BROTHERHOOD UNITY - Part 07

Since then, Risto, along with some of the women, regularly, secretly visited the bunker storehouses and kitchens. Secretly during the night, before they were burned, they collected all the paper bags in a hurry, placed them into a single bag and hid them. During the day, when they were resting from the night’s work of carrying logs, Risto fetched the bags and one by one, placing them on a flat surface, smoothed them out removing all wrinkles. Flattened out he folded the bags and with his dagger, which he always carried on his belt, cut them into straight, rectangular pieces as wide as his hand. He then blew off the dust, placed them on top of one another and put a stone on top to keep them flat. Then during rest time, at lunch or at dinner, the women would gather around Risto and tell him their problems and pains and beg him to give them a larger piece of paper so that they could write a longer letter with many words. When he did, he cut the paper from the scraps because he knew they couldn’t write. They were illiterate. But they took the paper anyway, kept it in their hands and caressed it on their knees, just as they would caress their children who were sent to the [Eastern European] countries. They caressed the paper because on it they wanted to send their children their love and warmth and hope that soon they would receive the letter, along with their love, wishes and prayers. Every day the women begged Risto to write a letter for them, thanked him and every day kept asking when they would receive a reply. “Oh, Risto, God bless you, why don’t you write a letter to my Paskal,” she said and then continued: “Paskal, my dear son, my beloved child, my light, my dewy May flower...” Angelina whispered warm words, words of affection, hopeful words, repeating them again and again… With tears in her eyes she looked far away at the hills, at the forest, into the sky, at the clouds, at the birds and caressing the grass and the flowers by her legs, she lifted her head, looked at Risto’s face, moved closer and looked at the paper to see how much space was left. Her face became sad and her wrinkles filled with tears when Risto said: “There is no more space…” “How can that be Risto?” she asked, surprised. “Yesterday I told you more and the paper was smaller. Please just a little bit more, please write a little bit more right here at the corner so it won’t be empty and, here on this side write, make a cross like a prayer to God to protect my Paskal, my dear boy, my happiness, my most beloved… my falcon, my eagle, my strength… Here, Risto,” she touched the edge of the paper and with tears in her eyes and a choked up voice continued: “Write something from yourself, tell him to be good and to study hard… write… and when you finish, let me kiss the letter…” The woman undid her black kerchief and covered her crying face with it. Her shoulders trembled from her crying. She got up quietly and walked away and from the distance she thanked Risto: “May God bless you with good health and peace, Risto… Thank you and be well…” “Who is next?” Risto asked without raising his head. “I am...” said the woman. “Forgive me, but I don’t know your name...” replied Risto. “Stoia. My name is Stoia. I was named after my grandfather Stoian. My oldest son’s name is Traiko, named after my father’s grandfather. My daughter’s name is Traianka, she was named after my mother. My second son’s name is Trpo, he was named after his uncle, and my husband’s name is Zhivko… Everything comes from grandfather and grandmother and from father and mother. And that way we are Stoianovtsi, Traikovtsi, Trpovtsi, Zhivkovtsi… And after the last war we adopted some new names like Slobodanka, Pobeda, Slobodan, Mirka… And after this war? Maybe there will be a Traiko and a Traianka, a Stoian and a Stoianka to give birth, so that our roots are not lost… What names will there be, only God knows… There are not many Stoianovtsi, Traikovtsi, Zhivkovtsi, Trpovtsi left in our village now… Some left their bones at Gramos, some at Mali-Madi, some at Voden, some at Lerin.

