WELCOME TO THE KOLHOZ NEW LIFE - Part 05

irregularities, including torture by their guards, was accused of being Tito’s agent. Every day dozens of Macedonians came to my house crying and complaining that their income had been cut and when they demanded justice they were accused of being Tito’s agents, saboteurs and the like. Of course, I didn’t support such behaviour, but I also openly, with facts, acquainted the authorities and members of the kolhoz council and the party organization with the situation. I condemned the culprits and their subordinates in protest. I followed party discipline, promoted unity in the kolhoz and talked openly about irregularities in front of the various authorities.

They did everything to get rid of me, not with accusations against me, because they didn’t work, but with vicious intrigue. They informed on me to the party with allegations that I wasn’t trustworthy and that I wasn’t worthy of being sent to the CPG Central Committee school in Romania. As you know this was a two year course in which cadres were prepared to be sent back to Greece to perform covert activities. As you also know, you Comrade Zahariadis and the CPG Central Committee asked me to take this course. Despite my severe disability, sick wife, three children at home, a house that desperately needed repair, I put all my effort into preparing the houses for others in the kolhozes. I left my wife and children alone at home in the summer of 1953 and went to work at the kolhozes, being promised that the party would look after my family. But the party did nothing. They left my wife helpless. A year later, in the summer of 1954, I was sent back to the kolhoz in Poland and given a month’s leave to see my family. Comrade Zahariadis, when I came to the kolhoz, after a year’s absence, I found a dynastic state ruled by Aga Aristidis. Hundreds of our former activists, even simple people, were accused of being Tito’s agents. All technical and other personnel, garage employees, tractor operators, drivers, 90% of whom are Macedonians, are labeled Tito’s agents. They deceived the Poles and got Comrade Ilia Blagoev, manager of the tractor operators, fired. Comrade Blagoev, a very capable manager, was replaced by an incompetent individual from Rumeli. Included in the list of accused of being Tito’s agents and enemies of the party, were G. Buntsioti, Andon Galiov and Liapche, the only technicians in the kolhoz.

The Poles who clearly saw these injustices didn’t want to interfere in the internal affairs of the Greek organization and leadership. When I arrived at the kolhoz in Poland from Romania, I told the Poles what was going on. I also told Aristidis and Harizopoulos that they had literally destroyed our team of activists, the very people who had created the kolhoz.

While working in the kolhoz I was repeatedly accused of being Tito’s agent and the leader of Tito’s clique and was threatened to be expelled from the party and the party school. Comrade Zahariadis, I want to remind you of something similar that happened to me in Vicho about which you know personally. In September 1947, when the enemy attacked one of our positions, Amindas Katsakos commander of the Vicho detachments, along with the headquarters, couriers, cooks and so on, fled and disappeared. They hid in the dense forest. About 14 days later, when the offensive was over, they came to my battalion, the only battalion left in Vicho. To justify abandoning their position and deserting, they proclaimed me a hero, and so on. In return I openly explained to them that what they had done was desertion and that it was damaging to DAG. The next day I was accused of being a satrap, an anarchist with a partisan spirit and was demoted from major to corporal.

I don’t believe, Comrade Zahariadis that you have forgotten. On your orders, Petros Kokalis, Minister of Health, came to the hospital, took me with open wounds and brought me to the Headquarters where you personally ordered me to move to Siniachko. At that time, Comrade Zahariadis, I was good enough to take the hill that others had abandoned. Now here in the kolhoz, let me prove it to you with words, that murderers, opportunists and careerists are accusing the honest and hard working people of being the enemy.

Comrade Zahariadis, with my respect for you as the party leader, for you as the CPG Central Committee Secretary and with my boundless faith in you, I was always ready, every moment of my life, to sacrifice myself for the CPG. As for the kolhoz, as you said, ‘we will gather all the Slavo-Macedonian people there, together, to protect them from the difficulties of the other kolhozes and therefore the few Slavo-Macedonian cadres who have remained honest and

loyal to the party will stand by them to protect them’. That’s what you told me.

Your words convinced me to leave my career path and stay with the people who gave birth to me, raised me, with whom, with a rifle in my hand, I fought side by side for ten years for freedom and democracy in the struggle led by the CPG.

