PART TWO - Part 04

“About those in Zgozhelets, in that party committee, as you said it, did they have any brains in their heads or were their heads filled with moldy hay? They sent you to me because you were talking about wanting to study and work, that you loved your homeland, Macedonia, right? So, I fought in two world wars, two civil wars, in Spain and China and I was always talking about Poland and no one because of that, no one reprimanded me or interrogated me... Did they send you here because you love Macedonia? They sent you here to waste my time when there’s a war I need to fight against domestic and foreign reactionaries?’ he said and then yelled ‘Duty officer!’ The same two-star officer walked in. The Colonel ordered

him to personally take us to the train station, buy us first class tickets and send us back to Zgozhelets. He ordered us to report back to the Greek party committee. The next day we did what we were told and went to see the party committee. There they welcomed us with the most hideous words and recommended that we be kicked out, find our own jobs and accommodations and report to the party committee once a week. But instead of doing what they asked, we went back to Hubska Street in Vrotslav...

The comrades from the party committee in Zgozhelets weren’t happy with what we’d done and so they wrote a letter to the city’s state security service demanding that all of us be detained on the grounds that we were public enemies and that an investigation be initiated in order for us to be tried by a competent Polish court. The city’s chief of staff forwarded the request to the state security and the wheel started turning again, which took us back to the same colonel. After reading the report against us, he turned to the comrade from the party committee, who was in our company at all times, and said:

‘We have no legal basis to bring a lawsuit against these people. They didn’t violate any Polish laws. There is no Polish law to charge them with for having opinions. Just because you think they violated the spirit of your party, doesn’t give you the right to refer them to the Polish courts... I don’t see that there is any more need for me to be involved in this... You are free...’

The comrade from the party committee was visibly irritated, interrupted the colonel and told him:

‘With your behavior, Comrade, you confirm that you stand on their side and don’t forget that there is also a priest above the priest... That’s what our people say…’

Feeling threatened more by Comrade Parousis’s (the man from the party committee) tone than by his words, the Colonel, gathering his papers together, said:

‘Is this what your people say or is it what your party says?’

They brought us back to Zgozhelets. They kept us in the basement for two days and fed us stale bread and water. They decided to ‘re-educate us’, not by sending us to school but by sending us to work. They told us that if we worked hard we wouldn’t have time to think about the nonsense we were up to. They also told us that today we were free and warned us that we needed to work in order to continue to earn our freedom. And so, Pan Vishnievski, as crazy as it may sound this is why I’m here in this place today. I was sent here by a party decision, to be re-educated...”

Kole stopped talking. His gaze was strangely lost in the horizon where the sky met the wide plain.

“What about those young people over there?” asked Vishnievski, looked over, made a motion with his hand and continued:

“What about those three young people who are pulling the cart from the mud with their horses? Were they are sent here for re-education?”

“Yes…” replied Kole.

“But why?” asked Vishnievski.

“When they found out about the party’s decision to abolish the Macedonian Cyrillic alphabet they went out during the night and wrote anti-party graffiti on the barrack walls in Zgozhelets. In bold letters they also wrote slogans such as ‘Long live Macedonia!’ Unfortunately they were caught. The party police, in which Macedonians were included, and without whom the party couldn’t do all its dirty work, discovered them. They went through the same screening process as we from Hubska did and here they are... They are forbidden from associating with me and with everyone else. And that’s how it is, Pan Vishinevski, the party has its own people everywhere... even sitting in the school desks... And now, Pan Vishnievski, you know how we got here, in Kunuv, in this agricultural economy...” replied Kole.

7

Kole and Vishnievski spent the long winter evenings together. Their conversations were always tied to their past and to difficult times. During one of those nights, Kole opened up his soul even further and said:

“We, Pan Vishnievski, have placed our destiny in the hands of others and as a result we first conquered the mountains and then the road leading to no return... Perhaps some day we will realize that what we have done wasn’t beneficial for our people, but only to reward the individuals who present themselves as the leaders of the people…”

“I see, Pan Kole, that in the lists your party committee gave me, your names are all Greek. But when you talk to each other, I hear you calling yourselves by names that sound more Polish than Greek, ending in ‘vski’ for example like my name ‘Vishnievski’. Your names are quite similar or very similar to Polish,” commented Vishnievski.

