Front Matter - Part 02

John Givens was born in Greek occupied Macedonia in 1934 and spent fourteen years of his childhood in this turmoil before he was torn away from his family, sent to Eastern Europe and permanently exiled.

The conditions which the Macedonian people had to endure during the war years and under Greek oppression had profound effects on the lives of the Macedonian people with lasting consequences. Many of those who could not endure the pressures, and to avoid further torment, gave in to their tormentors and became anti-Macedonians and so did those who saw no benefit in being Macedonian. Many spied and informed on their neighbours and were rewarded by the Greek authorities. Unfortunately this practice continued over the years, not only in the occupied parts of Macedonia but also abroad in the USA, Canada, Australia and other parts of the world where Macedonians lived.

Our enemies who denied our rights and existence and who were more than willing to extinguish our identity and culture at home were also present and active among us abroad, doing the same thing. It was under these circumstances that John Givens, a true Macedonian patriot, became a community leader in the Macedonian community in North America.

John’s book is a testament of what took place during the 1960s, 70s and 80s with regards to the United Macedonians Organization and the St. Clement of Ohrid Macedonian Orthodox Church in Toronto. John begins telling his story with an overview of his own experiences that took place before, during and after the Greek Civil War when many Macedonians were forced out of their homes and exiled to roam the world.

John then turns his attention inward and talks about his personal experiences in North America and the events that took place when he was involved as a community leader in the Macedonian community.

One of the main reasons why John decided to write this book was because he wanted to set the record straight. He wanted to tell the truth about what actually took place during the thirty years he was active in the Macedonian community. To give his story credibility, John has provided genuine proof backed with facts, arguments and authentic documents.

I chose to collaborate with John on this project not only because he is my compatriot or because we are both from the village Oshchima, but because John is a true friend who was the first person to see value in my work. He alone organized and raised funds for the translation and publishing of my book “History of the Macedonian People from Ancient Times to the Present” from English to Macedonian. He also organized and raised funds for the printing and mailing of one thousand copies of my book “Short History of the Macedonian People”, which he personally sent to every library and every major politician in the world.

John has not only helped me with my books but has inspired me to continue to contribute to the Macedonian cause, and I thank him for that.

Risto Stefov.

Preamble From my long years of active participation in the Macedonian community in North America and from being an insider and having first-hand knowledge of the activities and growth of our community in Toronto, Canada, and to a lesser extent in the United States of America, I am more than qualified to tell this story.

Many Macedonians have written books and articles or have given interviews to writers who then wrote about them and about life and activities in our Macedonian community in North America. Unfortunately I don’t agree with all that has been said, especially about my involvement, which motivated me to tell my own story.

I have found some of this information to be half-truths or total lies. Lies told have affected how people perceive those involved in the Macedonian organizations and in the spiritual activity of our community in general. Since I am one of those people mentioned in this literature, I am obligated to defend myself and to tell my side of the story.

Some of the information given out verbally or written on paper was designed to be “politically correct” and to agree with the “current political thinking” without regards to the damage it would cause for those involved, especially those who were innocent of any wrong-doing. Also, in their zeal to support the “flavour of the day”, these people forgot that times could change and have changed and so have people’s perceptions of those days.

Some people may have forgotten that, during the sixties, the Yugoslav Consul General in Toronto refused to take part in Macedonian community activities for the simple reason that his involvement may have been construed as Yugoslav government interference in Macedonian community affairs, even though the consul and his staff were ethnic Macedonians!

Today we have writers in Macedonia, writing stories about “Yugoslav politics” influencing the Macedonian people and their organizations in the Macedonian community of Toronto. The truth is that the vast majority of the Macedonian community in Toronto had origins in Greek occupied Macedonia, which had nothing to do with Yugoslavia, so it would have been difficult for Yugoslav representatives to politically influence them.

Another question that comes to mind is whether the leaders of the Macedonian organizations were pro-Yugoslavs or anti-Yugoslavs. Since I was an active member of two major Macedonian organizations here in Toronto and had contact with the citizens of the Socialist Republic of Macedonia representing the Yugoslav government in Toronto, I can safely provide my own opinion on their attitudes towards the Macedonian community and its organizations.

