Front Matter - Part 03

On the peninsula, opposite Nivitsi, in the thin grove at the very top of the hill was the old border watchtower. Its walls, once white, were now blackened, cracked and bent in jagged strips, carved and eroded by the passage of time and neglect. The strong winds and the rain had taken their toll on the building. Large patches of greenish-brown moss now covered the naked bricks. Only the roof had been restored and on top of the red French tiles, two or three layers of branches had been laid and covered with a barely visible fish net. Looking at this building from Drenicheno, Bela Voda, Licets or even further, one would get the impression that the place was abandoned and that trees were growing on it. Inside however, everything was clean, the walls were painted white and the floors were covered with thick colourful hand-woven, woolen carpets. One could travel to the watchtower from Nivitsi in less than thirty minutes if you took the narrow, rocky path beginning at the end of the cobblestone road below the village. The path passed by the bay of the dirty, muddy lake where domestic animals drank water and muddied the coastline with their hooves. There was also a donkey path near the watchtower. There were two barely visible openings in the rocks, which could only be seen by the keen eye of a careful observer, or by a traveler who strayed too close accidentally; a village shepherd, peasant, or herdsman passing by. A watchful eye was kept on Nivitsi through one of the openings. The other opening, the one located a little to the south, was used all the time, day and night, to keep watch over the path that led from Orovo to the watchtower. In front of the openings there were two rows of circular trenches used for defense. These too were invisible even to the sharpest eye. To the west there was a stone staircase, carved by hammer and chisel, leading up to the tower via the steep tilted slope. There were thick ropes on both sides of the staircase running from top to bottom. There was a fishing boat near the shoreline pushed against a crack in the rock and tied with a chain to a thick stake. The boat was there just in case, God forbid, something terrible happened and there was a need to flee to Albania in a hurry. All this was done, prepared and ready for the duration of the battles fought in Gramos. All around was silence. On the bare rocky hilltops of Mount Dzvezda and high up along the Mount Galichitsa incline the terrain looked like it was engulfed in purple flames. The sun was large and red hanging over a gap that separated Galichitsa in two. The sun’s crescent shone through the gap, making the water of Lake Prespa look like it was on fire, burning with purple flames. The glorious setting of the translucent, velvet sun lasted for only a moment before its red disc slowly disappeared behind the mountain. The Galichitsa shadow now stretched over the lake. In the shade the waves rolled and tumbled gently. A slight breeze blew over the lake waking it up, making the water tremble and quiver. Bands of small waves with reddish-purple crests rolled from coast to coast cutting and gilding the lake waters, caressing, splashing and lovingly kissing the coastal stones. With the last rays of the sun the day slowly faded into twilight. But up there, up in Galichitsa, it was still warm as the sun with its last breath shone on top of Mounts Pelister and Bela Voda. The cry of a lone bird was heard in the distance. The bird was floating on the water, forgotten and separated from its flock. It beat its wings and pushed the water into the dense reeds. Darkness descended and thickened over the water making the lake look like a large, grayish-pink mirror. The Nivitsi fishermen, mostly aged men, pulled their fishing boats out of the water. Quietly they shook their fishing nets, placed the fish in large bushels and hung their nets to dry. Pale, dim shimmering light could be seen coming from the kerosene lamps that burned inside the houses in Nivitsi. Curtains were being closed behind small windows.