“That’s right, Pan Vishnevski. In the lists we are Greeks and have been since the day Greece put us under its control. The Greeks not only changed our first and last names but also the names of our villages, cities, rivers, lakes, mountains... They changed everything that wore our mark and that differentiated us from them... We are all Greeks in their lists with their names, not with our names... This is how they like us to be; without our own names and with the names they gave us. That was and still is their great illness... This is how it is, Pan Vishnievski... We are Greeks in their lists but Macedonians in our hearts and souls when we are at home with our families, when we work in the fields, in the vineyards, when no snitches and no one from the authorities listens and when we speak our own Macedonian language. And here in these Polish fields, behind the carts and tractors, in our homes and canteens, we are Macedonians. These

people you care about, Pan Vishnievski, back home didn’t understand what the priest was saying in our churches because the priests delivered the liturgy in Greek and not in the language they understood. These people didn’t even understand the judges when they delivered their sentences in Greek because they only understood Macedonian. And here, they gave you lists in which we are all Greeks. And when we speak to you in our Macedonian language, you say many words are similar to Polish and you are surprised how similar our languages are. When you, Poles, speak Polish we understand you. Not only myself, because I have some education, but also the uneducated women and old people who don’t speak a word of Greek. They too understand you... Even the Polish workers who accompanied us on the road and brought us here noticed some of the similarities in our languages. This is what one of the nurses told me on our way here. She said: ‘Pan Kole, before the war I was studying ancient and modern Greek in the Warsaw Gymnasium, and when they told me that they would be sending me on a special and secret Greek-related mission I was delighted. I took my ancient and modern Greek books from my home library and threw them in my backpack, along with my other essentials. All through the journey I took the books out and tried to impress the people by reading to them. From the moment we made contact I addressed them in Greek, and they, especially the older women, looked at me in disbelief. I saw fear in their eyes and some wouldn’t take my hand when I offered my assistance. I spoke to them in Greek but they kept quiet and looked at me with mockery on their faces. ‘Καταλαβενις?’ (Do you understand?) I asked one woman. She nodded her head somewhat coldly. I got frustrated and said out loud: ‘Moj, Boże, nic nie rozumiem!’ (My, God, I don’t understand anything.) A middle-aged man came over and in a very calm voice said to me in Greek: ‘Excuse me, sister, I understand you...’ I looked at him and started chewing his words. He then said: ‘Forgive me but those words you spoke sound like Russian words, forgive me but those words sister are quite similar to ours. Even the word ‘siostro’ (sister) is quite similar to our word ‘sestra’... I stood there puzzled... And then, the man who told me he had understood slowly and admirably told me again: ‘Sorry sister, they don’t understand you because you speak Greek to them.’ ‘Are you not Greeks?’ I asked. He then said: ‘Why not ask them?’ I turned to a woman and, while pointing my finger at my eye, nose, mouth, teeth, hair, foot, said the

words in Greek out loud like it was done with students. Nothing! I then pointed to myself and said: ‘Ia siostra’ (I am a nurse) in Polish and one of the women said: ‘Ti mila nasha sestra…’ (Our dear sister...” Stunned, I immediately translated the whole sentence to Polish: ‘ty miła nasza siostra...’ Mój Boże! (My god) I yelled in amazement and they said ‘Moi Bozhe’. And after that we spoke to each other, I in Polish and the women in their own language, which made me wonder what kind of Greeks these people were who could understand Polish? So I asked the man: ‘Are they Russians?’

‘No, Ms nurse, they aren’t Russians,’ replied the man.

‘How can they be Greeks if they don’t understand me when I speak Greek to them? What are they?” I asked the man.

‘That’s right; they’re not Greeks either...’ replied the man and left without telling me anything more.

‘So what are they, Pan Kole?’ she asked me when we were talking.

‘Macedonians... pani siostro, Macedończycy...’ I said to her,” Kole concluded.

“After that, Pan Vishnievski, our dear nurse hid her Greek books in her backpack and pulled out a large notebook and, throughout the entire journey, wrote the Macedonian word beside each Polish word. She questioned the women by pointing at something and saying what it was in Polish, the women then told her how to say it in Macedonian... Later, her tiny Polish-Macedonian dictionary was of great help in the hospital, where she took care of our wounded...” said Kole, smiled and continued:

“Now, Pan Vishnievski, I will tell you something that will make you laugh. All the while we were aboard the ship traveling to Glanisk, Polish doctors and nurses took care of our people. During the medical examinations, the doctors often would ask: ‘boli głowa, noga, oko, nos, rana, zęby, gardło?’ (Does you head, leg, eye, nose, wound, teeth, throat hurt?) And our answer would be: ‘ne boli glava, noga, oko, nos, rana, zabi, grlo...’ (My head, leg, eye, nose, wound, teeth, throat… doesn’t hurt). And then there were the nurses who

delivered our food, they would say: ‘chleb, mleko, mięso…’ (bread, milk, meat) and our people understood what they were saying and would often say to me: ‘Dear Kole, why do they taunt us by twisting our words, why don’t they speak to us with our pure words? Surely they’re pretending to be Poles? No, they certainly aren’t Poles, they are our people. They just pretend to be... they are our people... I swear to God, they are our people...’ that’s what some of the women said to me,” said Kole and stopped talking.

