The Great Decline – Chapter 6 - Part 01

The Great Decline – Chapter 6

“This is some snow, some blizzard...,” said Stoian. “Let it snow… Let it accumulate to waist high… shoulder high if it wants to... Let it block all the roads so neither we nor they can move. It’s a good thing that we built these trenches when we did. We were complaining when they were pushing us to dig and carry logs but our sweat paid off, right? We can now sit, lay down, snooze, relax, warm ourselves on the fire and pray that more snow falls. And the longer we are stuck here, the better, right?” Stoian paused for a moment, look over at the makeshift fireplace and said: “Iani, are you still messing around with the fire? Here are some dry twigs… Shake off some dry grass and some lint off someone’s backpack and light it. Get going Iani, light the fire… Let it burn high… And you guys… don’t you dare put your smelly socks out to dry…”

In no time at all the trench was filled with smoke. Almost everyone was coughing and squeezing tears from their smoke filled eyes. Iani, kneeling in front of the fireplace, standing under a pot hanging from a chain, kept blowing on the fire in an attempt to expedite the burn. Then suddenly there was a flash and the fire was ablaze, flame was shooting up and quickly devouring the moss and dry twigs. Iani gently added more wood and as he pulled away, he spat to the side and wiped his tears with his dirty palms. The fire grew bigger and lit the entire trench. Minutes later its warmth was felt in every corner.

Crammed next to one another they all sat silently in the trench, each burdened with their own thoughts, looking at the branches above sagging down from the weight of the snow. Mita appeared at the entrance and shook the snow off herself. The cold and the blowing wind followed her from behind. She dropped a pile of wood near the fireplace.

“There is some blue sky opening up to the north of us… You can see the stars,” said Mita breaking the silence and sitting near Tsilka.

“If it clears up then we can expect ice cold weather. Everything will freeze… We will be under ice. The snow will compress…” added Stoian with a disappointed tone of voice, tossing a couple of logs of wood into the fire. “Let’s hope they don’t order us to get moving…” Again they all sat in silence staring into the fire, lost in their own thoughts, no doubt contemplating what was in store for them next and how their loved ones were doing... They sat and waited in fear… they sat and waited in anticipation… they sat and hoped, prayed and desired… And in the silence… silence prevailed… except for the heavy sighs and the sparks flying out of the fireplace… There was no joy in this miserable place and anyone who felt any joy, jealously guarded it deep down in their hearts. They did however appreciate spending the night in this warm trench instead of under a winter star-lit sky covered in snow and ice… and waiting for their dinner to arrive.

A little earlier the cook had brought them boiled corn for dinner. He handed out one handful of corn to each person. Iani made a game of eating it; one kernel at a time. He tossed a kernel up in the air and caught it with his mouth. At one point he said: “Look… look… it loves to land in my mouth. It’s sweet like candy… like a lokum (Turkish delight) with chunks of walnuts, yum.. yum… delicious…”

The pot with water hanging on the tripod over the fireplace was boiling. Mita threw in a handful of mountain tea and when its fragrant aroma permeated all through the trench, it was time to drink. Each person took a turn and filled their aluminum cup and at the same time used the warmth of the cup to warm their hands and with their hands they warmed their faces. They each blew on their hot tea and slurped it down loudly trying not to get their lips burned. The hot liquid felt nice going down, warming their throats, chests and stomachs. The pot was then again filled with snow and hung on the tripod.

“It would be nice to have some bread to dip in our tea…” piped up Iani, making a dipping motion with his hand.

They were all suffering from fatigue and the warm tea naturally made them drowsy and wanting to sleep. Mita leaned her head on Tsilka’s shoulder and watched the flames dance in the fireplace and the sparks fly. Over the silence she heard breathing, sighs and the occasional quiet moan from the girls. She knew that some were secretly crying. She knew from their sighs and from their laboured