The village was slowly sinking into darkness. There was no more light. Such was the order of things and those who knew about order would tell you that light attracts alien and undesirable eyes. High above Lake Prespa, over the peak of Mount Pelister the full moon shone. Housewives set their dinner tables. The heavy boots of night patrolmen could be heard marching, pounding the cobblestones of the narrow village streets. The freshness of the air on a clear night brought out aromas of mead, freshly baked warm bread and freshly baked fish. A storm was brewing in the distance beyond Bela Voda. It was the roar of thunderous cannons but their long volleys and shells could not reach here. Late in the evening hours, a dirty unwashed jeep arrived. With its bright glaring lights on, it parked in front of a house. The yard of the house was fenced with a high wall and in front of it was a huge tightly locked, thick wooden door. Several men carrying automatic rifles surrounded the house. A man wearing an English overcoat came out of the jeep. One of the escorts pointed to the house and suddenly all the men ran for the door. A noise was heard inside; it was the sound of the door lever being released. The gate was flung open. The man wearing the English overcoat, like a shadow, separated himself from the group and entered the gate. The gate was flung shut, closing behind him. Three armed men remained outside. In the courtyard, lit by the light of the full moon, two men stood up from a wooden bench under the stairs and quickly came to greet the newcomer. Who was this person wearing the English overcoat and who were the two men who came to greet him? Those watching did not know. They only knew the five guards from the security platoon. The men inside greeted the newcomer and shook hands. They spoke briefly and one went to the barn. He fetched two saddled horses. The newcomer mounted the black horse and left through the door. In the dark of night the gallop of the horses could be heard on the village cobblestones. The horses descended towards the lake and after some time disappeared beyond the bay. In front of and behind the horses marched the security people who accompanied them. Before arriving at the watchtower, roosters could be heard crowing in Nivitsi. The room was large and spacious, lit by two kerosene lamps. A fire was burning in the fireplace spreading its warmth all through the room. The kerosene lamps, with their wicks set just right, were emitting a pale, whitish, trembling warm light. Blankets were hung over the three windows. Placed in the left corner of the room, was a broad wooden table made of finely planed planks. On top of the table was a red table cloth and a jar full of colourful pencils. Further over there was a box and beside it was a small table. On it was a battery operated radio and a pile of newspapers – Greek, Russian, English, German, etc. To the right of the table were two sets of black field telephone equipment. Under the western wall was a broad iron bed covered with a thick red woolen bedcover. On it rested a large white pillow embroidered with colourful patters of flowers and birds in flight. On the wall above the table, under a large portrait of Stalin, was a geographical map of Greece and to its left and right sides were two topographical military maps, one of Vicho and the other of Pindus, all dotted with red and blue arrows and flags. No sooner had the newcomer stepped into the room than he headed straight for the wall with the maps. Slowly he removed his backpack from his shoulder, opened it and carefully began to rummage through it. “Comrade Zahariadis,” said one of the men in the room “the two topographic maps reflect today’s activities on the fronts and…” “I can see that,” said Zahariadis quietly with a long drawn out voice. The room was quiet for a long time while Zahariadis gazed at the maps and made notes. Then he stepped back, lowered his backpack to the floor, turned and said: “Call General Headquarters and tell them to prepare a larger topographic map with all the details of Vicho for tomorrow.”

Then with his right hand he waved for the people in the room to leave. He looked at the clock and then covered his face with both palms and yawned widely. Zahariadis opened the fly soiled white cover on the window and looked outside at Bela Voda. He then stepped out on the wooden balcony. He felt a cool breeze and raised his coat collar. He put his hands inside the pockets of his shabby old windbreaker and, while looking ahead, slowly stepped forward and walked down the hill. When he arrived at the dirty, muddy bay he turned left. He stood by the shore for a moment and then bent down and scooped a palm full of water. He looked behind. You never knew, even a stray bullet might hit and kill you. At a distance he could see moving shadows; they were his security detail. He rose up, took off his cap, stroked his hair and for some time gazed at the vastness of the lake. There was only silence beyond the lake. He looked to the right. The hilltops of Tsutse, Baltan, Veternitsa and Golema Chuka were quiet and resting under a blanket of morning fog. He looked down the road and repeated the names “Dolno, Dupeni, Ljubojno and Asamati” of the villages located on the other side of the border. Yes, Ljubojno and Asamati. Especially Asamati, it was deeply engraved in his memory. He pulled out his binoculars from their case and pointed the circle of sight at Chuka. He looked down, slowly, down and there he saw Pretor, a wide, sandy strip. He looked to the left along the coastline and yes, there was Asamati. He raised his binoculars slightly but he could not find what he was looking for. Then he turned the sight slightly to the right, ah, there it was… Yes… This was the villa which two years ago, in the spring of 1947, he had received from Lazo Kolishevski as a gift. He remembered that it was late afternoon while walking in the orchard that Kolishevski had said to him, “Comrade Zahariadis, in addition to the overall assistance that Yugoslavia will continue to deliver and provide for the Greek democratic movement and your armed struggle, I want you to have this villa which will be fully at your disposal… Until now this villa belonged to the Politburo and from this day forward it will be at your disposal…” “And to whom did this villa previously belong?” enquired Zahariadis. “The villa once belonged to a Russian white guard, who was placed at the disposal of the Royal Yugoslav Army. I believe his name was Gritsenko. The man was familiar with military ships so he was appointed Commander of the Military Navy in Ohrid and Prespa. Here he bought a large estate, planted orchards and vineyards and built his villa… It is very beautiful… There is no better place in the entire Prespa Region…” confirmed Kolishevski and he continued. “Afterwards the National Liberation government confiscated it…” “And what happened to the Russian?” interrupted Zahariadis. “That’s another story…” remarked Kolishevski. Zahariadis, no longer pushing the point, knew very well what had happened to the Russian and what they did to people like the Russian in Russia and in other countries that followed Russia’s path… “Asamati… there is the villa… I see it,” Zahariadis muttered excitedly as his memories of the old days slowly began to return. The day Kolishevski handed Zahariadis the villa he gave him permission to enter Yugoslavia like a man enters his own backyard. There was a jeep made available to take him from the villa in Asamati to Markova Noga and back. The driver and his UDBA (State Security Bureau) guards were Macedonians. He was also assigned a cleaning lady and two female cooks to do shift work – they too were Macedonians... The Macedonians were very generous and thoughtful people... Zahariadis remembered the memorable evenings he had at the villa when Lazo Kolishevski used to come to visit. He especially remembered the spring of 1947 when a table was set in the yard with roasted lamb, fresh baked carp from Lake Prespa, aged red and white wine from Kavadartsi and wine from the Royal Winery now called the People’s Winery of Demir Kapia.