The silence lasted a long time. Both men stared at the surrounding hills and trees whose leaves had been gilded by the fall and, without turning his head, Kole spoke first. He said:

“These people, Pan Vishnievski, about whom you care on a daily basis, have their own deep-rooted sense of uniqueness. They are villagers who for generations have been tied to their land, their flocks, their sickle, their hoe... They are now torn from their plough, their sheep, their goats, their cattle... They are torn but their minds are still with them, with their land and with their flocks that nourished them. They lived poor lives, some together with their goods and animals, in the same house under the same roof. They lived on the top floor and their animals under them and in the yard. The light with which they lit their homes was either borina (pine wood sticks) or kerosene lamps... No wonder they are so amazed by the glass bulbs that glow from the ceilings over their heads here. As soon as a child starts walking in the village they are ready for work. Even before they are teenagers, children, often barefoot or wearing pig skin moccasins, earn their bread by working hard. Our people, Pan Vishnievski, are village people, poor, illiterate and ignorant. They had as much food as they could extract from the fields, the garden and their flocks. For as long as their plow was plowing, for as long as they could sow and harvest, and for as long as their yard was full of sheep, goats and cattle there was no hunger for them. Their world was as wide as the distance from their home to the village limits. Here in Poland, Pan Vishnievski, they walk along the clean streets with no mud on their shoes and eat three meals a day in the canteen. At home they ate once or twice a day, usually homemade bread and cheese. They ate meat only on special occasions or during the holidays. Out of the hundred and ten men who lived in my village, half of them were pechalbari (migrant

workers) working overseas or on lands outside the village. As far as education was concerned, the old people had none and most of the children went as far as grade four. But when it came to religion and agriculture the village children knew more than their teachers. The children quickly learned arithmetic with its four actions - adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing up to one hundred… and mythology... The teachers insisted that they learn the so-called Greek mythology and know all the so-called Greek mythological gods, and if they didn’t they came home with swollen palms, hit by the teacher’s rod countless times. Ironically the teachers weren’t paid by the state but by our poor people who were taught to be uneducated. Yes, they were taught nothing…Go and speak to any of our woman in Greek; I bet you they won’t understand a single word you say. Our men and women who were born during Ottoman times (before 1912) and didn’t know any Greek but the Greeks, after they occupied our lands, insisted that we speak only Greek. When our people were caught speaking Macedonian, their mother tongue, the only language they knew, they were dragged through the courts and punished. Some were fined so much it pushed them into poverty. Then came the communists who filled their heads with ideas… They were told that under communist rule no one would punish them for speaking their mother tongue, that for them there would be no poverty, there would be plenty of food, they wouldn’t need to plow their fields with oxen, Russia was going to give them machines to do that work, there would be no need for the men to do migrant work overseas and no one would prohibit them from speaking their language. And the most important thing about this was that no one was going to prison for speaking their language. The villagers believed those promises and believed the communists would be protected from evil. The people who made these promises were communists themselves and the ignorant people believed and began to embrace their new faith (communism). They were ignorant and now they were even more ignorant. And ignorant people are what it needs the most when you want to achieve something. The people themselves weren’t communists but they accepted the Communist Party because it was the only party that promised them protection. For these people, Pan Vishnievski, the authorities had no love or compassion; they disliked their way of life, their homes and their primordial lands. In the state’s eyes these people didn’t count for anything, they were just in the way and needed to disappear. What

else can you call it when the state changes your name and forbids you from speaking your own language? The end of the Great War (WW II) didn’t bring our people what they expected; what they were promised for their sacrifices. And those who promised them protection were dragged into a new war. Deceived by some of their own people, they again took the communist side even though they weren’t communists... And as far as I know, Pan Vishnievski, the Poles were also promised much but you, being literate and learned people, fought for your own interests. We, Pan Vishnievski, put our fate in the hands of the Greek communists who promised us that we would be free. And we believed their idolatry. We trusted them a lot and put our faith in them and they brought us here. I believed them too and now I’m here in your farm...”