breathing that they were troubled. When it was all quiet like this and there was silence among them, they tended to think of a lot of things, especially things that troubled them and caused them to sigh, moan and shed tears. Mita turned her head and looked at Zoia. Her face had the colour of fresh honey burned by the sun, blown by the wind and washed by the rain. Her cheeks were slightly red from the warmth of the fire and the dancing flames were reflected in her mesmerized eyes. Mita then turned her eyes and looked at Velika. Her cheeks too were slightly red and for a moment she looked as if she showed a sign of happiness only to be quickly replaced with sadness, sorrow and pain. She was probably happy because they were all together in one place, warm and alive. If only the blizzard would go away and the sunshine would come back. Sunshine and the warmth of the sun seemed to bring happiness to people. Sunshine also allowed them to go outside which beat sitting in the trenches and breathing stale air, smelling of rotting leaves and ferns, smelly military shoes and socks, unwashed sweat-soaked clothes and dirty bodies. In the outdoors they could lie on the frozen snow with their eyes closed, looking at the red colour under their eyelids, feeling the warmth of the sun on their faces. Mita again turned her attention to the fire. She focused on herself now and began to examine her own life. She sped through her twenty years of life, which seemed to have had too many sunrises and sunsets, much fog and rain, marches and battles, days and nights, wetness, hunger and the pain of missing her family and friends, many of whom were now gone. She again looked at Tsilka, Velika, Tinka, Zoia and for a brief moment felt some joy. Emotions were driven by thoughts and thoughts in these circumstances were quickly replaced by other thoughts as the memories unwound one after another. And as she was going through her own memories it seemed to her like she had just heard the voice of her political commissar who had spoken to her nearly four months ago at the meadows of Arena. He told her: “If you don’t kill them, they will kill you!” She then thought: Why is it necessary to kill and be killed? She couldn’t remember how many times she had asked herself this same question. Who invented this evil idea of killing? Would the time ever come when this evil would be eradicated? Someone, some say it was Christ, undertook the task of uprooting evil, bad, pain and ugliness and attempted to replace them with good and doing good. But the poor man suffered immensely for what he tried to do. That is why since then and until

this day he is celebrated and people are convinced of his good and in his name they die and defeat death... But why do people, who believe in the same God, hate each other and want to kill one another? Mita took a deep breath and shook her head in disbelief. She then looked at Velika and Zoia again, noticing that their chins were shaking slightly and tears were forming around their closed eyes. At that moment, at that sight, Mita’s chest began to vibrate uncontrollably and a loud involuntary howling sound came out of her mouth. She began to cry, but not silently like the others. Unable to control her emotions and her outbursts, she began to pull on her hair. She then quickly turned to Tsilka and shoved her face into her shoulder. Mita looked up towards the ceiling as if searching for something. Tsilka, shocked out of her sleep, was gently stroking her head. Across the trench Iani was heard speaking. He said: “Tsilka, all the time you keep quiet, why are you so quiet? I have not heard your voice since yesterday. They say you are a good story teller. Please tell us a story.”

“You again with the stories. What kind of story would you like me to tell you Iani?” asked Tsilka.

“Well, one about home, like all the stories we tell… about home,” replied Iani.

“Argir, hey Argir! Are you sleeping?” called out Tsilka.

“No! No, I am not sleeping,” replied Argir.

“Well then, stop snoring… You are a funny man Argir. You fall asleep even before your head hits the ground and then you start snoring...” said Iani mocking Argir and then asked Tsilka to start telling her story.

Tsilka adjusted herself, threw a few sticks into the fire, coughed and began speaking:

“We had two female (Greek) teachers in our village. Their names were Maria and Sofia. Maria taught me when I was in kindergarden and Sofia when I was in grade one. The teachers had no permanent residences so they spent their time in our people’s houses. Because

the state had no money to pay for them, the villagers had to provide food and sleeping quarters for them. So every two or three days the teachers switched houses. And, whether they liked it on not, they had to learn our (Macedonian) language if they wanted to communicate with our people. We often sat on the porch and quietly, quietly, sang our (Macedonian) songs for them. They did not understand the words but were delighted to hear us sing. “You have very beautiful songs,” they would say and make nasal sounds mimicking the melody. They slept in our guest room where my mother and grandmother made their beds for them. They spoke Macedonian as best as they could with the old people and only said good morning to the men. They did not speak with the men. We, the little girls, liked them and often came over just to say good day in Macedonian instead of in Greek. They did not get angry or annoyed with us speaking Macedonian. But they said that we needed to speak Greek at home with our parents and grandparents in order to be good girls. One day, one of them said to me that God and the Virgin Mary would love me and protect me if I spoke Greek. ‘If you do not speak Greek like you are told,’ she said, ‘then every night you will have dreams of wolves chasing you through the dense forests and dragons burning your little bodies with flames... and the good angels will not come to help you’...” She paused for a moment, threw some more twigs into the fire and continued:

