On the Road of Time – Chapter 5

On the Road of Time – Chapter 5

The road of time and tracing old memories took us to the village Ezerets, now called Petropoulaki. The name “Ezerets” is a very old name. This village got its name from another and much older village, which at one time existed higher up the foot of Mount Orle. Mount Orle, according to an old legend, got its name from the tall boulder on top of the mountain whose peak looks like an eagle’s head. According to another legend, the mountain got its name from the numerous white-headed eagles that once existed around this mountain, now almost extinct. It is said that the old village was built in the middle of a mountain lake, now dry. We visited the place and all we could find were remnants of thick walls, where stones were dug out, and broken ceramic tiles. Further up the mountain was a sand cliff on which hollowed out rows could be seen. It has been said that between the rows there was some sort of writing, not in Greek but in Cyrillic letters and that during the Metaxa dictatorship in 1936 people came from the south and carved out the letters with pickaxes. The new name now given to the village Ezerets was to honour some Greek man from the Island of Crete named Petropoulakis. As the story goes, this man leading a group of “palikaria” (strong men), mostly former prisoners, scoundrels and thieves, came to Kostur Region to free Macedonia from the Ottomans. In supposedly doing so Petropoulakis got himself killed, but it is unknown by whose doing. He was killed not at Ezerets but at Snicheni, a neighbouring village, which today is called Kastenafito because there are many chestnut trees growing there. It is unknown if any of his “palikaria” were killed and what happened to the sack of money after he died. But as the story goes, the frightened villagers from Snicheni secretly, during the night, took the “brave” dead man’s body and carried it over to the village Ezerets where it was later found. And that is the reason why Ezerets was named Petropoulaki. There is no museum in Ezerets to honour Petropoulakis and it is not clear where his grave is located. There are no celebrations held to remember Petropoulakis, the Greek hero from Crete, or his “palikaria”. Ezerets, once a thriving village with over a hundred houses and more than five hundred souls, is now empty. The ten or so people who survived the war moved on to Rupishta (now named Argos Orestikon). Ezerets comes alive during the spring and especially during the summer when the villagers, now living in cities, return to check on their houses, take their vacations in the cool clean air and clear mountain spring water, to clear the foliage around the tombstones and graves of their ancestors and loved ones and to light a candle. By doing so, they celebrate their endurance and survival. Everywhere we looked our eyes met with ruins, remnants of the Greek Civil War. Decaying houses on whose doors locks were hung, a long time ago. Locks hung by the owners who never returned from the road of the great lie. Owners who, forever, remained in the Eastern European countries... And the only evidence of their existence here are the falling houses, the locked gates, the rusted padlocks hanging on the gates, the dark and broken windows and the sagging roofs… Ezerets survived the fires and sackings brought on by the Ottomans, the Albanian raids, the island robberies, the Italian and German assaults but not the ravages of the Greek Civil War which pushed the village into desolation. For the people of Ezerets and for all those passing by, it seems like “the south” ends at the edge of Mount Odre whose peak lies at an altitude of 1525 meters above sea level. Beyond there the mountain slope is so sharp that it seems like the world comes to an end. When the south wind blows it carries with it air from the top of the mountain down the steep slope to the flat area of the land and with it, it brings a pleasant mountain tea aroma. Early in the morning on a clear day, one can see the entire Kostur valley, the lake and all the surrounding villages from the top of the mountain.

