The Great Decline – Chapter 8 - Part 01

The Great Decline – Chapter 8

There was a large, tall boulder towering over the narrow, winding goat path. Climbing on the boulder one could get a broad view of the hills and surrounding brooks. At the very top was a bunker armed with anti-aircraft guns, serving as a lookout. The steep slope leading to the boulder was overgrown with short grass and above that the boulder was bare. This was the highest point of the mountain. A beech tree with twisted, torn and mutilated branches was growing out of a crack in the rock. There was a sound of falling water coming from a brook further down the mountain. It was from yesterday’s rain. The foaming water sparkled as it reflected the shining sun. About twenty steps further down there was a meadow being watered by the flowing water. Even though it was the middle of summer and very hot, the grass was green and the white daisies were in bloom. Further over there was a thick forest of beech trees. Under their broad branches there was deep shade. Here was where the women lay resting, some sitting, others sleeping, under the forest’s thick canopy. The women remained silent throughout the day, quietly waiting for the day to end. They often looked at the sky and listened for the airplanes circling over the hills and waiting for them to come out. Airplanes flew all day long, circling over the hills and forests and whirling around like vultures as they climbed higher and higher. The draft animals were tied to tree trunks under the forest canopy and nibbled on nearby grasses. It was hot but the valley was green.

Fimka, looking at the two men sitting to her side, was trying to remember where she had seen them before. She finally remembered. It was the same two men who, about a month before, had led her here through the various paths. They took her and a few other women uphill then downhill, turning here and there and then following a herd of cattle and a column of village women. Only now Fimka realized why they had deliberately led the women this way. It was so that the women would not remember how to find their way here or back. The women were eventually taken to a secret warehouse where arms and ammunition were stored. The women arrived here at night, loaded their draft animals in the dark and traveled to their destination in darkness.

Nearly all the women wore black and had their heads and faces wrapped in black head kerchiefs. They spoke quietly and refrained from falling asleep. They wore black because they were mourning a family member… a dead husband, a dead brother, a dead child… There were always tears in their eyes and they sobbed and moaned softly. Their burden was great and often caused them tightness in their throat and pain in their chest. Their pain dug at them constantly…

A breeze blew from the top of the mountain. It gently shook the leaves on the trees and made them rustle. The daisies hardly moved but the tall grass swayed in gentle ripples. There were playful butterflies flying over it. The gentle breeze, the low flying birds… all signaled the day was coming to an end. The sun was setting and the sky was changing colour… azure-pink… shades of blue… timid and sad. The white clouds hovering over the mountains began to turn red. Twilight was approaching giving the terrain a certain strangeness. Darkness was winning over light, covering the meadow with an invisible cover.

Up high in the sky the purple light of dusk was vanishing in the final moments of twilight before darkness enveloped the tips of the hills and crickets came out to play. Several steps away there was a cricket chirping. Sounding frightened, there was another cricket responding right back. There were many crickets chirping like a chorus and waiting for replies. The entire valley had come alive and was singing, pleading, begging… It was magical and humbly captivating… loud and quiet, soft and soothing, passionate and inspired, pious and poignant, seductive and gentle, playful and sweet, promising and deceptive… The meadow was alive with the song of the cricket. It filled the air and permeated under every blade of grass… It paused enough to take a breath and started the song all over, pouring, spreading, soaring and continuously flying without interruption, and non-stop begging: “come… come… come…”

Then suddenly there was a loud, commanding, hoarse voice which hit like thunder and scattered all over the meadow and in the trees: “On your feet!!!”

The meadow and the forest came alive. The draft animals raised their heads and became alert. The women quickly wiped their tears and assembled together. Those in charge of leading the draft animals went looking for them. The others picked up their loads of boxes and bags and threw them over their shoulders.

“Move out!!!” ordered the same hoarse, commanding voice.

There was a living chain of people and burden animals moving along in the meadow, step by step, one foot following another, stamping on the grass covered in fresh dew. The first foot bends it down and the hundreds that follow trample it. A daisy’s flower was bent and as it painfully tries to straighten itself, another foot pushed it down… then another and another... But soon the living chain left the meadow and veered off towards the incline and the column began to climb up the slope. Down in the meadow, new fresh dew collected on the trampled grass and the frightened crickets resumed their song which lasted until dawn. The burden animals followed one other in a long queue and not one went off its course. The path they walked on was well trampled and smelled of urine and dung. They maintained their pace and knew when to slow down, when to shift their weight from one leg to another and when to catch their breath... And the women hanging by the bridles and horse tails, walked in front and beside them, matching their stride down to the step. How many times had they done this? How many times had they walked these paths at the same pace? Let’s say that they were familiar with every bump, crack and pebble. They knew where to step, what to avoid and when to skip over...

