The Great Decline – Chapter 7

The Great Decline – Chapter 7

Every day the long days were spent in defense of the territory and under rain of fire. Waves of planes flew every morning, early in the morning. Trenches were fired upon with machine gun fire and bunkers with rockets and bombs. The planes came in waves, wave after wave dropped their bombs and flew away. And then the cannon and mortar fire started, beating everything down, bringing more destruction and obliterating what the planes had missed. And the moment the roar of cannon fire died out and the smoke cleared, the infantry attacked; lasting until sundown. Then, during the night, after midnight, there was continuous digging until dawn.

The commanders inspected and re-inspected the digs and reminded the fighters that: “Those who don’t dig deep, will quickly find themselves in a grave…”

They dug deeply, up to their shoulders and past the tops of their heads; “It was better to be alive deep in the earth than be dead, buried in it.” Up until recently, they had been accustomed to constantly moving, but now, being buried in the ground, they could not go anywhere. All they could do was stare up at the sky; this was their world. They looked up and watched the sky… at whatever they could see through the gun holes. They felt like eagles in cages with trimmed wings. It was difficult to be this way because the opponent could now easily find them and beat them down when he wanted and with whatever he wanted.

The sun was hanging above Mount Bel Kamen ready to set. A red cloud stood in its way. The sun descended towards the cloud. The cloud turned so red it seemed that at any moment it was going to burst into flame. The sun went behind it. The cloud turned golden yellow and looked like it was made of pure gold. The sun began to descend behind Mount Bel Kamen. The cloud regained its red colour but could not hold it for long. As the sun disappeared behind Bel Kamen, the cloud began to darken. It first turned light purple then dark purple. A shadow began to form in the valley below and quickly made its way up the mountain. When the shadow reached the top of the mountain the cloud was black. A coat of darkness began to cover the land… The sunset behind Bel Kamen was a sad affair. The cover of darkness over Kostur Region and over Vicho and Siniachka brought pain and sorrow. Above, in the sky, lay a belt of gray clouds looking like slabs of marble. The dry leaves in the forest rustled in the wind under the young birch tree where Tsilka was digging a deep trench into which she had completely disappeared. The shade of the birch tree was stationary, but underneath it Tsilka’s fears and thoughts were circling, searching, flying, wondering what was going to happen next… searching for hope in distant places...

It was ordered that way and Tsilka was carrying out the order. She dug. She dug deep. She had no choice. Someone else made that choice for her. She must dig deep and hide the trench well. Her choice was to do what she was ordered, like it or not, there was no turning back. If she did turn back, it was certain she would be facing a firing squad, or just her commander and then she would be leaning against a wall, a boulder, tree trunk and then… bam… and into a narrow shallow grave covered with a bit of soil, stones, leaves and branches… And no one would ever know who was underneath all that…

She continued to dig deeper. She lined the edges of the trench with stones and placed a few branches on top to hide the freshly dug, leveled soil. She dug some more. The deeper the better to protect the position. And was anyone worrying about protecting her? Protecting the position was far more important than protecting her. She must not think about protecting her own head. People here had no need to think about today or tomorrow, their job, in these “evil times”, was to protect the position and keep the enemy at bay. The only objective was to stop the opponent from passing! That indoctrination was deep rooted into her mind and had taken root in hard ground; “The enemy must not pass!” The ground was hard, not because it was constantly being bombed by the airplanes and cannons but because it was beaten by human misfortune and hatred…

Tsilka’s throat tightened at the thought that one of the fighters had been executed the day before. She felt sick to her stomach and began to sob… He cracked, he could not hold out, he withdrew from his position… but only for a moment… and for that… bam… he fell

forward with bent knees and hit the rocks and hard soil with his face. Did he manage to think of anything? Something he wished perhaps? Earlier Tsilka had noticed his hands trembling and his chin shaking. His left cheek muscle was vibrating… then bam… everything froze, including his thoughts… The ravens, pecking at the warms in the fresh dug soil near the trenches, took flight… Tsilka, just for a moment, wondered if his heart was warm in all that cold? Then chills and fear covered her entire body. She broke into a cold sweat...

“Dig! And not a step back!!!” Tsilka thought she heard someone say. She raised her head. The clouds above her were turning dark.

