A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 9 - Part 02

My wound was not completely closed but I decided to leave anyway. We left during the night. I have no idea if the Italians came to look for us or not. Why would they be looking for us when they had their own problems? They were a miserable bunch, complaining at every opportunity, missing their wives and girlfriends and singing sad songs… But, compared to us, their troubles were nothing…” concluded Numo. “So, you were on the roster with the others...” muttered Pando quietly. “Yes I was, but I managed to stay alive... My Macedonian friend from Albania saved me twice. Now that man is a colonel in the Albanian army. He is a colonel in his Albanian fatherland... Screw all these fatherlands, Pando...” Both men remained silent. They were both bitter and their bitterness was gnawing at them. They were both in deep thought and bitterness was racing through their minds; yesterday and today’s bitterness. One could see it in their nervously vibrating muscles, in the shiver of their Adam’s apple. Their stares became sharp and penetrating. The skin on their foreheads began to wrinkle. Their brows curled at the edges. They both stared at the bees fly from flower to flower and their buzzing caused ringing in their ears as if someone was striking a large bell. “And what do you think?” asked Pando quietly. “You think we were naïve? Perhaps we were not naïve at all but crippled in the mind...” Numo looked at Pando with hatred in his eyes and before he was able to finish, said: “Maybe we are not crippled in the mind, maybe we are beaten on the temple... I often wondered: ‘What have we come out of and what is left for us as our legacy? Churches, monasteries and silent graves! Yes, yes, graves that are silent, Pando. At our places the graves are quiet. And do you know why graves speak in other countries and other parts of the world? Because they have crosses, monuments, gravestones, inscriptions, mausoleums, climbing vines, dates of birth, dates of death and yes, the names of the people buried in them… I am saying the graves are silent here but do you know why they are silent? Do you know why life is silent? You say we may not have been naïve. I say we were naïve, and very naïve. Did they not make us feel like we were part of them? They certainly did. We were seduced by their propaganda and sold on their ideals because someone told us to and we said – amen to that. They always told us “fight for your fatherland… for this fatherland… for that fatherland… because you are fighting for yourselves… and we always believed them… and we always did fight… But for whom did we fight? We fought for them. We fought for their greatness. We fought for the great words they spewed upon us. That too is true. But what is also true, Pando, is that we were always the first to be trampled by foreign boots...” “Well, because,” interrupted Pando, “we were first to wear their coats, to put on their boots and to wear their symbols on out hats. As you have said, we did it for us. You yourself said it Numo that we were struggling and fighting for ourselves. You and I have fought in wars alongside the Greeks and have seen them die and they have seen us die alongside them in the same trenches. I have carried wounded Greeks in my arms and they have died as I was carrying them. I buried them as if they were my own relatives. I have eaten with them and we have shared our food and sometimes we used the same utensils. I have eaten with a Greek using the same spoon. I have served in prison with Greeks and I fried in the hot son alongside them… Many times I felt that we were all born to suffer together, but then when I told them who I was, a wall of hatred grew between us. I would be ignored and avoided like the plague. I would not exist for them. And behind my back they would say: ‘Elada mou to megalio sou vasilema den ehi...’ (My Greece, your greatness has no sunset...) I wondered why? And then I would say to myself, let them do whatever they want, let them sing their song. What bothered me though, is that they perfectly understood that they were people with feelings, needs, homes and family but when it came to me, because I was Macedonian and nothing more and nothing less, none of that mattered!

As far as they were concerned they would be better off without me. As far as they were concerned, banning me and exiling me from my family, my home, my lands, my ancestral hearth, was a better option for them than allowing me to stay and be among them. That’s why, Numo, I have been saying that we are not naïve, we are just empty headed. Everyone was there because they had been promised something and did whatever they were asked to do without thinking, without knocking themselves on the head, on the temple, without questioning what they were doing, and always allowing others to lead them and hit them on the temple... That’s why I say the war is in me, in you and in all of those here and everywhere else. We fight, we endure and we think somehow things will change with your death and with my death. No! Things will not change, not in our generation and not in the next generation for as long as we exist. Things will not change until we are all driven out of our homes and lands… Things for us will only change when we become homeless and fulfill the Greek prophesy of a Macedonia without Macedonians. That’s what we must always remember every time we think of them as our friends and every time we commit our lives to helping them. And so, Numo, whenever we sleep, whether in light or darkness, under a shady beech or under an oak tree, near a spring or near a creek, in a ditch or in a bunker, in the shade or in the sun, during the day or during the night, we need to dream the same dream. One common dream...” concluded Pando. “I will tell you again,” piped up Numo after being silent for a long time, “that our graves are silent. I’ve read or heard from someone that when the graves become silent life begins to disappear. If you want to know how dignified and proud a nation is then go to its cemeteries and examine them. And look at us, Pando; we don’t even have the right to bury our dead with dignity. Why?” “So that we forget everything,” snapped Pando. “Everything! Because when people forget everything, they lose their dignity and people who have no memories slowly shrivel away and die... Die, Numo, die...” The two men went silent. They were deeply engrossed in their own thoughts. It seemed like they were digesting everything that was said. Numo lifted his head, looked up and quietly said to himself: “There it is! It is circling again…” “Who is circling?” asked Pando. “The vulture,” said Numo. “Do you see it? Every day it circles over Prenies. Is it looking for a victim? And you know what, Pando? When you see eagles, hawks, vultures and other birds of prey, you always think of death and blood being spilled. The thought of it makes me feel strange. It is beyond me why some people would choose these creatures as their national symbols?” “Well, I think because these creatures are strong, dignified, proud...” replied Pando. “And bloodthirsty too, right?” added Numo. “Something like that,” said Pando as he watched the vulture circle over Prenies. “This is an omen, Numo, which foretells of death, you realize that, right? Perhaps it senses the death in us from above... The vulture has a keen eye and a sharp nose and can sense the smell of death from great distances... Not only can it see dead carcasses, but it can sense death in living things before they die...” “Last year in Gramos, after the aircraft flew, the vultures took over the sky and circled around. They made shrill whistles which sounded like barking, yes, they were barking as if calling others to join them. I watched them as they circled above the battlefield. The wounded feared them and always tried to hide in their bunkers or in the shade of trees. As they circled above, they came lower and lower with each circle. I never shot at them. If I did I would be giving away my position to the enemy and they then would shoot at me. Worse, they would radio my position to the aircraft and it then would bomb the entire area. When vultures concentrated and circled in an area, that area was usually bombarded by aircraft.

