A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 10

A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 10

Like shadows, the people came out of the barracks and began to join the long lines in front of the three cauldrons. Women dressed in black, old people, frail and bent forward, old men leaning on their canes, widows with infants, with one and two-year old children, tattered and weeping. And the wide-eyed children, looking mortified like frightened chickens, cling to their mothers’ chests, sharing their fate. The sky is deep blue and is reflected in their eyes. The lines move slowly. If you look down from high above, all you will see is black, wrapped heads in black head kerchiefs, bent and crumpled bodies walking like shadows, taking steps with their heads down and barely visible to one another. One behind the other, they take slow steps and walk up to the cauldrons with rusty cans, copper pots, sardine cans, military canteens, smoke blackened jugs and whatever they can get their hands on that holds half a portion of the semi-liquid they call food. They then leave and at a stepped up pace, return to their straw mats in the old Italian stables which, after years of being abandoned, still smell of horse urine. Numo, leaning on his crutches, stood to the side. He stared at the black line moving slowly and took another puff of smoke from his smelly cigarette. When Pando returned with a full can and two pieces of dry cornbread, Numo said: “You are right, Pando, a person can’t even go mad here in Prenies... I am standing here, on the side and my heart is being torn out from looking at our people and listening to them whimper day and night... Then I wonder how many, if any, hearts have been torn out by this? And I say to myself, only they who survived and outlived defeat can tell you how a person can exist in this human existence, in our existence, and with our pain and suffering. As far as I know, there was never any young life for a lot of these women here. They were married just as they reached age sixteen or seventeen and a year later, they would have a child. It was rare to see a twenty year old unmarried or without children. Unfortunately, for most of them their time with their young husbands was very short, lasting only a few nights, if they were lucky… I, Pando, only had two nights with my wife, which we can call our own. They took me in the military in 1938 and I did not see my wife again until 1947. I sent word with one of my acquaintances and she came to the forest where our squad was resting. That was the first time I saw my son, a strong boy looking like me. When I was in the hospital with a crippled leg, a cousin of mine came to visit me. When I told him about my condition and showed him my leg we both cried. He then said: ‘Now cousin, I have to ask you to give me ‘muzhe’ / ‘siarik’ (a gift of money).’ ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why? Because you have a daughter, cousin, that’s why,’ he replied. I cried with joy and pain. I had no money to give him so I took the shirt off my back and gave it to him. I then said: ‘I have no money, cousin, but please take my shirt, you will need it. You are healthy and soon they will send you to the front. Wear it in good health…’ After that we were separated and that’s all I know about my second child. In fact, I know nothing about all my three children... Most couples, Pando, were married at ages seventeen, eighteen and very few at age twenty… After that, after spending a few nights together, the men left and the women waited for them... They waited for letters from America, from the battlefields, from the dry island prison camps... and life became cruel and cursed. Now? What now? The men are now getting killed in Gramos, in Vicho, dying in hospitals in foreign lands and their wives are waiting, hoping... Who knows where their bones will end up! Will anyone tomorrow or another day mention them, bury their bones and put a marker on their graves? And what of their wives, how will they know what happened to their husbands? And what of the mothers who don’t know the fate of their children? Will they mourn them as if they were dead?