“I was very frightened that day and after I returned from school I spoke Greek to my grandfather who came to get me at the gate. He looked at me sternly but compassionately, put his finger to his lips and whispered: ‘Be quiet child…’ and that was it, he did not say any more. Some time later my father asked me what I had learned in school that day and I said that all this time we had been learning the Lord’s Prayer which started with ‘Pater Imon…’ Then I heard my grandfather cough and as I looked in his direction I saw the same stern look on his face that I had seen some time earlier. Since I had forgotten what it was all about, I continued talking. My grandfather then came over, sat me down on his knee and said: ‘The Lord’s Prayer in our (Macedonian) language goes like this:

Отче наш иже еси на небесах, да свјатитсја имја твое, да приидјет царствие твое,

да будјет воља твоја, јако на небеси и на земли. Хљаб наш насушниј дажд нам днес и остави нам долги наше јакоже и ми остављајем должником нашим; и не ввеги нас во искушение, но избави нас од лукавого и ниње и присно и во вјеки вјеков... амин...’

I know this prayer! I screamed out. My grandfather then hugged me and said: ‘You must never forger it… my child’…”. Tsilka stopped talking, sighed deeply, looked around and quietly, barely audibly said: “My grandfather, grandmother, father, mother and all the relatives in our household used to cross ourselves and say: ‘слава Отцу и Сину и Свјатому духу и ниње и присно и во вјеки вјеков... Амин.’…”

Tsilka looked up at the trench ceiling and crossed herself three times.

“For as long as I can remember, this is how we used to cross ourselves and pray to God at home…” Tsilka whispered and then placed her hands over her face and went completely silent. The makeshift fireplace, hollowed out inside the trench wall, let out a loud burst of sparks breaking the silence and disturbing the fighters lying around the fire. After the sparks flew, a small flame burst out of the coals and began to climb on the logs. It quickly moved along, licking and hugging them, until the logs were completely surrounded. The warmth of the fire was felt all around the trench. Everyone was silent again, staring at the dancing flames, deep in their own thoughts, searching their memories and taking long sighs to ease their pain and sorrow. Outside of the added burst of sparks flying out and flames gently flaring in the fireplace, it was quiet again. The only signs of life in the trench were those of the shadows dancing on the trench walls...

“Continue, Tsilka…” Zoia’s voice was heard saying, breaking the silence.

“After finishing fourth grade it was off to work for me. I got up at dawn with my mother and worked with her all day, mostly at home and sometimes out in the fields. Do you think work was easy or there was little work in the village? No! The only time work eased in the village was after harvest time so I kept telling myself, just a little longer and I would be going back to school. During the short summer nights I slept outside in the yard on the cobblestones on top of a straw mat. I slept outside to avoid being eaten alive by the fleas that were very active inside the house at that time of year. Before falling asleep I stared at the stars, looking from one end of the sky to the other. I followed the visible sky from one side enclosed by our house to the other side enclosed by the barn where we kept our sheep. I then followed it on the opposite sides enclosed by our outdoor oven on one side and by the common wall of the yard we shared with our neighbours, on the other side. As I watched the stars I thought of the promise my father made me to send me to Kostur to become a dressmaker. But I never did make it to Kostur… On the fourth day of August our village became mute. At sundown the girls and young women did not go to the spring to fill the jugs with water. The old people went home early that day. The men did not get together at the blacksmith shop to have their daily chats. The young people did not gather at the village square and go for their daily stroll around the neighbourhoods. My mother called us in, locked the gates and bolted them with heavy bolts. Then we all gathered together in the guestroom; grandfather, grandmother, father, mother, sister and my brothers.

‘Grandpa...’ I said to my grandfather, but he interrupted me, putting his finger to his lips. I understood that I needed to keep quiet but why I had to keep quiet I did not understand. I stood there puzzled and confused. Grandpa extended his hand and motioned for me to sit down next to him. We all sat down. We immediately thought that someone was ill or dying or, God forbid, someone had already died... Father was smoking cigarette after cigarette and wanted to light his pipe, but his hands were trembling. Grandma with her hands folded in her lap, swayed back and forth on her chair. Mother, with her cheek propped up on her right hand, stared into the lamp’s flame.

‘Grandpa…’ I interrupted again, but he again pointed to his lips asking me to keep quiet. I said nothing more and stared at the ceiling. Father tossed his cigarette butt into the fireplace, coughed, spit in the ashes and said: “This kind of thing never happened, not even in Ottoman times…”

‘What?!’ my grandfather asked angrily with a worrisome tone in his voice. ‘Do you remember the Ottoman Aga asking us not to speak our language? Do you remember that?’

“Yes I do! How could I forget? I remember it well. Right mother?’ replied my father turning to my grandmother and saying: ‘After the Beg left, I was twelve years old, right?’