Comrade Zahariadis, before any random accusations against me reach your hands, accusations leveled against me by these useless opportunists, tyrants and tormenters of the celebrated people who fought in Vicho and Gramos, I want to tell you in advance that I will quit my position and I am ready to relinquish all responsibility in my job in the party if these persecutions against the Slavo-Macedonians here in the kolhoz continue. These tormentors are the people who were dragged from southern Greece into Albania in September 1949 after DAG withdrew. They came with the remnants of the Slavo-Macedonian DAG fighters from the five battalions that were sent to Vicho and Kaimakchalan from 1947 to 1948 to strengthen the partisans in Rumeli. Those individuals from Rumeli today run the kolhoz like it was their own business and abuse the Slavo-Macedonian people by using threats and unfounded accusations, accusing them of being Tito’s agents and spreading Tito’s propaganda.

Comrade Zahariadis I address you with all my courage and thoughts because you have personally known me since we met at Vicho, but also here abroad. You personally sought me again and again and this time you gave me the task of organizing the kolhoz NEW LIFE.

And, as you said before, we have gathered most of the Slavo-Macedonians in this kolhoz in order to protect them, not to destroy the very people who gave up their children, who fell on the battlefields, who mobilized en masse… And those who didn’t carry a rifle worked hard on the fortifications. These people gave everything they had for the struggle and, as a result of the struggle, lost everything. And now they are being oppressed here, just like they were back home, instead of being protected like you promised.

The tone of this letter may be overwhelmingly filled with indignation, Comrade Zahariadis, but it is done so that you can better grasp the situation. I will give you just one example of the dozens of incidents that took place in the kolhoz. Two comrades, Thasos Botsis and Naumis Dimopoulos were sent from the school (500) in Zgozhelets to the kolhoz. They were both captains and served in my Vicho battalion. When they fought the battalion always won and they were considered heroic DAG fighters. When they arrived at the kolhoz, P. Karanikas, secretary of the party organization, labeled them Tito’s agents. During a party sitting he wrote a letter to the central committee and told them to keep an eye on them because they were Tito’s agents...

I am categorically saying, Comrade Zahariadis, if any of these DAG heroes, as well as all the Slavo-Macedonian comrades who laid the foundations of the kolhozes are characterized as Tito’s agents, then I too am a Tito agent. If our sacrifices for DAG weren’t enough, then by all means allow our complete destruction here, abroad. The first year of my absence from college, when I was at the CPG Central Committee School, I found people savagely beaten. Among them were D. Duketis and Baios. Some maybe less, but many were badly beaten.

I have spoken to the appropriate people in the kolhoz about these events and they have in some way threatened to report me to the party... Friends of the Polish leadership are deeply resentful of these actions and are concerned about the kolhoz’s survival.

This is why I have written this long and detailed letter to you personally and to the CPG Central Committee. I am confident in you as the Secretary General of the CPG Central Committee, to make it your personal responsibility to look into the situation at the kolhoz. I urge you to intervene as soon as possible and put an end to the destruction of the kolhoz, whose foundation was built on the sacrificial bones of Alekos Eksarhou, the kolhoz’s first president and agronomist. In addition to Eksarhou’s sacrifice, much sweat has been poured by many other of my people and under difficult conditions. I see myself as a product of my people. I willingly sacrificed myself in the war in Vicho and Gramos for my people and for all of Greece, so now, when the party is with me, Comrade

Zahariadis, I seek to protect the rest of the Slavo-Macedonian people, my people whom we uprooted from their homes and sent abroad.

Best regards, Argiris Kovatsis” (Copy of the letter - in the archives of the author’s collection).

Argir stayed awake all night. He read and re-read the letter. The words he had written in the letter swirled and boiled over his head. He was tormented by doubt and fear that Zahariadis might not understand or might misinterpret what he had written. Wasn’t it with his approval that the management of the kolhoz was taken over by the very people he blamed in his letter for all the misdeeds?

Argir knew that nothing would be done without Zahariadis’s approval. His word was the law, and above everything.

Argir was most disturbed by the last sentence that he wrote in his letter. He was convinced that he would soon be summoned and, if not for anything else, would surely be reprimanded for the last sentence he wrote. Perhaps he would receive a slap on the wrist or, God forbid, he would be accused of being Tito’s agent. If so, then he would be expelled from the party and ashes would be thrown on his merits. For him, that would be the worst punishment. There were moments when he was sorry that he wrote the words “my people whom we uprooted from their homes and sent abroad.”