A total of forty-eight dead up to now and I have no idea how many wounded and crippled. Everyone young is dead… gone… These are bad times… Is this our fate, is this what has been written for us?” Risto’s hand began to shake. A muscle in his right cheek began to quiver. His forehead began to wrinkle. His throat contracted. His stare was pointed somewhere far, far away. He was silent… “Risto, are you listening to me?” asked Stoianka. “Yes, I…” replied Risto with a choked up voice. “Oh, not today… We will write mine tomorrow then,” said Stoianka and left. “Who is next?” asked Risto after he composed himself. Lina sat beside him and took out a piece of paper from her chest. It was folded in four. The yellowed paper shook in her hand as she extended it to Risto and said: “That’s all I could get my hands on. The others were quicker than me… The women were ripping from the bags, but the commissar, who forgot his briefcase in front of the bunker, got annoyed with them, and began to yell and chase them… When I saw all those pencils neatly arranged in his briefcase, I took one. Here it is…” She reached into her chest and pulled it out. Risto, showing her with his facial expressions that he was not happy, shook his moustache and with reproach in his voice said: “So you are the one who stole the commissar’s pencil?” “I hope nothing bad comes from this, please don’t talk like that Risto, I took just one pencil… And why does he need so many pencils anyway? Do you think he is smarter than you? He had so many in his leather briefcase and they were lined up like machine gun cartridges… Here, take the pencil, you need it more than him. He only struts around with those pencils and who knows what he writes about us to those above him.” She stopped talking for a moment, looked into his eyes and with an inquiring glance, whispered: “Don’t look at me like that… So I took the pencil and what, the world fell apart? I did not steal it… I took it. If I stole it I wouldn’t have told you… The women had had an eye open for the commissar’s pencils for a long time. They were saying why does he need so many pencils? Our Risto has only one and that is enough to write all our letters. Isn’t that right Risto? I didn’t take the pencil for myself, I took it for the women, for you, to write our letters. They deserve to have a pencil like that. That’s what I thought and said to myself, ‘I will give Risto the pencil’. Here, take it and stop frowning at me…” Risto looked at her harshly and threatened her with his finger and after a long silence, asked: “What do you want me to write?” “First write that,” she spread her hand wide open and began to list on her fingers one by one, “I wish them to be well and I am hopeful that they are alive and in good health, I love them very much, my love for them is great, greater, I warmly kiss them on the mouth, cheeks and eyes and I want them to be clean and beautiful in body, spirit and mind, I want them to be happy and cheerful as the spring is joyous and merry, to be blessed with peace and kindness, to be fair and merciful, to have understanding for all, to not be envious or jealous, to not want power over others, to not be blind to evil, to love everyone and to be blessed... May the sun shine on them, may God protect them… may they always be safe and protected... They are my eyes… Tell them not to forget their mother and father, grandmother and grandfather, their numerous relatives, our Christian Orthodox faith, our blue sky, green meadows, forests, our home, vineyards and fields, and to look at the world before them with wide open eyes. Tell them to believe in God and to pray to God for the wellbeing of everyone. Tell them not to forget to cross themselves and to be good, smart, brave, proud and without fear of looking into people’s eyes… Tell them not to forget our songs and dances and that they are always in my thoughts, which fly towards them and nothing can prevent them from getting there, not the wind, nor the clouds, nor lightning, nor thunder.

Tell them that my soul hurts and aches for them when I think of them and that my concern for them is great... I want them to return to me as soon as possible....” She paused and looked far into the distance as if looking for her children there. “Ah, if only I was a bird I would fly there to see them… And here in my chest I have a great big lump, here it brews in me and torments me, the sorrow is biting my insides, the pain is eating away in me, the anguish is poisoning me… with tears in my eyes I beg God to keep them safe and to return them to me, to fill my arms with them… they are my dreams, I dream about them and they appear in my dreams, they keep me company in my thoughts… The heart can’t keep silent when we are separated like this and they are gone so far away in unknown alien lands… can the mind be darkened and the thoughts be frozen…? Can they? Let them be alive and well and clean like a tear, in body, spirit and mind… just let them be alive and well… a mother will endure… a mother will always endure like a stone, a boulder, or a mountain endures… each with their own problems… with their own pain…” Her words started to come out broken from her lips. Her voice became quieter resembling the fluttering of trembling leaves. She paused and to Risto it seemed like her voice just died and her breathing come to an end. Inquiringly Risto looked at her face and realized that everything in her had turned upside down, she was covered by a shadow of immense sadness and depression. She moved and leaned her chin on her stiff and hardened hands marred with premature wrinkles and speechlessly stared ahead. Her stare