On the Road of Time – Chapter 2 - Part 02

I will say it again: an unprecedented hurricane hit Prespa. The airplanes dropped a hailstorm of hot iron from the sky and behind them flew more airplanes dropping blankets of flame. Black clouds of smoke rose from the earth, pieces of molten iron penetrated the living bodies of the powerless, a hailstorm of iron pounded the soil and long tongues of flames fell from the sky and scorched the earth turning everything to ashes. The sky was covered with black clouds and the lake waters turned red. Horrible, frightening, wild screams and death cries were heard everywhere and help was nowhere to be seen; it never came. The naked sandy plane between Rabi and Peroo was an open slaughter house… a killing field. That day our eyes were filled with horror, fear, despair, curses, swearing and hopelessness... I experience that sight all the time, awake and in my dreams and have never managed to shake it off, to get rid of it, or to answer the question as to why it was so wild and fanatical, blind and cold, fierce and furious, why so much hatred and thirst for such savage killing? Why was there so much unnecessary, horrible, terrible and furious anger sown over Prespa? It seems to me that God never forgot that day… He gave strength and power to revenge, fire, evil doing and death… Beaten from heaven and from earth, jumping over the bodies of those killed and wounded, skipping over the bloated carcasses of dead cattle whose intestines were scattered all over the road and in the meadows and constantly being accompanied by terrible screaming, we moved, dizzily moved through the wilderness that would lead us to the Albanian border. Walking with us were men and women Partisans carrying wounded on their shoulders, in blankets and on stretchers. There were old men and women and men and women of very old age walking, moving, trying to escape the horror... There were also very young children with a mad look in their eyes clenching at their mother’s dress. They walked and walked and turned their heads, but only for a moment, just to see if there were living walking behind them and if they were keeping up the pace. When we crossed the border and when the blasts of the bombs could not reach us, and when we could no longer hear the roar of the flying aircraft, that’s when I felt the greatest emptiness, the greatest pain. That’s when I realized how painful the forced abandonment of my home was. How could one carry their entire property, their belongings, things collected over centuries and put them in a bag and walk away? What about the house, the garden, the fields, the meadows, the vineyards, the forests? Could one even take a small piece of those and put them in a sack? I could not even begin to imagine the pain that I would feel if I had lost members of my family, as so many of those traveling with me had done! Can you imagine how much it hurts to leave your birthplace under duress? Do you know how much it hurts to be pushed to go to a foreign country and only take with you what you can carry on your shoulders, under your armpits and around your neck? Do you know how upsetting it is to have to choose things from your long acquired property and take only as much as you can fit in a bag or sack? Do you know how much grief it causes to have to put a padlock on the gate of your own home and not to know when you will take it off? Our days of hope blackened in only three days, our effort and sacrifices were in vain, all our hopes and aspirations were dispersed and disappeared. We were leaving but could not escape the war that raged behind us. Thousands of us crossed over the mountains and the same thousands left behind our homes, fields, meadows, vineyards, forests… which we had built with our own sweat and fertilized with our effort. I could not even imagine how people, who were separated from members of their family, must have felt as they were leaving, running for their lives! I realized that for us there was no other road except the road that led to our uprooting...