Let me say that in all of my dealings with these representatives in Toronto, even in private conversations, I was always told: “You do not need to talk too much about Yugoslavia, talk about Macedonia, stay away from politics; you don’t need to be involved in politics. You are a Canadian citizen and you need to build a bridge of friendship between Canada and Macedonia by being a good Canadian citizen. Promote the Macedonian cause in Canada.” As far as I’m concerned, I have never been involved in Yugoslav politics, for the simple reason that I have never lived in the Republic of Macedonia or Yugoslavia. I had visited Macedonia many times as a United Macedonians Committee of Canada delegate and later as a St. Clement of Ohrid Macedonian Orthodox Church delegate. I have also visited Belgrade once while visiting Macedonia in 1980.

Does that make me a pro-Yugoslav? I don’t think so! I was born and raised in Greek occupied Macedonia where I lived until I was 14 years old, at which time I was evacuated from Greece as a child refugee, fleeing from the Greek Civil War. I was educated in Poland and not in Yugoslavia. I have always said that I love Macedonia and its people and all the people and countries that love Macedonia. I am still saying that to this day. As the saying goes, “love your mother before you can love my mother”. My aim, while being involved in the Macedonian community, was to promote the Macedonian national cause and nothing more.

Now I would like to take the opportunity to answer to some of the accusations and lies written about me by my critics, regarding my activities in the Macedonian community in Canada and, at the same time, to publish some material pertaining to the Macedonian community that has not been previously published. But first, allow me to say a few things about myself and my humble beginnings.

My old world - Oshchima Old Oshchima (Staro Oshchima), the name familiar enough to native Oshchimians of today, but to our great - great - great - great grandfather and his son Yovan, it was their birthplace, probably in the early 1700s. Great- great- great grandfather Yovan moved to today's Oshchima and his son Tasho was born. Great- great grandfather Tasho had a son by the name of Vasil.

Great- grandfather Vasil was married to great-grandmother Trendafila, whose maiden name was Dzvezdinova, from the village of Trnava.

Great-grandfather Vasil had a son Kosta (Kote) who was born in 1879.

Grandfather Kote married grandmother Mitra, who was born in 1880, in the village of Krchishta. They had three children, the first one was named Yordana and in the year of

1913 their son and our father Michael (Mike) was born, followed by their youngest daughter, Cveta.

In the year of 1915, grandfather Kosta (Kote) came to Canada under the name of Kosta Vasiloff. On May 6, 1920, grandfather Kote became a naturalized Canadian citizen and assumed the name of Givens that derived from the name of his great-great-great grandfather Yuve.

In the year of 1928, he went back to Oshchima and started a mill business with a friend in Prespa. Due to the oppression under Greek rule, he decided two years later to return to Canada. He worked hard and established himself in a restaurant business at the corners of Queen Street West and Denison Ave., in Toronto.

In the year of 1931, our father was married to our mother Christina, born in the year of 1914, to grandfather Tanas and grandmother Sotira Dinevski (Kozareva), in Oshchima.

In the year of 1932, my sister Sofia was born, followed by me, John in 1934, Peter in 1936 and in 1939, our youngest sister Lena was born.

Grandmother Mitra received her transit visa from the "General Consulate of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia Solun": " ГЕНЕРАЛНИ КОНЗУЛАТ KPAJbEBUHE JYTOCJIABUIE - СОЛУН" on June 26, 1939. Grandmother Mitra left Oshchima for Canada, traveling by train to the town of "JESENICE", Slovenia, a bordering town with Austria. From there, she traveled to Paris, France, "Port De Paris" from where she boarded the boat on the 20th of July, 1939, for Canada. On her arrival in Canada, her passport was stamped by the Canadian immigration in Quebec. P. Q. It was on July 27, 1939 when grandmother Mitra joined grandfather Kosta in Toronto.

The dream of our grandfather Kosta was to re-unite the whole family right after our grandmother arrived in Canada, but his dream was shattered as the Second World War had started.