That thought wasn’t his. He picked it up during his preparations for the defense of the Vicho Region. In those days when it was believed that the ultimate victory was within grasp and the slogan “The enemy will never cross over Vicho” was coined, someone quietly whispered in Argir’s ear and said “What if the enemy does cross?” The two then stepped aside and the person, in confidence, explained to Argir that a decision had already been made that, before the hostile attacks begin, the entire population, including livestock, was going to be moved out of their homes and settled close to the Albanian border. He also told Argir that this must be done by the activists of the Macedonian organizations. And that’s exactly what happened when the battle for Gramos started. Thousands of villagers from the Kostur Region villages were moved to Albania. They were

told to run and save themselves because the enemy would destroy everything and the people would be left with nothing, and on top of that there wasn’t going to be anyone to help them. They were told the enemy didn’t care about the great poverty that the war would bring to the Macedonian villagers because the Greek state no longer needed them. With its great ships, the United States would supply Greece with everything it needed. And indeed the Macedonian people abandoned their lands and left them empty. This was a gift of gold for the Greeks...

…I seek to protect the rest of the Slavo-Macedonian people, my people whom we uprooted from their homes and sent abroad…

It hurt to think that these were words of accusation. “Who was to blame? Myself? The party? Zahariadis? The entire movement? The struggle? Trust in someone else? Why did we uproot ourselves? Who is benefitting from our misfortune?”

Argir kept asking himself:

“From whom are we now going to protect the rest of the people they uprooted?”

He kept wondering:

“Is there anyone left untouched by that people and what fate awaits them? Has evil been done or not done? And what is it called? Does it have a name?”

“Strong words…” he thought and continued asking himself: “Who made the mistakes? The party? Zahariadis? No, the party is never wrong and neither is its leader. That’s what we were told... Who then? Maybe we were wrong? Maybe we were wrong to accept the party as our protector? The party, held by one pair of hands, those of our leader… Perhaps we were wrong in unquestionably believing all the promises made to us, all the faith instilled in us and all the hope raised in us? With mind, heart, spirit, body… all united into one, we dedicated ourselves to the party. It became our family, home, hope and faith. But now it’s broken, disappointing, empty, lost. Why did this happen?” These were the questions and thoughts circling in

Argir’s mind. They were welded deep into his soul. They were like a scar he couldn’t detach from his body...

He felt broken, crushed and thrown into oblivion...

The questions and fear that lingered over him multiplied and repeated. And the most troubling question was: “Keep silent or silence the evil?

His lectures and practical exercises in spying at the party school ended in late June. With the exception of a couple of pairs of underwear, one suit, two shirts and a shaving kit, there was nothing else to pack in his old suitcase that he had bought at the clothes market. He took an express train from Bucharest to Warsaw and got off at Katovitse and, after taking two more trains to Krakow and Zheshuv, arrived at Krushchenko at noon after a two-day journey.

His wife and four young children were standing on the doorstep of the wooden Ukrainian hata. They didn’t rush to greet him. They were quiet. There was no joy in their eyes and no smiles on their faces. They were sad. He had been away from them for two years, a very long time for children… A wide gap to alienate them… They were without their father’s care and warmth. They didn’t play games with the children of their parent’s friends. They didn’t share the joy of childhood, and when they saw their friends in the arms of their fathers, they felt like they had been abandoned. They were sad and burdened with a sense of loneliness. They hadn’t been abandoned, but in their souls they carried the pain of being abandoned and that was present in their eyes and faces...

Argir was agitated and couldn’t sleep. He was tormented by his thoughts and more so by his conscience and the many unanswered questions he had. Was it a good idea to place the party and his faith in it ahead of his own children? What was more important and valuable to him, his party or his family? Had his long separation alienated his family from him? Had his long absence distanced his fellow comrades and friends? How was he going to restore the lost joy and fatherly warmth to his children? These and many other similar questions aggravated him; they inflicted guilt and bit his conscience. There were many questions swirling in his head which

he couldn’t answer and which caused him pain. Did his allegiance to the party and his idol leader change that night and in the many other sleepless nights he spent?