I ask you, who will sort all this out… Who will look for the scattered bones of the dead... Will someone tomorrow or another day search for the bones of the dead and will they count the nameless graves they find? And the wives, now old, unable to fight in the war, unable to look for their husbands, the women, who at one time were so strong they could crush stones beneath their feet, will they now begin to mourn their long lost men? I look at the women, they all look heartbroken, their hearts are trembling and they are full of fear, they don’t know the fate of their husbands, of their children and don’t know whether to hope that they are still alive or to mourn them as if they were dead... One moment they live in precious hope… another in dreadful fear. And when the south wind blows, it makes them sad and with their tight lips trembling, they quietly, compassionately, sing sad songs... That’s when I feel like grabbing my crutches and limping my way over there and comforting them all, kissing each one of them on their wrinkled foreheads and whispering in their ears: ‘Sing, my dear, sing. Sob and cry my darling. This is therapeutic for both you and me...’ A few days ago I passed by some of them and asked: ‘What is happening with you, dear women? How are you? Why do you hurt so much?’ but all I got from them was silence and more silence. They tightened their black head kerchiefs so that even less of their faces would show. They lowered their heads, looked down and tightened their hearts... Looking at them I felt the joy had completely gone out of them... Then I thought that their pain must be great because they are so strong in every respect... Oh, Pando, Pando, life flows with them, not by them, and time passes with all this, time passes with them and not by them... You can ask them how they are and you can ask them who they are, Pando. But the fact is they are suffering, Pando, in silence, with poison running through their veins, yet they look so dignified... Look at them... they are sipping their soup with eyes sloping down. Until yesterday they were the housewives, whose only familiarity with the world was their village and perhaps a couple of neighbouring villages, they were the cooks who cooked feasts for everyone to enjoy and, while smiling, looked you in the eye with pride. Look at them now Pando, their hands are trembling as they handle the spoon... The bread tastes like wormwood in their mouths...” “Enough!” said Pando in a low voice. “Sit down, let us first eat and then we will go and see how the young lady is doing...” “What young lady?” asked Numo. “She is dreadfully sick, the poor girl, and has not gotten out of bed for a month. Here, eat…” said Pando and gave Numo a piece of corn bread and the two men began to spoon the soup out of the military canteen. The only time these two are separated is when Pando stands in line in front of the cauldron. “The sun is setting,” echoed Numo. “Very soon the people will be going down to the road. Pando, you go see the girl, I will stay on the road. I will wait for my friend Trpo, the driver; I am sure one of these days he is bound to spot me...” “Okay Numo. Get it out of your system but behave yourself. This time there may be some news about you, the crippled. Maybe they will put you in a home for the crippled or something like that...” said Pando sarcastically. Numo wiped the bottom of the canteen with the left over bread, tightened his belts and said: “Pando, many have discouraged me, but to this day, no one has convinced me any different...” “You are a stubborn man Numo, a stubborn man...” replied Pando. “So be it, Pando. I will only remember the good things about you,” retorted Numo. The two men parted company in the dark. More and more people arrived at the road, pouring out of the long horse barracks. A group of old people, holding their cigarettes made of crushed tobacco and twisted pieces of newspaper in their hands, were arguing about something. And others, anxiously moving back and forth, looked down past the ovens.

At the end of the road, on both sides, the storm was building, gaining strength and turning black. Pando slowly approached the cabin where the sick girl lay. He always carried something in his pocket in hopes of bringing her some happiness. Oh, how he wished to see a surprise on her face, a small glitter in her eye, a smile on her lips, even a slight one. The cabin door was wide open. The dark corner where the girl lay was quiet. He could hear nothing from here. But as Pando went closer he could clearly hear the heavy breathing of the girl. “Who is it?” asked her mother as she jumped to her feet from being startled. “It is me, Pando, Kostovitse, Pando. How is she, any better?” asked Pando. Kostovitsa lit a candle and put it in a cup. The young lady’s eyes were wide open but she looked exhausted from her illness. Day after day she lay here under this rotting roof, between these moldy walls smelling of sweat and stale horse urine and melting away into oblivion. Her blond hair was glued to her forehead from the cold and hot sweats she experienced, caused by the raging fever within her. Her blond hair covered her big blue eyes which were slowly losing their luster. She constantly stared at the bleak ceiling. Her sight, pinned to one of the many beams, was becoming muddy. Her chest movements were becoming less and less frequent as her breathing slowed and her wheezing heightened. She moistened her lips with her tongue while recovering from painful spasms. A tear was rolling down the corner of her left eye and spreading across her face like a thin silver thread. She was wheezing and shaking more frequently from painful spasms which sent her entire body into shivers. Her chin trebled as she tried to sob ever so quietly, barely audibly. Another spasm shook her entire body. Her wheezing slowed and the colour of her eyes became even blurrier. Pando put his palm on her pale face and, as gently as he could, closed her eyes. Then he took his rosary beads out of his pocket, knelt and slowly, as if not to wake the girl, raised her head and put them around her neck. “May they be your bridal necklace my dear... Necklace ... I am so sorry you will never wear a bridal dress... so sorry this is your destiny my dear...” said Pando in a sad tone of voice. This was heartbreaking for Pando. His already wrinkled face became even more wrinkled as tears began to flow from his old eyes. He crossed himself and left, leaving her alone with her mother who was in even greater pain. Pando dug in the hard stony soil by the moonlight all night long. He tossed the red soil out of the hole with his dull shovel and when he felt emptiness in his chest, he lit one of his hand-made cigarettes. By dawn he had dug a grave deep to his waist. He then gathered the last chunks of earth and stones from the bottom with his hands and, as he was coming out of the grave, he said: “The child does not need a deeper grave to rest in peace…” They brought the girl’s body wrapped in a faded Italian army blanket. With trembling hands, Pando laid her at the bottom of the grave and came out. He then left the funeral, hid behind a large rock and cried hard for a

long time. He took a deep puff of smoke from his herb-laden cigarette, sat down and slowly became lost. When he came to, the sun was already up high. The funeral was over and there was no one in the cemetery, except for Kostovitsa. She was still there, crouching beside the freshly covered grave, lighting candles whose flames flickered in her palm... Not a whisper, not a cry... There was only silence. Even the birds and the crickets went silent...