An incident from my youth I am John (Ioanche), son of Michael (Mihail) and Christina (Ristana) Givens (Janovski), born on November 19, 1934, in the village Oshchima, Lerin Region, Greek occupied Macedonia, also known as “Aegean Macedonia”. I am the second of four siblings, the oldest being my sister Sophie, then myself, followed by my brother Peter and lastly, sister Lena.

My fate was no different than the fate of all the other boys and girls of my generation who lived in my village, Oshchima. The outbreak of the Second World War, followed by the Greek Civil War, robbed us all of the opportunity to have normal lives, to grow up in peace and to attend school in the village.

Even though I was very young at that time, I remember many details of my youth. 1 remember one day well into early spring in 1939, just before the Second World War started, I had an episode which left a lasting impression on my life. I was five years old when I went visiting my neighbour and best friend Peter Tsafovski at his home. Peter was a few years older than me.

While we were visiting, Peter’s mother, Stoiantsa Tsafovska, asked Peter to go to his aunt Mirulka’s house, pick up some supplies and bring them right back. I decided to join him. After we got there, instead of picking up the supplies and returning right away, we decided to stay and bake some potatoes in the oven.

We must have taken an awful long time because Naum, Peter’s older brother, came looking for us. Stoiantsa must have needed those supplies or was worried about us, so she sent Naum to look for us.

By then we were done baking potatoes and were on our way back. Mirulka’s house was located next to a brook which ran through the village and over the brook was a bridge located to the left of Mirulka’s house. As we came out of the house and were about to turn right and go home, there was Naum standing in front of us and looking as mean as ever.

Sensing that we were in trouble, we bolted. Peter took the alleyway, downhill towards the Oshchima River and I ran towards the bridge, next to the kazanche, a small co-op building that housed the village distillery. Unbeknownst to me, Naum stood in front of his aunt’s door, pretending to chase me. While running away from him over the bridge, I sensed he was not close, so I stopped and turned back to look. He was not chasing me but he was going to and at the same time teasing me by taking threatening single steps towards me and then stopping abruptly.

With every step Naum took forward, I took a step back. At this point, I was both nervous because I did not want to be caught and angry with Naum’s taunting. I forgot that I was standing on top of the bridge which had no railings. Naum continued to tease me and after taking a few more steps, I reached the edge of the bridge and fell off. The bridge was built over a rock and under it, to slow the water flow, it was lined with cut rock with sharp edges.

I fell off and landed in a pool of water, face down, and cut my face on the sharp rocks pretty badly. In spite of my injury and the shock I felt, I still managed to get up on my own. I sensed I was bleeding from my face pretty badly so I felt with my fingers and found a gash on the top of my nose. I stuck my finger in it to stop the bleeding, got back on top of the bridge and went home.

The injury I sustained from the fall that day has left a scar the size of a dime on my nose. Naum, who must have been both terrified and guilt ridden, bolted from the scene, not even bothering to check if I had survived the fall. When I got home, the first person I ran into was my grandmother, Mitra (Baba Koteitsa). She took me into the kitchen and worked frantically on my nose, trying to stop the bleeding. In those days there were no doctors in the villages and the chances of seeing one were next to none, so we did whatever we could on our own. The biggest worry my parents and my grandmother had was whether they would be able to patch up the hole on top of my nose, or if I was going to be left with a third nostril on my face. This was a very traumatic experience for me which I have not forgotten. I still carry the scar on my nose, and every time I am in front of a mirror I look at it and remember that part of my childhood, in my native village, Oshchima.

Memories of my birthplace Oshchima As a young man, my father attended school in Solun where he studied to become an expert tailor. Besides working as a clothier, he was also involved in the farm at home.

Our family had the largest orchard in the village, located in Katin Livage, where my father had built a kaliva (cabin).

I remember spending time in the kaliva in late summer and early fall when I was eight and nine years old, while looking after the orchard, which was located next to the forest.

At that time, the kaliva was not quite finished but had a usable fireplace and four unfinished windows, a couple facing south and the other two facing north. The front of the kaliva was finished with large glass windows facing the orchard and a French door, made mostly of glass. The window openings were temporarily covered with loose bricks.

After finishing his work, my father would come to the kaliva and spend the nights with me. He usually arrived late in the night but sometimes he came early in the morning.

