The Great Decline – Chapter 10

The Great Decline – Chapter 10

“Vane!” yelled the commander, “It’s your turn to fetch water.”

Vane came out of the trench, collected all the canteens and, one by one, hung them on his belt. He then picked up his shmaizer, checked it and left, disappearing into the forest. The ferns were tall and thick and under them grew wild strawberries which were small and dark, red in colour, hanging like pearls from their stems, and giving off an intoxicating aroma. Vane knelt down on his knee and began to pick. For each one he put into his hand he tossed one into his mouth. They were sweet, ripe and soft. Vane preferred not to bite and chew them but put them on his tongue and pressed them against the roof of his mouth, squeezing the sweet juice out. When his mouth was completely full he closed his eyes and let the strawberries glide down his throat, swallowing slowly with much pleasure. The sweet and fragrant juice made him feel good all over. His lips turned red and his fingers became sticky. Two or three steps in front of him, the patch was carpeted with more ripe strawberries. He took a step but the rustle of his foot masked the shot and he fell face down in the strawberry patch. Blood gushed out of his wound and covered parts of the patch. He looked small in the shade of the ferns and between the tree trunks. And the ferns, the strawberries, the stream trickling down the hill at his side, all looked large, vast and endless. The shot had come from one of his own people. Engrossed in picking strawberries he had not heard the voice of the guard… Vane was buried in a shallow grave among the tall ferns beside the patch of strawberries...

In the evening Mita and Tsana covered the freshly dug grave with Ianovo flowers. The Ianovo flower grows on Mount Kopanche, on the bare slopes of Gorusha and Krusha and on other nearby hills. It does not like the shade. It grows from seeds on its own and does not like to be transplanted. It chooses its own places where to grow and how much light it likes. It does not like to grow in grass or with other flowers. It does not want any more moisture than the morning dew it receives. It attracts the most beautiful butterflies with its invigorating aroma, most of which is released at dawn and when it’s very hot. It adjusts its aroma three times a day: in the morning from dawn and for as long as its leaves are moist with dew, at noon when the heat is baking hot and at night after the sun sets and before dew first appears on its leaves. From dusk to dawn it closes its petals and its flowers take a nap in the dark...

The commissar entered the commander’s trench and said: “We captured an agent. He was telling our fighters that the government troops eat white bread, boiled and roasted meats, and chocolates every day. In the morning they drink milk, tea with rum and coffee.”

The commander rotated the handle on his Polish telephone and, after being connected, gave the mouth and earpiece to the commissar and said: “Go ahead, contact the Regiment Headquarters.”

The other side then ordered: “Send us the offender. We will judge him here and if we find him guilty we will execute him.”

“Commander,” said the commissar, “I don’t agree with having to send him to Headquarters. We found him, we caught him and it should be us who judge and execute him… in front of all the fighters... He paused for a moment and then continued: “Today I listened to one of them. Do you know what he said? ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I am always hungry. The ration of bread I get is not enough.’ And then he said ‘We will not win the war if Russia does not help us or if World War III does not start. Being Partisans,’ he said, ‘for us Greeks, is not good. It is good for the Macedonian Slavs because they defend their language...’ So, what did I do? I tied him up and put him together, in the same trench, with the other guy. Then I went and listened to the conversations in the second line and do you know what I heard? I heard fighter Vangel tell the others: ‘You know? I am always hungry. At Vicho,’ he said, ‘our people had plenty to eat. There,’ he said, ‘we had eggs, roasted chicken and lamb and as much bread as we wanted.’ Then I see Todor shaking his head in approval... ‘In Psoderi,’ he said, ‘we had it good. We ate a lot. The women from the villages brought us bread, zelniks, cheese, fried eggs and fried pork.’ Then another guy, I think his name was Mitre; he never stopped complaining. He said: ‘I used to go from here to Vicho overnight.’ Then someone else said: ‘Were you not afraid?’ And he said: ‘Yes, I was afraid but only from our own people. If I got caught leaving without permission there would have been a bullet with my name on it. They would have accused me of

deserting…’ I am telling you commander, there is bad talk in the trenches. One of my own guys from the same line told me that some of them pretend to be sick to avoid going on guard. He also gave me this note. This is what’s written on it: ‘My dear cousin! You are fighting for foreign interests and against mother Greece. In the end you will lose. No one will help you. Come here and I will help you find a job and will convince the authorities to pardon you...’ Of course, I told my guy to keep an eye on him in case he tried to escape and kill him if he did.” The commissar paused again, stared into the commander’s face and waited to hear what he had to say.