“What kind of work did you do, Pan Kole, during the war?” asked Vishnievski.

“I gave speeches, made decisions, shouted slogans written by the Greek communists with promises, calling on the Macedonian people to fight against Anglo-American imperialism and later against Tito. I translated many of their speeches and slogans into Macedonian and the faithful but ignorant Macedonian communists printed them in our newspapers... They themselves read them, but most of what they read they didn’t understand and even misrepresented to the illiterate Macedonian villagers... There I was needed... Here I am accused...” replied Kole.

“What did they accuse you of?” asked Vishnievski.

“What didn’t they accuse me of...? They accused me of being a Titoist, of being a Macedonian nationalist... You know, Pan Vishnievski, when a small group of us Macedonians were in quarantine, we decided to go to Vrotslav... to work in a factory and study. Some of us already had high school diplomas, others had just enrolled in the gymnasiums in Bitola and Veles and some at the University of Skopje. I was at the end of my studies in the People’s Republic of Macedonia, the federal part of Yugoslavia, even though I already had a degree in philology from the University of Solun. At that time, in the part of Macedonia that was under Greek rule, I was one of the few educated Macedonians... Then the Greek communists

went ahead and boycotted the elections in Greece. As a result the English assisted political right assumed power and began to persecute the political left, especially the Macedonian people. The Macedonian people in Greece faced unprecedented terror. Once the political right established itself in the Greek part of Macedonia, it began to create lists of who to target, persecute, jail and exile. A huge part of our population from the villages was sent to prison in the dry Greek island camps… And most of them didn’t know why. It was madness… To save themselves from the onslaught, many party activists, party organizational leaders, secretaries, ELAS (Ellinikos Laikos Aperelefterotikos Stratos - Greek National Liberation Army) commissars, commanders… fled for Yugoslavia at the behest of the party by secret channels. Bulkesh was their destination. And at that time the Greek Civil War was raging in Greece. God willing, Pan Vishnievski, I will tell about Bulkesh another time… All the boys who studied in the Bitola and Veles high schools as well as myself and three others who were studying at the Skopje University, who were from the Kostur and Lerin villages, were collected and kept in a cellar in Bitola for a few days, near the military officer’s boarding house. Morally and politically they were preparing us to be fighters. We didn’t need much convincing. We, too, were victims of what was happening in our country and frankly confirmed that we wanted to join the struggle against the new authorities in Greece, and most of all, as some of our Bitola high school professors told us, to fight for Macedonia. Let us fight so that our divided Macedonia can be reunited again. By the way, our professors, as we learned later, paid with jail sentences for promoting the idea of liberating Macedonia. They were tried when we were bleeding on top of the Macedonian mountains… They were punished with long prison sentences to be served in concentration camps... And when they brought us to Poland, we of the few who were left alive didn’t forget that we were Macedonians who loved Macedonia. We thought so but the party didn’t,” concluded Kole.

Kole paused for a moment, looked at Vishnievski and continued:

“The party declared us nationalists and Tito’s agents. They took my pencil and notebook and gave me the reins of a horse. And now I guide a horse-drawn carriage and transport what’s loaded on it so that they from the party committee can re-educate me. In their list I

am known as Nikos Simigis but what do you hear my people call me?” asked Kole and continued.

“They call me Kole Simidzievski and the others they call Ianevski, Petrovski, Ristovski... But in the Greek lists they are called Giannopoulos, Petropoulos, Hristopoulos...

The Greek authorities took away our real names and gave us these Greek names, Pan Vishnievski, and then they gave you these lists and told you that we are Greeks,” Kole added.

Looking like he had suddenly remembered something new, Vishnievski turned to Kole and said: “Yes, that’s what they told me. I remember that now very clearly. When I first met your people and listened to them talking among themselves, I noticed they used Polish sounding words. So at one point I asked one of the men: ‘What kind of Greeks are you using words in your conversations that are similar to Polish?’ He said: ‘Well, we aren’t Greeks, we’re Slavo-Macedonians.’ The man from the party committee also told me, several times: ‘We are Greeks and they are Slavo- Macedonians. To differentiate them from us Greeks we called them Slavo-Macedonians because they are Slavs by race. Like you who are Slavs.’ Well if that’s so, I said to him, then you should be calling the Poles Slavo-Poles. Maybe, he said, if the Poles lived in Greece. I then said to him: ‘You people are racist!’ ‘No, you’re not right!’ he replied with a raised voice. ‘We are only Communists.’ Then he, Pan Kole, threatened me and said that my opinion would be judged by the party committee in Zgozhelets...”