My everyday companion at the kaliva was our dog Hitler. Hitler had a keen awareness and could sense my father approaching from a kilometre or two away before he reached the orchard. Hitler always ran out to greet him.

This one night Hitler had left and was nowhere to be found, so I was alone in the kaliva. My uncle Stoyan (my father’s first cousin) had an orchard next to ours but on that particular day there was no one there. Uncle Stoyan, Aunt Stoyantsa and my uncle’s parents were working at the farm in Gomnush, the mountain under which our orchard was located.

At the end of the day, everyone went home except Uncle Stoyan who, unbeknownst to me, had decided to walk through the forest in the pitch dark, carrying an axe for protection. Still unbeknownst to me, he arrived in Katin Livage late that night and not knowing that I was all alone in the kaliva, he decided to play a trick on me by pretending to be a bear.

I sat next to the fireplace while I waited for my father to arrive and could not hear much as the burning fire was making a lot of crackling noises. Then suddenly I heard a loud noise under one of the windows on the south side. I became anxious and fear began to overwhelm me. I tried to hear where the noise was coming from and what was making it.

The next thing I heard was a knock on the window bricks to my right, on the south side, followed by the roar of a bear. I suddenly stood up in front of the fireplace and listened intently, waiting for the bear to come around. I then heard another knock, this time on the north window, followed by another bear-like sound. Then suddenly, I sensed that the bear had come to the front door. It was very dark that night, my hair was standing up and I was trembling uncontrollably, filled with fear. I grabbed a burning branch from the fireplace, screamed with all my might and threw it across the room, hitting the door, hoping to scare the bear away and prevent it from coming inside. At that very moment, my uncle must have realized that I was alone in the kaliva and revealed himself by calling to me not to be afraid. In a high-pitched voice he yelled out; “Joanche, Joanche (Johnny, Johnny), don’t be afraid, it’s your uncle Stoyan.” He pleaded with me to unlock the door and let him in while attempting to calm me down but I was too angry at him for what he had done and I kept yelling; “Go, go away, I don’t want to see you, go away, go away.” When my uncle realized that I wasn’t going to open the door, he left and went to his cabin located approximately 200 feet from ours. A few minutes later, my father arrived. Unable to stop crying and catch my breath, I somehow managed to unlock the door and let him in. Seeing the condition I was in, my father wanted to know what had happened. While trying to calm me down, he kept asking: “What happened? Why you are crying? Calm down, calm down.” A few minutes later, after regaining my composure, I explained to him exactly what had happened. He was quite upset when he stormed out of our cabin and headed for Stoyan’s cabin to confront his first cousin, but even before my father had a chance to say anything my uncle apologized for frightening me. He told my father, given the late hour in the night, that he had assumed that he was there and the joke was meant for him.

I guess my father was not happy with the apology and about half an hour later, during which there was an exchange of unpleasant words, he was back in our cabin. After the incident, I heard my uncle complaining of being threatened by my father. Apparently my father had told him that if he had been in the cabin at the time of the incident, he would have used his gun on him. For me, however, this was an unfortunate night that I will never forget!

Another traumatic incident, that I vividly remember from my youth, was the crash of a British bomber. This took place in 1945, during World War II at a time when Germany was at war with the world. One day I witnessed German fighter planes attacking two British heavy bombers as they were flying over Oshchima. The British bombers, on the run, trying to escape, flew over Oshchima, low along the river, but the small German fighters were fast and caught up to them and shot at them. One plane crashed over Staro Oshchima, a place near the village, killing everyone on board.

When the people in the village heard the explosion and the commotion, they quickly ran to the crash site but found no survivors. During the crash, all the bodies were thrown out of the plane and scattered in pieces on top of the trees. It was a horrific sight but the people of Oshchima managed to collect them and bury them in a grave that they dug by the river. The plane had crashed in a field and had left many of its bombs scattered around the crash site, unexploded. The site became a hazard for the villagers.

Towards the end of the Second World War, when the German army was retreating, people felt insecure and feared retaliation from the German soldiers who were disappointed and angry for losing the war, so the vast majority of Oshchimians took some belongings from their homes, including their livestock, and hid in the thick forested mountains surrounding the village.