He waited. His days were long and months longer after he returned from Bucharest. He was secretly hoping that while he was absent, something had changed in the kolhoz. But that wasn’t the case; he found the same people and the same problems. He told himself that there would be changes after the comrade-in-chief received the letter. There would be changes. That hope didn’t leave him. He was convinced that the letter had reached the hands of the secretary general, but surely he was busy with other, bigger, more serious issues. He waited patiently and that waiting was his dream. He was sure he would receive a letter with all the answers... So far no such letter had arrived... And there, in Bucharest, he believed that if he met the secretary general in person, then Argir would tell him everything... But such a meeting never took place. For two years he was sure he would have such a meeting and waited. There, in Bucharest, he didn’t wait to see him but wrote to him instead. After returning to Poland Argir waited for an answer and never lost hope that he would meet with Zahariadis in person. Day in and day out he went to the administration and nervously, impatiently and anxiously asked if there were any messages for him. But the answer was always no. He then went home and checked to see if the postman had delivered a letter for him. In the meantime his health kept deteriorating, especially after one of the people from the party, with whom he had good relations, whispered to him to beware. He didn’t tell him anything of any importance but his warning caused him grief and doubt. A few days later, as they were walking along the river bank, his comrade openly said:

“The party will be having an extended meeting. There will be discussions about various things and one of those discussions will be whether to expel you from the party or not, which may mean expelling you from the kolhoz. Some people have already been expelled in the past few months.”

To this Argir replied that he wasn’t one of those who would kneel easily. But, at the same time his hope that somehow Zahariadis would come to his rescue was going down the drain.

News came from Tashkent that there were bloody feuds between party members. There was a great schism among them, a division between supporters and opponents of Zahariadis. A reel began to unwind in Argir’s head. He realized that the chair of the secretary general was no longer safe.

In the meantime, the KPSS (Communist Party of the Soviet Union) Twentieth Congress ended in Moscow. Stalin’s myth had fallen. The Congress untied the people’s mouths and the rivers began to flow.

In the following months the river of great change began to flow and questions began to be answered, not only about the kolhoz but also about things far and wide.

Argir decided to seek the other side. He traveled to Warsaw and made an appointment to see Comrade Ptashevska who was in charge of relations between the Polish and Greek parties. After a long conversation, Ptashavska finally said:

“There will no longer be party organizations in Poland that belong to the Communist Party of Greece. Whoever wants to be a party member can join the Polish party. This is how we will clear things in Kroshchenko...”

Khrushchev started the de-Stalin-ization...

Poland began to boil...

On October 24, 1956, at a tribune set up on Victory Square, in the centre of Warsaw, Gomulka (Władysław Gomułka (Vladislav Gomulka), February 6, 1905-September 1, 1982 – a Polish Communist politician), the popular Vieslav as the Poles called him, made an appearance. The square was packed with people who wanted to hear him speak and tell them what they had been expecting to hear for a long time. In the ensuing silence, Gomulka’s voice began to roar:

“Comrades! Citizens! Working people of the capital! I welcome you on behalf of the Polish United Workers Party Central Committee,

which at the last plenary session placed the party’s helm in the hands of the new leadership...”

About one hundred thousand people came to Victory Square in Warsaw and another thirty-something million all across Poland, workers, intellectuals, youth, war veterans from all fronts… huddled together and anxiously waited for Gomulka to speak. Gomulka had just been released from prison and was immediately elected the first party secretary. The people were thrilled and filled with long-awaited waves of hope for something better, as they listened to Gomulka’s long speech. Everything was at a standstill and everyone was silent as he spoke. There was silence in the factories, universities, schools, restaurants, cafés… The trains stopped on the tracks… Entire families held their breath as they listened to the radio. The streets were empty. Everyone waited to hear what they had expected and hoped for years for themselves in secret and in silence... He knew what he had to say to his Poles to touch their minds, hearts, souls and to give them hope. He needed to tell them what they most expected, the bitter truth, to encourage them, to give them confidence...

“Over the past years,” Gomulka’s voice thundered, “a lot of evil, hatred and painful disappointments have accumulated in Polish life. The ideas of socialism infused with the spirit of human freedom and respect for the rights of the citizens have, in practice, suffered profound distortions. The words found no cover in reality. The hard work of the working class and the entire people didn’t produce the expected fruits. I deeply believe that those years have passed without a doubt and will remain in the past...”

The Poles held their breath as they listened and believed him, glorified him in the moment and for the next few years, they swore by him, repeating his words that contained truth, words that others had long silenced and concealed.

The same day after the speech, Argir left Warsaw by evening train. On his way to Krushchenko he decided to get more involved in cleaning up the dirty mess. First he thought the people needed to be cleaned up. Start with them. They carry the evil, the evil doesn’t carry them. Start cleaning from the top all the way to the bottom. Do

a general cleaning of not only the people, but also the political blindness to the unreasonable, shameful and dangerous disease. He arrived in Krushchenko in the early hours and on his way home the first person he met told him that the secretary general was no longer a secretary general. The following days there was more and more news that many secretary generals in the eastern bloc were no longer secretary generals.