To the left of the trail were bare and cracked rocks. Dwarf pine trees grew deep in their crevices enduring cold, wind, rain and snow. To the right was a deep, dark abyss which began immediately after the entrance to the narrow path. Sounds of flowing water were heard coming from the depths of the abyss. Fimka gripped the horse’s mane with all her might, gently bent down and, while whispering to the horse, pressed herself against its ribs and walked on the path that hung above the dark abyss. The boxes loaded on the animals, full of cartridges, mines and hand grenades, touched, scratched and hit the jutting rocks, decorating them with wooden markings. Suddenly a bat took flight and a notorious owl began to hoot.

Step by step, foot behind foot, in the dark of night, the column made its way to its destination. Just as its end passed through a clearing, its front began to enter a dark pine forest. It was very dark but the sky was visible above the towering, tall trees. Their tips rocked back and forth as waves of wind brushed against them. The sky was dotted with dark clouds and in between them were veins of visible, shimmering bright stars. The heavens looked gruesome as if they were shaping up for a bad storm. Flashes of lightning were seen from time to time, like a flashlight turning on and off, flaring up in the distance. It was not a good sign. It caused much distress among the night travelers. It was enough of a burden to carry the heavy loads on their backs. They did not need rain to mess things up even more… Just as their anxiety began to heighten they were finally out of the woods. In the distance they could see a pale sky high above the hill.

“Get going!!!” a loud voice was heard yelling.

Fimka stopped for a moment and turned her head. To the east the sky looked pale. Down below her the valley was covered in white fog. To the west the high mountain peaks were becoming visible and up above her the sky looked red.

“Get moving!!!” the same voice again yelled sharply.

About a hundred metres above the steep slope they reached an open area. There were wide and deep holes everywhere. There were broken stones all over the place. It smelled of burned things and burned gunpowder. Three days before this hill had not been gutted like this. Who said it had been done by exploding bombs? Had the shells fired by the enemy from the other hill reach all the way here?

“Move!!!” the same voice was heard yelling, this time at Fimka, as she encouraged her horse to get going.

There was a huge rock facing the column. Someone was loudly swearing and threatening court martial. Our leader had taken a wrong path. The column turned left to bypass the rock and divided

itself into three columns to reach three different destinations. The day was breaking. The sky over Siniachka was turning red.

“Stop!” the same voice was heard yelling out loud.

Our leader and our guard exchanged signals and immediately after that the women offloaded the boxes and bags they and the burden animals were carrying. With the load off their backs, they stretched, rubbed their shoulders, wiped the sweat off their faces and deeply inhaled the morning air. They breathed bitterness and spit out thick, sticky and foamy saliva. It was a short rest. Day was breaking over Siniachka. The sky was purple all over. The wounded were already loaded on the horses and on stretchers and the women were deployed; four per stretcher and one per horse.

“Move out!!!” the same voice was heard, ordering the women to get going on their return trip.

The return trip was downhill. The column was able to move faster and make the trip back before the mountain peaks became visible, before Siniachka Mountain had lost its redness and before Lake Kostur could be seen. Just as the terrain was becoming visible the column, quickly sliding downhill, was fast approaching the tip of the pine forest and entering the woods. People and draft animals quickened their pace and suddenly disappeared… they were now invisible… The damn airplanes flying out from Rupishta could now cruise and circle all they wanted.

The tired and exhausted column slowed its pace and, in the grey dawn, moved down with ease, hidden in the safety of the pine forest.

“Please mother… Please, slow down,” a wounded person was heard moaning but his voice was lost in the painful moaning of the multitude. The wounded all begged not to be shaken so much and when they did finally get their wish there was silence. Most were unconscious and breathed with ease but when they returned to consciousness, their voices were finally heard; some were crying, some were praying and some were swearing and cursing...

Blood was dripping from the blanket nailed to the two wooden poles substituting for a stretcher. The drops were falling on the green grass and on the leaves of the Ianovo flowers. Stalks of grass bent under the heavy drops, slowly coagulating in the morning coolness.