Soon after the Second World War ended, the Greek Civil War started, which made our situation worse. The most dreaded Greek presence was now back with a vengeance. No one was safe, not even the people living in remote villages. Everyone feared the so-called, “Apospasmas”, special police units assigned to patrol the villages. They were the most hated of all! The Apospasma was a special police unit given a free hand to do whatever it wanted, including torturing the people it was assigned to protect. These units were not accountable to anyone for the atrocities they committed against our people.

Late in 1947, an elderly man and his son were working on their family farm and, for no reason whatsoever, the old man was beaten severely and his 18 year old son was executed on the very spot he was working. The old man died two days later.

Another incident I remember well also took place in the fall of 1947, when the same dreaded “Apospasma” vented its frustrations on the people of our village by burning our village storehouses where we stored winter feed for our livestock. The storehouses were full of feed for the coming winter and the whole village lit up. The intensity of the fire was so strong that we began to fear for our lives and of being burned alive. Many people hid in the safest place in their homes where there were no windows, trying to avoid as best they could the sheer intensity of the fires and the light radiating from those fires!

I remember my mother rushing us away from our basement and taking us to join our neighbours in their basement, in order to be with others for comfort and safety. Everyone thought they were going to burn the entire village until a woman, who lived in the vicinity of the fires, came out on her balcony and yelled out: “My people of Oshchima, don’t be afraid! Only the storehouses are burning.” In the silence, her voice carried over the village landscape because at that moment the village seemed like it was devoid of life.

Even the birds had stopped chirping. We stayed in the basements until the next morning when people were able to come out to see and calculate their losses.

Another incident I remember well, which took place on another day in 1947, involved the Greek army, stationed in the village of Psoderi (or “Pisoderi” as the Greeks call it), the police stationed in Zhelevo (or “Andartikon” as the Greeks call it) and the dreaded fascist Apospasma. That day, these forces surrounded our village and called on all the people of Oshchima to gather in the village in front of the Ramos house.

When they were satisfied that everyone who was in the village was present, they isolated all the men and took them to Zhelevo. A while later, they took them to Lerin and eventually shipped them to the dry Greek Island prisons in the Aegean Sea.

After the army and the police had left the village with the men, we heard machine gun fire. Fearing the worst for the men, their mothers, wives and children began to cry and scream, thinking that their loved ones who had been taken away had all been executed. It was horrifying to listen to the automatic gun firing! People did not know what to make of it and everyone was in a panic. After a while, we were informed that the gunfire was a signal to inform the army and the police that the operation was complete. By the end of 1947, the Greeks withdrew from our territories and consequently we fell into the hands of the Greek insurgency.

My father, the Italian front and the Greek Civil War Compulsory army conscription was implemented in Greece, just after the Second World War broke out but, at that time, any father who had four or more children qualified as “Politehnous”, which meant he was exempt from service. By the start of conscription in Greece, my father already had four children, which meant legally he should have been exempt but unfortunately he was drafted anyway.

During his regular service in the Greek army, my father served as a train technician in the transportation sector but during his second conscription, regardless of the fact that he had four children, he was sent to fight at the Greek-Italian front in Albania.

Soon after the Second World War ended, insurgency became prevalent in Greece, which gave rise to the Greek Civil War.

My father joined the insurgency because of all the promises made. In order to mobilize the Macedonian masses, the Communist Party of Greece made many promises to the Macedonian people regarding the Macedonian question, including providing independence for Macedonia and even allowing Macedonia’s secession from Greece.

Later, during the Greek Civil War, the Communist Party of Greece reneged on its promises and betrayed the Macedonian people.

At the beginning of the civil war, as a result of this betrayal, a large segment of the Macedonian insurgency split from the Greek insurgency, crossed over the border and entered the Republic of Macedonia in Yugoslavia.

My father was part of the force that left Greece but he did not stay for long in the Republic of Macedonia because his family was still in Greece. On his return, he again joined the insurgency and fought as a partisan against the Greek government and the Monarcho-fascists.

