Chapter 11

Chapter 11

During the meeting it was decided not to go to school during the day.

“It is enough for now,” Lazo said, “for them to learn to read and write. They can welcome our victory with that, and after we have our victory they will learn everything else, right teacher? Gather at the school after sunset...”

Someone sitting mid way down the classroom asked: “You mean after dark?”

Everyone turned their eyes to the teacher. They looked at him and expected a reply from him. Kole went near Lazo and said: “Four kerosene lamps will do the job. People, you decide about your turns to supply them and the kerosene. We will place dark covers on the windows so that light does not escape and it will look dark inside from the outside. You need to collect those too. It will be dark outside and light inside.”

“And that’s the way it will be done, teacher…” yelled old man Mitre. “Do they think we will leave our children uneducated? No! They will be learning in the dark...”

It was snowing when they came outside. Old man Mitre slid down on one of the steps and took Kuze with him. Kuze waved his arms frantically and fell into Mitre’s lap.

“Kuze, Kuze,” whispered Mitre. “You’re such a klutz. Get off me. Why couldn’t you fall that way…?” he added while rubbing his backside. After being helped up, the old man had difficulty walking but eventually made it home. He was greeted on the threshold of his door by his daughter-in-law Sofka and grandson Kire. Shaking the snow off Mitre said: “Oh, my, oh my, it is snowing hard…” as if wanting to blame his difficulty walking on the falling snow!

His daughter-in-law helped him take off his shoes. He then sat down by the fire and quietly said to Mitrevitsa: “Well, winter is here and many sons and daughters are gone… gone... Kosta and Kolio were

killed…” he took a deep breath and then said: “Two more widows and more fatherless children… With Kosta and Kolio… nine have been killed from our village.”

Mitrevitsa got up, opened the cupboard door, took the bottle of oil out and with trembling hands added oil to the oil lamp and lit it. The gentle dim light illuminated the face of the Virgin Mary on the icon behind it. Her daughter-in-law entered the room and with concern on her face asked: “For who?”

“Kosta and Kolio were killed...” she muttered quietly. “May God forgive their sins and bless their souls...” she added and then crossed herself several times. She then said to her daughter-in-law: “Please go out and get the children. They have played long enough in the snow. Go get them…”

Sofka went to the veranda and yelled: “Kire, Lenche, Kosta, enough playing. Come home now! And Kire, where is Kire?” she asked Lenche and Kosta when they came to the door, shaking the snow off their clothes.

“Kire ran off with the other boys toward the church,” replied Lenche. “Vane Kirov said some soldiers had come... our soldiers.”

“Why that boy… wait until he comes home...” said Sofka angrily.

Mitre finished drinking his warm rakia and asked: “Sofka are we ready for dinner?”

“We are ready father, but Kire is not here,” replied Sofka.

“Kosta!” said Mitre addressing his grandson. “Go out on the balcony and call him to come inside. He has played long enough.”

Kosta ran to the balcony and began shouting Kire’s name repeatedly, without waiting for Kire to reply. He then ran back inside.

“Grandpa,” said Lenka. “Should I go and look for him?”

“No, don’t go, he will come home on his own... Sofka, please set the table,” replied Mitre.

Mitre crossed himself, broke chunks of bread from the loaf and put a piece in front of everyone. They ate in silence.

“Mitre, oh, Mitre,” Kuze’s voice was heard coming from the yard, “are you home, Mitre?”

Sofka quickly ran to the balcony, went outside and promptly came back and said: “Father, Kuze and about a dozen soldiers are waiting in the yard…”

“Don’t clear the table…” said Mitre and went outside.

The room suddenly became cold. Kirevitsa and Sofka cleaned the snow from the soldiers with their brooms. After being cleaned, one by one they stomped their feet on the ground and entered the room. They leaned their weapons on the wall and then took their coats and dirty boots off. The smell of sweat and dirty socks permeated throughout the house. Following the last soldier, Kire, Mitre’s grandson, entered carrying a machine gun on his shoulder. He had rosy cheeks and beaming eyes.

“Hey you… the little guy…” one of the DAG soldiers addressed Kire. “Lean it over here,” and while caressing his face said: “You should never play with toys like that.” He then asked: “Are you a good student in school?”

Kire hit himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand and loudly said: “Lenche! Lenche! Quickly! We are late!”

“And where do you think you are going now?” asked his mother.

“To school, mom…” he replied.

“School now, in the night? Get back here!” she ordered.

Mitre interrupted his daughter-in-law and said: “Dear Sofka, it is true. From today on the children will be going to school at night. We

decided it is better that way. The airplanes don’t fly at night and it will be safer for them… That’s why they will be going to school at night… Kire go… and you Lenche, you go too …”

“What about me?” asked Kosta sobbing.

“You finish your dinner, sit down over there, beside your grandmother and grow,” replied his grandpa, Mitre.

“You look after him. I have to go and help Sofka serve dinner to the soldiers,” Mitrevitsa interjected and left the room.

The fighters sat around the fireplace. Mitre threw a few more logs into the fire and raised the wick on the lamp to give the room more light. When he turned around he noticed two women soldiers were sitting among the fighters. One was sleeping and the other was sitting next to her mending her overcoat. Mitre bent over towards the fighter that was closest to him and, while gesturing towards the women, quietly asked: “Are they ours (Macedonian)?”

