On the Road of Time – Chapter 13

On the Road of Time – Chapter 13

We returned to Prenies. There we took a right turn. On the left was the mosque, behind which was a residential settlement. Two and three storey houses had been recently built there and a little above that, next to the intersection, was the Orthodox church. Suddenly a question popped into my mind, “Why was there, in those days when Italians were here, an Orthodox church in the middle of an Italian military base, shouldn’t it have been a Catholic church? Or was this church built to honour the memory of those who died here? The question bothered me as I became more and more curious. But who to ask? There were many flowers decorating the outside yard door and there was a locked padlock hanging on the door. People passing by stopped for a moment and shook their heads, gesturing that they did not understand what I was asking them. Then, when speaking among themselves, they shrugged their shoulders. I began to feel isolated and disappointed. Suddenly our translator appeared from somewhere and spoke to people and from the conversation concerning the church we understood only two words; some said Catholic and others Orthodox. We realized that nobody knew anything about the church. For them it did not exist, even though they passed by it many times each day, they had no clue as to whom it belonged. Unfortunately the question kept gnawing at me; “What is this Orthodox church doing here? Is it an Orthodox Church or not?...” Then suddenly I remembered. Well, yes. At that time a friend of ours was here in Prenies and before coming here we had visited him and told him that we were coming here. God bless those who invented the mobile telephone. Anxiously I pressed the buttons with the numbers and then I pressed the green button. “It’s ringing,” I said to my wife. “He is answering…” I heard a sleepy voice answer on the other side. Afternoon is usually nap time. “Hello, Done, good day, how are you? Wait, don’t answer, I have a question for you first. You have been to Prenies, right?” “Yes I have,” he answered. “Do you remember if there was an Orthodox church in Prenies then?” I asked. “No there wasn’t one. I am sure there wasn’t one,” he replied. “What about a mosque?” I asked. “No, there was no mosque either,” he said. “Was there a cemetery?” I then asked. “Yes…” he said. “And where was it?” I asked. “Well, where are you now?” he asked.

“We are in Prenies. We are standing on the right side of the main road. In front of us we see a row of long buildings with wide doors and small windows up above that have iron bars in front of them. The buildings look like camp barracks and between them there is a road…” I replied. “Those were the stores and horse stables where our people were housed. Now look in the direction of the field. You should be able to see a large number of long wooden barracks on the other side of the road…” he advised. “I am looking but I don’t see any barracks. There is something there that looks like a playground and in the middle of it there are stakes placed into the ground on which old boards had been nailed. The place looks more like an open bazaar…” I replied. “That’s were the barracks were. And a little to the side do you see a white house?” he asked. “Yes I see it,” I said. “That’s were the Administration and Party Committee were located. And at that time that was the only house built in the area, everything else was barracks, large and long stores and horse stables with large doors on the north and south side….” he said. “Yes, I see them. They are exactly as you describe them,” I replied. “Now, follow the road up. When you reach the last store or horse stable, turn slightly to the left… Are you there yet?” he asked. “Yes, we are there…” I replied. “Do you see a small hill to the right?” he asked. “I see it,” I said. “Go to the bottom of the hill and about ten steps further you will find the cemetery,” he instructed. “All I see here are only single level houses…” I replied. There was silence on the receiver... After a moment or so a long sigh and after that was Done’s voice saying: “The cemetery was there…” He hung up and that was the extent of our conversation. It was hot… The valley slumbered in the encirclement of the surrounding mountains. It is hot here all day during the summer. They say the heat is unbearable in the summers and the winters are stone cold. Then, in those days, the frail and sick, the old, the babies and the young children suffered the most. Their salvation was the cemetery which we are now trying to find... We brought candles with us so that we could light them at the Prenies cemetery. We knew that from the end of July 1948 to the end of October 1949 many people had died in Prenies from various ailments and diseases; the majority were old people, babies and one and two year olds. So there must have been a cemetery in which they were buried. These were our people and the cemetery in which they were buried is our cemetery, even though it is located in a foreign country. We lit candles for the souls of those who sixty years ago lost their lives here. For those whose destiny was met with eternal darkness. We lit candles to revive the memory of them and keep them from being forgotten... We wanted to light candles in the Orthodox church but how were we going to find the priest or someone who had a key? “Why don’t we go to the café,” suggested the interpreter, “maybe we will find someone who knows more.” We agreed; it was a good idea. There were three tables under the branches of a grapevine and past that there was a door, probably leading to the kitchen. One of the four men sitting around the tables got up, took a few steps towards us and greeted us with a big smile and wide open arms as if he had known us for a long time. He invited us to one of the empty tables. The man kept talking with a wide smile on his face and we, understanding nothing that he said, smiled back and shook our heads in agreement. We gathered he was the owner of the café and did not look a day over thirty. Our interpreter struck up a conversation with him. I think he explained to him who we were and what we were doing here. Before sitting us down, the man swatted the flies off the table with his not so white towel, turned towards us and, with the help of the translator, asked for our order. “Coffee please,” I ordered. “Hurie, vale tria kafedakia,” (Bring us three coffees.)