Kole laughed loudly and, tapping Vishnievski on the shoulder, said:

“Rest assured they won’t give you an excellent grade…”

Vishnievski smiled and said: “The other day walking on the road I met an older man and, after a short conversation, I asked him what his name was. He said:

‘My old name is Petrovski...’

I took out the list from my briefcase but I couldn’t find his name on it. I said to him:

‘Your name isn’t on my list.’

He then said: ‘Look for Petropoulos, is there a Petropoulos on your list?’

I looked and there it was. I said: ‘Yes, there is a Petropoulos on my list.’

To my surprise he said: ‘Erase the name Petropoulos and write Petrovski in its place. That’s my real name which I inherited from my family. Erase Petropoulos and write down Petrovski. Do it!’ he insisted. ‘Wipe out Petropoulos because here I’m free to call myself by my real name. Petropoulos reminds me of the taste of castor oil and renka (salted dry fish)…’ This is what he said to me, Pan Kole, what does it mean?”

Kole looked at him and said: “When taken orally castor oil causes strong diarrhea and ‘renka’ is a dry and very salty fish. They were force-fed to the Macedonian people by the Greek authorities to punish, castigate and humiliate them for speaking their Macedonian language. So, how are we to interpret their actions…? When they ban your language and change your name by force?”

“Pan Kole, our elders at home, at school, at church, at children’s camps and youth camps always told us to love your language and your homeland... And those kids among you, Pan Kole, why were they sent here?” asked Vishnievski.

“To punish them, Pan Vishnievski, to punish them for loving their language and their homeland. The day the party committee announced that it was replacing what it called the artificial Macedonian Cyrillic language that Tito created for the Macedonians, with Russian or Bulgarian, and removed the teachers, educators and women accompanying the children from the State Education Centre, some of those children rebelled. They went out during the night writing graffiti and slogans on the city walls in support of Macedonia. And those who were caught were sent here

by the party committee for re-education, just like the rest of us. They were caught with help from their schoolmates, party activists and party police...” replied Kole.

8

On one of the following winter evenings, after drinking his second shot of vodka, Pan Vishnievski said:

“I see, Pan Kole, you haven’t learned how to drink vodka. I’m surprised by how you continue to sip it so slowly. Watch and learn. You take your full shot glass of vodka, you tip your head back a little, you open your mouth and, with a single swing, you dump it down your throat. You don’t have to swallow, it just runs down to your stomach on its own... Observe, here is how it’s done...” and Vishnievski demonstrated.

“And wine, do you drink wine, Pan Kole?” asked Vishnievski.

“We drink wine during the holidays, weddings, baptisms and during cheerful and sad days. We don’t serve wine from bottles, we serve it from pitchers. The host fills a pitcher full of fresh wine from the wine barrel and puts it in the centre of the table. The hostess then fills the wine glasses from the pitcher. We don’t drink wine like water, we sip it slowly with pleasure pouring it inside our mouths. Sip after sip after sip... merging the wine with the throat, stomach and soul,” replied Kole.

“In other words you don’t drink much, right?” asked Vishnievski.

“Yes we do but in moderation, Pan Vishnievski... And, of course, there are those who drink without moderation...” replied Kole.

“In other words, you don’t have many drunkards, do you?” asked Vishnievski.

“Not many but there are drunkards. We also have songs about drinking. In our country, Pan Vishnievski, wine and rakia songs are common and have been sung by our people because these drinks are

part of our sweat and daily lives. The days when we harvest our grapes, when we ferment our wine and when we distill our rakia are holidays for us...” replied Kole.

“When do you drink wine the most?” asked Vishnievski.

“We drink wine mostly during the fall and winter and rakia all year round...” replied Kole then stopped talking. He then stared ahead far into the distance and quietly began to murmur:

“Vino piam, em rakia, (I drink wine, I drink rakia,) Kon iavam, adzhamia. (A horse I ride, like an amateur.) Kon me sheta gore dolu, (The horse takes me here and there,) Gore dolu niz toa pole… (Here and there in the valley…) Me odnese na ladna meana, (It took me to a cool inn,) Bo meana do tri momi. (To three girls in the inn.) Prvata tochi, drugata nosi, (The first poured, the second served,) A tretata mene me gleda. (And the third kept looking at me.) Pa ia kachiv na Koncheto, (I took her and put her on my pony,) Ia odnesov pravo doma… (I took her straight to my home…)”

The quiet murmur brought Kole home.