The entire region was a boiling pot. That day and the next days all of Poland was on its feet...

New expressions began to appear in the political vocabulary: “Polish October 1956”. “Gomulka’s Oblation”, “The October warming…” These were expressions adopted to create a movement, to change the internal politics related to the central government and the liberalization of the political system, to release political and religious prisoners, to destabilize the country and to reduce Soviet restraints. The truth resonated strongly in Poland and spread like an infection all across Eastern Europe. The first to support Poland was Hungary, whose strong voice had grown into a Hungarian revolution...

Hungary was on fire and bleeding.

The Hungarians cried freedom and took their hatred and revenge to the streets.

Hungarians were hanging Hungarians on Budapest banners.

Soviet tanks trampled the streets and cannon and machine gun barrels targeted the windows and balconies...

Hungary was on fire.

The support the West promised was a lie...

The East lit up... Gomulka’s warmth, which suited the new times, strengthened the Macedonian spirit in Poland.

But, over time, Gomulka’s star began to lose its lustre. This was because of mistakes made in running the economy, and perhaps something else, but the Poles began to hate him. Anger broke out the day meat and potato prices went up. Gdansk and the entire coastline were hit with unprecedented strikes. Barricades, police and tanks filled the streets and city squares. Strong force was used against worker dissatisfaction. Orders were carried out and seventy lives were lost. Gomulka fell from the wrath of the people.

The seventy protesters killed were mostly workers. They were buried at night without the presence of a priest...

Peace was brought by a miner from Silesia but unfortunately his star didn’t shine for long in the Polish sky. It didn’t last long. Some new winds began to blow and a big storm was approaching.

Poland was boiling again.

At the same time, Zahariadis’s star was also starting to lose its lustre. He no longer had the power he’d wielded over the last three years, while he was still holding the party by the neck and rushing to organize a revolutionary organization. He probably felt that he’d need the loyalty of the Macedonians again... He needed their support because his high-ranking Madzhars and Vlachs, and some educated Greeks, especially in the political party and in the military, refused to follow him. He was certain they would turn on him because of all the mistakes he’d made. While he still had influence he accused some them of being provocateurs and agents and managed to make his high ranking cadres slander one other. For some time he was able to take a sharp axe in his hand and hold it over their heads, especially over the dissidents. The star that led him to Moscow, Belgrade, Sofia, Bucharest, Budapest, Tirana, Prague and Warsaw eventually disappeared when he was ousted from the party. He was left alone. He committed suicide; he hung himself with a rope around his neck in Surgut, in distant Siberia.

This changing situation in Poland, during the long and cold late autumn and winter nights, reopened wounds in the Macedonian refugees. Everyone had their own explanation and judgment for the defeat and reason to condemn the evil. Everyone was a prosecutor and a judge; each person held a key in their hand which they were convinced would unlock the truth and expose the lies. And the more heated the conversations were, which often turned into mutual quarrels, swearing and humiliation, the more their mutual intolerance, division and disunity spread and intensified. The worm of doubt and discontent had infected everyone. Shameful and dishonest political blindness prevailed among them. Their political blindness was a dangerous disease, which afflicted mostly the former activists, and encouraged and nourished more worms of doubt and discontent. This is how it was for years. The more ignorant they were, the more susceptible they became to alien games, promises and deception. In their strife there were good players, players who made many promises and players who lied and cheated. They had something to gain. Everyone measured the situation with their own yardstick, with their own opinion and trimmed those rough logs their own way. No one appreciated anyone and no one respected anyone. Their political blindness, restlessness and disrespect for personal dignity caused them to quarrel and blame each other for their ills. Their division spread and fueled hatred which resulted in fist fights many times.

