The Great Decline – Chapter 17 - Part 01

The Great Decline – Chapter 17

Vicho Region was the last stronghold and only hope. For months it seemed like the bunkers and trenches were going to live up to the slogan “The enemy will not pass Vicho”. The main strongholds on the first line of defense stood on Iamata, Baro, Roto, Plati and Kulkuturia. To the east stood Bela Voda, to the north and south stood Malimadi and the hills between the villages Kosinets and Labanitsa. The second line of defense stood at Lisets, Chuka, Golina and in the valley below, closest to Lake Mala Prespa, it followed Preval, the low hills of the village Medovo all the way to the village Rabi. Rabi was the last stronghold before the crossing between the two Prespa lakes.

On August 10, 1949, at dawn, the heavens opened up and hell came to earth over Vicho. At five o’clock in the morning, seventy aircraft took off from the airports in Lerin, Kozheni and Rupishta and attacked all DAG positions. At five-thirty the same morning, 140 cannons and heavy mortars opened fire on the bunkers and trenches. Then, while the smoke was still hanging low, DAG positions were attacked by eight divisions, many independent battalions, tanks and armoured vehicles. Despite its strong defense and fierce attempts to counterattack for two days, DAG’s positions on the first defense line were compromised and fell into enemy hands. In the meantime, the government army was attacking Lisets, where it fought a major battle. Before that it fought and won a heavy battle in Chuka where it was unknown if anyone from the DAG defenders was left alive. DAG Command running the Vicho campaign, seated in the village Vineni, located on the other side of Lake Mala Prespa, had just realized the strategic importance of the bare top of Mount Lisets. They came to realize that whoever controlled the top of Mount Lisets controlled all surrounding hills and, most importantly, opened the road to Preval which led directly into Prespa, the escape route to the north. From the south at the same time, from the direction of the villages Kosinets, Labanitsa and Smrdesh and from the north, from the village Klieshtina, along the Greek-Macedonian border in the direction of German, even though it was accumulating great losses, the government army was pushing hard to cut off the escape route to Albania and thus tightening the ring around the DAG units in Vicho Region. This was the place where DAG’s Command should have been paying greater attention. And while battles were fought day and night on the first front line, government troops attacked Lisets, the heart of the overall Vicho defense. Only now DAG Command realized the danger it was in and ordered the Officers’ School, consisting of five hundred student reservists, based in the village Breznitsa, to run over and assist the 102nd Brigade comprised mainly of older men and many disabled.

They left in silence and, covered with beech wood branches, they ran upright in the dark.

“All sharpshooters move to the front!” a command was given.

They stopped running, readjusted their positions and began to walk. They took long steps and jumped over obstacles as they approached Lisets. The night was wild. Long bursts of machine gun fire was heard coming from all the hills. From what he heard, Kiro estimated that fighting was taking place in Iamata, Baro and Roto and that these places were still defended. But by the small number of machine guns firing, he estimated that resistance was weakening. Polenata was fiercely defended. The surrounding hills were on fire. Suddenly there were bursts of machine gun fire and hand grenades exploding in front of them. They had run into an enemy patrol. Kiro fell to the ground and hid behind the trunk of the nearest beech tree. It was only about a hundred metres from there to the slope of Lisets; unfortunately it was open space.

“Kiro…” a frightened voice was heard speaking silently, almost touching Kiro’s ear.

“What is it?” replied Kiro quietly.

“The commander...” said the voice quietly.

“What about the commander?” asked Kiro.

“He is dead…” said the voice.

“You are lying…” Kiro said instinctively without thinking, paused for a moment and then asked: “Where is he?”

“There… He is lying under the beech tree…” replied the voice.

Kiro crawled to the dead commander. He felt for a pulse at his throat and then looked around. The officers were crawling closer towards the position from where the enemy was shooting at them. It was a furious firefight in the dark. Kiro stood up behind a large beech tree. He estimated the enemy patrol was not dug in. He heard branches breaking beside him. It was Lieutenant Kostas, a young boy from a village in Thessaly. Kiro leaned over and said: “Run over to the fourth line and tell the commander that two divisions are attacking our left wing. Run quickly…”

They crawled holding their breath. They had only one hundred metres ahead of them. Their eyes were fixed in front of them. Glow rockets were fired and the entire terrain became illuminated. They dropped their heads down into the singed grass. The rockets fizzled out. Bursts of automatic rifle fire came from the left wing. Two machine guns began to fire long bursts. This must be the fourth line firing, Kiro thought. Only fifty metres to go. At this point they could hear enemy officers and soldiers swearing and cursing. In the distance the mountain top started to become visible. It was almost dawn. Twenty metres to go. Kiro stood up and, at the top of his voice, yelled: “Charge!!! Knives!!! Knives!!! Knives!!!” Another command was heard from above ordering: “Forward!!! To knives, to knives, to knives!!!”