‘Did the Beg ever say anything like that?’ grandfather asked angrily. ‘I am almost seventy-five years old and I have never witnessed such a thing as to prohibit people from speaking their own language. The idea is insane. When I was in America I heard people speak many languages and no one said anything to them. But here, here in our birth place, in our own homes…’ my grandfather trailed off without finishing. I immediately thought that grandfather, when he started talking again, would talk about America. I wanted to hear more about his time in America. It was so nice listening to him telling us stories about America. He used to tell us stories about Detroit, a major city in America where the houses were very tall, as tall as the hills, the streets were wide and always full of people and Detroit had big factories... I did not know what factories were but I liked his stories about them. We could not understand that there were black people and people with oblique eyes living there. We had never seen people like that before. Detroit was an entire world on its own and we had my grandfather at home to tell us all about it. We did not know as much about Kostur as we did about Detroit... And as we stood there I foolishly piped up and said: ‘Please grandpa, tell us more about Detroit’ and then sat on his knee.

‘Quiet child!’ my father said and gave me a strange look. He then asked my mother to set the table for dinner.

‘Don’t get upset and don’t take it out on the children!’ my grandfather said. ‘Son,’ my grandmother decided to get involved, looking my father straight in the eye, ‘you know how children are, they will talk and they will sing… Why shouldn’t they? Because some Greek decided they shouldn’t? The Greeks are here today, they will be gone tomorrow and so will their teachers. They will not remain here forever. The Ottomans were here, right? They were here and they are gone. The French and the Italians came and went and so will the Greeks. They will go the way they came, all we need to do is survive them, sadly a lot of people will suffer and die like they always have. We should not be afraid just because some army or some idiot decided to push us around and tell us not to speak our language. And please don’t yell at the children…’ she said.

‘Your mother is right,’ my grandfather said to my father. ‘We will talk and we will sing! Why not?’

After that my grandfather often said: ‘What are they going to do to me? Cut off my tongue?’…” Tsilka paused for a moment, took a deep breath and continued: “They didn’t cut off his tongue. But one day there was a knock on the gate. My mother opened it. There was a Greek policeman standing behind it. He asked my mother in Greek: ‘Is the old man home?’

My mother did not understand what he said because she did not speak Greek so she called me to come over and interpret.

‘Tsilka, come here and tell me what this man wants!’ she said.

‘Tell the old man to get down here. Immediately!’ he yelled out and whipped his leather boot with his whip.

My grandfather came out the front door and looked at the policeman.

‘Are you looking for me?’ he asked in our language (Macedonian).

‘Walk in front of me!’ ordered the policeman in Greek, pointing with his hand to indicate that he wanted the old man to walk in front of him.

My grandfather came back in the evening before dusk. Two strips of hair about an inch wide were cut off from across his head in the form of a cross. He was bent forward holding his abdomen. He had bad diarrhea all night. My grandmother cursed loudly all night long. I did not understand any of this; what they did to him and why. I was so sad and felt so bad for him, I could not look him in the eyes. He look very bad, his eyes were lowered in shame. He had a hurt expression on his face. He was silent and depressed... I could not understand why the teachers Maria and Sofia never returned from Kostur and why our new schoolmaster was so strict. One time when I entered the classroom the new teacher looked at me with a mean look on his face and asked: ‘What’s your grandfather’s name?’

I said: ‘Krsto,’ with a trembling and frightened voice.

‘That is not true! he yelled out loud. ‘Tell your grandfather his name is Stavros! Do you understand?’ but before I had a chance to answer him he said: ‘What’s your brother’s name?’

‘Krste… Sir,’ I replied trembling in fear, sobbing and dripping tears all over my notebook. I never did tell my grandfather what the teacher told me. One day, long after my grandfather had had his ordeal he said to me: ‘My dear child, come here and sit next to me. Grandpa is going to tell you something, so please listen carefully. My grandfather was named Krsto and so was his grandfather and many generations before that. Every first born male in our family, for generations, has been named Krsto. This is why, my dear child, in our home we celebrate “krstovden” (Holy Cross Day).’

But I still could not understand why the teacher reacted the way he did, why my grandfather was mistreated and what this hatred was all about? The teacher lived in a designated house but every three days he went to a different house for his meals. So for the three days that he came to our house we greeted him in silence, we served him in silence, we waited for him to finish eating in silence and we sent him home in silence. No one dared open their mouth in his presence. Hardly anyone spoke Greek in our house and those who spoke some were afraid to express themselves because they spoke so poorly and I doubt he would have understood what we were telling him

anyway. One day, when our turn came to feed him, my grandmother forgot to give him a spoon. He showed his displeasure by first giving my grandmother an evil stare and then in Greek he said: “Give me a spoon, old woman!”

