A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 7

A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 7

It stopped raining as the storm blew over beyond the mountains. We all went back inside our barracks. I could still hear vibrations and thunder in the distance. “That’s it for the rain! The storm is over!” I heard someone say quietly. “Ah you don’t know that!” I heard another person say from the opposite side of the creek. “The storm will never be over. It’s here, inside of us! I can feel its madness inside my chest! I can feel it gaining strength, circling around and returning again, breaking out and thundering inside of me…” And the storm did come, but not the one that washed us. This was another storm, a different kind of storm. This was an insidious, finger pointing, bootlicking type of storm, the kind that would often leave empty beds behind. It was hard to wake up at dawn and see an empty bed beside you and the person, your friend, who slept in it gone. At first you might think the person had gone out, to get some fresh air, to smoke a cigarette... And you waited and waited looking at the empty bed and at the half open door. But eventually you came to accept that the storm took them... I never did finish telling you about Kalesha... When she went for a walk or when she went to the dining hall or to the meadow to pick daisies, Kaleshata often fell down. In the beginning some people wanted to help her and she became reliant on them. But I think because she was determined to have a life, she struggled hard to overcome all her difficulties and made an extra effort to remove all obstacles. Her greatest wish was to live. That’s why she wanted to struggle with her crippling problem by herself, alone. She wanted to take care of herself alone and used all her strength to do it. She constantly kept saying out loud: “Alone... I will do this alone!” And in that I could see this young lady taking her first steps in making a life for herself, like a baby taking its first steps out of the cradle with its first words being “I alone!” That’s how one begins life. It was hard, very hard for Donka, for our Kaleshata, as she struggled with tears in her eyes and with a broken voice promising herself that she was going to do this alone, by her lonesome self. She began and ended her days with these crazy words, “I alone!” and with the strength and determination of a strong heart. And what didn’t she have? This rebellious youth also had a sense of personal dignity, compassion, faith and consciously made every effort to live and fight for life. And during the nights, when the hot winds blew carrying the scent of seawater and a light coolness from the vineyards, when the moon and the narcotic scent of the jasmine and carob trees compelled everyone to gather together and sit under the eaves of the barracks, she never talked about her troubles.

“Oh, how beautiful, how silent it is…” she often whispered while rubbing her legs squeezed tight by the belts she wore. “Oh, how nice and quiet it is!” Those who had healthy legs walked around, made love, danced and rejoiced because these eighteen to twenty-year olds knew that they were in the prime of their life and that in a war people their age were not exempt from death, mutilation and from lying in the dampness of bunkers and barracks in a 24 inch wide bed made of rough boards with no mattress, pillow and no covers. And they knew that there was no guarantee that they would remain alive and healthy and not end up lame without arms or legs in the longest journey of their life... We who did not have legs also walked, but not so much, and made some love, that we did. A person cannot cover themselves with a veil by forgetting because they will never leave the closed circle of weakness and doubt in themselves, because under them everything withers and becomes strange and rarely gives comfort and hope. We encouraged one another to overcome our problems, to start anew, to eradicate the weeds of despair. We needed to start everything from scratch as Kalesha did. Alone ... It was a new beginning for us! We could not let up because each time you let up you lost your freedom... It was often welcoming at night to think of the crippled girls who wore flowers in their hair. It gave us a strange, mysterious, thrilling feeling of rapture and narcotic happiness. But most of all we were cheered by the songs Kalesha sang for us. We were all crazy in love with her: Tailors, brothers, tailors, Oh, stitch me a white dress, Tailor made without scissors, Hemmed without thread... This is how Donka started the song. Then when she came to the part “Hemmed without thread...” the male voices would begin to sing. And in her eyes and in her smile we could see anxiousness… how will they respond… what verse will they sing next? Girl, devilish, girl, Oh, bake us a round loaf of bread, Without a sieve to sift the flour, Without water to knead the dough, Without fire to bake it… And then Kalesha, in her beautiful voice, would warmly respond: Tailors, brothers, tailors, I will bake a round loaf for you, Through my eyelashes I will sift the flour, With my tears I will wet the dough, On my chest I will bake the bread…