“Please slow down mother…” a voice was heard begging. All of the wounded were begging for the women to slow down. Their darkened, dried blood and bandage covered wounds were becoming visible in the morning light.

Fimka bent her head down and looked at the face of the wounded person she was carrying. A tear drop fell from her eye.

“Don’t worry, mother…” muttered a voice from the stretcher. The body was wrapped in dirty bandages from top to bottom. Nothing seemed alive in it. Only the face and the eyes were uncovered. The only thing this crushed being was able to do was grumble and mutter a few words that made no sense.

“Don’t you worry, mother…” the voice said again and breathed a deep sigh. “Don’t you worry… that’s what the commander said to me! And what should I not worry about? About the hill?! We held the hill... We held it… We endured everything they threw at us... Everything they attacked us with… Fire was burning us? And who else could endure that much?...” The wounded person stopped talking, groaned making a crackling throat sound, sighed, opened his eyes and quietly muttered something unintelligible. His eyes looked blurry reflecting the sky. He had lost his voice. Two green flies landed on the abrasions on his lips. There was a reflection of the white clouds and the blue sky in the glazed pupils of his eyes.

Moving along down the steep hill there was some commotion. Someone slipped, stumbled and fell. They dropped their stretcher. The entire column had to stop. The stretchers were lowered to the ground. Many of the wounded began to moan and complain. Fimka and the woman in front of her also put their stretcher down. They wiped the sweat off their faces and took a deep breath.

“Get moving!!!” the same commanding voice yelled at them.

They picked up their stretchers and began to move. With every step that they took they found their stretchers heavier and heavier. The wounded person Fimka was carrying felt cold to the touch. They took him off the stretcher. They did the same with two other wounded men and one young woman. Fimka’s team loaded a different wounded person on their stretcher. This person too was groaning and moaning and looked pale. He was arching his back and his chest was sticking up. He had difficulty breathing. His bandages were bloody and blood was dripping from the side of his mouth. Decrepit old men, incapable of carrying guns, with shovels over their shoulders, followed the column and collected the cold bodies left behind. They were going to bury them in a previously excavated hole near a large beech tree en route and they were going to cover the hole with branches. This is what they did with the dead returning from battle...

There was a talkative wounded person on the stretcher in front of Fimka’s team.

“Here,” he said. “Here is where I was stabbed… where all that blood came from, I don’t know? The commissar, that idiot, instead of patching me up to stop me from bleeding, he comforted me by saying ‘don’t be afraid’… Is there anyone out there who is not afraid of a bullet? I am afraid… Fear was a big deal for me... A great deal, I say... If you are not afraid then you will not protect yourself… I was afraid and I protected myself and here I am on a stretcher... up there in the trench...” he continued to speak but not with ease as blood kept dripping from under his stretcher. “In the bunker, I, who they called a hero, was always afraid…” His words started to become intermittent and he began to gently and painfully cough short coughs, cry in delirium and pray. And when he regained consciousness and his breathing became easier, he said: “My whole life I have been poor and miserable… and maybe that is why… the bit of life I have left in me… is now leaving me with my blood… dripping out of…” He was unable to finish his sentence; he had a large, wide gaping wound in his chest.

Fimka did well to remember what he said: “If a bomb exploded near you, then you were either dead or wounded. If a barrel lit on fire fell from the sky near you then you were to stay there until you turned to

ash. You were not allowed to move… so we were ordered… to die there to the last one… ‘You may fall but the position you are protecting must not fall!’ we were told. That’s the way it was…” said the man who died before her eyes. They loaded another wounded person onto the stretcher.

“All stop!!!” the same authoritative loud voice yelled out and then: “Offload!!!”

The column was ordered to stop in a lush circle of grass under the thick pine forest canopy and put down the stretchers.

The women immediately put down the stretchers, offloaded the wounded from the horses and everyone sat down in the shade. There was more groaning and moaning coming from the wounded. A young lady arrived. She was wearing a military uniform and carried a bag with a red cross on it over her shoulder. She went amongst the wounded. She bent down and adjusted someone’s bandages then quietly and quickly said something… comforting…

Fimka put down her stretcher and sat beside the wounded person she was carrying. She then took the end of her black head kerchief and slowly, with measured movements, like a harvest worker, wiped the sweat off her face and forehead. The wounded person was a young man not more than eighteen years old. He lay there quietly, breathing slowly but with difficulty. His eyes were closed. He opened his eyes slightly and said something that sounded like he was begging. He attempted to speak louder but only a groan came out. The spasm made him clench his teeth. A round tear slid from his left eye and rolled down his dirty blood-stained cheek. He took another breath through his half-opened mouth. He blinked his eyes and moved his lower lip, signaling that he wanted to say something. He begged… He begged… But for what?! Fimka did not understand so she asked: “Are you in pain?”