My grandmother stood there stunned, wondering what she had done to offend him.

‘Kutali, kutali, gria!’ (Spoon, spoon old woman!) he began to yell.

My grandmother opened her eyes wide, pressed her lips together and in Macedonian said: ‘Well, the kutale (puppy dog) is outside with its mother guarding the sheep…’

I broke into laughter and ran off outside. My grandmother ran after me cursing angrily: ‘May he rot in hell! What in hell does he want with the puppy dog?’

‘Grandma,’ I said to her, ‘he doesn’t want the dog, he wants a spoon… “Kutali” in Greek means spoon…’

‘May a pack of wolves tear him apart and those who sent him here…’ cursed my grandmother.”

By now the entire trench was filled with laughter. Zoia and Mita, who sat closest to Tsilka, were laughing the loudest.

When she recovered from her laughter Mita asked: “What happened after that?”

Tsilka coughed and continued: “The teacher left the house quietly, closed the door behind him, silently trampled through the yard and down the narrow muddy lane. He did not touch the bread or stew we had prepared for him. I believe that’s why the village mayor was so loud when he arrived even before we had a chance to clear the dinner table. When he came up the stairs our puppy dog and its mother were finishing off the teacher’s meal on the porch. My grandmother gave it to the dogs. The mayor yelled at my father for a long time.

‘You have offended the teacher!’ the mayor screamed at my father. ‘You have brought shame to the village. Look what you have done! What will those in Kostur say, eh?’

My grandfather, who was just listening all this time, suddenly yelled out: “Who is going to be asking and saying things? No one! What about them shaming and insulting us every day? What do you have to say about that, eh?’

‘Well, barba (Mr.) Stavros…’ said the mayor, who was immediately interrupted by my grandfather who jumped on him and said: ‘What did you call me? Get out of my house and I don’t want to see you here on Holy Cross day… Not only inside my house; I don’t want to see you passing by my house. Get out you Greek flunkey!’ And as such my grandfather opened another crack of intolerance. But this crack led directly to me. The dust created by it landed on me.

‘Your grandfather,’ the teacher said to me in a raised tone of voice while hitting his desk with his wooden rod, ‘is hard headed, stubborn and not smart at all. This will end badly for him.’ He then walked over to my bench, looked me straight in the face and, with a sharp tone of voice, said: ‘Read!’

I was frightened out of my wits , trembling all over, I was lost, I couldn’t get a single word out, I couldn’t even breath.

‘Hands!’ he ordered.

And then, I swear to you, without fear and in defiance, I suddenly stuck both of my hands out. He swung back and whack, he hit my hands with his wooden rod. He kept swinging and hitting as hard as he could and kept looking at me, staring at my face, waiting for me to start crying, expecting me to wail, scream and beg… I, on the other hand, looked him straight in his eyes and deep down endured the pain and held my tears back. And as he kept hitting me, breaking the skin on my hands, I stubbornly held back my emotions…

‘You are just like your grandfather!’ he said to me, spitting in my face. ‘Detention after school and for tomorrow you will draw one thousand lines!’

When I got home I told my grandfather what had happened and he said: ‘You did not cry on purpose? To spite him?’

‘Yes!’ I said, ‘to spite him...’

‘Now, my child, you need to study hard and be the best in your class just to spite him some more. You need to be the best...’

‘Study Greek?!!!’ gasped my grandmother.

‘Why not?’ asked my grandfather.

‘Because I can still see the cross on your head...’ replied my grandmother.

‘That’s what you should do and many other things...’ my grandfather said but did not explain what the other things were that I needed to learn. I spent a good part of the night drawing lines and all the while my older brother laughed and made fun of me saying the teacher was going to send me back to first grade. My grandfather helped me count the lines, one thousand, the exact number the teacher ordered. The next morning, after examining my notebook, he said:

‘For tomorrow you will draw another thousand lines, tilted, on this side of your notebook. And for the day after tomorrow you will draw a thousand circles.’ I was disgusted with the man and completely lost interest in learning. That afternoon I returned home sobbing and stubbornly said that I never again wanted to set foot in that school yard. But Grandfather insisted that I should go to school. He wanted his granddaughter to be the best student in the school, but to me it seemed like he did not understand how hurt I was... He then invited Priest Stefo’s son, who had studied at the Solun gymnasium, to hire him to teach me. My grandfather said to him: ‘I want to hire you as a teacher.’