Just as Kiro reached for his sharp Finnish knife, he came face to face with an alert enemy officer from the special mountain units who pulled a pistol on him. At that instant Kiro dropped to the ground and heard the bullet whistle above his head. The “Lokadzhia” (special unit officer) then jumped on top of him, trapping both of his arms. Kiro felt his fingers around his neck and his entire weight on top of his waist. He was barely able to move his hips but did manage to loosen his left hand and grab the man’s groin. He felt the man loosening his grip on his neck. Kiro then abruptly bounced, retracted his knee and hit the Lokadzhia between his legs. With his arms now freed, Kiro grabbed the man by the back of the neck with his right hand and with his left fingers, squeezed the man’s groin like a vice. He then, with his head, butted the man between his eyes several

times. At this point the Lokadzhia released Kiro’s neck and reached for his knife. Kiro, in turn, kicked the man’s knife out of his hand with his right foot and grabbed him by the hair and threw him to the side. Kiro then kicked him in the ear with his left foot and sat up. While still in a sitting position, he grabbed his knife and was about to plunge it into the Lokadzhia’s chest, when he heard, “Aaaah!”. Kiro looked away towards the source of that awful sound and saw two Lokadzhii officers stabbing Kosta with their swords. Kiro suddenly turned away and, with a strong swing, tossed his Finnish knife at them. Kiro was the best knife thrower in the Officer’s School. The Lokadzhia to his left, who was bent forward, suddenly stood up. His legs gave away at the knees and he slumped over and fell on top of Kostas. The other Lokadzhia suddenly turned. But Kiro, with long steps, charged at him and with a strong fist blow to his eyes rendered him motionless, long enough to hit him again and knock him down. But then, when Kiro was about to kick him hard, he turned a couple of times. Then, as Kiro plunged his knife into his chest, the Lokadzhia opened his eyes and in them, Kiro saw the first rays of the morning sun reflected on a sword. The first Lokadzhia, whom he had left alive, was about to plunge his sword into Kiro’s back. At that very moment Kiro quickly rolled, kicked the man’s sword out of his hand with his right leg and punched him in the face, once, twice, three, four times... He kept punching and punching him but the Lokadzhia refused to go down. Kiro then quickly took out his sword and, like they taught him in the Officer’s school, stabbed the Lokadzhia under the collarbone. And, as tired as he was, with all his strength he thrust his sword downward. He felt the man’s ribs breaking. When the man was down on the ground and dead, Kiro looked into his wide-open eyes and saw horror and pain. He also noticed that the shooting had subsided. The battle, it seemed had slowed down. Kiro looked up at the hill. He saw a man walking towards him, taking long, tired steps. It was the commander from the Fourth platoon. They both had dirty faces and blood-stained uniforms. They sat side by side.

“Did we take Lisets?” asked Kiro spitting to the side.

“We did!” replied the commander. “Get up. Let’s go up there. We will regroup and go on the attack. Get up...”

They went up the hill and arrived about fifteen metres in front of the trenches and bunkers, passing by rows of dead bodies. The place smelled of blood and gunpowder. There were many wounded everywhere and they were yelling, crying and moaning. The sun had risen past the horizon. Kiro shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked down towards Iamata, Roto, Baro and Polenata. They were resting beneath clouds of smoke. He then looked south. Malimadi was on fire... Airplanes were circling like vultures over a carcass and shooting rockets, dropping bombs and firing their machine guns at anything that moved. Kiro stopped in front of a bunker and heard a hoarse voice calling. He recognized it. It was the voice of his neighbour Pavle.

“The young man may not have been very strong but he sure was tough. The poor guy had no idea who he was dealing with,” interrupted Pavle, showing the others his hands, looking like shovels. “I hit him between the legs with my knee. He saw stars. Well, I thought,” Pavle boasted, “hitting the young man below the belt was not allowed. But to whom was he going to complain? I turned him around and leaned him forward, that’s when the little son of a bitch pulled out his bayonet. I quickly took out my dagger and we began to dance around. I kept my eye on him and he never took his off me. Then he made a few strange moves so I jumped back. And then the little devil quickly lowered himself to the ground and threw a handful of soil in my eyes. I couldn’t see. Then suddenly I felt my arm go numb.” Pavle was interrupted by the paramedic.