The commander again picked up the telephone, turned the handle and gave the commissar the mouth and earpiece.

The earpiece was silent. The commissar listened to the line and noticed that it was not working. “Never mind…” he said.

“Yes, it’s not working!” confirmed the commander and then picked up his officer’s briefcase, pulled out a notebook, tore out a sheet of paper, handed it to the commissar and said: “Write down what you want to say and I will send it to Regiment Headquarters by courier.”

The commissar placed the sheet of paper on top of the briefcase and wrote: “We have captured two agents in our regiment. Stop. We will pass judgment on them today. Stop. We will execute them in front of a line. Stop. The fighters are complaining they have too many lice. Stop. What should we do? Stop. Death to fascism, freedom to the people. Stop. All to arms and everything for victory. Stop. Unit political commissar. Stop.”

The regiment commander read the telegram and wrote the following on the back of the piece of paper: “To the unit commander. Stop. Transfer the prisoners to another line. Stop. Arrest and execute the lice. Stop. Tie up the commissar and place him under guard at the regiment headquarters. Stop. Execute the order now. Stop.”

The commander did as ordered and then called Mita and Iani to his trench and said: “You two go down to the village and see who this woman is and why she has been yelling and crying for two nights.”

It was already dark when they arrived in the village. As they walked around they heard a sad voice yelling, pleading, praying and crying. It came from the back of the ruins.

“Hey! Hey there!” Mita called out. “Who are you?”

“A woman...” she replied.

“Why are you yelling and crying?” asked Mita.

“I am afraid…” replied the woman.

“Come out now!” ordered Mita.

“I am afraid…” replied the woman.

“Of who?” asked Mita.

“Of everyone…” the woman replied.

“Are you alone?” asked Mita.

“I am with my cat… I am hungry… My cat is hungry…” replied the woman.

They returned to the unit, reported to the commander and then stood in a queue in front of the black cauldron. There was an odor emanating from the pot as the chef stirred its contents with a large spoon. He scooped some up and poured it right back.

“Hey, you good for nothing…” Iani addressed the chef. “Throw some more beans into the mix… don’t just mix and mix… This is the best meal…”

“So it is… so it is…” replied the chef. “You should think about your food…”

“I should think about what? Look at it! Here is my portion! What do I see? A few beans in a bowl full of lukewarm water…”

“Well exactly, those beans you see swimming in your bowl, imagine them to be a large chunk of meat... You idiot, all you think of is food, you greedy bastard. You are behaving exactly like a dog and not like a person. Like an ox grazing but not knowing what it’s eating. If it knew what it was eating it would not be an ox, but...” replied the chef.

“It would be a chef!” snapped Iani interrupting the chef.

“Really??!! Stop, you are killing me…” replied the chef sarcastically.

“Well, maybe not a chef but a chef’s assistant, right?” added Iani.

“I asked you to stop!” the chef yelled angrily. “And let me tell you something you… you hungry and greedy bastard. I am telling you, you will ruin your stomach. So listen to me… enough is enough… understand? What do you think you understand? Do you think the food will be both plentiful and delicious? What do you say to that? Not enough bread? Well, when I give you this piece of bread think of it as an entire loaf. When you are holding a loaf in your hand, think of it as an entire batch of bread… freshly baked in a large oven. Can you do that? Of course you can’t. You can’t because you are not smart enough. To use your imagination you need to be smart. The bean you saw, think of it as a lamb on a spit turning over coals, slowly turning red, giving off an aroma of barbecued meat being roasted over those rocks over there. Do you smell that?” replied the chef.

“Yeah...” replied Iani with a suspicious look on his face.