To the right one can see the slumbering Mount Siniachka, with its treeless top covered in fog. Straight ahead beyond Mali-Madi, standing tall, one can see Vicho and further, further back in the fog, barely visible, are Pelister and Ivan Mountains. To the left are Kopanche, Sveti Ilia, Krusha and Gorisha Mountains and behind is Kotelska Kula with its highest peak at elevation 1758. On the south side of Kotelska Kula is a steep rocky slope and at the bottom rests the village Kotili (Macedonian Koteltsi). On the peak of the mountain we counted eight rows of trenches now shallow and overgrown with plants and grass. Around the trenches among the plants and grass we found rusted bullets and more empty shells than rock pebbles. On the peak of the mountain is a weathered old rock on which, carved by someone’s hand, is the date “July 16, 1947”. In the afternoon of that day the only two men remaining alive, from a Partisan detachment belonging to the fighters of the Democratic Army of Greece, were left there to defend that hill. When they ran out of ammunition, to avoid being captured by government soldiers, they jumped off the steep hill and landed in an abyss. Two men, one Greek the other Macedonian, met the same fate at the bottom of the abyss. We later found out that one of them was Vane Dorov Malkov from the village Sheshevo, Kostur Region, grandson to a revolutionary who died at Nozhot. The rock at Kotelska Kula is very steep, like a wall, and the abyss is very deep. How long does the fall from top to bottom last? What can we call and how can we measure the act of those two men? Someone’s hand scratched the day, month and year on the rock but the dust that rests on it is blown by the north wind and washed only by the rain… There is moss and sometimes a rare flower growing in the cracks. The entire space in front of the rock cliff is still marred by the remnants of trenches in which lush green grass and many mountain flowers now grow. I thought I should collect some flowers and create a wreath. I bent over, not to collect flowers but to bow before the dust and the shadows of those whose remains were left there forever… I stood up and looked all around and for a moment I heard a female voice, it was the voice of the eighty year old Partisan Mita. She began talking: “The mountains of Northern Pindus are huge. This is a region commonly known as Gramos. They have tall hills, some are bare, some are rocky, some have hundred year old pines and dark forests growing on them, some have natural springs of water running, chiseling channels through them. During the night when the sky is clear the heavens appear woven with rows of stars. The stars seem to be so close that you can knock them off and they will land in your hand. The early mornings are clear, moist with dew, cool and blanketed with white fog filling all the deep valleys and depressions. Then there are the dark clouds, black and fearsome, carrying cold and long lasting rain. They appear suddenly with strong and loud thunder with echoes carrying through the long and deep brooks, cracks and ravines. There are also the gentle white clouds which carry heat. The winds are sometimes so strong they can topple you over. The ageless trees bend and sway as waves of them hit them and push against them. Swirling winds make loud noises as they enter rocky chasms and crevices and brush against the southern rocky terrain; stripping and smoothing its edges. The northern side is overgrown with all kinds of trees and all the green foliage your heart desires. It is very hot during the day; the rocks heat up so much you can fry an egg. From the high hills the eye can see the entire Kostur valley and surrounding settlements. You can see Vicho and beyond that you can see Kaimakchalan and the higher hills of Mount Pelister. To the south you can see the summit of Mount Olympus. The winters here are very cold and a lot of snow falls on the mountains. There are many blizzards that pile the snow in high drifts creating treacherous conditions and making the region impenetrable.

These mountains are best suited for spring conditions. It’s lovely up here during the spring. The fall is okay but at times it is hazy, damp, foggy and cold. It was decided that we were to face our opponent here, at Gramos. We were to ambush him right here, “said Mita, the old Partisan woman, who at the time was only eighteen years old, “from these stationary bunkers and trenches, which we were then occupying. This is where we became repeated targets for the enemy. It was here that we waited for the enemy with only our infantry weapons, several mountain cannons and with only five thousand cannon shells. Were they enough to crush the enemy? Yes, we were told by High Command and by the military leadership. The enemy, on the other hand, threw more cannon shells at us in the course of one twenty-four hour day, than we had in total, all put together. Not to mention the number of mortars and bombs dropped on us from the sky by their air force... Here behind the rocks and mountain peaks people were hard, stronger than the rocks. This is how we were and that was recognized and documented by the reports generated by the opposing generals. This is also well-documented in their memoirs and military notes. They said that the “nofiti” meaning us the Macedonians, are fighters with a strong spirit, great physical endurance and above all, very brave fighters. We defended ourselves and we were protected by the rocks, the mountain peaks, the forests… Our opponent knew where we hid our heads and every day he beat us with his cannons, mortars and most of all with his aerial bombs dropped from above by his air force. And in places where it was difficult to break through, with American permission, he used napalm bombs brought here from America. And when that did not work, Athens asked for permission to use a special kind of bomb, which had just arrived in Greece, but Washington did not allow it. These bombs were new to the world and if used they could have destroyed and burned everything. And after their use, there may not have been any life left. But the tanks, their shells could not reach all the way here to the front lines. The terrain was rough and steep and the goat paths were too narrow for them to travel on. Count the days from July 14 to August 22, 1948, how many days are there? That’s how many days and nights the battle lasted. That’s how many days and nights we lasted. I remember the first days of the battle, when the government brigades couldn’t break our defenses, when the aircraft were pounding us with some sort of special bombs. They had dropped bombs on us before but these particular bombs, brought here from America, were called napalm. They were terrible, everything burned from them, heaven and earth. We were also burning, but we learned how to protect ourselves, unfortunately, day by day there were fewer of us left and our space became smaller and smaller… I remember the evening of the sixtieth day when the order was given to withdraw to new positions. These were the last positions. Behind us was Albania. In the night we took a count of how many of us were left. From the 460 men and women fighters aged 16 to 22, which was the number of fighters in our battalion before the battle started, 95 were left alive 60 of which were wounded. Who can you patch up first and who can you carry to the hospital? Some died in our hands… Many years have passed since then. Many of the fighters who survived by now have also passed on. Participants of this episode cannot talk about their lost youth without tears in their eyes. They try to escape it but deep down in their consciousness and in their memories, the images are stored of that world, which they, like an incurable wound, have to carry with them all their lives...” concluded old Mita. I asked myself “Were the young men and women born between the years 1920 to 1930, the backbone of Vicho and Gramos, brave?” Standing on top of the hill behind which the deep Kotelska Kula abyss lies, I attempted to imagine, to form a picture of the two men who plunged to their death.

