On the Road of Time – Chapter 17

On the Road of Time – Chapter 17

We returned to our Saho and drove north following the long chain of old Mercedes. The wide, asphalt road ended outside of the city and there was a sign indicating that beyond here the road was under construction. We turned east and entered a long side street. There were one storey houses on both sides of the street and the sidewalks were paved. There were also young linden trees planted not too long ago on the side of the street. This was the outskirts of Durres. There were no activities here so I drove very slowly while we looked at the well-groomed yards of people’s houses. Then suddenly there was a loud honking sound behind us, as though a vehicle was yelling at us, probably because we were going too slow or because my car had drifted to the centre of the road. As soon as I pulled to the right a big bus passed us, leaving a cloud of smoke behind. I drove about another hundred meters or so and then stopped behind the stopped bus that had honked at us. Several passengers got off. I got out of my car quickly and approached a tall man. From his stature and appearance he looked like an older man. I greeted him in Albanian and asked him if he spoke Macedonian. The man put down his briefcase and at that moment I saw his eyes sparkle with excitement. “Yes, I speak Macedonian. I am Macedonian…” he said enthusiastically, “and from your car’s license plate I can see that you are from Skopje, right? What brings you here?” he asked. “We are looking for the road to Suk…” I replied. “Sukt” he corrected me. “There are two roads. One goes over the hill, the other one is the one in front of us.” “We are looking for the road over which Macedonian and Greek partisans from the Greek Civil War were transported and treated in hospitals in Albania sixty years ago...” I said. An expression of surprise appeared on the man’s face, whose name at the time I did not know, and after a short silence he said: “I have never heard that such a thing took place in Sukt…” “And which road leads to Sukt?” I asked. The man turned west and, pointing with his hand, tried to persuade us that this car could not possibly take us there because the road was dug up and under construction. “There is nothing out there... except for the vineyards...” he said. “Are there any barracks or building debris?” I asked. (For more information about the Macedonian and Greek Partisans and their treatment in Sukt, see my novels “Postela za Chemernite” and “Golemata Izmama” (The great Lie).

“No, there is nothing. I have been there… Sixty years ago you say? That was a long time ago. Time has erased things…” he said in a dragging tone of voice. “Yes…” I said in a protracted tone of voice, “but we still want to…” “Turn time back?” he interrupted. “Time? No, our memories… yes…” I replied. “There is nothing left there from those days… Perhaps you can find out more from someone who was there and is still alive…” he advised. It was noon and the sun was burning hot. We felt empty, robbed of our hopes and disappointed. We kept silent… “Sorry,” he interrupted the silence, “I did not tell you my name. I am Itso, a construction engineer, now retired…” We also introduced ourselves and asked him to direct us to the highway leading to Tirana. “That’s easy,” he said, “but first I would like to invite you to come with me to visit my relatives. Let us get out of the heat for a while and meet my relatives. They will be very happy to meet you especially when they find out that you are from Macedonia. Shall we go?” We accepted his invitation and Itso, through his mobile telephone, informed his relatives that he was bringing guests. He took us on a side street to a small house built some time ago. There was a Mercedes parked in the driveway. An older man came out of the house and hugged and kissed Itso three times on the cheeks and, without asking who we were, did the same with us. Then, with a wide sweep of his hand, he invited us to go inside the house. A woman greeted us at the door and she too gave us hugs and kisses. Then after taking off our shoes we expressed our warm feelings for inviting us and complemented the beauty of their house. We wished them peace and happiness as they sat us down on a sofa covered with a hand-woven rug. Itso and our host sat cross-legged on the floor opposite to us. The woman went to the kitchen and a while later came back bringing small cups of coffee, sweets and glasses filled with cold water. “So, you are from Macedonia?” our host began the conversation. “I have been there about ten times. On business of course. You are okay over there but us here? You have forgotten us Macedonians in Golo Brdo. You left us to the Bulgarians. They came here, the Bulgarians and told us that we were Bulgarians. They brought us used, threadbare clothing. They unloaded them off their trucks in the middle of the village. They also brought sacks full of flour, beans, lentils, sugar, packages full of sweets for the children, juices, cola and even water. Take them they said, if you admit that you are Bulgarian and declare yourselves Bulgarians we will bring you more. They knew we were poor and they wanted to buy our souls with gifts. We took everything they brought and much of it we sold at the markets in Peshkopi, even at the markets in Durres and Elbasan. That’s what we did. When we go to Skopje we beg the authorities to open another border check point closer to us to make it easier for us to travel to Macedonia. We beg them to allow us to come and find work there, any kind of work; labour, mason, etc., so that we can earn a few coins. We are not ashamed of doing any kind of job. We will do anything... And as the conversation of “how Macedonia had forgotten the Macedonian people of Golo Brdo” continued, more and more Mercedes were being parked on the road outside by the people of the neighbourhood. These people were all from Golo Brdo. Some were temporarily settled here waiting to be resettled in Durres and others were in pechalba, (migrant work) working as labourers and masons. “Do you know,” said our host, “that many Macedonians live in the outskirts of Durres? There are many living inside Durres as well. We, for example, will be moving to Durres soon. My sons work in Italy and with the money they make they will soon be able to buy a large flat in Durres where we all will be moving. But first we will have to have a wedding for our older son… As for the Bulgarians,” he remarked while looking in the direction of the door, “it would be hard to purchase a soul with flour, beans and sugar…

But what are you going to do? Macedonia seems to be so far away from us… Earlier politics were different here and there, but now Macedonia is a country and should help us, defend us and protect us…”