Naturally the strings of blindness were pulled by those who had something to gain and who had deliberately planned this well in advance. This hadn’t been done now it was done a long time ago. The culprit in all this was the party. The party nourished the worm that ruthlessly nibbled on people causing them to doubt one another, to quarrel with each other and to divide themselves. For some the disease of ideological blindness overshadowed the other disease -the division. The party further widened the gap by introducing new

impatience and strife and opening new wounds. And then some thoughtfully and deliberately thought that the divisions among the refugees could be stopped if they were broken apart. They cared about the game and the work they needed to do but for that they needed good players. They sought and they found. They found Argir Argirov, a former soldier of the Greek government army, captured by DAG partisans and imprisoned in a Bulgarian prison camp. To those who found him, Argir Argirov introduced himself as a Bulgarian Macedonian from Belomorie. After he was briefed and well-looked after, the Bulgarian authorities transferred him to the leadership of the Greek Association in Sofia. From there he was sent somewhere else where he received his assignment and then he was sent to Poland. In the meantime the Bulgarian embassy in Warsaw was attempting to offer its services to the Macedonian refugees, perhaps to entice them to make links with Bulgaria. But the Macedonians didn’t want anything to do with Bulgaria and openly advocated for greater links with the People’s Republic of Macedonia. Many had already applied for resettlement there. Not being happy with the CPG Central Committee led by Kolianis, the advocates of the break-up made an agreement with Comrade Todor Zivkov to move the Macedonian refugees from the Eastern European countries and from Tashkent to Bulgaria where they would only be Bulgarians and not Macedonians. But for that they needed a man on the inside, a well-groomed man to do the job. They didn’t need to look further than Argir Argirov. He had already taken up residence in Vrotslav and had made contact with the Association of Political Refugees from Greece in Poland. And slowly, like a worm nibbling under the bark of an oak tree, Argir Argirov, patiently, as they had taught him, nibbled on the souls of the Macedonians. He also adhered to the proverb - patience is the master of all things... He wasted no time. He visited places where there were larger groups of Macedonians but never talked to them as a group. His approach was to talk to individuals when they were alone. Most often he went to their homes, or walked with them while they went for a walk, or met them in a bar. He always cared to ask how they were doing, how they were doing at their job, what their wishes were, where would they like to live and so on. If he thought they were impressionable, he brought them Bulgarian newspapers, books, gifts, and convincingly told them that the Bulgarian government would take care of all their expenses should

they want go to Bulgaria. He also told them that they could get better jobs, earn more money, get better apartments, free hospital care, paid monthly vacations in spas and resorts, child care support and higher pensions. He told them that the climate in Bulgaria was much better and brighter, less cold, more sunshine, less rain and no fog. He told them they wouldn’t have to wait in line for bread, milk, meat and so on. And to every participant in the wars who fought against fascism and capitalism, Comrade Todor Zivkov would double their pension.

“And I will tell you one more thing,” Argirov whispered in their ears. “If you have saved money in the banks here in Poland, the Bulgarian bank will give it back to you, one Lev for every Zlota, unlike those who have gone to Yugoslavia and lost their savings. The banks in Poland have no agreements with those in Yugoslavia. If you want to go to Yugoslavia, Macedonia, then go but don’t think you will be welcomed with open arms. I was there and you know what I heard about those who have gone there? I’ve heard many ugly words. The people from that part of Macedonia see them as bad people. They have sown fear into their own children, telling them that if they are bad they’ll be given to the Aegeans. That’s what they call them, the people that go there from here, Aegeans. And do you know where they put the Aegeans? They put them in ghettos, barns and Turkish inns with yards that have donkeys and horses... Not to mention apartments or work. The Aegeans are the people that no one likes and everyone wants to humiliate with the ugliest words. Go there and find out for yourself. These things don’t exist in Bulgaria.”

The seeds that Argirov sowed began to germinate...

He found his impressionable people.

Lazo was first to sign up, but before he did he spent fifteen days in Bulgaria. He visited Sofia, Varna, Veliko Tarnovo, Blagoevgrad and Plovdiv where he stayed the longest. He went to see some distant relatives he had in Plovdiv who were expelled to Bulgaria in 1925 as part of the Molof-Kafandaris Agreement under which the two countries exchanged populations to create ethnically pure states. Just like Turkey and Greece did after Greece’s Asia Minor military

disaster in 1922. Lazo’s relatives, as well as thousands of other Macedonian families, were moved to Bulgaria and scattered all across the country. People looked for their relatives for months. Many didn’t like it there and moved to other places. Some moved to Yugoslavia, to the Macedonian cities, and others moved to Greece...

People’s memories flowed like beads strung on a long cord of life, the life that was then, there, at home. Now their lives and hopes flowed like crumbs scattered under the table. A series of pains, sighs and sorrows collecting, burning and resting on their heads...