But for me that picture was vague, it was far from the reality of war which then was part of their lives. A war which left some on the timeless side, others maimed and crippled for life and yet others forced into exile forever. A large number of whom, to this day, remain expatriated in foreign lands and among foreign people… My attempts to imagine, to form a picture of what it was like when the fires of Gramos were burning and how the young men and women felt when bullets, steel shells and bombs were dropping on them from the English and American aircraft, were pale in comparison... From here and beyond, standing tall, were the mountains Bel Kamen, Gorna Arena, Dolna Arena, Charno, Krastavets, Aliabitsa, Gramos and other mountain peaks where, from July 14th to August 22nd, 1848, many young Greek and Macedonian men and women, from both sides of the battle zones, lost their lives. Yesterday we visited that part of the old hell. The entire time silence was our only companion. The only sound we heard was the swishing wind passing between the leaves and thick trunks of the pine and beechwood trees, scarred by the cannon and mortar shells a long time ago. There are tons of pieces of iron littering the soil, now overgrown with thick green grass. It is unknown which number more around the bunker and trench remnants, the pebbles and small stones or the bullets, empty shells and shrapnel. Lying on the rocky hill, overgrown with ferns, under whose shadow wild strawberries grow, I found a large piece of an aerial bomb and half a mortar shell. I put the pieces of iron in my backpack and took them with me as souvenirs. When I placed the backpack over my shoulder and felt its weight I began to wonder: “How much lead and iron fell on the young men and women during those seventy days and nights when they were defending these mountains? How many of them died, how many survived and how many were pulled out of there maimed and mutilated for life? In those days, these mountains, hills, rocks and hill tops were symbols of unprecedented devotion and bravery. Now, after much time has passed, a question comes to mind: “What was the purpose of the eight thousand or so Partisans, soldiers of the Democratic Army of Greece, entering the trenches and bunkers with only infantry weapons? Did they think they could resist the government army of eighty thousand well-armed soldiers with all kinds of modern weapons?” Macedonian and Greek young men and women died here defending these dry hills, rocks and mountain tops. They lost their lives to the cannon shells, mortars, napalm and other bombs brought to Greece on ships from America. Were they satisfied with the weapons and ammunition delivered to them on mules, horses, donkeys and on the fragile backs of the Macedonian women from the Kostur and Prespa Region villages? These women were living witnesses who every night, in columns of 300 to 500, loaded beasts of burden, travelled the narrow paths from Rulia to Breznitsa, Smrdesh, Lobanitsa, Krchishta, Novoseleni, Shak, Revani and Kalevishta to deliver ammunition to the storage depots at Pilikati, Janoveni, Slimnitsa, Omotsko and Tuhuli or directly to the combat zones. Those were women aged 16 to 60. How long is the road from Prespa to Gramos? It was as long as the night lasted, from sunrise to sundown. Daytime was reserved for the flying aircraft. Nothing could travel and survive under the shadow of the metal hawks… We traveled the same path, not on foot but by car. The then narrow goat paths have now been widened and paved with asphalt. They passed through the villages which today do not exist and testify that there were churches and some tombstones in the desecrated cemeteries. Today there are no houses, not even remnants of houses. If the Madziri (Turkish Christian colonists) villages in Kostur Region were built with chiselled stones, then those are the stones taken by military trucks, during the fifties and sixties, from the houses in the villages Smrdesh, Lobanitsa, Kosinets, Krchishta, Vmbel, Dmbeni, Dolno Papratsko, Novoseleni, Kalevishta…