As an officer in the partisan force, my father took part in the battle for the liberation of Negosh (or “Nausa” as the Greeks call it). After pushing the Greek army out, the partisans managed to hold the city for three days, but during their withdrawal they lost many lives. My father believed they could have done better.

As a result, during a conference of commanders and officers held to evaluate the situation, my father complained especially about the practices of appointing young and inexperienced officers with limited training in command positions. His superiors, unfortunately, did not appreciate his criticism of the way things were done and my father was charged with treason and placed under house arrest.

As a consequence of these charges, he was convicted and sentenced to death. Faced with the death penalty, my father had no choice but to run in order to survive. While on the run, he was caught by the Greek government army, arrested, and sent to prison at “Efta Pirgion”, in Solun.

Later he was taken to Lerin to face more charges pressed by the Lerin, local Greek authorities. Fortunately for him, his father Kote had many friends in the nearby town of Psoderi who helped him out and had his charges dropped. Unfortunately my father still remained in the Lerin jail because he still had pending charges in Solun. A short time later, he was sent back to Solun.

My father never discussed his ordeal with us, his children, after we came together as a family in Canada. However, according to a relative living in Solun, and also a veteran of the insurgency, my grandfather’s friends spent a lot of money hiring lawyers in Solun and a lot of money to free him. The lawyers succeeded to dismiss his charges, citing the Lerin court decisions to dismiss the charges against him. With the resigning of his Greek citizenship, father left Greece and arrived in Toronto in 1949.

Италиjанскиот Фронт и Граѓанската Војна во Грција Кога започнала Втората Светска Војна, во Грција бил спроведен закон за принудна служба во армијата. Во согласност со законот, од оваа обврска биле ослободени оние родители со четири или повеќе деца во фамилијата. Во таа категорија припаѓаше и татко ми кој не имаше нас, четири малолетни деца. Но, без разлика на тоа тој морал да оди во војска. Во време на неговата редовна служба во грчката војска татко ми служел како техничар на возовите во транспортниот сектор, но по спроведување на законот, без оглед на тоа што имале четири деца, тој бил е испратен да се бори на грчко-италијанскиот фронт во Албанија.По завршувањето на Втората Светска Војна, во Грција започна партизанството и граѓанската војна. Татко ми Михаил се приклучил на партизанството. Грчката Комунистичка Партија за да го мобилизира Македонското население од егејскиот дел на окупирана Македонија ветувала многу работи во полза на Македонците:

Самостојност во рамките на Грција, дури и отцепување на Македонија од Грција.

Во тек на граѓанската војна грчката Коммунистичка Партија ги негирала овие ветувања кон Македонскиот народ во Грција.Како резултат на ова предавство, голем дел од Македонските партизани се отцепиле од грчките партизани и Македонската бригада се повлекла од Грција и заминала за Народна Република Македонија во Југославија. Татко ми Михаил бил дел од таа армија што ја напуштила Грција. По краток престој во Народна Република Македонија се вратил во Егејска Македонија да се бори против Монархофашистите во Грција. Како офицер во партизанските сили, татко ми учествувал во борбата за ослободување на Негош (Науса). Под притисок на партизаните успеале да го преземат градот од Грчката армија. Во Негош останале цели три дена. Но, со повлекувањето преку планината Вермион партизаните претрпеле големи жртви.

Како резултат на тоа, за време на конференцијата на командата и офицерите која се одржала со цел да се оцени ситуацијата, татко ми се пожалил, pосебно во врска на праксата на именување на млади и неискусни лица со ограничена обука во комадни позиции. Неговите претпоставени за жал ги оцениле неговите критики за непожелни.

Татко ми беше обвинет за предаство и ставен во домашен притвор. Како последица на овие обвиненија тој беше обвинет и осуден на смрт.

Соочувајќи се со смртна казна, татко ми немал друг избор освен да бега за да се спаси. Додека бил во бегство бил фатен од страна на грчката армија, уапсен и префрлен во затворот "Ефта Пиргион" во Солун.

Подоцна тој бил однесен во Лерин за да се соочи со повеќе обвиненија покренати од страна на грчките власти во Лерин.

За среќа, дедо ми Коте имал многу пријатели во блиското село Псодери.