He also remembered the aroma of the spring flower blossoms and the scent of freshly cut grass... And who could forget, ah, the nights filled with the song of the blackbird... Asamati… Until April 1948, before the barns over the village Vineni were constructed and outfitted, Zahariadis, Markos and their closest associates often spent nights in the villa, as if the towns German, Grazhdeno, Orovo, or Nivitsi were beneath them. Here they roamed around the orchards and walked along the narrow path leading to the lake. Here Zahariadis found peace. Wake up time was five o'clock in the morning. He began his day with morning exercise, a daily habit he had acquired in the prison cells in Akronavplia, Kerkyra and the camp at Dachau. No one was allowed to bother him during his exercise even if there was an emergency. His exercises took half an hour after which he shaved and washed with cold water. He always shaved in front of his small mirror given to him by his cellmate from the Akronavplia prison before he was executed. Zahariadis did not like large mirrors because they reminded him of the time he had served in Kerkyra prison when two of his companions stabbed each other in their shared shower with pieces of glass from a big mirror. He thought of his companions as cowards and unworthy of being communists and revolutionaries because they succumbed to torture and took their own lives in a cowardly way. But ... tfu (spit), tfu (spit) may evil stay far away... One never knew whose hand would break a sharp piece of glass from a large mirror… He shaved every day and always alone. But before performing his daily shaving routine, Zahariadis always made sure the bathroom door was closed and the door was locked from the inside. He took his time shaving and when he was finished he placed his shaving equipment and mirror at the bottom of his backpack. He often cut his nails and washed his clothes. He could not stand dirt. Zahariadis always put on clean clothing in the morning and combed his thick, curly black hair before breakfast, which he prepared himself. He was neither a glutton nor a fussy eater. He usually ate a can of meat or fish, an egg, a slice of cheese and some bread. Not necessarily all at the same time. Sometimes he ate just canned meat, a slice of cheese and many times he ate bread thickly covered with sugar. He loved mountain tea. When he was in Prespa they brought him mountain tea from Malimadi and in Gramos mostly from Odreto. His bodyguards and his personal courier always brought him mountain tea in their backpacks. He also drank countless cups of coffee. Unsweetened to keep him alert and awake, but sometimes after drinking too many cups he felt nauseous. He never left anything to chance. He always checked everything. He did not tolerate forgetfulness, disorder, disobedience, tardiness and jobs not done on time. He often said and instructed: “Knowledge, intelligence, order and self-discipline – are the mother of success. Exactly that; self-discipline and stick to it as the Roman Pope sticks to morning prayer.” And that he pressingly demanded from all his subordinates and associates. It was in his nature since his prison days and since his long stays in Russia to have a strong sense of caution, sickly distrust and suspicion. He did not trust anyone, even though he told them that he had great and unlimited confidence in them. His half-closed eyes left a strong impression of cunning and wisdom in everyone, always hiding his mistrust and countless questions. Loneliness was his only company. He was used to it since his childhood, continued with it in his youthful years and strengthened it in the prison cells and camp Dachau. He could not accommodate a large number of people around him and had no tolerance for closed quarters. He could not tolerate anyone standing behind him or not looking into his eyes. He wanted the individual or the crowd to be in front of him, to look into their eyes and see their faces, hands and reactions. He could not tolerate people standing in front of him with hands in their pockets.