The wounded young man took a deep breath. The air entering his body made a growling, wheezing sound. He clamped his lips tight.

“Do you want something to eat?” asked Fimka.

The man nodded slightly indicating “no”.

“Do you want some water?” asked Fimka. The man opened his eyes wide indicating “yes”. Fimka reached for her bag, opened it and pulled out her canteen… It was empty.

“One moment, my son, I will go and fetch some water,” she said.

She got up and went downhill to the brook. She walked very slowly, leaning close to the ground and grasping at tree branches and thick foliage. When she had left the circle, only then did she realize how many people were lying in the open, surrounded and covered by the tall pine trees. This was the first time she had seen so many men and women covered with bandages on their heads, arms, legs and chests. They lay there quietly under the shade of the tall pines, wrapped in bloody, dirty bandages. They rested, attempting to recover from the battle they had fought the day before and from being jolted while being carried on stretchers and on horseback during the long night’s journey.

She kept going. The foliage was very dense past the green circle. Steps later she heard shovels digging and soil being dropped. She figured they were digging trenches. Then when she saw the rows of young men and women with pale faces lying there motionless she understood what it was… They were digging a mass grave. She quickly veered off to the right and disappeared into the ditch. She pushed her canteen with her left hand deep into the water. She then made a cup with her right hand, scooped some water and drank it. She then rushed back, running up the hill.

There was no one near the thick foliage now, the diggers had all left. Fimka slowed down and looked where they had been digging. Apart from the broken branches interspersed over one another and some fresh soil spread over the grass, there was nothing else to see… No crosses… no tombstones… no markers to indicate that there was a mass grave here. She was surprised at how quickly they had finished the job. She hastened her step returning, wanting to get away from this place as soon as possible.

When she started on the uphill she felt tightness in her chest. She saw stars in front of her eyes and everything went black. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath. She felt weak and fell to her knees. She splashed a handful of water on her face and head. She again looked at the branches and the freshly dug soil and at that very moment her throat tightened. She moaned a bit and then began to cry. She cried for the strangers being buried in this unmarked grave where they would have to lie for eternity… Would their mothers know where they were laying? The thought of this tightened her throat even more. She shed more tears, tears of pain and anguish for the mothers who would never know where their children were. Fimka then composed herself, got up and left. She walked straight ahead, looking ahead. She felt as if her heart was bleeding. She passed by many wounded and headed straight for her wounded young man who had a burning thirst. And just for a moment, coming from not too far away, she heard the voice of a young woman say: “Mother… Mother…”

It was a pleading but peaceful voice which touched her gently. She did not turn. She figured it was one of the wounded girls in pain calling for her own mother, looking for some relief. Everyone when they are in pain, even in the smallest pain, call for their mothers… It’s human nature… They feel safer when they call their own “mother”. Fimka continued walking, holding her canteen tight against her chest with both hands, as if holding her own baby.

“Mother…” she heard the same voice calling again. This time the voice was distant, quieter, mellower but still pleading. Fimka slowed her step, paused for a moment and whispered: “The poor girl… she must be hurting very badly… wanting her mother so much…” She continued walking. The voice persistently followed her. She paused again and turned her head. She looked at the wounded lying around. She then looked at the women who carried the stretchers.