ordered the translator in Greek. “Milate Elinika?” (do you speak Greek?) I asked in Greek. “Yes I do, very well. I am also teaching my wife to speak Greek. We are planning to go to Greece in the fall to work there. We want to build a house and we need the money. I worked in the Peloponnesus for twelve years. And you, from what my friend tells me, are from Macedonia, right?” the man asked. “Yes,” I replied. “You have big problems with the Greeks, right? It is difficult to live with Greeks. I know them very well. They are not honest people. They are big liars. I am familiar with them. I worked like a slave for my bosses. But what are you going to do when you have obligations. You will work as a slave for your bread… Let them be what they are, that’s how God made them, even God endures them. He puts up with them cursing His Son and swearing at his Son’s Mother… Every second word is a swear word… Please madam, forgive me, it is not decent of me to talk about these things…” he said to my wife. “Tell me,” I asked, “since when have you lived in Prenies?” “This is my second year. Why do you call it Prenies? This place is called Perrenias, a name which it got from the many slopes found in the mountains on the west side of the settlement. ‘Prii’ means slope and

Perrenias means many slopes. Earlier the place was called ‘Domozdroba’ and in the fifties it began to develop as a town,” said the man. “Tell me when was the church built here?” I asked. “The church and the mosque that are built on the same street, on the opposite side, were built after communism fell. If you want to know more we will call the church custodian and he will be able to tell you more. I don’t go to church or to the mosque. In communist Albania we were all forced to become atheists and since then I have remained that way. But please allow me to finish. You know the large field behind us, the one by the road that spreads east and south and slopes down the mountains? Well that field was owned by a Beg before the war. I don’t remember his name. The Italian government purchased the part of the field that we are standing on in the thirties of the last century. This was the most unproductive part of the field, which Italy purchased to use for 99 years and they built a military base. The only thing that remains of that base today are those ugly buildings which some say were stores and others say were stables. Everything built around them and over the road was built on usurped land. Last year Italians came and said that this place was theirs and that we Albanians were building our houses on stolen land. We said that there were another 30 years before the 99 years expired, so until then we were staying right here,” concluded the man. While the man spoke I could not help but think about our people stuck in those stables and stores, now eaten away by the elements and time. The barracks were gone. The place where they stood was now flat and in their place were poles stuck in the ground on which rotting old boards had been nailed. Those grounds today are the market place of Perrenias. Above them are the stores and horse stables. They had been painted with bluish and white paint, which in some places had eroded by the passing of time and in other places had cracked, exposing old layers of paint in a variety of colours. Underneath one of the layers, I could see, but just barely, an outline of painted letters. I used a piece of glass to scratch away and under the paint I exposed the letter “Д” painted with pale red paint. The letter “Д” is a Cyrillic letter. At that moment it seemed like cold drops of sweat were dripping from my forehead. The letters were at chest height so I began to scratch even faster, exposing more of the pale red paint. I continued scratching for another thirty or forty centimeters until the entire Macedonian word “БРАТСТВО” (BROTHERHOOD) was exposed. There was no doubt that both words were part of a slogan and most likely remnants of the then very popular slogans with which “bratsvo i edinstvo” (brotherhood and unity) was promoted between the Macedonian and Greek people. I went and got a larger piece of glass from a pile of broken glass and continued to scratch a bit higher. I scratched an entire strip and under a brown layer I noticed a bit of white paint. I realized that the wall has been painted over at least three times. I again began to scratch from right to left and under the brown layer I found a pale red line and a dot under it. It looked like an exclamation mark. I scratched further and after exposing more of the wall the letters: “а, т, а, д, е, б, о, п...” appeared in that order from right to left. I took a step back and looked at the exposed letters. I read from left to right and noticed that they spelled: “победата” (victory). I wiped the sweat off my forehead and face with my sleeve and continued to scratch until I had exposed all the writing to the last letter. The last letter turned out to be the first letter in the slogan, which to this day, sixty years later, was hidden under three layers of paint. I then stepped back and read: “Сите на оружје! Се за победата!” (All to arms! Everything for Victory!) I stepped to the side and sat on a half rotting stump and stared at the slogan. After being silent for a long time I wondered out loud: “How many more walls are adorned by this kind of slogan, put there to invite the exiled to battle?

Here in Prenies, preserved under layers of paint, are the slogans, a testament to the times, when every day they nourished the trust and encouraged the spirit... of a war that extended all the way here, calling and beckoning... They collected all who were capable, and then they collected all who were less capable and after that they waited for the young to grow so that they too could be collected and sent to battle. They collected people, property and food by force and using the slogan “Everything for victory.”