pleadingly flew downhill in search, searching, shifting and probing, greedily pressing into the cracks of time and returning disappointed. She let out a long and deep sigh, waved her hand as if chasing away a bad thought, moved her head slowly and let her eyes relax. There was a barely visible gentle smile beaming from her eyes into her brightened face. She spread her arms as if wanting to hug someone, but to Risto it seemed like she was hugging her children sitting on her lap. She remained that way for a moment and then, after taking a long and peaceful sigh, she crossed her arms, lifted up her eyes towards heaven, and in a humble quiet voice she recited a warm prayer. Risto stirred with his head, looked at the piece of paper, turned it several times and said: “And you think everything you said I can put in this little piece of paper?” “Yes Risto, it can be done, why not?” she answered. “How can I accommodate so many words that you told me?” inquired Risto. “Well, Risto, then don’t write words…” she replied. “Not write words? What then should I write? Words are written in a letter because words speak… What kind of a letter would it be if it had no words? Words my dear woman, words speak…” added Risto. “So it is… words speak, but you don’t need to write words…” she replied. “So then, what should I write?” asked Risto. “Write a flower, an eye, a tear, a bird, a heart…” replied the woman. Risto wrote exactly what Lina told him. “Okay. Here is a flower, an eye, a tear, a bird and a heart. I wrote them…” answered Risto. “Let me see them,” she said and took the piece of paper, looked at it, and a hidden smile appeared in her eyes. “Not like this, not like this, write a flower… write a flower, like that, like the one that grows by your feet… Do you see it?” replied the woman. “Do you mean I should draw a flower?” inquired Risto. “Yes, like that… Did you write it? Good, but make the leaves a little longer… Now write an eye… Here, write my eye… Under the eye now write a tear, my tear that fell and beside it write a bird… write a bird with an open beak and open wings… Did you write it? Now write a heart… write a heart… and under it a drop…” ordered the woman, but before she could finish talking a painful sigh and a moan cut off her voice, tears filled her eyes, overflowed and glistened like pearls on her long, thick dark eyelashes...

She bowed her head down and stared at her crossed hands lying in her lap. The shaking of a leaf in a tree was loud, the buzzing of a bee flying around a flower was noisy, the water running down the brook was thundering… the wind became wicked, infuriating and started howling, the sky went dark, the roads and highways became narrow and screams were pouring, flooding the valleys, a blunt blow to the plough pushed it further into the ground, a crow crowed on the crest of the oak tree… silent whimpers, distant shouts and pleading cries… Lina wiped the hanging tear, searched in her chest, took out a crumpled up piece of paper and, extending it to Risto, said: “Now put in this…” “And what is this?” asked Risto. “It is, how they say… It is the place where their father lives. There the way it is written, lives their father. So they can write him a letter, but with words… Put it inside and fold it like you fold all the letters and throw it over there in the bags… The women said the man from the big post is coming today…” replied the woman. It is like this every day, at midday, under the thunderous roar of aircraft, under the thick shadows of the beech trees, Risto writes the letters and adds more from himself than they tell him. He knows their wishes, their great and immense pain and love for their children, their concern and care and the hundreds of doubts they have and questions they want to ask. He knows what words will make them secretly smile and which ones will make them sigh a long sigh and remove their black kerchiefs and wipe their tears with its corner. He knows when they lose their voice and how long it takes before it comes back and before they can say more kind and gentle words… He knows the secrets that hide in their hearts and thoughts, he comforts them, he reassures them and he implores them not to worry so much, to be calm and to hope and believe… He knows how a woman will speak to her child or children and what words she will use to express her love and concern, what prayers and wishes and how to end the letter. From himself Risto adds that they should be good and study hard, behave and appreciate the mothers who care for them very much. And when there are no replies to the letters, Risto tells the worried and anxious women: “What do you think; those countries that your children were sent to are close by? Believe me, it is a long road from here to there with many bridges and it takes a long time to get there. These countries are far, very, very far…” The Great Lie – Chapter 20