“Mother… mother…” she again heard the whiny and begging voice say but this time it sounded like it was closer. “Mother!” the same female voice again called out. The voice now seemed somewhat familiar to Fimka. She shuddered and slowed her pace. She was shaken and her whole body felt like it was covered in crawling ants. Her forehead felt cold and was covered in cold sweat. She felt weak

at the knees and her feet refused to move. She lost all her strength as she slowly turned her whole body. She looked in the direction of the voice while silently praying to God: “Please God let me hear the familiar voice one more time… please…” She stood there waiting. She waited but it seemed like the voice withered away and disappeared. Then, at the very moment when she was about to turn and walk away, she looked one last time. Her eyes were watery and her sight was foggy, but through the blur she could see a hand, a hand wrapped in bloody bandages, waving. Fimka quickly wiped her tears and looked straight at the raised hand. It belonged to a young woman dressed in a military uniform. She was lying down, leaning on her left elbow and waving with her right hand. She waved at Fimka to come over. She called her to come over, but not with her voice, because her voice was exhausted, but with her bandaged bloody hand. Fimka could not help herself, feeling that the voice she heard was familiar. She kept wondering who she might be as she stared at the woman from the distance? She wondered who this girl was who was persistently calling her? She walked towards her with a hesitant step. The girl tried to sit up, but was unable to. The best she could do was lie down and push up her upper body with her arm. Lying down on her left side, she continued to wave at Fimka to come over. When Fimka came close she stopped beside her. The girl reached out to her with her bandaged hand and, with an almost silent whisper, said: “Oh mother, dear mother…”

She spoke so quietly and softly that it seemed like her voice was carried by the wind from far, far away bouncing over the rocks, traveling through the meadow and flying over the pine trees before reaching Fimka. And up in the air her bloody bandaged arm still waved, calling on her… calling on her: Come… come… come… My dear mother…

Fimka took a small step... It was a difficult step because her feet felt like they were made of lead and cuffed together. She approached, half looking at the girl and slowed down. She had this nagging feeling biting her from the inside when she came close to touching the girl’s hand. She stopped moving and looked into the girl’s face and large dark eyes. The same begging dark eyes looked back at her. They began to pool with tears which quickly swelled up, overflowed and ran down like pearls on a string, washing off a streak of dirt,

blood, gunpowder and smoke from her cheeks. The girl again, in a mellow, begging broken whisper, painfully spoke to Fimka and said: “Mother… My dear mother…”

At that very moment Fimka froze. Her lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably. Her cheek muscles began to vibrate and a cold sweat covered her entire body. She lost control of her limbs and dropped hard on her knees. She then screamed out loud: “Tsilka… my dear child!!!” It was such a loud cry, it frightened a flock of birds into flight in the sky above the pine grove.

Mother and daughter embraced each other tightly, shaking uncontrollably. For a moment they both forgot their pain and felt a great joy… Fimka pulled her face away and again looked into Tsilka’s big dark eyes. And for a brief second, a secret voice inside of her whispered: “Is it her?”

“My dear child…” whispered Fimka and now began to cry out loud, her cries were heard all around the pine grove, disturbing the wounded lying under the pine trees.

If there was ever a moment when in every day horrors, sorrow and pain, a mother could hear and recognize the voice of her own child, this was it...

“It is me, mother… It is me your daughter Tsilka…” said Tsilka, breaking Fimka’s last doubts. She then mustered enough strength to smile.

“Oh, Tsilka, you are alive!” replied Fimka looking straight into her eyes. She again grabbed her and hugged her gently, not wanting to be separated from her ever again.

“I am alive, mother. I am alive…” replied Tsilka.

A woman sitting nearby removed her black head kerchief and said to the other women: “Fimka found her daughter…”

“If I had known,” added another woman, “that she was her daughter I would have told her the moment we picked her up…” “We,” the woman beside her said, “carried her on a stretcher...”

Fimka slowly released Tsilka from her embrace and again looked at her face. She took a good long look as if wanting to uncover all those traits and characteristics that were unique to her Tsilka and to reassure herself that the girl she was embracing was indeed her own daughter. The years passed had taught her to be cautious and distrustful, to always be on her toes, not to jump to conclusions, not to ask too many questions and not to support more than she could bear. The difficult months she had spent in the struggle had taught her to rely only on herself, not to submit to loneliness, fear, hunger and the cold. But she had never learned how to cope with young men and women in military uniforms, ragged, hungry, full of fleas, wounded and dead. No matter how hard she tried, the moment she saw a young man or a young woman in despair, she always thought of Tsilka and her two sons Risto and Tashko. Every moment of her day was filled with thoughts of them. After plowing and sowing the fields and collecting firewood from the forest for the winter, she always took to spinning wool and weaving and knitting socks, gloves and sweaters. Then when there was news that Partisans were going through the village or staying in nearby homes, she always came out and stood at the end of the road watching the columns passing by and asking if anyone had news about her Risto, Tashko and Tsilka. The bag which always hung behind the door was always full of sweaters, socks, gloves and something to eat.