Побратимот на татко ми Макио, успеал да издејствува судот во Лерин да ги отфрли обвинувањата против татко ми. Но, тоа не значеше дека обвинувањата на грчките власти беа исцрпени.

По краток престој во Леринскиот затвор, бил пренесен во затворот во Солун "Ефта Пиргион" да се соочи со многу други обвинувања.

По нашето доаѓање во Канада, татко ми не беше расположен да разговара или можеби ние не го прашавме за овие настани.

Во текот на една посета на Солун, наш роднина кој исто така е ветеран од партизанството ни раскажуваше дека, пријателите на мојот дедо потрошиле многу пари да најмат адвокати во Солун за да го ослободат. Адвокатите успеале да ги повлечат обвиненијата посочувајќи го решението на Леринскиот суд. Со откажување од грчкото државјанство, татко ми ја напушти Грција и пристигнува во Торонто, Есента во 1948 година.

Our Tragedy I need to mention at this point that I had not seen my father from the time he had left for Yugoslavia, in the beginning of 1947, until I arrived in Canada in September 1955.

Unfortunately, after our arrival in Canada we never did open discussions about what had happened in those days. Was it my father finding it painful to talk about his past or was it us not showing enough interest about those unhappy times, I could not say. Whatever we did learn about those times we learned from our relatives and friends who were familiar with our circumstances and the events surrounding my father’s escape from Solun and coming to Canada.

According to our relative in Solun, in the entire confusion of the war, my father's friends, more precisely, my father’s best friend, Makio from Psoderi, had managed to hire lawyers who succeeded in illegally removing him from the prison, taking him to the Solun airport with full documents and paid airfare and flew him out of Solun before the prison authorities had realized he was missing.

Another version of my father’s story was told by our fellow Oshchimian, John Argiris who, at the time, was in Solun with him. John found my father in Solun wearing short and torn up pants. John gave him a pair of his pants but they too were short because my father was a tall man. From what John Argiris told us, my father could easily have found a job because as a young man he had lived in Solun and was learning to become a tailor but regardless of how this episode turned out for him, we, his family, unfortunately paid the ultimate price.

After the confiscation of our house, the Greek insurgency turned it into a regional hospital.

As I mentioned earlier, during the course of the Greek Civil War in 1947 and 1948, we suffered a great deal. After his return from the People’s Republic of Macedonia, my father returned to the struggle in the ranks of the partisans, which meant that the entire responsibility for looking after the family landed on the shoulders of my mother, Ristana.

Our problems were made even greater because of our mother’s poor health. Being sick and unable to cope with the daily routine of running a farm and a household, our mother’s responsibility then fell on the shoulders of me and my sister Sofia, even though we were only young children. In other words, it was up to me and my sister to plow and plant the fields and look after our livestock and that was only half the challenge.

The most difficult time for our family in Oshchima, our birthplace, began in January or the beginning of February of 1948, when our father was still in prison in Solun, a number of Greek partisans arrived at our house, took us all out and locked us up in the office of the local school, located in the village square. The Greek partisans then went back to our house and emptied it of everything and then emptied our barn and took everything they could find. The only thing they left were the clothes that were left to dry on the clothesline on the balcony.

We were locked up in the school office for the entire day, unaware that the partisans were pillaging our house. During the afternoon the Greek band paraded our livestock, our horse, our pair of oxen and our sheep through the street, as they took them away. It was a bitter picture, something that one cannot easily describe in words; it was our tragedy.

After they finished pillaging our home, they unlocked the school office and freed my brother Petre and my sister Lena, who then went to our grandfather Tanas (Charley) and grandmother Sotira Dinevski’s house. My mother, myself and my sister Sofia remained locked up in the office until the late hours of the night when, by armed guard, they took us to the village of Breznitsa, where the Greek Partisan General Headquarters was located and, as I mentioned earlier, my mother was sick and could not walk, which meant that she had to travel on horseback. That day, we only managed to travel to the village of Rula, where they allowed us to stay with a relative, an aunt of my father’s. While we were allowed to spend the night with our relative, Lambro Kozarov, the man responsible for taking us to Breznitsa, kept an eye on us all night, to make sure that we did not escape. It was in the middle of winter, the weather was cold and my mother was sick and could hardly stand on her own two feet… Where did he think we were going to go?