She jumped out of the trench. There was a fire burning in the distance. The century old pine trees were burning like candles. The forest was burning and with it the trees and the mountain flowers. There would be no aroma and no spring without mountain flowers. The sun was losing its height to the west and the shadow of the birch tree was covering most of the trench. Tsilka sat at the end of the trench and looked westward. She wondered what the night was going to bring? Then she remembered it was Sunday. It was the Lord’s day, a day of prayer and rest... But she heard no church bells ringing. On the other side, beyond the river Bistritsa, airplanes circled the mountains and cannons beat the earth to pulp… Tsilka looked up towards the sky and said: “Lord, please hear my prayer…” She then covered her face with her hands and said: “Please help us survive this day… and many others...”

Here the night, under Gorusha, was bright and warm. The soil was torn apart and wounded but still breathing. Black clouds hovered over Mopava and after midnight it began to rain. It was a fine, warm and gentle rain, enough to wash off the dust. Fog had formed and filled the gorges. And while it was still dark in the valley and in the brooks below, the sun was rising up in Gorusha, Krusha and Bel Kamen. Dawn was breaking… The morning wind gently blew the fog away and a new world was revealed… Up high the sky was changing colour, opening the heavens until a cord of light, a thin sunbeam touched the earth and began to spread from the top of the mountains to the valleys below… slowly and gently caressing the land. The day began first in Siniachka then in Kopanche, Sv. Ilia,

Krusha, Gorusha, Bel Kamen, Arena, Gramos... The sky turned pale blue then pink, red, purple and, with a sudden flash, it flooded the side of the mountain with light. The sun then slowly grew into a disk flooding the entire Kostur valley with bright light.

Three black dots appeared in the sky and they grew and grew in the eyes of the guard watching them.

“AIRPLANES!!!” he yelled out as loud as he could and he disappeared into a bunker.

The aircraft flew low and dropped fire and great fear on the ground… and when they were done, they disappeared. Then the artillery came to life.

Curled up like a roll, with knees pressed against her chin, hands on her head, sprinkled with fear, Tsilka lay at the bottom of the trench, waiting. Would the next flying shell miss her trench or hit it and would she feel the pain or would she instantly die, she wondered? And right away yesterday’s thoughts came to mind, when in the early morning hours, two artillery batteries beat her position to no end. After the infantry attack was repelled they began repairs on the trenches and bunkers and collected the bodies and body parts of their wounded and dead fellow fighters. Would tonight be the night when they would collect her body parts and bury them in a common grave?

Tsilka became one with the ground as she tried to make herself as small as she could and stay as deep down in the trench as possible. As she waited she could not shake off her bad thoughts. They stuck in her mind like lichen on a rock. She placed her fingers deep into her ears and squeezed tight to stop the sound of the whistling shells entering her mind. The ground shook underneath her after a dull roar. Hot soil mixed with bits of stone fell on her. She curled and tightened her body even more… and waited. She lay still, at times not even breathing, fearing that even the smallest movement or slightest breath would uncover her and reveal her position... She persistently endured and fought every instinct in her body. Then, suddenly it was all quiet again. And in the silence her ears were ringing, sounding like the whistle of approaching cannon shells. She

listened carefully. She heard new roars and thunderstorms, but they were not real. Those were generated inside her head. Her blood was pounding in her eardrums with each heartbeat. She felt tightness in her throat and was afraid to move.

Tsilka had nearly lost her life the day before. She had accidentally bumped a green branch covering the trench she was in with her head. It was enough of a movement to give away her position and for the enemy to take a shot at her. She did not hear the rifle shot but felt the hot bullet whiz by her left ear. Then a clump of soil flew off the back of the trench wall. She immediately realized that she had been shot at and broke into a cold sweat. She was petrified with fear. When she finally composed herself she checked her head with her hands, a clump of burned hair came off. At that very moment another bullet whizzed by her head and many more after that. It was a full burst of gunfire. When she realized that she had been discovered she wanted to call out loud, to cry for help, but fought her instincts. Then she heard the moaning and wailing of wounded. She bit her hand hard and drew blood in an attempt to control her fear and panic. She managed to remain silent and motionless. She sat at the bottom of the trench and covered her head with her shmaizer (rifle). She then bent forward and lay her face on top of her knees. She remained in that position until dark. When darkness covered the trench she stood up and when she saw others come out of their trenches, she came out. She breathed the fresh air and lay down on the beaten and burned soil plowed by the falling shells. Then, bowing low, she stepped back several metres and went to relieve herself behind the rocks. And so did the others… But that was yesteday… Today was a new day…

It was quiet now, the roaring and thundering had finally ceased… for the moment. Tsilka took a long and deep sigh. The air smelled of smoke and burned gun powder. She shook her head and grabbed her waist. She listened. The echoes of exploding shells were still bouncing back and forth from hill to hill in the distant hills. She carefully lifted her head. There was silence. A tree cut down by gunfire was smoldering and covering the trenches with smoke. She heard Mita coughing in the next trench. Further over she heard Iani’s voice. He was swearing. He stuck his head out of his trench and yelled out: “Is there anyone left alive out there?”