Who knows what they had there? He was always alert. He had a talent for talking to people and while chatting he was able to adjust his conversation to suit the person to whom he was talking. He not only wanted to hear what the person had to say, but also to give them his support, to let them know that he and only he was right and promised the person that he would personally help them right all wrongs. He was well educated in such matters in the party schools in the Soviet Union and certainly had long conversations with Stalin, his teacher and educator. He was convinced that only those who were able to attain unlimited power, would have unlimited ability to rule over plight and grievances, pain and suffering, the wishes and fancies of the unprotected and individuals and entire nations deprived of rights. He had the ability to come down to everyone’s level and then rise up high above them. He was able to do this on an individual level as well as with a crowd. He knew how to manipulate the emotions of individuals and crowds and, to gain their confidence, he gave them his highest respect. He was able to instill his thoughts into them and when they rejected their own thoughts and will, he had them, he owned their hearts and souls and their desires. He had the gift of talking to people perfected and deeply aspired to penetrate the feelings and souls of the mistreated and the suffering. His gift was also shaped, sustained and supported by those closest to him. They praised and glorified him, adding to his natural gift and power, feeling great under his shadow and under it they themselves gained glory and importance and they were always satisfied, collecting crumbs from the rich table. They were his long arm who knew very well how to punish harshly. His mouth praised, promised and called on everyone to take up arms, to trust him and follow his lead blindly, to give up their precious lives in order to bring him victory. And he, Zahariadis, in turn, knew how to repay them with praise… Asamati… The network that promised enlargement was tangled in the distant large, wide and warm cabinets, but here it continued to be knitted. Asamati… Here, in the splendour of the vineyards when the grapes and apples matured and dispensed their aroma, at the end of September 1947, he convened the Third Plenum which lasted two days, enough time to question Markos. He now remembered asking Markos whether Aegean Macedonia was going to be free by 1948. Unfortunately he did not like Markos’s short answer when Markos said, “Yes provided that the Party initiates a program to rally the Party Organizations in the cities to mobilize 60 to 70 thousand fighters.” But Zahariadis had already formulated the idea for liberating Aegean Macedonia and Thrace with their capital Solun and soon was going to draft a plan code named “Limnes”. Markos however refused to deviate from his own thought that the cities held the largest reserves of fighters, where the working class was numerous and where a myriad of hardened fighters existed with experience from the resistance against the Italians and Germans. “Without these fighters going to the mountains,” said Markos “we will continue to fight a Partisan war.” Unfortunately, Zahariadis knew little about the Partisan movement and even less about waging war but agreed to mobilize all he could, speaking openly for the first time about the needs of the Democratic Army of Greece (DAG) – food, clothing, drugs, weapons, which were to be primarily delivered by the Yugoslavs and other friendly Eastern Europeans. He said that the weapons were promised to him and that he would arrange to have thousands of rifles, machine guns, cannons and even tanks and planes. Everyone was delighted, including Markos who immediately suggested that Zahariadis be appointed Commander in Chief of DAG. Zahariadis declined, arguing that the Party, meaning himself, needs stay out of all this so that he could keep control of politics and other things. Asamati… Here, after long discussions lasting all night, on December 23rd, 1947, the Provisional Democratic Government of Greece was formed.

And still Zahariadis couldn’t forgive himself for appointing Markos as its President… Here they wondered and argued about how to lead an armed struggle rarely agreeing on a common strategy. Here, while they were relaxed and their conduct and conversations were tolerable, Zahariadis, for the first time expressed his idea to Markos about forming a regular revolutionary army. Markos did not accept the idea arguing that Partisan tactics in this country had served their struggle well, brought them success and gained them sympathy from abroad. After that their discussions became vigorous, they went their separate ways and were bitten by the bug of doubt and mistrust… Zahariadis turned and slowly, taking tiny steps, went closer to the shore. He paused and again stared at Asamati. And from here, from the curve, the roof of Gritsenko’s villa could be seen. He stared at it for a long time. And with those thoughts he took to the road, the road he remembered well, the road he had traveled many times at dusk and late at night riding in his old, worn out jeep; a jeep given to him by Tito. But in his travels to Skopje, from Ljubojno or from Asamati, Zahariadis remembered the black limo he used to ride in, always escorted by armed guards. And when he arrived at his destination there was always a nice warm hotel room reserved for him equipped with clean towels, scented soaps and a bathtub full of hot water. Unfortunately he never had time for enjoyment not only because he was a nervous character but because his job required him to rush. Besides his busy schedule he also had to adapt to weather conditions and to the schedules of the people with whom he was meeting. It was important to him that he was seen and perceived as a well mannered and educated person who knew how to find his way around every opportunity and with all kinds of company. He usually had his dinner late at night, after he had his bath. Outside the door of his well-kept apartment stood people with frowning faces, bearing automatic rifles well hidden under