and at that very moment we heard voices shouting, “Continue to Albania.” We travelled... people and livestock together... Heavy rain fell during the night. There was no place to hide, to secure your head. We kept going, God knows where, traveling in a long column. Hungry and tired our livestock took to the meadows, gardens, fields and yards of the Albanian villages and we continued to walk on foot until we arrived at the village Pogradets. Here they loaded us onto trucks and took us to the plains just outside the city Elbasan. A month or so later they loaded us on ships and took us to Poland. In Poland they placed the children, including myself, in children's homes. There I graduated from elementary, high school and university and established my own family. I visited the Republic of Macedonia, then a part of Yugoslavia, in 1961 so that I could see my father. He worked in Belimbegovo and lived in a small room 3 by 2.5 meters, had an iron bed, two blankets, a small wood stove, a table made of rough boards and one chair. I recognized him when I saw him but he did not recognize me. I went for a visit a second time after the Skopje earthquake and took my father with me to Poland. So I, a former shepherd from German, known as Kole to some and Nikola to others, moved to Skopje in the summer of 1964 with my entire family and became a Skopje resident. With a degree in civil engineering I was able to get a job in the Directorate for Reconstruction and carry on with the reconstruction of various buildings in Skopje, including the University Library, the Archives of the Macedonian Institute for History, the Theatre for Nationalities, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Museum Complex of Macedonia and other buildings ... And that’s the road I took...” concluded the man. The man tucked his fingers in his hands for a moment and then spoke again, softly: “I have built and restored many houses… Now, sitting here, I ask myself, “Will the government allow me and will God help me restore my father’s house?...” The man hunched his shoulders, took a long sad look and with his pupils blurred and a broken voice said: “I have built a house in Dolno Dupeni for the sole reason of being closer to German. Earlier, in my younger years, I often went up there and from there, from Tsutse, I watched our house with a telescope. Now I go to Sveti Ilija and from there, from the hill I watch the level plains. After August 15th, every year this part of Prespa is full of sounds, singing, fun and serious music. During those days the road leading to Sveti Ail is full of traffic, passenger cars, buses and luxury limousines. The Sveti Ail Island, for an entire week, holds concerts in the remnants of King Samoil’s Cathedral. This is not a local event and the concerts are not about what happened in Prespa between August 13th and 15th, 1949. Every year at the same time passenger cars, buses and cars with government plates, accompanied by security men arrive here. Do you know who and what lies in this plain and under the asphalt between Rabi and Kula-Peroo and from Peroo to the parking lot at the entrance of Sveti Ail? While the concerts are taking place and cars and buses arrive and leave Sveti Ail, I go to Sveti Ilija, to the hill where the small Prespa Lake lies, to the surrounding mountains and to the Prespa Plains and light candles. I light candles to honour those who, sixty years ago, gave their lives and left their souls here for eternity. And as the candlelight flickers I stare at the plain motionless, thinking of the noises made by the flying aircraft, the explosions made by the bombs and grenades, the whistling of flying bullets, the smell of napalm, the cries of the hundreds being beaten from heaven and from earth, run over and crushed by tanks, running, trying to save themselves with all their strength, running in this last small bit of land by the lake with hopes of pulling a long straw that would save their life… I then cross myself and whisper: “Athenians, slowly, steadily, quietly...

quietly, steadily... A while ago a relative of mine who lives in Lerin brought me a book entitled “History of the Greek Civil War”. It was an interesting read. On page 533 it says that in the space around the intersection in front of the village Rabi to the bridge at Kula-Peroo, a length of 5 and width of 2 kilometers, the Greek Military Air force dropped 34 bombs weighing 250 kilograms, 530 bombs weighing 125 kilograms, 1,900 bombs weighing 10 kilograms, 70 napalm bombs, 620 rockets, 26,000, grenades 20mm and 43,000 machine gun bullets 12.7 to 7.7 mm, all this in the course of August 13th to August 15th. The author of the book did not specify how much iron and lead was dropped on the 5 by 2 kilometre (or 10 square kilometre) area nor did he specify how much more was added by the artillery, tanks, mortars and infantry. Little or a lot, is a matter of personal judgement. As to how much iron, lead and fire fell on the heads of the wounded and maimed Democratic Army of Greece (DAG) Units and on the large civilian population that passed through here, only they know and can tell you! But let me remind you that they were innocent and helpless people, these were our people who felt this pain in this unprecedented attack that took place around Peroo! These were our people who were rushing to find salvation in this small peninsula which the enemy dubbed “Africa”! The author says that eighty percent of those who entered this open space were killed. This was not a battleground. This was a slaughterhouse. Again a little or a lot, is a matter of personal judgement, as to the amount of iron and lead dropped on the heads of powerless people. A little or a lot are those lost, whose bones lie in the mass graves in the area between the intersection in front of the village Rabi and the Kula-Peroo bridge and in the area between the Large Lake Prespa coast and the sands and reeds of Small Lake Prespa? On page 620 in the book “Anti-Bandit Struggle 1945-1949”, General Zafiropoulos wrote the following praise about the Greek Air Force: «Η φιλια Αεροπορια απο της εω ενεσπειρε τον τροµον και την καταστροφην εις την περιοχην του Λαιµου.» (The friendly air force, from morning until night, sowed terror and catastrophe in the region around Rabi.)