“Oh, oh, oh, don’t you understand, it hurts? Don’t push so hard!” complained Pavle.

“Take it easy, take it easy, I am almost done,” said the paramedic. “You bleed like a slaughtered ox. Where is all that blood coming from? Your wound keeps bleeding and bleeding…”

“Let it bleed, let the bad blood flow out,” added Pavle resuming his story.

“And I am telling you the bastard stuck his bayonet in my arm. I got mad and grabbed him and broke his neck. Do you want to see him?” added Pavle.

“Let’s go,” someone ordered.

They left the bunker and went about ten metres downhill. A young soldier, about 20 years old, was lying dead on the trampled grass. There was a huge bruise under his right eye. Pavle bent down and, with his good hand, unbuttoned the soldier’s shirt pocket. He took out a number of photographs and an envelope. In one of the photographs was a forty year old woman wearing a black head kerchief with a tiny, hidden smile on her face.

“This must be his mother,” said Pavle. “My mother is like that too. Sad and always worrying…”

Pavle sat down and opened the envelope.

“Look, it’s a letter. Good handwriting too. Here, read it. You can read Greek, right?” Pavle asked the person standing next to him.

“Hm… ‘Dear mother…’ So, he is writing to his mother. ‘Today after sunset we went off to battle. The Brigade Commander told us that we would be done in three days and that would be the end of this godforsaken war. He also told us that those of us, who prove ourselves courageous, will receive a one week vacation. I very much want to be one of those getting vacation. I long for the day when I can see you. I know that you are waiting for me and that you pray for me to the icon of the Virgin Mary. Today is a good summer day. In the village where our brigade is stationed there are many pear and apple orchards. The branches are loaded with fruit and bent from the weight. When I look at them, they remind me of our lemon and orange orchards. You wrote me and told me that this year they were very productive. Let God grant that this be the last letter I write to you from this hell. Be patient my dear mother, I will be with you in your arms in a little while. I need to go now because the Sergeant is ordering us to prepare for the next attack…’”

Kiro, who for a while stood beside the others, quietly said: “Keep reading, why have you stopped?”

“There is no more to read… Here is the end,” said the man as he pointed to the bottom of the letter with his eyes.

During the day and until midnight, the position defended by the DAG Officer’s School was attacked nine times but the officers failed to repel the tenth attack. They were ordered to withdraw. They gathered together on the western side of the hill in Lisets and took the wounded with them and dropped them off at the road where vehicles with their motors running were waiting for them.

Just as they were about to evacuate, a courier arrived with a message from Command Headquarters. They were ordered to go back and counter attack the enemy. Without hesitation they returned immediately, taking long steps, reducing the distance between themselves and the enemy with every step. Bullets flew over them coming from short and long bursts of machine gun fire. With their heads bent down, hungry and thirsty and with red and swollen eyes from smoke and lack of sleep, they looked forward and moved on.

Then in a loud, piercing voice, the order to “Charge!” was given. They ran towards the first bunkers on the double. Quickly all machine gun and rifle fire died out. There was only cursing, yelling, heavy breathing, hitting, crying, sobbing and threatening now. The knives were out swinging and cutting. Flame and smoke bellowed from every crack. There was an unbearable stench of blood in the air. Dead bodies were everywhere…

Cut off hands, cut throats, pierced chests, pain, blood, bayonet on bayonet, knife on knife, gun barrel on gun barrel, fire, knife, swearing, pleading, lightning, blood, blood, blood, darkness, darkness… The opponent could not endure. This time Lisets, for the eleventh time, was passed on from hand to hand.

Dawn was breaking. High up in the sky there were pink clouds. Thunder was heard coming from the direction of Zherbeni where the enemy 6th Artillery Battalion was stationed. Mortars and cannon shells hit Lisets like hail. Kiro stuck his head in the corner of the bunker and faded away motionless like he did not exist.

After twenty minutes of pounding, the opponent regrouped and went on the attack again. Kiro raised his head and looked through the gun hole. Hiding behind the shrubs and rocks, like in an exercise, he could see soldiers coming closer. Kiro prepared his machine gun.

“Do not fire until the order is given,” said the Commander, ordering Kiro to go across to the next bunker and take over the heavy machine gun.

“They are coming!” a quiet voice was heard saying.