“So they could stay warm…” she used to tell herself, “so that their feet would not be cold when they walked in the rain and snow.” And now, looking at Tsilka, she was reminded of one such time when she waited outside by the road. She remembered the moment well but did not hold a grudge against the people. She remembered the time a bird flew into her yard. The lie left a bitter taste in her mouth. She now remembered how last year, in late fall, before the bad snow had fallen, when she stood by the roadside and asked a couple of people if they knew anything about her children who were fighting in the war.

“Dear boys, may I ask you something?” she asked.

“Please mother, ask away…” one of them said, the one with the crooked hat and dirty boots. “Please ask away… if we know we will tell you. Tell us, what is bothering you…”

“Oh, my dear boys…” said Fimka, directing her attention to the one with the dirty boots. “Do you know anyone named Risto, Tashko or Tsilka?”

The one being questioned turned to the other and quietly asked: “What’s the name of this village?”

“Krchishta,” replied the other one with a muffled voice.

“And what are they to you, mother? Children or grandchildren?” asked the one with the dirty boots.

“They are my children, my son… my children...” replied Fimka.

“I know, I know a Tashko, but he is from Krchishta...” said the one with the dirty boots.

“This is Krchishta, my son...” replied Fimka.

“Well, I did not know that. Their names are Risto and Tashko you say? I have not heard of Risto but I have definitely heard of Tashko from Krchishta. Is that who you are asking about mother, Tashko from Krchishta?” he asked, lifting his head and looking her straight in the eyes. Fimka noticed that he had a pale, plump round face, small, shiny, smart and cold-looking eyes, like the eyes of a hungry pig. Unfortunately her desire to hear some good news about her children was stronger than the nagging doubt she had about the honesty of this young man knowing her son Tashko. “Tashko you say?” the young man echoed the same question without taking his eyes off hers. “Is he slightly shorter than me?” he asked without even attempting to stand up.

Fimka looked at him from the top of his crooked hat to the bottom of his dirty boots and said: “Taller than you…”

“This much taller than me?” he asked while holding his hand over his head.

“About that much… No… Slightly taller…” replied Fimka.

“Does he have licked hair above his forehead?” he asked.

“Yes…” replied Fimka.

“Does he have a moustache?” he asked.

“Yes…” replied Fimka.

“Hell, I know him!” he said and spat to the side. “Yes, the guy with the licked hair above his forehead wearing a moustache... Yes, I know him well!”

“Are you sure you know him?” asked Fimka distrustfully.

“Do I recognize him? Oh, mother, mother, you ask me if I know him,” he replied while winking at his friend and then said: “Tell her Kolio what good friends we are with Tashko! Go ahead, go ahead tell her… tell her…”

Fimka reached into her bag and took out a pair of socks and a pair of gloves and then said: “Please give these to Tashko and say hello…” but before Fimka could complete her sentence, he interrupted her and said: “From his mother… Right?”

“From his mother, my son, from his mother…” she said and then whispered: “Mother of God, please protect my children…”

“When I first saw you,” said the man, “something whispered in my ear, pulled at my heart telling me to be aware. This little woman is surely Tashko’s mother but I could not ask her. You know my dear mother, the commanders over there prohibited us from asking questions, telling people who we know, what we see and when and where we go… We are soldiers... I will certainly give these to Tashko… I will also give him your regards… Tell her Kolio. Kolio will be my witness. Tell her Kolio!

“Son, say hello to Tashko from his mother… and thank you…” replied Fimka.

Fimka stroked the socks and touched them to her cheek as if wanting to pass on her love to her son through them and handed them to the man. Suddenly she heard laughter and pulled back a step. She heard someone speak. Fimka thought it was Kolio. His words were harsh and hit her like the blows of a wooden cane.