The trenches came alive. People started pouring out and, in their own way, felt good that they were alive. They expressed joy in their eyes, in their voices and in their faces… for just being alive. Some laughed, some sighed and others cried with joy for surviving another day… It was also a joyous occasion because no one had been killed that day. The five that were wounded were looked after. Their wounds were patched up and they were transported to the trench on the other side of the brook.

Tsilka returned to her trench. Now free from fear, she leaned on the warm trench wall, breathed easily and picked the dirt and soil out of her hair. She felt thirsty. She looked for her backpack. It was covered with soil. She shook it and pulled out her flask. She drank several gulps while staring at the blue sky. She then turned her head. White clouds appeared over Vicho, hovering, hanging low over the mountains. She heard footsteps. The company commander was passing by, ordering everyone to clean their weapons. Tsilka bent down to look for her shmaizer. It was buried under a pile of soil at the bottom of the trench. She cleared the soil with her hands and tossed it out. At that moment, from the corner of her eye, she saw a little bird. Slowly, so as not to scare it away, she gently caught it and held it on the wide part of her open palm. It was unconscious but still warm, barely alive. Tsilka put it on her lap and slowly opened its beak. She bent down and blew air into its mouth. She did this several times while rubbing its belly. The bird shivered momentarily, shook its wings and moved its claws. Tsilka took it in her hands, warmed it and gently blew air into its open beak. She then put a drop of water in its mouth with a piece of grass… then another and another. The bird opened its eyes, shook its wings and stood on its tiny, weak feet. It looked at Tsilka with a dizzy and blurry look. It turned its head and looked around. Tsilka placed it in the palm of her hand, stroked its back, smoothed its ruffled feathers and raised her palm above the trench. The bird shook, moved over and grasped Tsilka’s finger with its claws. It then turned its head, looked here and there and flew off... Tsilka, watching the bird fly away, said: “Oh, if I only had wings…”

During the day the opponent went on the attack twice. Gorisha was defended all day until dusk. The approaches were burning and the

top of Gorisha was still on fire. The ivy wrapped around a beech tree was burning. Flames, like strings, were running up the tree. There was a crack in a stone and a flower was growing in it. Tender leaves were fluttering in the warm wind. Tsilka, with extended lips, was blowing. She was blowing out the dust and caressing it with her staring eyes. She was afraid to touch it with her finger... She was afraid of touching the rock... Dusk was approaching. Behind their backs the sun was setting and losing its intensity. Lying flat on their backs or face down, facing east, they lay there as the night approached. They lay there the way a bullet, a grenade, or a bomb fragment made them lay. Now they were only a number in the commander’s ledger...

The night was calm and hot. The mild wind was spreading warmth all around. The sky was clear and filled with beautiful sparkling stars. Fragrant aroma from the Ianovo flowers was penetrating everywhere. People were sitting up behind the trenches; some were lying down sleeping. They were sitting facing the wind blowing from Bistritsa, bringing freshness with it. The gentle wind was blowing against the trees making rustling sounds. The leaves and the tall, half-burned stalks of grass were waving in the breeze. It was quiet and peaceful. The men were smoking cigarettes while hiding the lit part from view with their hands. Deep in thought many sighed deep sighs...

Someone was coughing in the trench for a long time, then someone began to sing quietly:

Mitrevitsa chekankata, Rano rani na utrina...

Another voice, in the next trench, a thick, rough voice, crackling like a broken board joined in:

Ovtsi pasa gaber lezha, Vecher ke ti doida...

Then there was silence, as if listening for a response and then the singing began again:

Za tatko ti, kolai biva, Edno lule tutun…

The voice paused for a moment and asked:

“Hey, Kolio, what are you doing? Are you sleeping? You are not sleeping? Well, then toss your bag of tobacco over this way so that I can twist one...”