The “big post”, that’s what the women from the villages who dug trenches and built bunkers called the courier service that delivered letters. In a desolate old house in the village, Vineni, three officials from the Censorship Service were discussing a letter on which a man’s address in Detroit, Ohio, United States of America was found. But what attracted their attention most was the drawing of a flower, an eye, a tear and a bird. “The drawing seems very strange. This is the first time I have seen a letter drawing. It could have been written with words and a flower drawn on top, but an eye, a tear and a bird; those carry a lot of human feelings. But only drawings… It really looks very strange,” said the first official. “So? Is this the only time we’ve had such an incident? No, that’s why we are here, to uncover such phenomena,” said the second official. “As I understand it, it seems to me that there is something hidden in the drawing,” said the third official. “I agree with you that the flower, the eye, the tear and the bird have hidden symbolism. But what? Can human feelings be expressed through them?” asked the first official. “It is possible, but… Let’s take the flower for example,” said the second official. “Perhaps through it the writer wants to express his hope, love, kindness, joy, happiness and many other wishes...” said the third official. “Well, can the flower symbolize something else? For example flowers like this grow in such and such a place. And in those places people now dig trenches and build bunkers. In other words it identifies a specific location where something is being done, but what is done, for now, remains a mystery. What other things can the flower symbolize? Besides its basic function to convey something, it symbolizes wilting or evil… It may mean delivering news that many lives were lost, as the saying goes ‘the flower of youth is lost’, in other words; they died in their prime… Comrades, pay attention… There is hidden meaning in the drawing of the flower! Now let’s take the eye. The flower is an indication of the location and the eye sees what is happening there. Events are seen, recorded and memorized. It makes sense right?” asked the first official. “So, the eye together with the flower is spying!” concluded the second official. “Yes, comrades, spying!” agreed the first official. “And the tear?” asked the third official. “Yes, the tear, comrades, symbolizes pain, sorrow or perhaps joy… But in this case the tear may mean great losses, crying, suffering, and misfortune, a reflection of disappointment, lack of fighting spirit, low morale, mistrust and lack of confidence in our struggle… Look at the drawing of the bird. What do you see?” asked the first official. “An open beak and spread wings,” said the second official. “Wings spread wide means information must be delivered in a hurry and the open beak means reveal all locations identified by the flower, everything the eye sees and what the tear says. And where should all this information be sent? Of course to America,” said the first official. “That is confirmed by the address written below the drawing…” said the third official. “It is obvious, comrades… We have a case of espionage…” said the second official. Located two houses over was the headquarters of the Military Security and Intelligence Bureau known as A2. It is the former service which the Greek communists formed in Bulkes with aims of not only maintaining order there, but above all keeping an eye on the refugees. The Yugoslav UDB-a (State Security Bureau) also required this of them. Later, with assistance from the Yugoslav Special Services, it had grown into a security service. In September 1947 when senior party officials, Ioannidis and Stringos, left Bulkesh and moved to the village Vineni in Prespa Region to the seat of the interim government, they brought the notorious service with them. After a short time this service was reorganized and renamed Bureau A2 in whose structure the Military and Security Service was also included.

Apparently, Bureau A2 was now directly managed by DAG (Democratic Army of Greece) Headquarters after serving Ioannidis and Stringos in Bulkes for a year. A while later, this powerful Special Service with its own bodies was expanded to all DAG units. Appointed as heads of the various Bureau A2 branches were associates of political commissars who were given powers to act independently as enforcement authorities, reporting directly to their superiors. They were feared by all but mostly because of their notoriety for filing false accusations against any one fighter or officer alike, especially against devoted fighters and proven officers. The person in charge of Bureau A2 was a man of great confidence. Those on top trusted him but also feared him. Every word spoken in his presence had significance, the tone of voice, the movement of hands and facial muscles, expression in the eyes and even the way a person laughed. No one laughed out loud in front of him. Conversations were mostly official, specific and brief. His motto was “trust no one, doubt everyone”. He had great abilities for remembering everything including all informants by name and never forgot his victims and the means by which had he caught them. He wanted everyone who met him to be afraid of him. He stared into the eyes of those he had conversations with for long periods of time and if they looked away or to the side, he knew he had them and they were under his control. After a while Bureau A2 field agents slackened their discipline and lost the trust and friendship of the units and the fighters. The agents began to doubt everyone and their monitoring and checking activities increased dramatically. Recording information about fighter, officer and civilian activities took on a frightening dimension. There were all kinds of “people from the field” visiting, as the informants used to call them. The spies visited only at night. They would enter and after a brief stay they would exit through another door. There were always five members of the Security Service present at each interrogation session, listening and documenting everything that was said and done, preparing reports and making judgments, usually with a pre-determined result. It was exactly these people who contacted the Department of Censorship on the telephone and had a conversation during which they expressed their suspicions