The Government troops were approaching; bowed low and taking short leaps. Heavy mortar fire was heard coming from Chuka Hill from where they were bombarding Lisets… Roar of cannons, echoes of machine gun fire and explosions of mortar shells were heard coming from Bigla. Low flying aircraft swooped down on Polenata, Baro and Iamata. Kulkuturia and Golinata were silent. The resistance there had died out. The shelling lasted ten minutes and after the last mortar had exploded the order to “charge” was given.

“Open fire,” the Commander yelled out loudly in a piercing voice; its echo lost in the bursts of machine gun fire. There was continuous and fierce fire from both sides. There were volleys of machine gun fire on both sides of Kiro’s bunker. There was smoke and the stench of strong scented gunpowder coming through the gun hole. A little further from the bunker a long and ripping squeal was heard. A man was heavily wounded and was bleeding profusely. Kiro’s legs became weak. Hand grenades exploded in front of his bunker. He came out of the bunker and, one by one, threw two hand grenades. The soldiers hiding in the bushes suddenly went quiet in their helmets. He jumped over the wounded man, took two hand grenades from a dead soldier’s belt and, lying in the trench, without looking, he threw them. He knew the enemy was only ten metres away.

To the left of him, in a loud voice, the Commander yelled out: “The machine gun! The machine gun! The machine gun! Get the machine gun! Do it!”

Kiro returned to the bunker in a hurry and turning the barrel to the left and to the right sprayed the area with long bursts of machine gun fire.

A nurse (woman carrying the wounded) brought a wounded person into the bunker. He was panting and a pool of blood was flowing from his mouth onto his hands.

“Charge with hand grenades!” yelled the Commander.

The Government soldiers were running downhill. They were being hounded by hand grenades, shorts bursts of machine gun fire and by the screams of the wounded.

The Commander ordered everyone to withdraw to the second line of defense. The three nurses gathered all the wounded. They left the dead where they lay. Hoards of flies were gathering over the congealed blood. The enemy artillery began shelling the bunkers at the first line of defense. There was a short pause. The fighters dashed to the second line of defense but before they could reach it, the enemy artillery began to shell the area. The opponent, with new and more troops resumed the attack in waves. Kiro left his heavy machine gun and began to fire with an automatic rifle belonging to a dead gunner. After firing his first burst he changed positions. He lay down behind the tall rock waiting for the helmets to arrive. Automatic rifles crackled behind his back. He turned, looked and yelled out: “Leave them, let them get closer!”

He pulled out two hand grenades from his belt and placed them in front of him. Bullets hit the stone behind which he was hiding. There was a strong grenade explosion. Bits of rock pierced his face. The gunfire went dead.

“Hey, you down there! Are you alive?!” Kiro yelled out.

There was no answer.

Twenty metres away from his position more helmets appeared. Soldiers with sleeves rolled up, wearing short pants were coming closer; they were yelling, swearing and threatening. Kiro threw a

hand grenade at them and, at the moment that he was about to throw the second one, a black cloud burst in front of him, covering him in hot air, causing his ears to ring like a hundred bells. He did not hear any gunshots, just voices swearing. He felt something burning him, he tried to stand up, but the darkness became denser. He felt strong blows of rifle butts and his ribs breaking. He realized what was happening. He extended his hand to the side. He opened his eyes for a moment. He felt something warm and salty in his mouth. With the last ounce of strength he reached for his handgun. He felt new blows on his body and heard a short burst of gunfire. His arm felt hot and it slowly became numb up to the shoulder. He could see stars before his eyes. He could not feel his legs and one arm. There was now only darkness and red before his eyes. He went silent…

The promised reinforcements never arrived. Lisets fell at noon. Kiro, crushed and full of holes, was left to lie dead behind the stone...

Thunderous and fateful sounds covered the villages on the other side of Lisets. People piled, filling all the empty spaces along the highway, to the left and to the right.

“The front has been breached! The front has been breached!” voices called out, bringing fear and spreading it among the people. The horror grew. People were frightened and panic filled the air. It was time to flee, to run away.

Messengers on horseback were running around everywhere warning people, telling them to leave, showing them which way to take and where to go. Irritated, they spurred their horses to run through the village streets while they yelled: “Leave! Leave! The Greek army is coming! Leave now!”

With the pounding of horse hooves, for as long as the warnings lasted, like echoes repeating again and again, was the message: “Leave! Leave! The front has been breached! The Greek army is coming! They will beat you, rape you and kill you! They will hang people and burn everything! Leave now!”