While he was twisting his cigarette, there were sighs everywhere. They were daydreaming in the night under the full moon:

Doidi mi Magde, Tvoito belo litse, Tvoiata ramna snaga, Samo so Magde mori sonuvam…

Someone from the other side decided to join in:

Of, aman, aman mori Eleno, Of, aman, aman, umiram za tebe…

The song then came out of the trenches and broke out everywhere… in the dark…

In the beginning it was barely audible, almost shy, quiet and easy going like the flickering wings of a gee gee, one extending and the other threading into a chain and inside – the cold springs from which young maidens fetch cold water, the wedding ring, the long years of waiting, the tall verandas, the white wheat and the nine pigeons flying high above the wide field, the miserable young lovers and their love waiting under the window, in front of the door, on the porch... And in the singing – Fanka was mentioned. Fanka who stole grapes and was caught by the young guard who would not accept a five lira bribe, but instead he wanted her dark eyes and her love… and swarthy Donka, and Kalina with wiry blond hair, thick and fit for a stringed instrument, the Gergievden (St. George day) cradle and... Still the passion was there, when from up above, from the second line of defense, the boys from Krchishta, Lobanitsa, Kosinets, Papra, D’mbeni, Babchor, Ezero… all began to sing:

Mori Chupi kosturchanki, Rashirete go oroto, Rashirete go oroto, Da vi vime fustanite, Da vi vime fustanite, Chii e fustan damkalia, Chii e fustan damkalia…

They sang out loud and their voices were picked up by the wind and planted on the hillside from trench to trench and from bunker to bunker. From there the wind carried them over the brook to the other side of the hill and up the peaks where they were slowly diffused. The song they sang brought memories of home, of the blacksmith shop, of the vineyard, of freshly cut grass in the meadow, of the garden and the terrace, of pleasant reunions and encounters with family and friends... Someone sighed deeply and secretly wiped another bulging tear. Fanka, wounded on her right arm, was groaning, but her pain did not stop her from singing. In the warm night the wind carried a load full of voices into the broad rifle hole of the bunker and awakened the gunner. The male voices were pleading:

Ne prusai, prusai, (Don’t busy yourself, busy yourself,) Pred mene mori lepa, (In front of me my beautiful,) Ne mi go gori srtseto, (Don’t burn my heart,) Stiga e samo goreno, mori lepa, (It’s been burned enough, my beautiful,) Goreno, pepel storeno. (Burned, turned to ash.)

Lapka ke frla po tebe, mori lepa, (I will toss an apple at you, my beautiful,) Da se svrtish, da vidish, (So you will turn, and to look,) Da ti go vida litseto, mori lepa, (So I can see your face, my beautiful,) Litseto belo tsrveno. (Your rosy white face.)

Da to go pisha na tefter, mori lepa, (To draw it in my sketch book, my beautiful,) Koga ke oda asker, (For when I am drafted into the army,)

Koga ke mi tekni za tebe, mori lepa, (So when I think of you, my beautiful,) Da go otvora teftero. (I will open the book.)

Da ti go vida litseto, mori lepa, (To see your face, my beautiful,) Litseto belo tsrveno, (Your rosy white face,) Da mi pomini merako, mori lepa, (To quench my desire, my beautiful,) Merako golem po tebe… (My great desire for you…).

Coming from deep inside their hearts, the song awakened memories, arched towards the sky, as if wanting to touch the stars. One voice rose, dominated the others, then trembled. Other voices took over, fighting one another for dominance, joining each another, complementing one another… They were male voices, deep, assertive and reliable, coming from inside the neighbouring trench. They were joined by the female voices, warm and soft like a mother’s whisper and caress. They all blared out uninterrupted with only a brief pause to take a breath, their melody traveling from ear to soul. And while one part of the song traveled deep down into their soul, another took its place swirling gently in the air. It seemed like every word was loaded with youthful dreams, desires, grief, pain and wounds, embroidered, and decorated with silk and beads. Female voices took flight from the left, like butterflies, penetrating the dark and while bracing themselves through the wounded trees, scorched branches, singed grass and wilted wild flowers, they spoke of lost youth, beauty and unfulfilled love...