For the enemy the concentration of vultures meant that we had taken position nearby. After a while, we would hear the thunder of aircraft flying by and the popping of bombs exploding. Then shortly after that we would hear the whistling of cannon and artillery shells passing by and exploding on the rocks. Then came the charge and assault from the infantry.

This was our enemy’s every day routine from dawn to dusk; bomb, shell and charge; then collect the wounded. The vultures would start circling at early dawn and give away our position. The living would be crouching in trenches and in their machine gun nests, keeping their eye on their targets and ready to sow death. That’s how it was every day... One day, just as dawn was breaking, I helped my wounded friend get on the mule and handed the mule over to a seventeen year old young nurse to take him to the field hospital. No sooner had they pulled away than I heard the shrill of a barking vulture then some shouting and screaming. I jumped out of the trench and ran towards the scream and what do I see? The vultures had not only attacked my comrade who was tied to the saddle of the mule but they also attacked the nurse when she tried to chase them away. I fired into the air, but nothing. The vultures beat their wings a couple of times and that was it. The mule began to jump around in an attempt to dislodge the vultures off it back but all it did was knock the nurse to the ground and drag her as she tried to hold onto it. I picked up a stick and began to hit them with it. That got their attention and they began to disburse. Blood, Pando, has a strange effect on creatures... One time, a long time ago when I was a child, my father slaughtered a calf. In the evening when the grazing cattle were returning to the village, the cows gathered in front our door. They started to dig with front hooves and moo loudly. It sounded like they were crying. They were drawn there by the smell of the calf’s blood…” concluded Numo. “The vulture is circling over Prenies,” said Pando while watching the bird circle around and make its way over the peaks of the dark mountains. He followed the vulture with his eyes and as it made its way over the hill, a little to the right of Kiafasan, he said: “There, over there,” pointing with his eyes and raising his eyebrows, “behind that mountain is a large body of water. And behind that, there is another mountain and behind it is another large body of water. And beyond those mountains are more mountains...” “Yes I know. There is Bela Voda, Prevolot, Vrba, Mali Madi, Vicho, they are all there…” said Numo with a painful look on his face. “Yes, and our burned down houses too, don’t forget,” continued Pando, “our fields that now only grow weeds, our unattended vineyards, our hopes, dreams, aspirations…” and as he spoke Pando became choked up, his voice broke and tears began to flow out of his old eyes, bitter, painful, sad and angry tears. Just at that very same moment the vulture disappeared behind the hill, behind which was the large body of water... A tear broke away from Pando’s old eye and disappeared into scorched and trampled grass. This was only a small part of the great pain burning inside him like an open wound. And when Pando’s Adam’s apple began to swell for a second time, he lifted up his old arm and with his rough, tough, bony hand, wiped his eyes and face clean, leaving no trace of his humiliation. But even in his old age there were moments in his life when his tears were not an indication of weakness, but of pain, joy, sadness, pride and a sign of humanity. And as such, this was a reminder of the days of humiliation and of the moments of pride because he had managed to survive and defy everything foreign, unpleasant, dark, and hateful and his fate wheeled by foreign will. Life flowed in the narrow valley between the horse stables, the underground barracks, the three cauldrons, the dirt road, the trucks running twice a day and carrying wounded and healed, the wailing, the crying, the red soil, the sick, the parching sun, the wretched, the hopeful, the black vultures circling and the troubled waters after it rains... The shadow of the hill had already passed the cemetery and was slowly descending over the roofs of the barracks. The sound of the ringing rail was heard coming from the kitchen. That’s when Pando said: “Well, let’s go to dinner, Numo…”