The horsemen who had orders to sow the seeds of fear and horror into the people crossed over Preval and split up at the crossroads, one ran to Bukovik, L’k and Drenovo and the others took the road to German.

People in Prespa were gathering their most important things from what remained and packed them in sacks. There was yelling, screaming, pleading and crying. The roads were packed with people leaving. A woman was wailing at the top of her voice looking up and cursing the sky. Winds of fear hovered over the people, spreading panic and horror, making them run. The people who passed Perovo, the narrow passage where the water flows between the two lakes, and took the road to Vineni could see the rising smoke and flames behind them. They could also see the same horsemen who had warned them to leave, burning the wheat fields. Flames were now consuming the mature grains from which bread was made…

* * *

An unfamiliar man, a stranger, walked beside her. He adjusted the shmaizer (rifle) hanging over his shoulder, took a look at her and stepped up his pace. The two walked along the uneven road covered with twisted and tangled roots, sticking deep into the dry dusty ground. Two people walking, one quietly, gently, finely, lovely, carefully and barely audibly, making her way with a slight bounce. The other, hesitant, uneven, stretched out and slack on the right foot and dignified, flat and heavy on the left foot noticeable by the large military boot he was wearing. His left wooden leg squeaked with every step. Fastened under the bleeding knee were thick leather straps. The woman slowed down, straightened up, untied her black kerchief, closed her eyes and wiped the sweat off her face. He slowed down too, adjusted his shmaizer, brushed his unshaven face with his left hand and with tears in his eyes looked at the sun and said:

“Only courage… only courage…” he tore every word, as if chewing them. He turned towards her but she had already moved on. He gave her a measured look and continued talking, “You too will reach your destiny the way it’s ordained…” He paused with a gaping

mouth as if he had forgotten something. He unbuttoned the canteen from his belt, took a couple of sips, straightened himself, looked at the old lady again and followed her at an increased pace. When he caught up to her he said: “Only courage and because the road is dusty, you sister, go ahead and don’t look back… Only courage… In a few moments the sun will disappear behind the mountain… And tonight the night will be peaceful…” attempting to distance himself. “Yesterday’s, and the day before and the day before that, sound of machine guns, bombs, explosions, blasts will only ring in our ears and not in the hills and mountain tops... Courage and only slowly,” he muttered, “and even though the woolen blanket you are carrying with you is heavy, go on, continue walking on the dusty road for as long as the heat does not subside and for as long as the first drops of dew do not fall. And if it happens that the night shall fall quietly, then you too shall fall, alone, among strangers and surely those strangers will pay their last respects and steal your woolen blanket. They will toss some burned and trampled soil on you or they will cover you with some dry twigs or green branches which they will gather in a hurry or they will toss some stones on you… Well, you are not a soldier, but if you happen to fall on this dusty road, which the soldiers soiled, you will have a military burial, our type of burial, a Partisan burial… Those passing by will look at you without care, cold and will continue walking towards the unknown on this or on that dusty road of no return…”

He slowed down a bit but continued walking. He unbuttoned his canteen and gave the old woman a drink. She moistened her lips and soaked one edge of her black kerchief. Walking, from time to time, she moistened her parched lips with the wet cloth to slow the burning and cut down her thirst; just enough to ease her pain.

The man shifted the shmaizer to his other shoulder and, as if his words weighed more, sighed deeply and unreserved tried to encourage his walking companion:

“There will be no more explosions coming from these mountains and from these hills. Oh mother, squeeze your soul and endure a bit longer… Courage, just a little longer and the sun which bakes us will disappear, dusk will soon be here and then the night will be peaceful… Come, follow me. The heat will subside and soon the

dew will fall and until then don’t turn and don’t pay attention to the explosions. There they only bring death. Look, here the soil is the same, the rocks are hard and the road is dusty, trampled and it seems like there is no end in sight… Only, here, I the fool, I mumble away, I don’t know, poor me, if anyone where you are going will know why you have brought the woolen blanket?”

He stopped talking. There was complete silence except for the silent sound of their feet walking. In front of them, like a black cloud, a wave of refugees was fleeing. Sounds of babies crying, cows mooing, people yelling could be heard coming from their direction.

“If I may ask you, mother. What do they call you?” asked the man.

“Krstovitsa…” she answered softly and continued to walk ahead without engaging in the conversation. At one time they walked beside one another, ever so slowly, it seemed like they were shadows on the go. And as they continued to walk along the long dusty road, she fell behind, the further they walked the more behind she fell, and to him it seemed like someone or something was touching her from some remote distance, choking up and breaking her words. He listened quietly, walking in front of her, hardly ever turning to look at her.