“You waste of a human being,” he said, “you always lie to desperate women…”

Fimka felt small and the pain of disappointment was overpowering her. Her instinct was to take the socks and gloves back, get angry and say something, perhaps something hurtful, but she decided to walk away. She removed her black head kerchief and rolled it into a ball and with a heavy heart she bowed her head down and headed for home. She was a different woman today. A grey old woman, prematurely aged by the hardships of life, she looked exhausted, bent forward and small. Then, in a mind-numbing flash, she quickly rushed through her memories, like links in a metal chain, linked one behind another, of the hardships she had endured in life. How had she done it, she wondered? It felt so tiring… She felt very tired…

A cold wind blew. It picked up dry grass, straw and dust, raised it up in the air and dropped it down on the village lanes. The raised dust from her protracted steps was not enough to cover the old traces scratched into the cobblestone road from years of use. The wind picked up and was now howling behind her. It came around the corner from the broken down house sounding like someone was quietly howling and crying... The unlocked gate kept squeaking and clinking as its handle beat against the latch. Fimka pushed gently against the oak door and entered the yard. She felt belittled and lonely in the darkness and silence. She sat on the stairs, put her face in her hands and shook her head. She kept thinking and her thoughts were getting dark. They became darker as she thought more. There was no joy in life she concluded. She got up and went inside. The darkness was broken in the warm room by the tiny, oil lit lamp whose flame flickered in front of the old Virgin Mary icon which

hung in the corner for eternity. Fimka looked at the icon. It seemed as if the Virgin Mary was crying. Fimka looked into Mary’s eyes and Mary looked right back at her with penetrating eyes. It seemed as if their gaze met half way between them. Fimka, with her eyes locked on the Virgin Mary, crossed herself and said: “Mother of God, please look after my children…”

The flame on top of the tiny oil lamp suddenly flickered. Fimka raised her hand towards her forehead and noticed it was shaking. Her eyes filled with tears and her sight became blurred and fixated on the icon. She felt as if she was staring at the face of God. Two women - two mothers... she thought. Her thoughts then drifted… She again focused on the fate of her children. A certain fear began to conquer her, rendering her helpless. Are they alive? Are they healthy? I hope they are healthy…The tiny flame flickered again, distracting Fimka from her dark thoughts. Fimka adjusted the wick in the oil lamp and light flared up all through the room… The lamp was left to burn bright until sunrise when it was overpowered by the light of the bright sun. Fimka could not help herself but think of more dark thoughts… especially after her experience that day… She continued to cry and shed tears in front of the icon.

Meanwhile, after Fimka had left, the two fellows sitting on the side of the road continued to have discussions and argue.

“Why did you go and do that?” Ilio objected. “How else should I have done it? I do what I do and that is why I have warm clothes to wear and food to eat!”

“Warm clothes to wear? Food to eat?” interjected Kolio. “With lies!!! You don’t really care how you hurt people… Do you? You don’t care about the pain and tears… You know you are living on pain and tears… You… You son of a bitch… I am telling you so that you know…”

“Okay, okay, I will keep it in mind. And you can be honest and decent and frozen and hungry all at the same time. I will continue to be a liar and a thief but a warm and full liar and thief. My feet will be warm and my belly will be full…” said Ilio.

“You are a real bastard you know! You are going to live off people’s pain and bitterness? There is no humanity in you…” replied Kolio.

“And you think that there is humanity in what we do here? Is there humanity in Zoia, look at her, she is still a girl, a little girl, look at her, look how she stoops… and she carries a machine gun... Look at her, a child soldier! If you are so honest, decent and caring, why don’t you go and take the damn machine gun from her? Go, take it, what are you waiting for? Take the damn machine gun!!! Oh, I see... You don’t want to… No one wants to… It is you, Kolio, who is spoiled, not me. You are spoiled because you only see some things… Not everything. What I did earlier is… I almost succeeded in giving a mother some hope… hope… that’s all that’s left in these people... All the time she would have thought that her son was alive and well and how warm he would have been wearing the socks she knitted for him. What was his name again? Tashko? Yes Tashko… Perhaps this night would have been the first night in many months that she would have gotten a good night’s sleep and blissful dreams knowing her son was not only alive but well and provided for. One pair of socks and one pair of gloves… She would have been so happy she would have knitted another pair of each by the end of the day, if not today, tomorrow… She would have personally contributed to the revolution and felt good about it… Go ahead call me all kinds of names… Now take a good look at yourself? Who is the real bastard now, eh? You know you ruined it for the little woman… You know that. You took away all her hopes and the little joy she may have had… Eh, Kolio, Kolio, you need a whack on the head to get your sight back so you can see straight… And you call me names…” concluded Ilio.