their leather coats. With dinner he drank wine, aged Macedonian red and white wine, which put a smile on his face erasing the deep, dark sadness hidden behind his eyes. He slept until the crack of dawn. Early morning he began with a quick shave (he always shaved himself, he had no confidence in others, especially surrendering his throat to someone else), strong black coffee and a ride to the airport in the same, well concealed (from eyes and ears) limo. His destination was Belgrade, a lovely and dear city. He fell in love with Belgrade after watching it from Dedinje at night and in the early hours of the morning. And now, standing at the lake’s shoreline, looking into the foggy distance he knew that there behind the dark cloud was Asamati where he found peace in the white two-story villa. In Asamati he could surrender to his thoughts while enjoying the warm heat radiating from the fireplace, the grace of good red Macedonian wine and the pleasantness of a large piece of warm, village baked bread… How many times had he traveled on that old, pothole filled, muddy road? He knew all the villages and from each he remembered something; a conversation, a smile, a grip of a handshake, a raised fist signaling victory… He got all the attention from the people… Markova Noga. It was like a door to the world and the road usually began at Nivitsi, Vineni, Grazhdeno, or Orovo. And always at hand was his jeep. This is where the road he traveled began leading through Skopje and ended in Belgrade. He loved Belgrade with its two rivers, whose reflection he could see from Dedinje at night. He loved the city lights, the quiet wide streets on which he rode with his friend that he had met in Moscow, and yes, those long discussions, in the Marshal’s car. What did they talk about? Only they knew. Sometimes, when he was lonely, he would wonder why the Marshal had wanted to have those conversations in his black Mercedes driving alone, the two of them, along the empty and well lit Belgrade Revolution Boulevard, so close to the many eyes and ears of a large number of his security people and yet so far away from his associates?

He remembered well what he promised him. Much more than the others promised… From Belgrade to Moscow he usually traveled by train via Prague, the three cities he truly loved the most. He loved Moscow because he had met the woman whom he had loved for his entire life there. There he had learned to love communism and met and loved Stalin, a man whom he trusted and admired. He loved Prague not only for the woman he had fallen in love with while studying at the Marxist Communist University in Moscow, but for many other reasons. From all the cities of the world he truly loved Prague the most; its river Vltava with its famous Karlov bridge, museums, cafés, bars, baroque buildings, cobblestones and the quiet melodious voices of the people… Modestly dressed, holding the hand of the woman he loved, he strolled through Vatslavski park then crossed over the Karlov Bridge to the top of the Royal Palace. He felt terrible pain and sorrow every time someone mentioned the name Prague, a city he loved above all the cities in the world. Every time he visited this woman and the city he fell in love with both even more… Moscow and Belgrade were the cities where he studied but Athens was the city where he acquired his practical knowledge of the proletarian and world revolution. He hated Athens but loved Belgrade. In Belgrade he had his first, and perhaps his most important discussions about joining or not joining the armed struggle, for which evidence and justification he found in Moscow. Conversely, the road from Vineni and Nivitsi passed through Prague and Belgrade, and from there to Gramos, mostly through Albania. When he returned to Nivitsi, Zahariadis would lay down on the iron bed that dedo (grandpa) Mitre had brought from Solun, which he bought with the first money he had earned as a pechalbar (migrant worker) in America. From the pocket of his English military blouse, Zahariadis often took out a picture of his woman and son who now lived in Prague and would look at them with glum and sad eyes. Then he would sigh and whisper, “Ah Prague, you are most beautiful when the acacia and wild chestnut trees bloom along your wide boulevards, when the lilacs blossom in the gardens, when the flowers in flowerpots placed in the windows and balconies bloom in the warm, humid Prague nights.” He also loved the Bohemians of Prague, who, when drunk with beer would urinate behind a corner while loudly, and without breaking the conversation, debated about changing the world. Weighed down by these reminders, he heard the blackbird sing in the night, which to him sounded like a violin playing… He got to the end of the peninsula, turned around at the first houses in Nivitsi and began his way back, retracing his footsteps. “Living space,” he said, often speaking loudly as though someone was listening to him very carefully but would not hold him accountable for what he said. “We will only have Vicho as our living space; Gramos will soon be lost. Southern and Central Greece no longer exist for us. There we lost almost all of our detachments, they were destroyed. A total defeat! Two battlefield strongholds - Vicho and Kajmakchalan. The entire region is populated with Macedonians. They should be fully utilized to turn the tide to our advantage. Full mobilization is needed. It needs to be done as soon as possible. But how? Who can I ask for advice? Is there anyone who would now support me fully? Markos? It is apparent that he is incapable. I am in great need of the miserable Velouhiotis or Sarafis. Yes Sarafis, the only educated officer from the ranks of ELAS (National Liberation Army of Greece)… Gousias, Vlandas, Bardzotas ... yes, they too will undertake anything if I promise to save their heads... they have no choice. They will accept my offer. They are simple people, obedient, eager to act and faithful like shepherd dogs. What about the deserters? They too are looking for action. And I hope they don’t think they have the support of the people? With one motion of my finger I can have them disappear.