Belo litse lubam jas, (I am in love with a fair face,) Tsrni ochi lubal jas, (I am in love with dark eyes,) Gaitan vegi lubal jas, (I am in love with thick eyebrows,) Faide nema… (There is no use…)

“Oh!” sighed a wounded man, hiding his face in his hands and whimpering. “My bloody wound hurts and I have squandered away my youth. There is no use...” he sang with a broken voice, which quickly dried and disappeared. Was there any use in thinking of the sweet, brown haired girl when his own life had been unfulfilled? Was there any comfort in that? But none the less the trenches and

bunkers kept on singing, sorrowful songs, longing for Tinka, for Tina, for Fana, Donka, Sevda, Mare…

Of, of sevda pusta po edna, Sevda golema po site…

Even before those voices had done their part and even before their song took flight, new voices began to sing:

Izniknalo tsveke vo momini dvorovi, Ran bel bosilek, tsrven karanfil…

Suddenly the voices died down. A flute spread its wings and overpowered them. It cried and wept, it shouted and wailed for the mothers who had lost their children. Its whistling, weeping and shouting traveled up the hill, filling the souls of those listening to it, stirring the air, twisting and trembling, calming down and resting on the soft grass... It played a sad melody, low and high notes, howling and crying, falling and rising like the flight of a restless falcon, then whimpering peacefully, stirring emotions of love and memorable secret kisses. It carried grief, hope, aspirations, fantasies and the sadness of yesterday’s battle… the crying and pleading of the wounded and the living...

The song had warmed the hearts of those in the trenches and bunkers making their environment seem a little gentler and the stars above them looked a little brighter. Once in a while, in the semi-dark of night, small dots of light would brighten only to die down again as the smokers puffed long puffs of smoke from their cigarettes. And if you listened intently, you would hear them exhale, you would hear them sigh long sighs of grief… Grief they carried in their hearts. Over the hill the full moon was shining, looking down at the trenches and bunkers and at the young men and women of seventeen, eighteen, nineteen and twenty years of age... who had grown and matured spending long nights marching in the rain and snow, in dark fog and dense mist in the cold and wet trenches, behind rocks and fighting in deadly hot battles… Young men and women who had lost their youth… who had lost their tenderness and innocence... A great loss indeed!

The brigade’s political commissar, who half an hour ago had arrived at this position, leaning against a large pine tree, spoke up and said to the battalion commander:

“Your songs are good… They grab you by the throat, by the heart, but they are not for these kinds of occasions. The following must be sung now: Vrondai o Olimbos, ke se stravti I giona…” (A Greek song). “Or this one, one of yours: Vo borba, vo borba, vo borba… Makedonski narode…” (A Macedonian song).

“Tsilka!” the commander yelled out. “On Guard!”

The full moon was turning towards Bel Kamen. Pearly dew was covering the burned terrain, the leaves, the grass and the freshly dug trenches. There was a flash in the sky from beyond Bistritsa. It was almost daybreak and the end of silence and calm… The battle was about to resume… Flashes were soon followed by the thunder and roar of exploding shells and the mountain range and ravines again began to fill with smoke.

Tsilka took fifty steps forward and fifty steps back as if measuring the terrain. There were others beyond her. It was wet, cold and misty. Tsilka shuddered from the cold and her teeth began to chatter. She took steps to guard the terrain but she took greater steps to guard herself against her own fears. Her heart was pounding and she could hardly breathe. She forced herself to breathe, to keep the fears away. She pushed her fears deep down and squeezed her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering... She perked up her ears and listened… but all she could hear was the songs sung earlier… before she had been sent on guard. How many songs had they sung? And how many songs had they not sung… songs she had learned from her mother and grandmother? And she wondered: How can we possibly sing when there is so much fear, so much distress, so much spilled blood, so many killed and wounded and so many more crying and wailing? Maybe that’s why, here in the Gramos mountain range, there were no songs sung about us...

Tsilka continued to count her steps back and forth. She had been in the armed struggle for over a year now and in recent months she had experienced the limits of human greatness on one hand and the

limits of humiliation on the other. By now she was convinced that even the shadows come in many shades. In the trenches and bunkers, in the long, mostly stammering drivel of yesterday’s herdsmen and shepherds, now confident and self-absorbed political commissars, who had turned people into slaves, brainwashed their minds, robbed them of their ability to think for themselves, were words which she now recognized and with which she had become familiar, words that had led the youth to one long disaster… There was nothing in their lives to rejoice… in the trenches and bunkers there was no one close to them that they could be with… No one they could confide in… She knew that every unit had its informants. And that’s how the system lived and worked… the slaves doing the bidding of the stupid… now Party Secretaries and Commissars…

There was a change of guard. Tsilka was back in her trench. She leaned against the soggy wall and fell asleep. The earth shook underneath her. She awakened but could not understand what had happened. After the heavy bombardment they found her unconscious...