“Well, now you are starting to think... And that’s how you should be thinking of your food before you eat it, particularly of this Partisan food here and not just slurping it up as fast as you can and then still feeling hungry. Here,” said the chef, knocking on the side of his head and then pointing at his stomach, “and not here. You should eat your food like you drink your wine… with love and delight... These things you should and must do with every meal, not slurp, slurp, slurp... like an unfulfilled greedy drunkard. Your food, I say, must not just go into you stomach, it must also go into your brain. Those

who just put food into their stomachs are constantly hungry and their stomachs hurt. And those who put their food into their stomachs and into their brains...” said the chef before he was interrupted by Iani who yelled out: “Are great liars just like you…”

“Look at this guy…” said Iani, “he is trying to sell me nut shells and rose hips. Eat like this, eat like that... Just fill my bowl with my portion of bean soup and sell your ideas to someone who wants to buy them. You are a complete idiot. You let your mind swim with the beans…”

“I will, I will… And what a great swim it will have. Imagine the beans are large fish… Look… look here,” the chef lifted the big serving spoon up above the cauldron and dripped its contents into Iani’s bowl and said: “Eat, eat, you ox… Oh… how good it tastes… And what do I see? Every bean is a lady. Ladies and more ladies for you… To your good heath… cheers…”

The commander came close to Iani and said: “Here, take my portion and go to the village with Mita. Take it. Now go…”

Iani and Mita left the bread and soup on the stone outside the destroyed house.

“Dear lady, please come out. We brought you something to eat… Come out…” yelled Iani

“I am afraid… Go away…” replied the woman.

So every evening, every person donated a spoonful of soup and a small chunk of bread for the lonely woman and her cat. One of the fighters was sent down to the village to deliver it. To let the woman know, the fighter knocked two stones together and left. The woman emerged from the rubble and her cat followed...

Clouds were blowing in from Morava, heavy black, ominous clouds. They were carried by the cool wind which had the smell of a bad storm brewing... Suddenly, lightning lit the sky and loud thunder followed, echoing in the deep gorges. More lightning bolts flashed in the sky, hitting the earth, splitting trees, breaking rocks and

always followed by loud thunder, whose echo took a long time to die out. Then, without warning, heavy rain began to fall, spilling much water over the dry soil, turning it into knee deep mud. The commander came out of his trench, looked around, estimated that the storm would last a long time and headed towards the nearest machine gun nest. The gunner sat on a stone huddled in the corner, sleeping, with his feet buried in water.

“Are you napping? Stand up… on your feet… you will drown in here!” said the commander in a raised tone of voice. “Grab a shovel and dig here to drain the water…” he yelled while pointing at a spot with his muddy boot. “The trench is filling with water. Now, do as I say. Grab the shovel and dig until all the water has drained out!”

There was another strong flash of lightning followed by loud thunder. The rain storm gained strength and poured even more water on the muddy soil. A strong wind began to blow, carrying the large raindrops sideways.

The telephone rang loudly in Chetirok, in the artillery battery commander’s tent.

“Major, what is going on there. Is it raining?” asked the Brigadier General.

The major recognized the general’s voice. “Yes Sir, General, it’s raining,” he replied.

“Now look up. What do you see?” asked the general.

“Up above, General, Sir, I see lightning flashes and I hear constant thunder, which sounds like the bombardment of heavy artillery...” replied the major.

“And what is your artillery doing? Major, why have you not joined the bombardment with your cannons? I order you, Major, to fire all your cannons in quick rounds, for half an hour. Let us see who is stronger, the thunderstorm or us? The heavens or us? Fire, Major!” ordered the general.

Iani felt a strong blow and burning in his left thigh. A burning piece of cannon shell hit him and wounded his left leg above the knee up to his hip. Stuck between two stones, he waited for the shelling to stop. He took off his shirt and tried to tie his wound himself but was not able to stop the bleeding. He yelled for help. He got the attention of a field medic. The field medic ordered a stretcher which carried him to the large trench located on the other side of the brook. Two older women carried him on the stretcher downhill all night long... He was exhausted and constantly begged to be given water.

The sky looked far away from under the tall pines where the main hospital was located. The rocky mountains and forests were close, about half a day’s walk. That’s were the first front line and death were also located. One could not see beyond the steep hills and no one was allowed to venture beyond the shadows of the tall pines and past the banks of the two rivers. Movement was forbidden during the day; the nights however, were alive. A string of horses, mules and stretchers walked the narrow path that led to and from the compound. The heavily wounded were taken to the barracks inside. Those who were severely wounded and could not be treated there were taken to the hospitals in Albania. The place was so busy no hospital bed was ever left empty or cold.