“Are you singing, Pan Kole?” asked Vishnievski.

“Sorry about drifting away… Our conversation reminded me of a drinking song we used to sing back home called drinking wine and rakia... it’s a folk song... Our people, Pan Vishnievski, sang songs like that for ages. For wine and rakia, for pain and sorrow, for day and night, for sun and moon, for vineyards and fields, for love and desire, for life and death, for good and evil... for robbers, henchmen, traitors and strangers... For everything, Pan Vishnevski, that was part of their lives... The songs were created by ordinary people, mostly by villagers. Cheerful and sad, those songs are for all seasons, for all things and for happiness and misfortune... Maybe someday our people will sing a song or two about us... here... or someone will write something in their notebook and record how we got here and how we live here. Our story, every story needs to be written down so as not to be forgotten… especially the madness that brought us here... Our people, Pan Vishnievski, have interwoven

their joy, sadness and pain into our folk songs with ordinary, simple, everyday words. Every good and evil they experience, their suffering and joy, sadness and hope, but also their soul they have captured in a song. We don’t have Rei and Kohanovski, Mitskievich and Slovachki... We have folk songs. Our souls, hearts, desires, suffering, pain and hopes are captured in them. Our people also put their wisdom into folk songs. In the long string of folk songs there’s one that is an unreachable metaphor. Listen, Pan Vishnievski, it goes something like this:

Terzii, brakia, terzii, (Tailors, brothers, tailors,) Ai, soshite mi bel fustan, (Stitch me a white dress,) Bez nozhitsi da go skroite, (Trim it without scissors,) Bez konets da go naberete… (Hem it without string…)

Devoiche, versshko, devoiche, (Girl, trusted, girl,) Ai, da ni mesish kravaiche, (Knead us some bread,) Bez sito da go otseesh, (Sift the flour without a sieve,) Bez voda da go zamesesh, (knead it without water,) Bez ogan da go ispechesh. (Bake it without a fire.)

Terzii, brakia, terzii, (Tailors, brothers, tailors,) Ias ke vi mesam kravaiche, (I will knead you some bread,) Niz klepki ke go otseam, (Through my eyelashes I will sift it,) So solzi ke go zamesam, (With my tears I will knead it,) Na gradi ke go opecham, (On my chest I will bake it,) Na gradi ke go opecham… (On my chest I will bake it…)

This, Pan Vishnievski, is how our people sang about the possible and impossible. The common people sang like this… It’s genius... And let me tell you, Pan Vishnievski, we have endured long centuries of slavery but thanks to our Orthodox faith we captured our traditions and customs in our songs. They were and still are our biggest teachers... This is how we managed to preserve ourselves, our customs, our language and our spirit...” said Kole, paused for a moment to organize his thoughts, and said:

“A written language, do you hear me Pan Vishnievski, we gave other people our written language, we have enlightened them and at the same time have left ourselves illiterate... ignorant, Pan

Vishnievski, ignorant... And as you know anyone can knead the ignorant like dough and make them do whatever they want them to do... It’s true, Pan Vishnievski, we gave our alphabet to others but we remained not only illiterate but ignorant and blind... Yesterday, Pan Vishnievski, you characteristically asked me what was most painful for us as a people... Disagreement, disunity, jealousy, political blindness, believing in the promises of others... Unfortunately all of those things are painful to us. We allow ourselves to be easily deceived, which seems to be a Macedonian weakness… a misfortune... We can’t seem to see our way out of our problems and as a result fall prey to those who know our weaknesses and use them against us. We exist in three different states and each state has manipulated us through their propaganda to hate one another and at the same time we also received their vicious hatred. We seem to do to one another what they do to us. We hate each other in the way they hate us. And this is nothing new. We hated each other in the past and we hate each other today. In the face of our neighbours and their distant caretakers, we have always been victims... then and now...”

Kole’s voice quivered a little which didn’t go unnoticed by Pan Vishnievski.