And they think they have the peoples’ support. No they don’t! I am here and they there,” pointing north with his hand “in Skopje! In the interest of the struggle I still protect and support them. Otherwise they would be executed. Watch them carefully and keep them at a distance. It is obvious that they are Tito’s agents and dislike one another. They don’t even greet one another. Everyone slanders everyone in my presence… There was need to execute Vera and some others; Urania, Pavle… They constantly sent reports to Lazo. Our intelligence service knows this, has reliable evidence. Let them do what they want. One day I will strangle them with those reports. I will force them to eat them and then I will tell everyone that the peoples’ court found them guilty. Then I will send after them the mothers and fathers of the children who already died. I will tell them it was their fault they died. I will initiate public anger against them. I will send the International Communist and Workers’ Movement against Tito...” declared Zahariadis to himself in a loud, angry voice. New ideas, new intentions and a new future were spinning in Zahariadis’s head. It was important to him that every idea put forward gain support at the Party Plenum. Enough with the mountains. War should be waged on the village plains and in the towns and cities. That’s where the reserves were. The children too, who had been sent to the Eastern Block countries, were now mature and must be returned to take their place in our formations. Everyone to arms and everything for victory! No one stands outside of the formations. And what happens after that? He will explain and they will believe him because that’s what he taught them all to do; to blindly follow and not ask questions. There would be plenty of time for questions. And who would dare ask questions? Who had the courage to challenge Zahariadis? The Party was strong and powerful when it recognized its mistakes. It learned from its mistakes. It was important to have courage to recognize mistakes. And Zahariadis had courage in the recognition of mistakes. He often said, “If the Bolsheviks had the courage to acknowledge their mistakes then why not we their students?” For him the Bolsheviks were an example of everything! The fog that hung over Tsutse was now gone, the wind had done its job. Beyond the lake there was a column of trucks on the road and above them followed a cloud of dust. He knew what the trucks were carrying. He had watched them for two years carry the wounded back and forth… And yes, they were always full. The Macedonian roads from Markova Noga and from Kajmakchalan to Katlanovo, in the last two years, were stained with the blood of DAG fighters and with the tears of the long columns of departing under-aged children separated from their families. The trucks went around the bend and approached Ljubojno. Yes, Ljubojno the village he had come to love. There in the guest room of the National Militia he always felt secure; about the food, the rakia, the wine and about his security people. He felt more secure there than he did at Nivitsi, Vineni, Grazhdeno, or Orovo. He felt more secure with his guard, his driver and his two civilians under whose leather coats automatic rifles always hung. Yes he always carried that with him but what did he believe? What did he think of the people in Macedonia? A wild bunch! Balkanites who were always looking for something, wanting something and plotting something, especially against their own kind… Suddenly he remembered his last trip to Skopje, Belgrade and from there to Moscow and back. To take a short breath, drink a cup of coffee or tea, he often took a trip to the watchtower in Markova Noga. Even though he was unable to see the terrain while driving he always knew where he was on the road and that he was on the right road. He recognized locations by the sharp turns. From the tower he then, without delay, would go straight to Skopje. On the way, being driven on the dusty road, he would call out places like Babuna and Tsrn Vrv recognizing them by the curves in the road, especially those between Veles and Prilep, up to the plains before Skopje.