about the sealed envelope with the letter-drawings. “Of course it’s a letter from a spy!” yelled out the chief after a quick look at the letter. “Call someone from the Censorship Department!” he ordered. Bureau A2 calls were treated with urgency, no one dared ignore them or be late for an appointment when they were summoned. But at the same time they were also not sure if they would ever return after attending such an appointment. The mere mention of that service caused people to gasp and go weak at the knees. That’s precisely why the officer from the Department of Censorship ran to the place and stood at attention with contained breath and a rigid look. “When did the letter arrive?” asked the chief in a stern tone of voice. “Two days ago…” answered the officer. “From which sector?” asked the chief. “From Vicho...” answered the officer. “Specifically?” asked the chief. “According to the code on the bag it does not belong to a military unit. It belongs to one of the working brigades...” replied the officer. “Be more specific!” yelled the chief. “The bag carried the code RB/1-7,” replied the officer. The chief picked up several folders. Identified the folder containing codes, opened it, leafed through it, put it to the side and said: “Go now...” “By your command, Comrade…” said the officer who knew the chief’s name but at that very moment he had forgotten it because he was afraid. He was familiar with A2’s role and he understood very well what A2 was capable of. The chief sat at the end of the table, opened the folder and muttered: “It’s true. It’s the working brigades in Bigla, Lundzer, Golinata, Chuka, Polenata, Baro and Iamato.

Three-hundred and sixty women ages thirty-five to fifty-five. Managing the brigade is one Hristos Papadopoulos, now he calls himself Risto Popovski… Born in 1901. Literate. Did not finish gymnasium. Participated in the Greek-Italian war. Demonstrated courage at the battles in Ivan Mountain. Ranked corporal. Awarded medal for bravery. In the spring of 1946 assisted in the attack and destruction of the police station in Makrohori or as they call it, Konomladi. Accused by collaborators, was beaten by the police in Kostur and then sent to a prison camp on the island Ai Strati. Was sent home with broken ribs and a broken left leg. Active in the National Liberation Movement. Because he was incapacitated he could not serve in the military as a fighter so he was given a job in Mali-Madi where he worked until the end of 1948. The Greek government’s Military Court of Division XV, based in Kozheni, sentenced him to death in absentia. He is father to four boys. His oldest son, Traiko, was killed last year at Gorusha during the battles for Gramos. His younger son Trpo is serving in the DAG 18th Brigade and his two youngest sons were sent to the [Eastern European] countries. His wife serves at the working brigades digging trenches and carrying logs for the bunkers at Bela Voda. Distinctive characteristics: long black moustache. “That’s all we have on him in our files. It seems that he could be trusted. At least until now, I say until now because a few days ago he lost the support of the people who trusted him. Because of that all Bureau A2 chiefs at military positions Bigla, Lundzer, Golinata, Chuka, Polenata, Baro and Iamata must be notified by encrypted radio telegrams and ordered to immediately commence inquiry proceedings against this Hristos Papadopoulos or Risto Popovski, as he likes to be called… Carry on!” ordered the chief. The Bureau A2 field chief in command of DAG Brigade XVIII, after reading the telegram, called in his deputy and passed on the order. “Does this mean that I need to bring this Risto here?” asked the deputy. “There is plenty of time to bring him here. First, we know that Risto is suspected and that makes our job easier. Second, we don’t know if he is acting alone or with accomplices. That’s why we need to investigate all those under his command,” replied the field chief. “Do you mean those from the working brigades? Those who carry logs and build bunkers?” asked the deputy. “Exactly! It would be easiest to begin with the women. One by one, talk to them about home, about their husbands, about their children, about their troubles and how they are coping. Do that so that they think you are making ordinary conversation. Talk nice and gentle to gain their trust. And if you learn something do some more inquiring and try and get more information. Catch them on a string and after that we will reel them in and slowly things will unwind. Do you understand?” replied the field chief. The deputy confirmed by shaking his head, unfortunately he was not one of those who knew how to speak gently. Everyone he spoke to seemed suspicious to him. He spoke loudly and with a high tone of voice intimidating his interviewees and causing them to feel uncomfortable. And the uncomfortable feeling they projected was wrongly interpreted as guilt. He claimed that he was satisfied that every person he met and asked questions of was guilty and he entered their name in his book of suspects. The basis of his assessment was that everyone, in whom Bureau A2 was interested, needed to be placed under the shadow of doubt. It was okay to mention their name. That’s what his friend from Bulkesh, and current Bureau A2 chief, taught him to do. And why shouldn’t some woman who carries logs for covering bunkers and digs deep trenches, that needs to be questioned, not be suspected. The fact that she needs to be questioned is reason enough for her to be a suspect. And then who is to know if, through her or some other woman, a hidden dangerous enemy would be uprooted?