“Our people who work in these big fields are barely able to withstand the fear even when they hear a tractor rattle. To them the rattles sound like machine gun fire. Did you see them duck for cover yesterday when an airplane flew over? Fear has nested deep in them. We suffered a terrible beating during the war. Our defeat devastated us. I hope we’ll learn a good lesson from it, which may wake us up. Then maybe our maturing will begin. Perhaps we’ll realize that it’s time for us to grow up and look for other ways… Ways that will lead us back to our homes where we’ll be masters of our own destiny. Our eternal foolishness, our strife, divisions and lack of clear thinking have led us to this terrible defeat... Pan Vishnievski, it isn’t shameful to admit that wanderers from around the world have shaped our destiny... Now, unfortunately, we are among them... It’s very painful to find out that these ‘caretakers’ who we trusted have betrayed and humiliated us... Yes... the fate of our people rested with them and our people have paid with their lives for their betrayals and humiliation... Our people still have to bear the unhealed wounds

which were left open from our senseless divisions encouraged by these outsiders...” concluded Kole and stopped talking. Then, after a few moments of silence, Vishnievski asked:

“Pan Kole, earlier you mentioned Rei, Mikolai Rei. Did you know that he lived during the sixteenth century, a time when the sermons in the Polish churches, even in wealthy communities, were given in the Latin language? The neighbouring peoples were laughing at the Poles so Rei, who knew the language of the Polish multitude, said:

A niechaj narodowie wżdy postronni znają iż POLACY nie gęsi, iż swój język mają (Let the neighbouring nations always know that the Polish people are not geese but have their own language)

This is what he said and his words were remembered by the Polish people for centuries and this is how we kept our dignity intact. Our language and our great literature in the long past and even today have protected us from external divisions instigated by our neighbours, and even internal divisions we instigated ourselves, and have helped us preserve our identity as Poles... In the past, and even now, we’ve been told that in order for Poland to survive it must bind itself to the Great Powers. Before Poland was partitioned, some people said that Poland should turn to Russia because Russia was becoming a Great Power. Others were saying Poland should bind itself to Prussia or to Austria-Hungary. And this is exactly what led to Poland’s territorial division. The Poles were divided into patriots and traitors... the patriots raised uprisings, bled and lost while the traitors fought for personal gain and privileges. Then, long after the last divide, a man came along and promoted the idea that Poland should only rely on the Polish people. He girded his sabre around his waist, left his misery behind and led the Poles east and west. But the divisions didn’t end, new worshipers surfaced, both in the west and the east and they brought new divisions. Muttering among themselves they felt secure that they were now well protected by the easterners. And what did they, in the west think? As you can see, Pan Kole, a division between east and west began to appear. Some of our neighbours who wanted to go west, wanted to pass through Poland. Those who wanted to go east again wanted to pass through Poland. Poland was in everyone’s way. And if things didn’t go well, things never go well here, then solutions came in the form of

deception or war. From what you tell me, I believe you are in the same situation, as us. If someone wants to go east by land, they must go through Macedonia or from the east to the west, they must go through Macedonia. But, unlike us, they don’t have to declare war on you. They know how to do it by deception. They find weak-minded and greedy people and assist them to achieve high positions, power and money. They look for weaknesses and greed in people, not for days, but for months and years. Well, they are their biggest helpers in switching sides. They are what we call traitors. They are protected for as long as they are needed and no more, for one time only. Once they have achieved their goal they are set aside and others are sought for new goals. The architects of this game know how to play it well, and their small-minded and greedy victims are blind and deaf to it... That’s how things were done in the past and that’s how things are done in the present...” concluded Vishnievski.

9

Labro, who occasionally came to the farm in Kunuv, following the party line, often came to see and talk to Kole. The last time he came, he stopped on the road where Kole was guiding the horses pulling an overloaded cart. Labro signaled Kole to stop and said:

“Come over here. Let the horses take a break. Come and sit beside me and let’s light one.”

“Thank you, Uncle Labro, but I don’t smoke,” replied Kole.

“I know that you don’t smoke and that you don’t drink, I knew this from before, but people have been telling me that you read a lot, sometimes late at night, sometimes all night long to the early morning and sometimes during the day. You steal time from your working hours to read. Ah, Kole, Kole, are you an educated person, huh? You speak clearly and very good Macedonian, and you speak Greek like an educated Greek. We had a couple of students in the prison at Akronavplia who were educated much like you... What kind of education do you have?” asked Labro.

“I studied at the University in Solun…” replied Kole quietly and got up to continue to drive the horses.

“Sit down! The horses aren’t rabbits, they re not going to run away. Sit down, I said, sit down and tell me if the party sent you here to work?” asked Labro.

Calmly and quietly Kole said: “Exactly... They sent me here to work...”

“And why, I ask you, are you working here as a horseman and not in the leadership or in the boarding schools teaching the children?