The priest’s son smiled and asked: ‘What, you want to learn Greek now?’

‘It’s not for me, it’s for my granddaughter Tsilka,’ replied my grandfather. ‘That cursed teacher hates me and is taking it out on my granddaughter. I will pay you one lira (Turkish gold coin) per month, is that okay?’ asked Grandfather and waited for confirmation.

‘I will do it for a lira and a half, Grandpa Krsto,’ replied the priest’s son.

Surprised, my grandfather raised his eyebrows, swallowed hard and said: ‘You are young but you drive a hard bargain! Is this what they taught you in Solun?’

‘Will you pay me one and a half liras or not?’ asked the priest’s son.

My grandfather thought for a while, the wrinkles on his forehead became more pronounced. He adjusted himself, coughed and said: ‘You have yourself a deal! But you have to start immediately, today, right now, okay?’

‘And my money?’ asked the priest’s son.

‘I will pay you after you have done your work,’ replied my grandfather.

‘You have persuaded me…’ said the priest’s son, shaking my grandfather’s hand and getting ready to leave.

‘Wait! Where are you going? Didn’t we agree that you will start teaching right now?’ my grandfather asked.

‘That’s exactly what I will be doing…’ the priest’s son said. ‘Sit there in good health and don’t worry…’ He also said goodbye to Grandma Krstovitsa.

‘May the Lord give you good health and a clear mind, my son, and give our regards to everyone at home…’ replied my grandmother.

The same day the priest’s son took his horse and went to Kostur. The next evening he returned to our house and said to my

grandfather: ‘Grandpa Krsto, we made a deal yesterday but we did not decide how long this job will last?’

‘Well, let us decide right now...’ replied my grandfather.

‘Your concern, Grandpa Krsto, is that the little girl does not repeat the year and that the teacher does not “pick” on her, as you said yesterday, right? Because from what I know the little girl is a very good student, right?’ asked the priest’s son.

‘Of course she is a good student…’ confirmed my grandmother. ‘There is no one better than her in her class. She is like my brother Mitre, may he rest in peace and may God cut off the hands and heads of those who cut his throat...’ My grandmother crossed herself and then grabbed her spindle and began to spin yarn.

‘Well, this is what the Ottomans did to our people Grandma Krstovitsa,’ said the priest’s son.

‘It was not the Ottomans, my son, who killed my brother… It was the damn Greeks… they cut his throat… like a lamb… they laid him down and…’ she made a sign with her hand how they used the knife on him. He was a teacher too but he was one of ours… he taught in Bitola and he taught the children just like we speak today… Macedonian…’

‘Don’t get involved in men’s talk!’ my grandfather yelled at my grandmother, who was firmly holding the spindle and spinning it angrily. My grandmother then got up and left the room without saying a word. ‘Now let us continue with our bargaining…’ my grandfather added.

‘Yesterday, Grandpa Krsto, I went to the Eparchy and also visited the Bishop. I told them everything about the teacher. The people in both places told me that such a person can cause a lot of damage to the Greek state. One has to be firm but very delicate when dealing with the locals, but not in the way this teacher was handling things. To make a long story short, you now owe me six liras…’

‘What?!!!’ yelled my grandfather. “You haven’t started teaching yet and you want money already?’

‘I, Grandpa Krsto, finished the job. They will replace the teacher. Tomorrow a new teacher will be arriving. They said he is really good. So, now let us settle our account and you pay me and all will be well for both of us, right? Well, two liras will go to the bishop, two to the eparchy and two for me; six liras. And for you, I brought you a bag of the finest tobacco... To your good health…’ said the priest’s son, sticking out his hand holding the bag and looking into my grandfather’s eyes.

My grandfather was not only surprised, he was stunned. With his eyebrows distorted and lips pressed together, he asked: ‘Are you sure they will remove the teacher?’

‘That’s what they promised…’ the priest’s son replied.

‘You did well my boy...’ my grandfather said, getting up, unlocking the door of the cupboard and returning with a little black cloth bag. He opened it, counted six liras and then said: ‘Like the previous state, this state too is corrupt... It arrived rotten and it will leave rotten… Spend your money in good health… you earned it. Give my regards to your father, Pop Stefo, and ask him to whip you one with his belt for being so devious... Go well my son...’

‘Goodbye Grandpa Krsto and please don’t complain too much about your money because your granddaughter will finally get the education she deserves...’ he said and then yelled out: ‘Goodbye Grandma Krstovitsa!’ as he went down the stairs.