The next day, dressed in village clothing and leading a pair of oxen downhill, a man arrived at the beechwood forest where the men were cutting thick and tall beechwood trees with their axes. After he greeted the men he asked: “Who is the person in charge here?” “That person, the tall one,” responded one of the men. “Him with the large moustache?” asked the stranger. “And what do you need him for?” asked the man. “To tell him that the People's Committee village President ordered me to lead these oxen to drag logs,” replied the stranger. “Risto, hey Risto! Come here, someone is looking for you,” called the man. The stranger did not wait and immediately went towards Risto. “Are you the leader?” inquired the stranger. “Yes I am,” replied Risto. “Take these oxen and give me confirmation that you have taken them,” said the stranger. Risto took a paper bag out of his leather pouch, tore a piece of paper the size of his hand, spit on his ink pencil and wrote: “The signatory Risto Popovski today received a pair of oxen.” “Here!” said Risto and handed him the piece of paper. The stranger folded the piece of paper, squeezed it and with his fingers felt its thickness and rigidity. “Anything else?” asked Risto. “No. That’s all. Water, do you have some water?” inquired the stranger. “Wait. Someone has already gone to get some from the spring,” replied Risto. “No, I don’t have time. Another job awaits me. I will drink from the spring on my way. I am going. Be well,” and with the greeting, “all to arms and everything for victory,” the stranger turned around and went. The winding path led him to the spring where two women were slowly filling a bucket with water. He slackened his pace and went behind the thick trunk of a beechwood tree. He listened for a while but could not make out what the women were saying; they were speaking quietly. He moved and at that moment a rock slipped from under his feet and rolled downhill. The conversation stopped and the women raised their heads. They noticed a man coming slowly in their direction. Three or four steps before reaching them the stranger greeted them and sat down on a stone near the spring. He took out a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead, face and neck. “It’s hot,” he said, “the heat is burning the grass… Can I drink some water?” “Here, help yourself,” said the woman in the black kerchief whose gray hair was barely noticeable. Without looking at his eyes she handed him the ladle. He drank eagerly, holding the ladle with both hands. Water ran down both holes where the ladle was tied to a chain and made his chin, neck and chest wet. “Slowly, drink slowly,” remarked one of the women, “the cold water will give you a headache.” The stranger shook the ladle and while handing it back to the woman said: “Thank you for the water. May God bless you with good health and long life. You too,” he said to the other woman. “I was very thirsty… The weather is hot, very hot…” “Where did you come from?” asked one of the women. “I was up there,” he pointed with his hand. “I led a pair of oxen to drag logs. I saw how women carry long logs on their backs. Poor women, look at them, I feel sorry for them. Do you also carry logs?” asked the stranger. “We’ve been carrying logs for the entire month,” said the older woman; at least that’s how it’s been for us. “Have you been home?” asked the stranger. “We do go home but not every day…” answered one of the women. “Don’t they stop you from going home?” asked the stranger. “No. No they don’t. Risto let’s us go…” answered one of the women. “And who is that Risto?” asked the stranger. “The one who is in charge of us, he is like our commander…” replied one of the women. “He must be a good person,” said the stranger. “He is a very good person. Gentle. He always speaks to us kindly and with respect. He never scolds, he does not yell when a woman is too tired to carry a log, he lets her rest, to catch her breath, sometimes he lifts the log to her shoulder…