Mara gently placed her head on the pillow and with eyes half open, took a long breath and fell asleep. It seemed to her that lately she was able to fall asleep easier and sleep better. It seemed to her that it was easier to hold onto her thoughts and memories which constantly kept her on the road home, and in those moments a rare shade of joy appeared on her cheeks. Her cheeks were always tight and in pain. Countless wrinkles much pain. With tears in her eyes she stared at the surrounding misty hills over which there were slow moving grey clouds going south. There were many bare treeless hills but green with grass. They weren’t mountains like those around the village that always filled the eyes. On the mountains and hills back home one could see fields, gardens, pine trees, oak groves and rocks and between them flowing streams of clear water. And resting over those mountains were white, woolly clouds that stood there motionless for hours, resting, splitting up and reconnecting. In the evenings, at sunset, the sun looked like a burning ball of fire slowly diminishing over the mountains with its last rays of exhalation. Sitting on the doorstep of the main hata door, Mara watched the clouds for many, many hours as they traveled south, wishing they could take her soul south with them. She often thought of sending her soul south, crossed herself and prayed, hoping that God would hear her prayers...

Mitre often sat beside her and humbly watched her. This time he spoke up and said:

“Mara, I see so much sadness in your eyes... Why so much sadness my dear Mara...? It seems like they aren’t your eyes. What happened

to those eyes that were always filled with some kind of weird, unusually attractive shine that always filled me with joy...? And that gentle smile of yours, and now it’s somehow full of bitterness. I always saw a smile in your eyes, on your lips, on your face… Your smile opened everything everywhere… your eyes, your heart, you Mara. You always had a blossoming smile and it always seemed to me that with that sweet smile all the bad was washed away… Your smile and your serenity always settled the violent winds in my soul and calmed me down. Your smile drove out my bitter thoughts... Your smile eased my pain and warmed me inside; it warmed my heart when I watched you smile... Smile my dear Mara, smile...”

Mara’s eyes became sadder and sadder with each passing day... Something was eating at her inside. She had a burning fever which caused her nausea and to feel sick. She was slowly melting before Mitre’s eyes; he never let her out of his sight not even for a moment. With his warm palm he wiped the cold sweat from her cool forehead and pale cheeks, and smeared her with healing herbs he had collected in the forest and meadows. He caressed her dry and thinning hair, and kept her warm in his arms...

Mara’s fever lasted a few days but left Mara visibly weak and feeling cold. When the sun was up and warm Mitre wrapped her legs in a warm blanket and took her outside. He gave her warm soup. Mara’s smile slowly began to return.

Leaning next to each other, Mitre and Mara sat on the wooden door threshold and stared at the hill on the opposite side. They sighed in silence.

Mara broke the silence.

“You know, Mitre, I would very much like to go and fetch some water from the fountain in Petkovets. I want to fetch it in that little earthenware jug that you used to love to drink from when you sat under and leaned against the thick trunk of the old oak tree. Then and now I tell myself how sweet every sip of that water was under that thick shade. I remember how happy we were as we slowly and with much delight drank that cool water. That water was sweet, wasn’t it? And do you know what I would like now?” asked Mara,

sighed deeply and continued. “I would like, Mitre, to bring you all the scents from our meadows and gardens, I would like, Mitre, to bring you all the bird songs from our nightingales... Do you remember how it was in the morning and in the evening, birds bouncing on top of the highest branch of our cherry tree and the nightingale singing? And you gave me a sign with your hand, not to move, not to breathe while the nightingale sang. It sang, the dear bird, it sang, for a moment it stopped and waited, waited the dear bird to hear its echo...”

Mara leaned her head on Mitre’s shoulder, closed her eyes and thought of her younger days when Mitre wasn’t at home, when all the love for him she focused on their children, on the farm, on the house and how she managed on her own to plow, sow and harvest all their fields... Time flowed without him but her attachment to him never expired... And now, leaning on his shoulder, she quietly whispered to him about herself, about him and about the people who, here in the Ukrainian hatas, were waiting and praying in silence trying to heal their wounded souls and mourn their loved ones...

She leaned on Mitre’s warm and firm shoulder with her thoughts and memories flowing... She quietly prayed to the Mother of God, while unrolling the cloak of time, of life, of living together, and of the times when they were separated and she spent many days and nights in loneliness, pain, sorrow and waiting in anticipation. She paused but only for a moment, enough to say something, to remind Mitre of something, to take a deep sigh…She moved her head slightly and whispered:

“Remember Mitre...”

