Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The sun was rising over Siniachka. The red rays of dawn were visible and flaming. The cloud on top of the mountain looked ruddy from the bottom and silvery on the sides in the morning light. Its shadow shortened over the surrounding hills with every passing moment.

Kuze was on his way visiting the houses.

“It’s time, let’s go, go to the front of the church where everyone is gathering...” he said quietly with his head down, looking pale from sleeplessness, as he knocked on the doors.

Mitre looked at the smouldering pieces of wood in the fireplace and adjusted them slightly with his metal tongs.

“Leave the fire and go out and see if they are gathering,” said Mitrovitsa and then turned towards Sofka.

“Sofka, bring the ash pan and open all the doors.

Mitre came back and in a low tone of voice said: “It looks like they are gathering. Call the children. And don’t forget anything. First get the bags…”

Mitrevitsa took the ash pan and went to the fireplace, scooped a bunch of coals and knelt in front of the doorstep.

“Okay my dear children skip over the ash pan... over the coals...” and then she whispered: “May all the bad in front of you and over you burn in the fire and turn into ashes... May the warmth of this house warm you and keep your hearts warm…”

When they came out of the yard and stepped over the threshold of the large wooden gate, Mitrevitsa spilled a bowl of water behind them.

Mitre walked in front, followed by Kire and then by Sofka holding Lenka with her left hand and Kosta with her right. Kosta, looking

ahead, walked with small steps. He suddenly stopped, put two fingers in his mouth and blew. He waited for a moment.

The dog, laying under the eaves, shook its tail, lifted its muzzle from between its paws, got up lazily and ran towards Kosta.

“Come, Sharko, come here boy…” called Kosta and hit his knee with the palm of his hand. Sharko snapped his mouth and caught the piece of bread flying his way, licked Kosta’s hand and continued to walk beside him.

Mitrevitsa turned back and went home. She opened all the doors wide open, removed the heavy oak lever from the gate and opened it fully, she then removed her black head kerchief and began to unfold her hair braids.

Swallows were circling in front of the church where everyone from the village was gathering. They were flying over the houses and swooping down low and flying through the village’s narrow street lanes. A stork flew from its old nest located on top of a tall dry elm tree, circled the village without flapping its wings and then flew off beyond the hill past the meadows.

Two DAG soldiers with their shmaizers (machine guns) hanging over their shoulders approached Kuze and spoke with him. The taller soldier lifted his backpack and, while pointing to the hill with his hand on which stood an old oak tree, shouted: “Follow me!”

They began their departure… children, women, old men… all mixed together. First in one big bunch and then, slowly, in a column. They walked it two’s, in fours, seven and even ten together... Families stuck together… Mothers intervened; whispering, comforting, teaching, holding hands tightly and keeping the children warm… lips quivering eyes tearing… the old, pretending they were rubbing their foreheads, were clearing their tears of eyes. They were all feeling tightness in their hearts, a tightness that rose to their throats… restricting their speech… Spring was all around them, green grass, blossoming cherry trees… The oak trees were budding… golden buds… and so were the poplars and the willows. The flute will have to remain unfinished. Sharko kept up with Kosta,

not a step ahead or behind him. Birds were singing by the roadside near the stream. A cuckoo bird was heard singing in the trees. Someone was counting out loud: “One, two, three, four… and finished counting at twelve. The cuckoo seemed like it had lost its voice. Some saw it flying on the other side of the brook.

“Mom, Mom!” Kosta yelled. “Did you hear that Mom?”

“What is it son?” she asked.

“A cuckoo bird was singing... something bad will happen...” replied Kosta.

They crossed the creek and slowed their pace on the uphill. They walked on the shadowed part of the hill until they reached the oaks of Sveti Ilia. The head of the column stopped at the flat part of the hill. There was a blossoming plum tree nearby and past it was the downhill.

“This is as far as those not going with the children are allowed to go. Only the children and their mothers who are going with them can proceed beyond here,” ordered one of the soldiers.

This was it. This was where grandparents and children were separated. There was much crying and sobbing in front of Sveti Ilia. The soldier who stood on the side turned. Kiro saw his trembling shoulders. Grandparents were calling names and praying to the heavens... they were separated… first the older children went downhill and disappeared beyond the tall mountains.

Mitre embraced his grandchildren. He put his cheeks against theirs. He had no voice. His legs were giving away. He folded over and tilted his head against the chest of his grandchildren and cried loudly. Mitrevitsa, with her loose hair, took them in her arms and kissed them on the eyes, foreheads, cheeks and mouth and with both hands, as if fearing that they would fly away, gently caressed them and said: “Go my darlings… go in good health and may God keep you safe!”

She sobbed and sobbed and so did every other grandmother and grandfather who stood under the shadow of the old oak tree in front of Sveti Ilia. Most of them took their bags and went downhill. The horses had not yet left. The soldiers were putting the little children in baskets resting on the saddles on top of the horses. The children knelt and sat on the straw at the bottom of the basket and, with wide open eyes, hung on for dear life...

“Mommy, Mommy!” one of the small children began to scream when the horse started descending down the hill. “Mommy, Mommy!” more children were heard screaming in panic.

Pop Vasil raised his cross and blessed the road they were traveling on.

The people waited until the children going down the slope disappeared… They waited until the last little head in the baskets went out of sight. Everything went silent… the children’s cries were heard no more. No one wanted to leave… No one wanted to move… They stood there until their shadows became long and extended. They stood there until the sun hid behind the mountain and no longer burned… They stood there until darkness began to descend. And while they stood there, it seemed to them that they could still hear the voices of the children… shouting… crying… calling for their mothers from inside the baskets woven out of tender hazel and willow branches and watching their tears dropping like pearls from their eyes in the setting sun. But as they looked and listened they began to realize that, along with the children, their happiness was gone… Mother Angelina… Grandpa Mitre… Grandma Maria… all had lost their happiness. The villagers returned home in the shadows of twilight. They silently closed their doors and silently sat and listened. There was only silence… and they felt like they were not at home…

Mitrevitsa lit a large candle and placed it in front of the image of the Virgin Mary. Mitre, with trembling hands, filled the oil lamp with oil and, after lighting it, said: “Let them burn until they burn out. Let there be light… So that we can watch each other and so that the Virgin May can watch over us…”