I don’t know why my grandfather remained silent after that. Was he dismayed by what had actually happened? Was he disgusted with the whole situation? Whatever it was, he found it hard to swallow. He sat in front of the fireplace thinking for a long time before he called me to come over. I was sitting on his knee when he said:

‘You will have a new teacher tomorrow and I want you to study hard and learn a lot from him… and from me… Okay?’ He then turned to my mother and asked her to set the table for dinner.

After dinner my grandfather sat me on his knee, called the other children over and said: ‘All of you pay attention…’ He then removed a brick from the wall next to the fireplace. From the hole he removed an old book with worn out, blackened and brittle covers. He opened it. Its crusty pages looked more like dried bark than paper. Then with his usual hoarse voice he began to read: ‘Аз, буки, веди, глаголи...’ I, somewhat frightened and shaking a bit, looked into his moist and tearing eyes and at his slightly singed moustache and said: ‘Аз, буки, веди, глаголи...’

My grandfather flipped the page, coughed and said: ‘And now we will read together: “Мама меси”, “Баба пренди”, “Тате ора”…’ I watched his eyes and mouth. When he saw me watching him he said: ‘Don’t look at me, look at the book!’

‘But Grandpa, it doesn’t say that in the book. You made that up…’ I said to him.

He looked at me with a strange look on his face, smiled under his moustache and continued:

‘Yes, you are right. It doesn’t say that in the book but sometimes you need to use your imagination…’ he replied as he stroked my hair a couple of times. Then after taking one-two-three puffs from his tobacco pipe, he tapped the book with his finger and said: ‘This book my dear, is very old and I don’t even know which grandfather brought it here to our home. All Christians take oaths, pray, hope and wait with such a book. And we too are Christians…’ He paused for a moment, looked at us, crossed himself three times, placed his finger on the page and began to read, following each word with his finger: ‘Цapjy, утешитељу, душе истини, иже вjездjе сиj и вcja исполњен сокровишче благих и жизни податељу, прииjди и вселисjа в ни, и очисти ни о вcjaкиja скверни и спаси, блаже, души наши. Амин’…”

Mita opened her eyes wide, turned towards Tsilka, raised her hand giving her a sign to stop and then asked: “Let me ask you Tsilka… In what language was the book written?”

“In ours, of course, but in the old language spoken by our ancestors. According to my grandfather, this is how our ancestors spoke. His grandfather told him this and he had learned about it from his grandfather. The priest Pop Vasil also said so…” explained Tsilka.

“Do you know any other such prayers?” asked Velika.

“I know almost all of the prayers that my grandparents and my mother prayed in front of our icon at home.” replied Tsilka.

“Please tell us some more Tsilka,” requested Mita. “And did your grandfather teach you to speak the old language?” she added.

“Unfortunately no. Only prayers...” replied Tsilka.

“Okay then… tell us more…” Zoia was heard saying.

Tsilka adjusted herself, threw some sticks into the fire and began to think of which prayers to recount for her audience. She then picked up a stick and pushed the unburned wood closer to the centre of the fire. Sparks began to fly and flames rose, drawing everyone’s attention. The people closest to the fire jumped out of the way to avoid being singed. The fire was bubbling again and warming the trench.

“Shall I start?” asked Tsilka.

“Please do,” replied Zoia.

“Well,’ began Tsilka. “Since I was very young I listened to my grandfather and remembered what he told me. I remember him saying: ‘odeshchem, placheshchem...’ And some words I memorized from the prayers. My grandfather often read the scriptures and I repeated them. He said: ‘My grandfather, may God bless his soul, constantly read from this book. But I got more involved with a shovel and a hoe and with plowing than I did with a pencil and a book...’

Then my grandmother, taking her eyes away from her knitting, said: ‘Look at the teacher, what good is his education when he has no

money to buy proper clothes. They say he is educated but look at the tattered pants he wears…’

‘He is poor… like his country. If the state paid him more money he would not have to walk around with patched pants...’ replied my grandfather.

‘Poor you say? My dear husband, poor and teacher don’t go together. I feel sorry for the idiot. His character is like he was not born of a mother... He is here today, somewhere else tomorrow. He eats in other people’s houses by himself and with people that don’t care for him… What kind of a person is he? His belly is bloated from constantly eating beans…’ my grandmother pointed to her own belly. ‘And when a person passes by him they have to hold their nose… And you my husband, you will not sit at the table unless we cook you a well prepared and rich meal...’

‘Quiet!’ my grandfather raised his voice. ‘I told you to be quiet!’