The next day, we were on our way to Breznitsa. Upon our arrival at general headquarters, they took my mother to the second floor of the building while my sister and I stayed on the first floor. After she had been interrogated, our mother was released and she came down to the first floor looking for us. I remember her telling us not to be afraid and that we would be going home, back to our village. However, given that our house, our land and all of our possessions had now been taken from us, where were we going to go? We were even forbidden from getting close to our home. The home of my family and ancestors was put under lock and key and effectively stolen from us.

When they were taking us to Breznitsa, the general consensus among the villagers was that we would not be returning back to our village, but we did return and after we arrived we all gathered together at my grandfather Tanas and grandmother Sotira’s place or as we used to call them, Dedo Chali and Baba Chaleitsa’s place.

Thanks to the majority of our villagers who showed a lot of sympathy for us, we were helped with everything they had. There were also those who said that we deserved what we got and now we had become a burden on Dedo Chali and Baba Chaleitsa. (In his younger years, my grandfather Chali Dinevski was in America on pechalba (migrant work). In America he was called “Charlie”, which in Macedonian was pronounced “Chali” and from that my grandmother acquired the name “Chaleitsa”.) My greatest thanks goes to my Uncle Petre and Aunt Petra (Petreitsa) Dinevski who saw no distinction between us and their own children, our cousins Pando and Fana Dinevski (Stanoevski), even though conditions were very tough.

In April-May of 1948, our mother struggled with the question of sending us over the border with the other children from the village, who were then about to leave. Our mother also found herself in the same situation as other mothers of having to separate herself from her children. Eventually she decided to send Petre and Lena who, on April 25, 1948, left with the other children from our village Oshchima and headed for Yugoslavia. While Lena remained in “Bela Tsrkva”, Petre was sent to Poland over Romania. My mother’s dilemma was no different from the dilemma of all the other mothers in the village. On one hand she wanted us to be near her and on the other, there was the great danger of whether we would be able to survive the bombings when the war escalated and came closer to our homes. With much convincing on my grandfather Tanas’ (Chali) part, on April 30, 1948, my mother decided to send me with 33 other children from my village over the border. Our trip took us over Yugoslavia and eventually I found myself in Budapest, Hungary. A little while later, my sister Sofia also left Oshchima and found herself in Osijek, Croatia, Yugoslavia.

Нашата трагедија Hајтешките мoменти за нашата фамилија се случија во Јануари 1948 година вo рoднoтo селo Oшчима. Таткo ми Михаил вo времетo на партизанствoтo вo Грција беше активен член на oтпoрoт прoтив мoнархoфашистите вo Грција. Пo несoгласувањата вo Демократската Армија на Грција (ДАГ) помеѓу Македoнскoтo Крилo и Грчкатa Кoмунистичка партија и пoвлекувањетo на Македoнската бригада вo Југoславија, таткo ми се нашол вo Југoславија oднoснo вo Нарoдна Република Македoнија. Пo краткo време се вратил вo Грција вo редoвите на партизаните.

Учествувал вo бoрбите за ycвoјyвање на градoт Негoш (Науса) предвoдејќи ги своите соборци. Бoрбата за Негoш била успешна бидејќи гo превзеле градoт и останале во него 3 дена, нo кoга се пoвлекувале oд Негoш преку планината Вермион, грчките Мoнархoфашисти им нанеле гoлеми жртви на партизаните.

Пo пoвлекувањетo, на сoстанoк на ракoвoдствoтo на партизаните сакајќи да им укажи на грешките направени и гoлемите жртви вo Негoш, негoвите претпoставени се навредиле. Михаил им објаснил дека грешката лежи вo фактoт дека ракoвoдствoтo пoставувало млади и неискусни oфицери да раковoдат вo бoрбите.

Oваа негoва забелешка била дoвoлна да гo прoгласат за непoжелен и да гo притвoрат. Потоа грчкoтo ракoвoдствo гo oсудува на смртна казна. Сooчувајќи се сo смртна казна, единствен спас за негo бил да бега oд притвoрoт за да спаси глава.