That’s how he is… And he allows us to go home. To prepare some food for the old, to wash their clothes and those who have very young children, infants, he allows them to go three times a day to feed them and change their diapers…” replied one of the women. “And with the Partisans, do you have anyone with our military?” asked the stranger. “My husband is with the 103rd Brigade. I also have two brothers…” the woman turned her head, her shoulders shook as she quietly wept and with the corner of her black kerchief collected her tears. “The younger, the eighteen year old, died last year, somewhere in Gramos, and the older one, the twenty year old, died in Lerin…” she said. “I am sorry for your loss…” said the stranger “I am very sad… etc., etc., what can we do… And you, where are yours?” he asked the other woman. “I am left all alone. I have no one at home. My in-laws are both dead…” replied the other woman. “And your husband?” asked the stranger. “My husband is in America…” said the other woman. “And do you have anyone with the Partisans?” asked the stranger. “Yes I do…” replied the other woman. “Who?” asked the stranger. “A son and a daughter,” said the other woman. “Volunteers?” asked the stranger. “They were collected two years ago. Some people came and took them,” replied the other woman. “And in the [Eastern European] countries?” asked the stranger. “My youngest son…” replied the other woman. “How old is he?” asked the stranger. “He just turned sixteen… they took him too…” replied the other woman. “And how do you know?” asked the stranger. “The women saw him in Zhelevo. There were many boys like him there. They collected our boys, may sickness collect them…” replied the other woman. “And what did you do?” asked the stranger. “We cursed and stopped carrying logs and building bunkers. Some of the women fled. Then we wrote a letter to those above and asked them to return our children…” replied the other woman. “Can you write?” asked the stranger. “Some of us can write but most of us can’t that’s why we asked Risto to write the letter to those up high…” said the other woman. “And did he write one?” asked the stranger. “Yes he did. And all those who couldn’t write signed it with a cross…” replied the other woman. “And where did he get the paper?” asked the stranger. “From the paper bags they carry up there. We secretly collect them before they burn them…” replied the other woman. “And do you write your own letters to your children and relatives?” asked the stranger. “Well, those who can write, write their own letters. And we who don’t know how to write, we ask Risto to write them for us, he writes what we tell him…” replied the other woman. “And he writes them?” asked the stranger. “He always writes if we ask him…” replied the other woman. “That Risto is truly a good person, right?” asked the stranger. “You can’t find a better person…” replied the first woman. “It’s getting late, I need to go. Thank you for the water and for the chat. My work awaits me and they up there are waiting for the water. Hurry. They are thirsty up there…” concluded the stranger and left. By midnight they had completed writing the report in which they wrote: “In accordance with the orders received the previous day we started and finished the investigation. We came to the following conclusion. First: letters written to the children in the [Eastern European] countries and the letter written to General Headquarters were written on paper obtained from paper bags. The writer is Risto Popovski. Second: He allows women to leave the combat zones, meaning, they abandon carrying logs and digging trenches. We are awaiting further orders.” In accordance with the encrypted radio telegram the Bureau A2 office composed a report and sent it to DAG Headquarters. The following was written in the report: “Bureau A2 has received information that Hristos Papadopoulos or Risto Popovski, the lead of the working brigades, has stolen paper from the paper bags used to store sugar, rice and other food items sent to us by our allies.

He was also the one who wrote a protest letter regarding the mobilization of a number of former children who were sent to the [Eastern European] countries. By this act he uncovered strictly confidential military secrets. He also allowed people, especially the women in the working brigades, to leave their jobs. This is done deliberately to slow down the building of bunkers and digging of trenches, which is pure sabotage. The occasional absence of women may give them opportunity to escape and go to Tito, our enemy, and provide him with information regarding our hiding places and locations of our bunkers. Many defectors and refugees were arrested last week at the Yugoslav border. Adult refugees and defectors, according to our current directives, are to be shot on site. Juveniles are to be taken to the camps in Drenovo. In anticipation, we wait for your orders. Greetings, your comrades.” The next day a reply came from General Headquarters: “The perpetrator of these hostile acts is to be immediately arrested, court marshaled and executed.” Risto was arrested the same evening, tied and taken to prison in the village Drenovo in Prespa Region. The Great Lie – Chapter 21