Some distance later he stopped, sat down and leaned against a tree stump. He took his shmaizer off his shoulder and braced it on his knee. Eventually she caught up and stopped beside him. They both stood there in silence. “So,” he broke the silence, “we walked and walked and we ended up in this place. I am saying ‘in this place’ because this here is our place. Only a few steps in that direction, that’s all that remains of what was once ours. This much is also left of our great hopes and aspirations… Look and have your fill; be happy and ecstatic, as long as we are in our place, our place, we are still on our land and please don’t cry. If you cross this band of land, you will have no reason to be happy and you will have plenty of time to cry, feel horrible, swear and curse, that’s why dear mother now you should be happy as long as we are in our land, for as long as we are in our place, for as long as we are still on our land. Over there it is not ours. With a single step you will cross this narrow band and you will enter, dear mother, into foreign land…

Sit down, take a break… Sit dear mother, sit down and let us both catch our breath. The road under our feet will not go anywhere… That too is our fate and it will be done as it is written… Please sit, so we can have a conversation sitting down… so we can have a few words while we rest… Sit, rest, the road is not going anywhere; it is our fate to take it to where it will lead us… They say it will be done as it is written… It is called fate… destiny. Come, sit and let me see what you are hiding there in that spool. Let us open it up together. Don’t hide it, let me see it. Let us put that reddish black string behind us, let us tie it to this rock or to that oak tree and along it, like blind people, tapping and feeling our way with a stick, we can find our way, hold on to the string so that we can both find our way to the source from which we were uprooted…

Come, take that sack off your shoulder, the rope is cutting your shoulder, take the sack off and open the woolen blanket wide. Come, sit and let us talk. Where are we? We are at the end of our road but still on our land and over there, look, is the road to alien lands leading away from our homes. Here, take it, hold on to the string of memories, don’t let them fall into the wrong hands, hold on to them as though you are holding on to your most cherished wishes. Oh dear mother, I can see that the string in the spool is coming to its end.

Now unfold the memory leaves and tighten your soul, tighten your heart, as our old people always used to say, those poor people, they turned their pain into songs. Sit. Your chin is shaking and a tear is being squeezed out of your eye. The wrinkles on your forehead are tightening and your lips are quivering. Why do you look angry and restless? Do you want to say something? Do you want to pray? Do you want to curse? Let the ravens crow and let the vultures circle and find their carcass from up high. We are not the first from our race and God let us be the last to share this fate.

Where are we? On the road? On whose road? Is it taking us home or away from home? Give it to me, give me the spool so I can let some string out… Perhaps tomorrow we will follow the string back and it will lead us to our home? Here, hold the string, don’t let anyone tear it… If someone tears it you will never find your way back, you will

never be able to return home. All you will have then is your dismal desire and your great worry.

Oh, dear mother, the spool is small and the cord and golden silver thread on white and black is weaving like our yesterday’s and today’s destiny. Let some string out, unfold the old yellowed memory pages and in place of prayer – curse, because the truth and memories are protected in the curses. And what are memories if not desire for survival, if not a shade drawn from the past…? Let the ravens crow and the vultures search for carrion with a sharp glance from the sky…” he spoke the last words with a deep sigh.

He lost his voice and threw his head back. Krstovitsa looked at him with fear in her eyes. She felt his forehead. It felt hot. She unbuttoned the canteen from his belt and poured a handful of water onto his face. “He is burning… he has a fever…” she said to herself. “He is burning up…” She took the black kerchief off her head, poured some water on it and placed it on his forehead and face. He was hot to the touch. “He is burning up,” she repeated and looked around helplessly. Apart from the dust that remained from the people who had passed by them in a hurry earlier, she could see nothing and no one. She felt his forehead again. The kerchief was dry.

The stranger moved and as if nothing had happened, lifted his head, took the kerchief off his face and with a tired, exhausted and sleepy voice asked: “Did I, dear mother, fall asleep?” He did not expect a reply. He looked up at the blue sky and then looked around, wrapping his eyes around the scorched earth and dust and, while attempting to gather his thoughts, said: “We released some string from the spool and with it we found our way here. The spool was small, the string ended here, who knows how long the road ahead is, in what valleys and hills, forests and brooks… Unstitch, dear mother, unstitch some more string from the woolen blanket and with it we will trace our way back home, our footsteps will be covered by dust; water will wash the road, unstitch string from the woolen blanket so that we can find our way back home…”

His throat became hoarse and he stopped talking. As if lost, he looked at the sky, took a deep breath and said: “Unstitch dear

mother, unstitch some thread from the woolen blanket so that we can mark…” He was unable to complete his sentence. The old woman interrupted with a sharp tone of voice:

“Take your dirty hands off the woolen blanket and don’t even dare look at it! The road has already been marked… by you and those...” She did not finish saying who ‘those’ were. The curse got stuck in her throat. She stood up, put her woolen blanket over her shoulder and without saying a word, stepped away. Without looking, she crossed the barrier that so many uprooted people before her had crossed. She did not look back. She continued walking down the dusty road and he, without saying a word, stood up and followed her.