Their houses are beautiful. The foundations and walls of their new houses were built with the stones of our houses, churches and tombstones, markers of our ancestors. Those of our people who remained say, and I repeat: “If our people did not leave and cross over the border, their houses would have been larger and more beautiful for certain.” Today is Sunday and the church bell at Sveti Nikola Church in Ezerets is ringing, calling us to prayer. I noticed that the bell rang longer than is usual. The last six tolls were longer and quieter than the previous ones and there were longer echoes in the distance. “For whom does the bell toll?” I asked. No one opened their mouth to give me an answer. I persisted trying to get an answer but the people from Ezerets, as if conspiring, would not speak. After worship we gathered at Pop (Reverend) Sterio’s house. During a lengthy conversation about the village and its past, I asked the reverend: “Father, for whom did the church bell toll softly and at length?” “For the souls…” he said quietly and, with a shaky voice, he told us about the event about which only the old people spoke and only in secret. “March 17, 1905, it was a Friday when a group of Greek “palikaria” entered the village. They said they were searching for Macedonian revolutionary leaders but they were acting strangely. They went from house to house ransacking people’s cellars and barns. But it wasn’t revolutionaries they were after, they were looking for gold. When they came up empty handed they selected six men from the village and took them to Sveti Ilia Church located just outside of the village. There they tortured the men for a long time and in the end they cut the vertebrae and tendons at the back of their necks and left them there alive to bleed to death. They would not allow the villagers to help the men so they died in agony. The villagers then buried the men during the night and since then no one outside of the people of Ezerets knows the whereabouts of their eternal resting place.” Pop Sterio placed his finger on his lips. By that gesture we understood that we couldn’t talk about it. This historic episode could only be remembered in silence. “Anyone in the village can tell you what their names were, but no one will speak about where they were buried. We can’t tell because we know someone will come and desecrate their eternal resting place. One hundred years have passed and no one has muddied their dreams. But now I will tell you their names and where they are resting,” said Pop Sterio. Slowly, quietly, in silence, walking as if in a funeral procession, we got there... Pop Sterio crossed himself and we too made the sign of the cross, all in silence. We kept quiet staring at Pop Sterio’s cane as he pointed with it to the eternal resting places. He said: “Here lies Sterio Sidovski, whose name I carry. He was thirty-five years old when he died and left behind four children, Ziso, Kosta, Ritsa and Tana. Next to him lies Sterio Fotovichin, a young unmarried man. On that side is Petro Nikolov. He did not have any children. Next to him is Sterio Liochkovski. There is Stavre Stavrovski and next to him is Gele Shomovski...” We prayed for their eternal peace and went back to Pop Sterio’s house. In our conversation, in which we embroidered the distant past, I told Pop Sterio that we had visited the village Osheni (Iton in Greek) and noticed that they had a high school there. I wanted to say something more but Pop Sterio abruptly interrupted and said: “And what do you think if they had not collected the children, there wouldn’t have been a high school in Ezerets? There would have been one, even larger than that in Osheni, but someone thought it was not important to have a high school here.” There was no occasion about which Pop Sterio did not express his opinion. He even expressed doubts about the existence of the Republic of Macedonia. “But how will that tiny country live and survive in poverty?” he asked with a concerned tone of voice while shaking his head, expressing doubt.

“My dear Reverend Father,” I said to him quietly, “she is now like a tiny, lonely and poor bear cub…” “What?!” he raised his voice sounding surprised. “You say a tiny bear cub? A bear cub which one day will grow up to be a bear?!...”

“Well, what can you do Reverend Father, bear cubs do grow into big bears…” I replied. We left Ezerets at noon. The Sveti Nikola Church bell was still audible as we drove past the last turn before crossing the bridge. It seemed like the bell was telling us something… …there is no death or disappearance of a person as long as the memory of them lasts…