He knew where, on the right side of the road, there was a gorge cut by the river Pchinja, where wounded and sick DAG fighters were treated in natural hot-baths. He knew this even though he had not been there, not even for a visit. One time a UDBA colonel who, on his trip to Skopje, accompanied Zahariadis from Bitola, proposed that he go to visit his recovering fighters. Zahariadis immediately declined by shaking his hand and said that there was no need because he knew the wounded were in safe and capable hands and that, thanks to that, they would quickly return to the fight again. All the insecurities he had while traveling to Skopje evaporated when Zahariadis entered the thick and massive doors of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Macedonia headquarters. He felt completely at ease there, especially in the guest room which was covered with wide wooden planks with motifs of characteristically Macedonian flora and fauna carved on them. He admired the carvings and was amazed at their beauty and artistic Macedonian craftsmanship, wondering who knew what was embedded in these beauties? First he drank his refreshing juice and afterwards had coffee in the company of the Central Communist Party’s top Macedonian leaders. The conversations were conducted informally in a kind of Slavic Esperanto; he spoke Russian while they spoke Macedonian and Serbian with a touch of folk Macedonian, creating moments of amusement and laughter. But during dinner, conversations were conducted formally through the help of an interpreter who spoke excellent Serbian and Russian. During these memorable conversations Zahariadis would ask his hosts: “How is my dear friend the Marshal? Has he made any changes or any new appointments?” His discussions in Skopje he regarded as more or less casual, but those he conducted in Belgrade were the real thing. His meetings with Tito were very important to him. Depending on his needs and urgency, Zahariadis traveled to Belgrade by train or by plane. For the more urgent requirements he chose a faster mode of transportation. Very few people, however, knew of his visits to Skopje and Belgrade. While traveling to Belgrade, he disabled the handsets on his special telephone equipment. Thinking about his visits to Belgrade reminded Zahariadis of his May (this year’s) visit to the Marshal’s residence where he met two generals from the Yugoslav General Staff. He recalled they were standing, giving a presentation in front of a large military map of Northern Pindus exhibiting a plan which the Greek army General Headquarters had drafted under the expertise of General Van Fleet of the United States and his numerous advisors. Zahariadis listened carefully and then when the generals finished their presentations said: “We too are familiar with the details. We have taken all necessary military precautions and have constructed an insurmountable and unbreakable defense from the Gramos side. We are ready and waiting for the enemy to come to us and when it does we will switch our fighting tactics from defensive to offensive. Our aim is to make the enemy bleed, deliver it heavy losses in men and materials and, at the most appropriate time, mount a counter offensive to prove to them that the Democratic Army of Greece is ready and able to fight a frontal war, which means we will be finished fighting Partisan warfare.” The next day while flying to Moscow he could not get the words “Partisan warfare” out of his mind and, until he landed in Moscow Airport, he was stricken with remorse for using it. He remembered that “Partisan warfare” was the backbone of the Yugoslav struggle. He stayed in Moscow two days and then returned and was picked up by Rankovich at Batajanitsa airport. They shook hands in silence and no discussion took place until dinner. A lavish dinner, hosted by the Marshal, was prepared in Zahariadis’s honour. It was obvious Zahariadis was upset so the Marshal toasted him with aged, white wine to get him drinking and mellowed down.

Whether intentionally or by accident, evidently concerned, Zahariadis let the words “Hazjainot advised me…” slip out. “Did you order?” Rankovich interrupted quietly while smiling at the edge of his mouth. “Hazjainot advised me regarding the newly created International situation, regarding the new hard-line position the USSR and the Peoples’ Democratic countries have taken and told me to end our armed struggle,” repeated Zahariadis as if he did not hear what Rankovich had asked. “They want us to ask for a truce, allow our fighters to surrender their weapons and return home and those who do not want to do that are asked to retreat to Albania. Hazjainot also advised me that he had already spoken to Enver Hoxha and Hoxha has agreed to assist, as per the advice and instructions given to him…” continued Zahariadis. The Marshal and Rankovich looked at each other noticeably. “And did they mention us?” asked Rankovich. “No!” lied Zahariadis. Neglecting to tell them that, while having a dinner for him organized by Stalin, after the third toast, Molotov said: “You, comrade Zahariadis should get ready to fight against revisionism… we know that you maintain good contacts with Tito, but ... somehow you need to find a way to join us ... We have information that there, in Yugoslavia, things are not going well... to us Tito looks very suspicious ... the man wants to be independent when the whole progressive world, under the wise leadership of the great Stalin, struggles to fight against imperialism and for lasting peace...” “No,” repeated Zahariadis “you were not mentioned!” The Marshal and Rankovich looked at each other again. The Marshal touched his empty glass and the waiter filled it with wine. One month after this meeting and two weeks after the start of the great battles in Gramos, on June 28th, Radio Belgrade broadcast the contents of a letter from the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Yugoslavia, written in response to a letter written by the Cominform. With his ear glued to his battery powered radio, while sipping his mountain tea at the General Headquarters of DAG, Zahariadis the Chief of Staff, listened intently to the text being read, then, turning the radio to long wave, intently listened to the news from Moscow. He frowned when the radio lost the signal and the sound became garbled. After listening to the program he understood the strange look on the faces of Rankovich and Marshal Tito when he mentioned Hazjainot. They knew something but kept it from him. And after thinking for a long time he said: “The Yugoslav leadership is not the only victim here; my movement will also suffer in all this.” He already knew what Athens was going to say: “Unconditional surrender or death!” Should he have listened to Stalin? He never told anyone what Stalin had told him, not even his closest associates in the Polit-bureau. It was too late by now; all access to Gramos was already in flames. The next day Zahariadis asked to see Markos, Bardzotas, Vlandas and Gusias so that he could tell them the news that Tito and his Party were condemned by the Comintern. Then after he told them the news he posed the question: “What position will our Party take in regards to the Yugoslav Party which now has split from the anti-imperialist camp?” There was silence! Markos broke the silence and said: “Comrades, we have our own problems and…” “I want a direct answer, Comrade Markos. The question is clear, isn’t it?” interrupted Zahariadis and, without giving any one else the chance to speak, said: “In a time when we lead an open war, our position must be neutral. We all know what Yugoslavia means to our movement. Besides that, our position must also be to keep our Comrade Stalin informed. I don’t see anyone being against that. Do I? …Meeting adjourned!” In the evening, using his encrypted radio, Zahariadis contacted Stalin and among other things assured him that at an appropriate time the Communist Party of Greece would openly side with the Cominform. Going over the experiences and memories of his recent past while taking a long walk along the lake’s shoreline, Zahariadis was formulating new thoughts.