They walked slowly, one beside the other. Once in a while the old woman paused to wipe the sweat off her face, catch her breath and adjust the woolen blanket on her shoulder. They kept going. Not used to the slow pace, he tried to stay with her and catch her when she stumbled and she, with a choked voice, with broken words began to tell her story… She spoke, unfolding twists of her experience, of what was hers yesterday. He listened silently, moving forward, rarely looking at her. The sun was about to set. The heat began to subside… He stopped and sat down. He took the shmaizer off his shoulder and braced it on his knee. The old woman, leaning forward, put down her woolen blanket, wiped the sweat off her face and stood there. She looked at the crowd of people gathering under the trees… He pulled out a small bag of tobacco, ripped a small piece of paper from a newspaper, twisted a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled a deep puff and slowly exhaled the smelly smoke. He spat to the side, puffed and spat again. He looked up at the blue sky and with eyes closed, asked:

“Did you say the woolen blanket was a gift and that you brought up your children and grandchildren on it? Did you say you left your house open and that you covered the burning coals in the fireplace with ashes? The coals will smoulder in the hearth for a long, long time. They will smoulder and wait. Look, the grove is emptying. The people are leaving. Let’s go, let us take the road that awaits us. Just like this, put the woolen blanket on your other shoulder so that your arm, holding the black copper jug, does not become numb. And

when I tell you to stop, pause to catch your breath. And now, let’s go and don’t turn back, don’t look back. I will say it again, if you fall your people or strangers will surrender you to the earth and will steal your woolen blanket. Did you say we will return to our homes, to our old houses, we will uncover the smouldering coals and light a fire? Did you say that then you will lay down the woolen blanket on which your children and grandchildren grew up… Did you say, dear mother, your oldest lies under some stone on Ivan Mountain? And do you know where Ivan Mountain is? Look to your right. Over there, the one standing high, that’s Ivan Mountain… Is this where an Italian grenade cut him to pieces? And about your two grandsons they told you that last year they were left resting on Bel Kamen and that they saw your granddaughter at Charno resting beside her machine gun? And did you say she had blond hair, big blue eyes and a beautiful face with a sweet smile? Oh, dear mother, many at Charno blackened and turned to coal, burned by the living fire… At Treskavets, Aliabitsa and on every hill in Gramos…”

The man, as if wanting to ease the old woman’s pain and anguish which she carried with her, repeated again and again the words the old woman had spoken and, after moving a few steps ahead, would not look back. He knew very well what was happening there. And if some commander stopped in front of him, who now like him roamed the roads of the bordering country, if he stopped in front of him and told him: “Back you son of a bitch, back! Back to your post!” then without hesitation he would circle back and continue on the dusty dirt road back to the place where he would be ordered to die.

Eight years with a gun over his shoulder he formed the habit of listening and doing as he was told. In his younger years he did not even want to think for himself. What soldier is a soldier if they think for themselves? In what army do they teach soldiers to think for themselves? A soldier is trained to obey orders without asking questions. To listen, to do and not to think, it was drilled into their heads, it was in their blood. But later, when he matured, first in the Partisan ranks of ELAS, then in the Aegean Brigade, after serving in the Yugoslav People’s Army, and after that in the People’s Militia, he began to think and his thinking was sometimes not on the same level as the orders given to him to carry out. He never had officer’s epaulettes on his shoulders. He was a regular soldier for eight long

years, always hungry and the host of many lice. In 1937 they made him wear a Greek uniform; drilled him, taught him how to kill and, as in every army, taught him it was honourable to kill and assured him, like they do in every army, that his life was the most important thing that he had and must be sacrificed for his ‘patrida’ (country).