When Kalesha sang, Pando, it seemed like a gentle breeze was blowing through the forest and the golden sun was setting beyond the horizon. We all felt privileged and happy to be alive and breathing. Is there a name for such a feeling? The name of that feeling was us, there in Suk... You see that man, Pando, the one that’s leaning on the jeep? Well, one day he came to Suk. Then he was healthy and clean when he entered the dining room and yelled out: “Comrade fighters!” I stopped eating and looked up at him. He climbed on a chair and started staring at us with half closed eyes. He again yelled out: “Comrade fighters!” And then began to talk to us generally about the struggle. You see, Pando, we were the ones who put this burden on our own backs… He walked around, walked around and came back to the middle of the room again. He figured there were agents, spies and no-goods among us here in Suk. “A band of Slavo-Macedonians…” he opened his big mouth, “have surrendered to the Yugoslavs and...” “Facts, Comrade, facts! Where is your evidence?!” I yelled out at the top of my voice. “Everyone has a name… Name some names...” “These people,” he continued, ignoring my yelling, “have orders to undermine us from within and to destroy our struggle! There comrades,” pointing to the door through which four young men walked in looking as if they had been in a fight, “are your traitors!” Clearly they looked as if they were beaten, especially from the cuts and bruises on their faces. “They were caught leaving, on their way to Yugoslavia. They wanted to flee there but the watchful eye of our revolutionaries discovered their plot.” After an hour and a half of barking he finally stopped talking. Then others got up to speak; to actually swear and curse the boys. After that we all dispersed and listened to the cries of those unfortunate young men until dawn. They beat them all night and wanted to make an example of them for the rest of us. The next day, in the afternoon, the same idiot came back, ordered us to assemble and began to lecture us about the socialist revolution and about its leaders. “Let’s go, you, you, and you with the bent head,” pointing at me with his finger. “Tell us in which one of his works and what does the great Stalin say about the socialist revolution?” he asked. And I, Pando, I had my wooden leg unleashed and was leaning slightly forward. “Stand up when I talk to you!” he yelled at me. “Are you, coincidentally, one of those who has one eye turned towards Belgrade, eh?” he asked.

All eyes turned on me. Then someone from the other corner of the dining room yelled out: “He was with the Aegean Brigade, Comrade, so who knows, right?” “Yeah!” the man hissed. “Is that so? We know plenty about them. We know them well! Now stand up and answer the question!” he barked at me. I became enraged, stood up and raised my wooden leg above my head and with all my strength, smashed it on the table and said: “Here, you noncombatant, is my revolution with all its glory! Here it is! Here it is!!!” I shouted angrily as I slammed my wooden leg on the table again and again. I spent the night between the wooden beds. The corridor was very narrow and there was nowhere to escape. I was hit with canes, punched, kicked, cursed and spat on. And you know, Pando, the physical blows did not hurt me so much. What hurt me the most was the fact that the blows were delivered by my fellow co-fighters, the people with whom I bled in the bunkers, the people with whom I shared my last crumb of food, my last drop of water, the people for whom I was willing to sacrifice my life… That hurt me the most and is still hurting. I got to the end of the hallway and, while holding my wooden leg under my armpit, I looked back at the enraged people. Some still held their canes up and shook them at me; others held their heads down and others kept spitting on the side in disgust. Slowly I began to get the idea. And I, as if it was nothing, sat on the chair by the door, slowly tied my wood leg, stood up, looked in the hallway. No one would look me in the eye. I walked to my cabin in silence. I headed straight for my wooden bed. The only noise I heard was the creaking of my wooden leg. Oh, how loud it creaked... Oh, how the creaking of my step drowned the silence of shame. I never made it to my bed. The duty officer called me. I turned and walked towards the door. I went outside where a truck was waiting. Two men took me by my arms and threw me inside. Then they entered and the truck left the compound. When we got on the road leading to the seaside, I asked: “Where are you taking me?” “Be happy it ended this way,” one of them said. “Where are you taking me?” I asked again. “To the madhouse...” the other one replied.