He created new ideas and new plans in his head. He thought the most important thing for him now was to get assistance. It was important that DAG conquer a city and hold it, so that Zahariadis could proclaim it as his capital, and then his friends in Prague, Bucharest, Budapest, Warsaw, Sofia and Tirana would have no choice but to recognize his government and offer greater assistance to his cause… At the same time he was well aware that attempting to capture cities would be costly. There would be many dead and wounded, crippled and maimed and the number of fighters in DAG would be greatly reduced, not to mention the effects this would have on the morale, fighting spirit and enthusiasm of the fighters. But, in spite of its downside, the idea of capturing a city sounded very promising, especially if it attracted the Macedonian population. There was also the prospect of bringing the children, sent to the Eastern Block countries, back earlier. By now they were old enough to make excellent fighters. Everyone to arms and everything for victory! No one stands outside of the formations. And what happens after that? He would explain and they would believe him because that’s what had he taught them all; to blindly follow and not to ask questions. There would be plenty of time for questions. And who would dare ask questions? Who had the courage to challenge Zahariadis? The struggle was necessary and when necessary then there was no question. The Party and the Movement were strong especially when they recognized their mistakes. It was important to know and recognize mistakes and for that it was necessary to have courage. Zahariadis had the most courage of all in recognizing mistakes. He used to say, “If the Bolsheviks had the courage to acknowledge their mistakes then why not we their students!?” For him the Bolsheviks were an example of everything! The Bolsheviks were the top of the top. Zahariadis spoke the word “Bolshevik” with great respect because, to him, it meant perfection. He even pushed Greek, as well as Macedonian, “light” communists to believe in that perfection, which when brought to Greece meant to believe in him. He paused for a moment and gazed ahead. The distance looked empty; but that was only in his own mind. He continued his walk and with his eyes closed conjured up a new idea. He noticed tiny waves splashing at his feet. He knelt down and stretched out his hand. The tiny, foamy waves washing his palm were spreading out and breaking. He curled his fingers into a fist and brought them before his eyes. He stared at them and could not stop staring. He tightened his grip so tight that his eyes became bloodshot. At first the water drained out fast then it dripped out drop by drop. He opened his hand and looked at it. There were coloured lines and indentations in his palm. He smiled. This reminded him of the Gypsy woman he had met in 1929 in Moscow, in Taganka, when he was 25 years old and a student at the Marx Labour University. He was madly in love with the Czech woman. He loved to mix it up with the Moscow youths, listen to them speak and all the while make mental notes of their eyes, hair, physical characteristics, memorizing words he had heard spoken, etc. Then late at night he would go to one of the Party building rooms and busily make notes on what he had seen and heard. The exercise was part of his curriculum. Yes, then while sitting at one of the benches a Gypsy woman had approached him and for two rubles she read his palm. She said “Ой, ой, парень, дорога твоя плохая… дурень ты парень. Вот, смотри, миленький, линия дороги никуда не ведет. Ты красивий, умен, но характер у тебя, характер подлеца. Ты случайно не коммунист?” (Oh, oh, man, your path is bad ... you're a fool boy. Look dear, here is a rich line going nowhere. You are handsome, intelligent, but you have the character of a scoundrel. Are you by any chance a Communist?) He reached the end of the peninsula, paused and looked at the lake all covered with translucent fog.

He continued and paused again staring into the distance and thinking. He had already formulated in his mind what he was going to write and bring to the forthcoming Plenum. He took a sharp turn and at a fast pace began climbing the steps leading to the watchtower. The guards took him to the yard but were unsure where he was going to sleep that night. They were accustomed to him changing plans without notice. He often changed places because he was convinced that he would be safe; convinced that no one had the ability to decide his fate in advance... The Great Lie – Chapter 4