The following year, 1938, he made a mistake about his ‘patrida’, for which his ‘patrida’ took his military uniform and exchanged it for a prison uniform. And why? Because in the unit where he was serving there were several ‘endopi’ (indigenous Macedonians) with whom he spoke in his Macedonian mother tongue. That’s right! He was sent to prison for speaking the language he had learned from his mother! The sergeant, who was also Macedonian from the same region, warned him twice to watch himself and that speaking the Macedonian language was prohibited. He knew that it was prohibited but, being angry at something, he swore in his mother tongue and having drunk a little too much he and his friends sang the Macedonian song, “I hear the rustling of the beech wood trees” in the café. The song was sung quietly but loudly enough for others to hear. For that he was put in jail for six months, which he served on one of the dry islands in the Aegean Sea.

Those six months meant a lot to him. He met many older, thoughtful and educated people. And each one of them, in their own way, explained to him the wrongs that Greece (which some called the anti-people regime) was committing against its people and made it clear to him why people were poor, hungry and dressed in rags. They explained to him that everyone had the right be treated fairly, as an equal. Everyone had the right to have a job and to be paid, and not in the way things were done at that time; you having to work and someone else becoming rich and having a rich life.

He had difficulties understanding the concept of ‘society’ and a ‘proletariat revolution’, but it seems that hiding in his misunderstanding was this mysterious power from which sprang his conviction. In the simple and still unpolluted soul of this ordinary Macedonian villager, exactly those unrecognized words created confidence and faith. What he liked most about this was that in this new society, every day and night would be distributed evenly: eight hours work, eight hours sleep and eight hours learning and fun. And

because he was very interested in learning he accepted the last part with mixed feelings. Of course this was understandable, but ultimately and unquestionably he accepted the truth that in this society everyone was going to be equal.

“What more could I want than being equal?” he often thought to himself. “Is there anything better than being equal, for example, to a general? Congratulations to the person who thought of such a society. A nice society.”

After six months, those who sentenced him, convinced that he was rehabilitated, returned him to a unit in which many like him also served. With their eyes fixed into the future and their heads filled with righteousness, which they barely understood, enthusiastically and trustingly they preached their ideals to others.

In the spring of 1939 they took his rifle and his uniform and sent him home to his village, wearing his old worn out rags. It was Easter and after church service, in the town square, the music band began to play. He took a one thousand drakma bill from his pocket, spit on the king’s face, slapped it on Duro’s forehead and said: “Bajracheto, play the Bajracheto!”

He was first, leading the dance. He started out lightly, hopping gently, swinging his kerchief up high in the air when suddenly the music stopped. There, beside the bandstand, stood the chief of police with his whip, gently tapping in his open left palm. The man lowered his leg with which he was about to take the next step in the dance and stood up straight. His right cheek began to tremble and his eyebrows furrowed. He crumpled his open kerchief in his hand and with a measured steady step walked to the bandstand. With an angry but quiet voice he said: “Continue to play!”

The old clarinet player, Duro the Gypsy, looked at the police chief for approval.

“I paid you for this dance, not him!” said the man.

“If it’s about the money, take it back…” said Duro quietly. He then went close to the man and whispered in his ear: “This police chief is

a bastard and he will take away my right to play my instrument. Speak with him.”

The man turned. The police chief was rhythmically tapping his left palm with his whip. He could see a challenge in the reflection of the man’s eyes. The man came close to the police chief and asked in Greek: “You sir, did you order this dance to stop?”

There was silence. The whole place went quiet. Anticipation. There was a breath of fear in the air…

“Sir,” now in a calmer tone of voice, “Mr. Police Chief, today is Easter. If you want to and if you can, celebrate Christ’s resurrection with us and share with us that happiness,” said the man.

“And if I don’t then what?” asked the police chief with a slight smile on his face, beginning to tap his hand harder with the whip.

“Then gather your constables and get the hell out of our village!” replied the man.

“Is that so?” asked the police chief. “And do you know that we know everything about you? For example, we know that you are a communist and that every day you speak in that prohibited language, which means you disrespect the law and you show contempt for the great and clever wise man, Yoannis Metaxas. And besides that, a while ago you spat on the king’s face!”

The man wanted to say more but did not get the chance. With lightning speed the police chief hit the man across the face, with his policeman’s whip. It felt as if his entire face had been fried in hot oil. Without thinking, the man butted the police chief in the face with his head and at the same moment yanked the whip out of his hand and with it, hit him twice over the head.

His fellow villagers cursed the man for a long time because that Easter day they were all beaten to a pulp. As for him, they took him to Kostur and after a short trial found him guilty of speaking the forbidden language at home and in public places, of swearing and of attacking the government. He was sent to prison.