We quietly and silently travelled the road from Rabi to Kula-Peroo at the slowest speed our SAHO could roll. The road was straight as an arrow and travelled at the centre of the flat plain lying between the two Prespa lakes. On the left was the long coastline of the small lake with its tall reeds waving. On the right was the long coastline of the large lake with its thick willow groves. This is the bloody killing field of which Kole spoke to us a while ago. A bus caught up to us and began to honk its horn. It appeared that the driver was in a hurry. I could see in my rear view mirror that he was getting angry and making threatening gestures with his fist. And judging by the movement of his lips, I could see that he was swearing at me. I did not speed up so he followed closely behind for a while and then passed, speeding away leaving behind a trail of thick smoke and smell of burned oil. I continued to drive as slowly as possible, attempting to imagine, in my thoughts at least, a small part of the bloody picture, of the horrors that took place here. Saddled with the burden of this difficult time, I did not notice that we had left the flat plain of horror and were crossing the bridge where the two Prespa lakes come into contact. After crossing the bridge I greeted the soldiers, leisurely sitting on a bench in front of barrack, and then turned right taking the road to Ψαραδες (Psarades). That’s what was written on the traffic sign. I checked the old map, published by Chubovski, and found that Psarades (Fishermen) was the Greek name for the village Nivitsi. The uphill road was wide and led to the top of the lakeshore. There was a sharp turn in front of the Sveti Giorgi Church and to the right there was a wide parking lot with a great view of the eastern Prespa coastline which, to the north began in Asamati and to the south ended at top of the hill. In this view the mountains and villages rested in the palms of your hands and the lake below rested under your feet. Excited by the beautiful scenery we decided to go and visit Nivitsi. The village is located on the lakeshore and is surrounded by rocks on which stunted oak trees grow. It has been said that, in the past, the people of Nivitsi lived off the “tsironi” (smelts, tiny fish) that they caught in the lake and sold to people in the most remote villages in Lerin and Kostur Regions. Unfortunately no one got rich from selling tsironi so today the people of Nivitsi stave off poverty with tourist money. By joining forces the people of Nivitsi built a hotel with a restaurant that offers famous Prespa carp and other local Prespa dishes. They also fixed up rooms in their old houses and now can accommodate paying guests. The hotel parking lot was full of buses. A well-established advertising campaign also brings them tourists from all over Greece. But we did not come here for the hotel or for the famous carp. We came here because of a significant wartime event that took place in the Sveta Nedela (Golema Bogoroditsa) village church. The Second Congress of the People's Liberation Front was held here on March 25, 1949. It was here that resolutions were adopted to invite the Macedonian people to join the struggle (Greek Civil War) en masse. It was here that the Macedonian people were told and retold by the Greek Communists that they would allow them to create their own Macedonian state, unlike the Republic of Macedonia which was under Yugoslavia. But there was a condition, a catch. For that to happen, every able bodied Macedonian man and woman had to join the struggle. “All to arms – everything for victory,” read one slogan. There were many slogans written especially in honour of Zahariadis, the so-called “greatest”, wisest and most respected son of Macedonia and then, a little later, no one wanted to believe that he was the “greatest” liar and cheat! But the leaders of NOF (National Liberation Front) and all those serving under him, believed and trusted him and that is why they all suffered and many died; because of those beliefs!

Everything is known now!!! The entire nation suffered. The older people know and remember… but the younger generation did not want to listen. Now, hopefully, they learned from their mistakes. We took the rarely used winding circular cobblestone path, now overgrown with grass, to Vronderon which, according to the old map, used to be called Grazhdeno in Macedonian. On the way there we passed a place where the village Piksos, known as Orovo in Macedonian, used to be. There is hardly anything left of Orovo now. The only building left standing is the church now hidden under the shade of a tall oak tree grove. While visiting Grazhdeno we had a great desire to visit the large cave which served as a hospital for the Partisans during the struggle. Wounded Partisans were treated there after the houses serving as a hospital in the villages Nivitsi, Orovo and Grazhdeno were bombed. We expected to find only ruins and empty space in Grazhdeno but, to our surprise, we found new houses and children running in the streets… but the language spoken was Albanian. We surmised that the Greek authorities had populated this village with farmer and pastoralist settlers, refugees from Albania. They spoke to us in Greek but between themselves they spoke Albanian. They said it was easier to understand each other if they spoke Albanian. After our visit to the cave, the former Partisan hospital, which still has remnants of wooden beds placed in layers of three, we took the road to Pili, or Vineni as it is called in Macedonian. Vineni was the first village in Prespa Region to receive Asian colonists, who, after the Asia Minor disaster, following the Greek-Turkish war, were settled here. The Macedonians call these people