‘I said you won’t sit at the table…’ continued my grandmother as if she did not hear what my grandfather said. ‘Look at him, he now wants a pencil and paper…’ my grandmother mocked my grandfather. ‘You just hang onto your shovel because you will be working with it until you hit the grave, just like Lenka’s Pandeto. Look at me for example I don’t know “a”, “b”, “v” or whatever…’

‘You don’t know but you still talk enough for half the village… Imagine if you knew a little bit of this…’ said my grandfather while he shook the book in front of her nose.

‘It’s enough that the priest knows about this…’ interrupted my grandmother refusing to back down.

‘What priest?’ asked my grandfather.

‘Pop Basil, who else?’ replied my grandmother.

‘Yes, of course, he knew... I thought you were going to say the tubby guy who does not even look like a person. The poor man repeats the very little he learned from the Scriptures and holds his

place in the book with a straw. And that very little he knows had to be in Greek, of all things…’ said my grandfather.

‘And how do you know it’s in Greek? You don’t understand Greek… Please my dear husband don’t try to be a know it all… If you claim to know it says “Аз, буки, веди, глаголи...” then what does it say past that… further down...’ asked my grandmother.

‘Of course… what does it say further down…’ my grandfather said mockingly. ‘This, old woman… this is the most important part.’

‘Maybe it is, but what does it say? Why have you not mentioned what it says? My dear husband, why have you not mentioned my brother, may God bless his soul and may he rest in peace...’ said my grandmother, crossing herself three times. ‘Why have you not mentioned my brother?’ she again asked.

‘How many times do I have to mention him?’ asked my grandfather, looking at me and continuing: ‘Your grandmother’s brother Mitre was an educated man. The Greek armed gangs killed him in 1905... They cut his throat… They stepped on his shoulder, one of them put his knee on his head and they cut his throat… just like a butcher cuts the throat of a lamb…’ At that moment my grandfather turned towards our icon, crossed himself and said: ‘Dear Lord, give him peace in your heavenly kingdom and forgive his sins... Yes... Mitre was an educated man... I remember him like it was yesterday...’

‘He was well educated my dear girl… Educated like no other around here…’ boasted my grandmother. ‘I may turn to stone if I lie to you…’ she said and hit the floor with her fist. ‘Our father, may he rest in peace, was very proud of him and encouraged him to learn… learn, he used to say, learn… but those blood-thirsty Greeks took his life...’

‘Why did they kill him, Grandpa?’ I asked.

‘Because the Greeks did not want our Macedonian language and alphabet to spread. They wanted the Greek language to spread… That’s why...’ he replied.

My grandmother was crying quietly and after blowing her nose and wiping her tears she said: ‘Education is for men and not for women. Yes, women need to learn too but to cook, to bake, to mend, to sew, to weave, to milk, to…’

My grandfather, who quickly lost his patience, angrily yelled out: ‘Just like you, huh?’

My grandmother got angry right back at him and said: ‘What did you say? If you don’t like my cooking and baking then you can go and eat at the local Ioteto Vrtentse Inn!’

Ioteto Vrtentse was the village innkeeper. Because he was very feeble minded and forgetful and constantly ran around looking for things, the local pranksters named him Ioteto Vrtentse (Ioteto the twirler). My grandfather and grandmother always took swipes at one another but I had never seen them seriously fight. I remember my grandfather being good at one more thing; he never opened his mouth in church. Not even a peep. He prayed twice on Sundays and holidays. Once at church quietly, while looking at the Virgin Mary, and again at home loudly. After lighting the oil lamp in front of our icon of the Virgin Mary, he would cross himself and begin to pray. He prayed for everyone’s health, for us at home and for our friends and relatives and for everyone’s prosperity. After that he would get his book out, cross himself and start to pray again: “Оче наш, иже еси на небесах, услиши молитву мojy, внуши моление мое во истињаТвоеj, услиши мне в пpaвдje Твоеj. Хвалим те, клањаем ти се, славословим те, благoдарим тe, великиjа paди слави Tвoeja”...’

And this was how my grandfather prayed and with these words: ‘Dear Lord,’ Tsilka began to pronounce each word, ‘I call thee, to protect me, God; please hear my words. Please show your mercy, You, who gives those, who depend on You – from those, who oppose Your right. Look after me like the apple of your eye; shelter me under the shadow of Your wings from the wicked face of malevolence. Protect me from my enemies that surround me... Rise my Lord, intercept them and break them; save my soul from the wicked with your sword... And I will do justice before You, and will be filled with your glory.’...”