Many things had happened in recent months. Evil and dark things. They were stuck in Fimka’s memory like a dried scab on a wound, a wound that would not heal. Wherever she went they followed, always reminding her of bitter and dark days. She was tormented by them and felt bitter and disappointed. But now at least she was with her daughter… she was hugging her daughter… And at that thought fear began to creep all over Fimka… Tsilka was wounded… she suddenly realized. How badly was she wounded? She pushed her thoughts deep down and took a good look at Tsilka’s face. Only now she noticed that she had no eyebrows… They were completely

burned off. Only now she noticed that her right leg lay immobile. Many questions flooded her mind…

“Are you badly wounded?” she asked Tsilka and moved back to have a better look at her leg. Tsilka’s bandage from her knee up to her hip was covered in dried blood.

“Yes… I think so…” replied Tsilka with pain in her voice.

“Are you in pain?” asked Fimka with pain in her voice.

“Yes… a lot of pain…” replied Tsilka. “Where are you wounded… where have you been hit…” asked Fimka in a sickly and sad voice.

“Here and here, mother,” Tsilka murmured painfully.

“Is your hand wounded badly?” asked Fimka.

“No... only scratched... It will be fine, mother...” said Tsilka, sighing and trying to sit up. There was visible pain in Tsilka’s face. She did not tell her mother that she could not feel her fingers.

Fimka detected an odour of sweat and blood. She then reached into her bag, pulled out a rag and said: “Let me wash you a bit…”

She moistened the rag and slowly and gently began to wipe her face and neck. “Let me undress you a bit so that I can wash you…” she said and then unbuttoned Tsilka’s shirt buttons. With the moist cloth she then rubbed her shoulders, chest and under arms. Fimka remembered how she had washed Tsilka, just like this, out in the fields during harvest time, when she gave birth to her, all alone. She cut the umbilical cord with her own teeth, washed her baby with a moist cloth, cleaned herself and then called for help. The cow herder, a young boy, answered her call. He ran back to the village, crashed through the yard gate and, while panting and trying to catch his breath, yelled out: “Grandma, Grandma, give me a reward, I have good news for you… Aunt Fimka gave birth to a baby… a girl!”

Fimka also remembered the woman walking in front of her, leading the horse that carried the wounded commander, to whom the woman said: “This mother has… my son…,” her words together with the quiet clop of horse hooves and gentle tapping of pig skin slippers, rustling along the dusty mountain trail, walking down a steep breakneck slope, echoed in Fimka’s head. “This mother has… both young and older children…” she said. “But I never did get the chance to give the older ones warm socks and sweaters. They were taken abruptly and hauled out to the woods and to the mountains before we had a chance to see them off. We were out in the fields working… gathering grapes from the vineyards and firewood from the forest when they came to the village… And they took our children. They took them as they were, in the clothing they wore that day… They did not ask or tell us… They took them without provisions and without warm clothing…

We were ready for the younger ones when they came. We dressed them in good clothing… Their church and holiday clothing… We also gave them warm clothes, gloves, socks and plenty of food… We baked fresh bread and roasted chickens… bless their little souls… And ever since the day they took both my older and younger children I have been praying to God and to the Virgin Mary, begging them to keep my children safe and alive and to return them to me as soon as possible.

I am constantly praying for my children and waiting for their safe return… And now… here I am praying for you so that you do not fall off the horse and that your wounds won’t hurt too much… I pray for those I carry on my stretcher… I pray for them to heal and to return to their homes and to their mothers safe and sound. And at the same time I think of my own children and pray some more for them to return to me, both young and older... Now I am left home alone, like a stone in a barren plain, like a black birch tree without branches, beaten and twisted by nature’s elements; blown by the winds, washed by the rain and frozen by the snow and cold... And God my good Lord, do I ever pray… I always pray, always begging God to keep evil away from my doorstep…

Please bless me God and let me know when my children will return… when will this cursed war end and when will my young and

older children return… safe and sound. When will I hear them knock on my door, run up the yard with open arms so that I can hug them once more… When will I hear their lovely voices sing to me in the garden, in the vineyard and in the green meadow… Oh dear God, will I ever dance at their wedding…

When will they return? When? Please Lord dear God… Please end this terrible war and stop the pain and sorrow… Please give us back our peace and return our joy… Please help the wounded on these stretchers and on the horses heal fast and end their misery… Please take away this madness and reopen the roads, the bridges over rivers and brighten the skies. Please God return my children to me safe and sound…” the woman said and then began to sob.