The corporal shook his head gesturing yes.

Mitre could not contain himself and went over. “Where are you from?” he asked.

The woman cut the string with her teeth, put her overcoat to the side and, without looking at Mitre, barely audibly whispered: “From Mokreni, Grandpa, do you know where it is?”

“I sure do!” he said. “It’s under Klisura, in the valley, right?”

“Yes, have you been there?” she asked.

“I have been to all the surrounding villages… with Chakalarov…” underlined Mitre.

At that moment Mitrevitsa and Sofka came into the room. “Dinner is ready,” Mitrevitsa announced. The big table was set up in the dining room. In the middle of it was a huge pan full of kachamak (maize porridge), next to it were a jug of milk and a large loaf of bread.

Mitre invited everyone to dinner and gestured to the woman to wake the other woman who was still sleeping. “To your good health,” said Mitre after everyone took their seat.

Mitrevitsa, with a heavy heart, stood to the side and watched everyone eat. She was thinking of her son Gligor. Does he have something to eat? Is he out in the snow? Is he wearing warm clothes? Is he with others at someone’s home like these fighters? She wondered and secretly wiped her tears.

Cannon fire and rumbling was heard coming from Gorusha. The corporal stepped out on the balcony for a moment. When he returned Mitre asked: “And you, who is your voivoda (leader)?”

“Nowadays, Grandpa, we don’t have ‘voivodi’... we have commanders,” replied the corporal.

“I see…” said Mitre and, while pointing at the corporal’s hat, said: “I see you don’t have any symbols on your hats... Son, when we were fighting we had no machine made clothing and no machine guns. All we had were malinkerki (rifles) and bombs...”

“When was that, Grandpa?” asked the corporal.

“During the Ilinden Uprising son, during the Ilinden Uprising!” replied Mitre with a raised tone of voice.

Cannon fire was heard again.

“Did you hear that?” yelled Mitrevitsa from the corner. “Did you hear the cannon fire?” She then turned to one of the fighters and said: “You don’t have cannons, do you? You poor dears…”

One of the fighters who was listening but understood nothing, asked in Greek: “What is the old lady saying?”

“She is saying we need to have cannons,” answered the fighter who had been asked, in Greek.

“Tell her,” he continued in Greek, “come with us tomorrow and say this to those in General Headquarters.”

What the man said in Greek was translated into Macedonian to which Mitrevitsa replied: “Am I wrong in telling you this?”

“Don’t concern yourself, Mother, he is not saying this to spite you, he is saying it out of concern. They sent him to our unit a few days ago. He is a Greek from Thessaly,” replied the fighter.

“They came from there too?” asked Mitre.

“From there and from other places,” replied the fighter.

Mitre lit his tobacco pipe, stoked the fire and in a stretched tone of voice said: “After the Ilinden Uprising they were coming here from Greece… the Andartes I mean… and we fought against them. They shot here and there and then fled. They were not good fighters. All they knew how to do was swear, burn and slaughter. They were truly afraid of Mitre Vlao. When they heard his name they ran for the hills and prayed to the Virgin Many. But when they found no freedom fighters in the villages they swore using her name… The moment this guy here entered my house I recognized him by his eyes… that he was not one of us… When they heard a single word from our language they perked up their ears. One time we caught one of them. He was from Crete. We were asking him questions and he pretended to be deaf. Mitre Vlao pulled out his knife and cut off one of his ears. Not only did his voice come back but he was ready to listen... we released him. We said to him, “If you ever came back here again we will send you back without your head”... He came back after 1912 and began to do what he knew best... I heard someone yelling “the Andartes are back”... When I heard that I thought to myself: “Well, here we go again…” When the Andartes are back in the hills it’s hell on earth for us... It’s a good thing I am old... Andartes, Andartes dear boy, they were the worst plague in this place... What a name to call you by, eh? And you have not told me the name of your voivoda… I mean commander...”

Mitre got up and went outside. A little later he came back and gave the corporal the signal to join him. They entered the adjoining room.

“Son, let me ask you something,” said Mitre.

“Go ahead, ask away Grandpa,” replied the corporal.

“Where are you from?” Mitre asked.

“From Konomladi,” replied the corporal.

“Wow, you’re one of us son. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? What is your name?” asked Mitre.

“Iane,” replied the corporal.

“Good to meet you Iane,” said Mitre and opened the door slightly and when he saw no one was behind it, he twisted his long mustache over his ears and whispered: “I too have a son who is a partisan. His name is Gligor. Have you heard of him?”

“Sorry Grandpa, I have not heard of him,” replied the corporal.

“When they took him I told him to be careful and to obey his voivodi… And you are telling me that you have no voivodi? And who is my son Gligor obeying…? Let me ask you my dear son Iane: ‘Who are you fighting for?’…”

“For democracy, Grandpa, for democracy,” replied the corporal.

“Democracy you say?” asked Mitre.

“Yes, democracy...” said Iane.

“Please, let me ask you another question. If you, our boys, Macedonian boys are fighting for democracy, then who is fighting for Macedonia, eh?” asked Mitre.

Iane looked stunned. Mitre looked straight into his eyes… the question seemed to have stunned him.

“You don’t know...?” asked Mitre. “Now if you had voivodi you would have known…” said Mitre. “Now let us go inside and join the others...”

When they entered the room, outside of Mitrevitsa and one of the women fighters, everyone was asleep.