Today, out here (in Poland), we need educated people, not people to lead horses, right?” asked Labro.

“That’s what the party decided, Uncle Labro...” replied Kole.

“What did you do before this job?” asked Labro.

“Like I told you before, I was a student...” replied Kole.

“Did you take part in the war?” asked Labro.

“Yes...” replied Kole.

“What were you in the war? What was your rank? Was your rank high…” asked Labro.

“No, it wasn’t high... I was low...” replied Kole.

“Why? You’re educated… you’re smart, why low...?” asked Labro.

“That’s the way it was then, as it is now, the high places weren’t for the educated...” replied Kole.

Labro crushed the cigarette butt into the ground, stared at Kole’s face from side to side and, while chewing his words, asked:

“I hear, Kole, that you speak Polish very well too? And I don’t believe you were sent here by chance. You must have offended someone and this job is your punishment?”

“The party knows why I’m here...” replied Kole.

“That’s right... the party knows everything and doesn’t make mistakes... The party, Kole, is everything. The party is judge, jury and executioner. It punishes, it doesn’t forgive. It doesn’t correct wrongs; it cuts them out or allows them to grow just the way the party wants them to grow. The party is God and therefore doesn’t recognize another god. Do you understand?” replied Labro.

Kole nodded his head. He felt he had no power to prove to the old man that it wasn’t like that. The old man was already deeply convinced that this young man had been tempered by the fire of communism, had been bent and straightened, and bent and molded on the anvil of those who attacked his consciousness with heavy hammers. People like Labro were already anchored by someone who only wanted to cut the world with their own knife. And the knife was sharp. People like Labro were simple but persistent, eager to get even the smallest place by the table, and were satisfied with the crumbs they managed to collect. They satisfied their hunger with the meat of other people’s thought and promises that, at some point in the future, they, the simple people, would eat and drink like the rich. Their self-deception drove their madness for rule to increase daily. And they believed it. Kole didn’t want to argue with that self-confident old man whose conviction came from the outside, not from his own brain. Someone else was pulling his strings and hammering ideology into his brain. Labro believed what he told Kole that only one person in the party must think and no one else, because if everybody was thinking then there would be no party. Only one needs to think and the rest will follow in his (or her) footsteps. And that there is no other god...

Kole didn’t want to wait for Labro to finish thinking about his new god, so he got up, shook the dust off his old worn out military pants and said:

“Uncle Labro, I have to go and finish my work. And you have to finish yours...”

Labro stepped on the cigarette with his shoe, spat to the side and said:

“Tonight we’re having a gathering in the dining room. I want you to come and give a talk, but before that I’ll tell you something... Okay?”

Kole didn’t promise he was going to attend the gathering. Before taking the horses, he turned to Labro and asked:

“Is it true, Uncle Labro that you were in the Akronavplia prison? That’s what some people said...”

“I was, son, I was… and for many years... Come back, sit here and I’ll tell you about it. Sit here, closer. It was a bad prison, one of the worst in which the most prominent and most faithful communists were imprisoned, especially the most trusted by the party who were placed in high positions... Even though it was a prison, it was a great school for us, replied Labro.

“How did you end up there?” asked Kole.

“Me? It’s a long story but I’ll briefly tell you, not how I got there, but how I got out of there. When General Metaxas established the fascist dictatorship, he gathered the most prominent communists who he considered most dangerous and sent them to that prison. I was among those people. As you probably know, Greece was occupied by the Italians, Germans and Bulgarians and formed a government in Athens that worked with them. That government surrendered all the prisoners, including me, to the Germans. And there was no one to organize resistance and fight against the occupiers in Greece. Then Ianis Ioanidis, a member of the CPG Politburo, secretly gathered us Macedonian communists and told us that there were no forces in Greece that could organize resistance against the occupiers. All former active communists were in prison. At the same time the Greek political right cooperated with the occupiers. Ianis said that only the communists were capable of organizing a resistance against the occupiers. In addition, he noted that it was possible that a large number of brave and faithful communists were to be released from prison and, after being released, they could begin organizing an anti-fascist resistance, which would also help the Soviet Union which at the time was fighting heavy battles against the Germans. We asked him how we could help. Ianis explained that our Comrade Delio Popnedelkov had a wife who was German who was going to urge German command to release her husband. She would tell the German commander that her husband was imprisoned because he was Macedonian and not a Greek Communist and that there were dozens like him in prison. The German woman spoke with the German commander who then called the Bulgarian embassy and told them