The dead were taken out of the hospital barracks only at night. They kept the cut body parts such as arms, legs, feet, hands, fingers, broken teeth and missing eyes in large bowls wrapped in blankets. They were all buried in a common pit. Those who did not make it alive to the hospital and those who died in the hospital barracks were buried on the other side of the stream, one beside another. At least here they had their own grave with a name marker.

Giorgi was among the older men who until May had been employed to dig trenches and build bunkers in Aliavitsa, Amuda, Nikoler and Charno, and had been recently brought here to dig graves and bury the dead. Giorgi, who at the time was recovering from a broken leg, was out carefully cutting wood. He cut dry pine logs and split them into kindling with his axe. He then used his knife to trim the kindling into equal sized sticks which he bundled into small bundles. Pine kindling, up in the mountains, was a substitute for candles

which, when lit, gave off a nice shiny, flickering, mesmerizing flame.

The hospital barracks was hidden inside the pine forest and always lay under its shade but the work done there gave off a strong smell of blood, pus and chloroform perforating the entire area. A breeze originating in the Dolna Arena meadows carried the putrid smell along the two river valleys and into the lower plains. The wounded sat around dazed, moaning, crying, yelling, cursing, praying, swearing and suffering from their pains.

Iani was lying on his back and was still feeling the effects of being wounded. His thigh still felt like it was baking. An older man wearing a white coat entered the jam-packed room which housed about twenty wounded. He went from bed to bed spending very little time with each patient. Iani stared at his thick, curved eyebrows, and he, who Iani assumed to be a doctor, unwound his bandages, looked at the cut and touched it with his fingers in several places along the thigh until he felt something hard. He nodded with a serious reaction. Iani opened his eyes wide open and yelled out: “Don’t you dare cut it off!!! Understand?!”

The doctor said something in Hungarian, then in Russian. He then pointed at Iani and sharply said: “Take this patient to the operating room!” and left the room.

After surgery Iani lay in another room. The burning feeling in his thigh had gone. This was the first time, in a long time, that he had a good sleep and he wondered why no one was yelling, no orders were barked, there was no shooting and the only noise he heard was the river’s water rushing down the mountain… Everything was quiet and peaceful... The same doctor entered the room. He was holding a toothed metal instrument in his hand.

“Nu, kak?” the doctor asked in Russian.

Iani understood, or thought he understood the words to mean “how is your leg?” so he quickly answered and said: “Good, good, very good. I can move it now and it doesn’t hurt,” while pointing towards his leg with his eyes.

“Well,” said the doctor in Russian, “you are another person I can communicate with. I, comrade, understand you very well, you’re Macedonian, right?”

“I am Iani. Yes, I am Macedonian. I am from Visheni. And you?” replied Iani with a smile on his face.

The doctor removed the blanket, untied the bandages, looked at the sewn up wound and, looking satisfied, said: “Horosho, horosho ... Molodets.” and then stepped back.

When the doctor and the nurses left the room, Iani turned to the wounded person lying next to him and asked: “What was this ‘hoshosho’? What does it mean?”

“He told you it was good in Russian.” replied the person.

“Is he Russian?” asked Iani.

“No,” replied the person. “He is Hungarian. They say he fought in Spain...”

“Really?” Iani murmured sounding amazed.

“Are you surprised?” asked the person.

“No! Should I be? So he fought, I too have fought, but I don’t want a monument raised...” replied Iani.

“Yes, but he fought in Spain! In aid of the Spanish republic!” said the person.

“Well, I am fighting in Macedonia for the Macedonian cause and no one has told him that I want a larger piece of bread...” replied Iani.

Out of curiosity, two weeks later, Iani removed his own bandages. His wound had healed nicely and all that remained was a long crusted scar with red dots where the stitches used to be. When the nurse came to see him, she gave him an angry look and rushed out to

tell the doctor. During his next visit, the Hungarian doctor looked at his wound very carefully, poked it with his thick and soft finger, smiled and said: “Horosho, horosho... Molodets, molodets... Zavtra na front... Tak reshili komandari… Greki… (Good, good… you are fine… Now you can go back to the front… As ordered by the Greek commander…)”

Iani left the hospital at nightfall and reached Gorusha at midnight. Two days later he was back in the hospital with a deep wound in his chest and a ripped out leg. He did not survive the operation. He was taken to the cemetery before dawn in the same sheet he was lying in on the operating table. The sheet was returned and thrown into a pile of laundry...