Without waiting for Mara to ask her question, Mitre interrupted her and, looking south at the immense space, as far as the eye could see, said:

“Aha...”

“Aha what? You got up early this morning… Where did you go?” asked Mara.

“Up there…” replied Mitre.

“Where up there?” asked Mara.

“At the top of the hill...” replied Mitre.

“What were you looking for up there?” asked Mara.

“Mara, I went up there to see the sun rise and stayed there long enough to see the sun set. Since we arrived here I haven’t seen the sun rise or set. The high hills stand in the way. Here it’s like we are inside a cauldron. Haven’t you noticed that suddenly the sun comes out high in our yard? I haven’t seen the sun rise for a long time. I haven’t seen it set either. It hangs above us between these two hills and suddenly disappears...” replied Mitre.

He then told Mara how he had to hurry going up the hill to catch the sunrise and how the tall grass obstructed his movement and how difficult it was to breathe the heavy and stuffy early morning air.

It was still dark when he reached the top. He faced east and didn’t have to wait long. The distant pale lazily transformed into a blush and a few moments later there, in the distance, the sky turned blue, and shortly afterwards, the first rays of the morning sun, all dressed in fiery red gildings, slowly passed into blush. The morning light was scattered over the wide valley and fields. Mitre’s pupils were filled with sunlight. This was the first time, after settling in Liskovate all surrounded by high hills, that Mitre was greeted by the rising sun, which lacked the same warmth and joy that it had always brought at the start of a new day. The sunrise on the Liskovate hill didn’t resemble the sunrise at home... And the sky, though clear and blue that day, didn’t have that serenity and blue as the sky in his native village... Mitre took a long breath of the heavy and stuffy air and long steps downhill. By the time he got back the great shade of the hill diminished and the misty valley was filled with sunlight.

Many times Mitre and Mara sat and hugged for a long time at the doorstep. One time they watched the full moon and the stars in the milky way in silence thinking about their youth and being together.

Now in their golden years, they were growing old together. They sat on the doorstep of the old Ukrainian wooden hata and slowly grew old together.

“Do you remember…?” whispered Mara.

“Yes!” replied Mitre silently and sighed.

A burst of sadness flared inside Mara. Her eyes pooled with tears of sorrow that had accumulated in her from her youth until now.

There was silence. The crickets continued with their song. Mara slightly separated herself from Mitre’s shoulder and quietly, with pain in her voice, said:

“You know that the Pavlev’s and some others brought their children here from Romania and Hungary some time ago. What do you think, Mitre, should we bring our children here?”

“It would be good for us to be together. But first let’s ask them if they want to come here. Done is in Bucharest studying engineering and Slavka is in Prague studying to become a doctor. What do you think, should we shorten their education?” replied Mitre.

“But they can study here too,” said Mara.

“Like the Pavlev children and those of the others? They too studied in Hungary and Romania but when they came here they quit. They learned the language there but won’t know how to speak Polish. In what language, Mara, will they be studying here? The other children did go to the big Polish cities and enroll in the same kind of schools and universities, but gave up on their own because of the language. The language will be an obstacle for them, you understand?” replied Mitre.

“I understand, but I really want to be with my children, Mitre. A lot of time has passed without them. They’ve grown up without us and we’ve aged without them... let them come...” said Mara.

“I will write them and ask them to come when they have a break from their studies. We will have them here with us and when the break is over they can go back to their studies in the same schools. They, Mara, count up, and we count down, you understand?” replied Mitre.

“Enough, with the ‘you understand’, okay?!” Mara exclaimed. “I’m not one of those who doesn’t understand! Okay? Let it be like that! Let them study, and tomorrow you write them and ask them to come to visit us... Ask them to come and visit us and a few years from now, God willing, they will come and visit us with our grandchildren...” said Mara.

The end of the year was approaching. Mitre and Mara had visitors on Christmas Eve and New Year’s day. Done and Slavka came to visit them.

Mara was filled with great joy and excitement. All through the holidays her hata was filled with happiness. She didn’t lose the smile from her face despite the many years of pain caused by her long separation from her family.

Mitre was working in the yard making a sofra (low table) with the planks he had purchased a few days ago. He spent a lot of time with his plane smoothing the table’s surface and then sanding it to make sure it was perfect. Mara liked it. She told him it was perfect. She couldn’t wait to have her children eat lunch and dinner on it. All together, sitting cross-legged, around the low table just like at home...

It was Christmas Eve.