Madzhiri. They are distinguishable from the indigenous people not only in speech but also in appearance. They have black hair, bony facial features, convex eyes and eagle noses. They call themselves Pontii, meaning former residents of a region situated above the shores of the Black Sea. During the struggle most of the Pontii fled to Lerin and resided in the city. Their abandoned houses were occupied by the so-called Democratic Provisional Government of Greece, which was established in December 1947 in the village Asamati located in Prespa Region in the Republic of Macedonia. Before the village entrance, to the left of the road we noticed a piece of plank nailed to an oak tree which read: “Σπηλια Ζαχιαριαδης” (Cave Zahariadis). There is a narrow, uphill path leading to the cave and in front of the cave, under the wide canvas spread under the shade of the oak trees, the path turns left. There is another wooden sign with the same writing and about ten steps after that there are two connected rocks. Above the rocks there are old cracked oak trees growing with their roots stuck in the crevices of the rocks. Under the low hanging branches, facing west is an ugly, dark chill-giving, gaping hole; the cave entrance. I turned on my battery powered lantern and carefully put my foot on the first step carved out of stone. There were three or four more steps like that going down and after I took the last one I was in total darkness… This, at one time, may have been a bear cave, but then, during the struggle (Greek Civil War), a brain came to live here. When the brain was here the cave was not a cave, it was a cabin. The floor was covered with smooth planks and hand woven carpets, believed to be gifts from Tito, given to Zahariadis in better days. To the left there was a large desk, a telephone apparatus and a radio transmitter. To the right there was a long table covered with a red cloth and chairs stacked in a pile. These were for the members of his immediate political and military leadership. There was a colour portrait of Stalin, a personal gift, hanging on the front wall. There was also electric lighting and heating. This is where the brain of one side of the war resided, where political and military solutions were conceived and decisions were made. This is where the decision to attack Voden, Negush and Lerin was made.

And this is where not a single bomb was dropped. Vineni and the cave were two places where the government air force did not drop a single bomb. In those days there were few who knew and were able to cross the road to find the cave. Today many come to visit it. The cave that once was a home to bears, bats and spiders and the seat of darkness and misfortune, is now a tourist attraction… It was late evening when we set off for Sveti Ail Island following the pontoon bridge, recently constructed by the army. The most noticeable object in Sveti Ail was Tsar Samoil’s Cathedral which was constantly visited and photographed by many tourists. We did not want to miss out resting at the only and surprisingly wonderful hotel and restaurant with a large terrace overlooking the lake, so we decided to stay a while. Hosting this unusual establishment were the very kind Kosta and Vera. We were met with a bit of history at the entrance. There were wood and stone carvings of Tsar Samoil’s blinded warriors. Preserved in their suffering and tortured faces were signs of pride and dignity, compelling you to want to stop and, with a restrained breath, pay your respects. The restaurant resembled an ethnological museum. Much of Prespa’s material culture had been painstakingly assembled and lovingly displayed. And while we lovingly observed all these exhibits with tremendous curiosity, our attention was caught by an announcement on the television that said Thessaloniki TV would be broadcasting a documentary entitled: “Πρεσπα η καρδια της Μακεδονιας” (Prespa the heart of Macedonia). The camera lens captured the coastal reeds, the stillness of the lake water, the many flocks of various birds, Sveti Ail Island and the walls of the large, one time beautiful cathedral where Tsar Samoil and his warriors prayed. It captured the high stones and white lakeshore in which are preserved the cave churches and cells of monks and hermits. It captured the Sveta Bogoroditsa icon painted on a rock a hundred meters above the lake water. There was a lot of boasting and praising by the commentator about nature in Prespa but not a single word about its people. The documentary ended with pictures of houses, passenger cars and buses full of tourists crossing the bridge at Kula. They were delighted to be part of the beauty in this corner of God’s world as they left to return back to the south. The lake wind picked up the dust and the noise left behind and Prespa once again rested in silence. We left Prespa and before we crossed over to the other side of Prevolot we stopped and looked, for a long time, at the ring of mountains with the beautiful lake in the centre. The lake looked like a mirror in which the sky, clouds, stars, moon, sunrise and sunset constantly reflected. A deep sigh came out of our chests and with it the question: “Bogoroditse, whose portrait was painted on the rock and endured the cold and moisture, the beating of strong autumn rains and winter winds, the baking of the summer heat, why did you not protect us and keep us safe and away from harm? Why did you not raise Your hand against the hands of those who erased the people of Prespa from Prespa?...” Prespa, a beautiful and peaceful place, cleansed, devastated, beaten, rinsed out, made desolate, cleaned out and left sad without its elders, the old men and women of Prespa… Oh, Prespa, Prespa, you have been tormented, tortured and trampled…