became filled with tears which gushed down his cheeks. He bit his lower lips to stop it from vibrating. The experience made his face look even more aged. Filled with his own and her pain, Pando, silently bent over Krstovitsa, grabbed her under the arms and slowly raised her to her feet. She did not object. She obediently went towards her mat where Pando took her. She then turned her head to where her black head kerchief was spread on the floor and quietly, barely audibly said: “Come my son, get up, get up Risto!” The people watched this poor woman suffer and felt her pain, they watched the wrinkles on her forehead deepen and her eyes shrink from despair... Pando sat her down and left the cabin. Even now, after the sun hit his face, his eyes were still tearing bitter tears. He refused to wipe them. They run down his cheeks following the same path. He let them fall on the ground, on the dried wormwood leaves that fall around the barracks… Krstovitsa did not go to the road at sunset. Finding her white piece of paper with good news about Risto ended when Pando gave her the devastating news. The letter read: “Risto Damov from the village Krchishta died in combat. His body has been buried under an oak tree in Aliavitsa. If his mother is in Prenies, whoever finds this letter, please let her know. I am Paskal Argirov and I am wounded...” That was all that was written in the note, but enough information to forever wound and darken Krstovitsa’s already wretched life. Krstovitsa put the letter in an envelope that had two Canadian stamps glued on it. This envelope was the only thing that she had saved when her house was burned down and when she was forced to flee her home. That’s all she managed to save. That’s all she possessed from her past; one letter that she had received from her husband and now this note about her son. She carefully put the note in the envelope and placed it in her chest, near her heart… And here, anew, Krstovitsa is forced by fate to live among the homeless who, with each passing day lose hope of ever returning to their ancestral homes, among the frail old men and women, among the widows prematurely separated from their husbands by the war, and among the women who cry every day missing their children. She is forced to live in an unfamiliar environment in a foreign country all alone without her family. And no matter how hard she wishes and prays, it seems like there is no end to her vicious cycle of everyday woes and sorrow. The weight of her pain is too great and she can feel her existence coming to an end. She is all alone! Alone, among many people who share her fate. In the dark, on starlit nights, in the presence of flickering candle light, by the light of the lantern hanging from the beam when one expects to feel calm and serene, she feels all alone. She feels completely alone. Her heart is broken. The feeling leaves her with a bitter taste in her mouth and weak at the knees. The memory of her son weighs on her heavily and drags her down to the bottom of despair like a heavy stone. As the days go by she feels more and more isolated and with every cry she hears she feels the need to say something, to share her agony with someone. She sits in the corner of her cabin, at the edge of her straw mat, all alone where no one notices her. The silence is cruel, cold and dark. There was much emptiness and days of solitude in her life. Her encounters with her loved ones were always brief. She married during her twenty-second summer. Her husband, Krsto, spent more of his day being unhappy than being happy. He wanted to provide for her and their son and by doing so, left them alone in misery.

She paid for her joy with eternal sorrow, waiting and suffering. And now she had lost her son...