PART TWO - Part 01

PART TWO

1

The ship slowly anchored at the port late at night. Large lights illuminated the dock and surrounding buildings. They woke the people and again sent them down the same stairs one behind the other with their belongings on their shoulders and under their arms. The old and the women with children were lowered to the ground in nets. From there they were immediately taken to the railway cars waiting for them a few steps away. After everyone was on board, women in white coats came over with baskets in their hands and gave out bread with butter and jam, hot milk and tea.

Whistle. Under them the seats or the ground moved. A bang, a convulsive blow to the wagons, a long whistle of the locomotive and he turned away. First the wheels knocked quietly on the rail joints and then they got stronger and faster. Neither the beating nor the whistling of the locomotive told the excited and surprised passengers where it was taking them.

Leaning on Mitre’s shoulder Mara was dozing off but couldn’t fall asleep. There was a constant knocking from the moving train under her. She occasionally opened her eyes but all she could see was level ground with forests both to the left and right, sometimes there was open space but it was flat as far as the eye could see. And then there was the constant knocking: once “tak” then “tak-tak” all the time, sometimes faster, sometimes slower. There was the occasional whistle and again through the woods and plains. Sometimes low houses passed quickly in front of the windows. As the train continued on its way, Mara wondered if there was going to be an end to that knocking, to those forests and the endless green plains. No hill, no mound, just plains, forests and greenery… and that constant knocking.

Far away the sky turned pale. The darkness was slowly disappearing. The dim light became brighter. The sun was shining

through the forest gaps and intermittently striking Mara in the eyes. It was daytime.

Tired from twelve days of sailing in open waters, the refugees were suffering from sea sickness, exhaustion and fear of the unknown. On top of that they worried about where this journey might take them. After they were unloaded from the ship they were loaded onto a train and sent on a new journey into the unknown. Then, after an all night train ride, they were housed in a large building, in the town Mijndziguzhe in Lower Silesia in southwestern Poland. The small town, which for years was inhabited by Germans, was a well-known summer and winter tourist resort. The town had not been destroyed during the war. The Red Army hadn’t passed by there. The Germans, in the spirit of the Yalta agreement, were evicted to the last one. Houses, boarding houses, hotels, inns, pubs and bars were all empty.

After they were placed in the empty houses, many refugees were amazed at how there was flowing water inside the buildings, not just cold but also hot water. They wondered how that was even possible. They were amazed by the lighting in their rooms; all they had to do was push a button and there on the ceiling, a glass ball would light up. The old people were afraid of the magic light and insisted that the young put it out. The old people were afraid of the button that made the ball on the ceiling glow. They had never seen any of the things that surrounded them. They had never seen such wide beds with linen so white. They had never seen an electric stove and were amazed at how such a stove could give instant heat without having to burn coal or wood. They had never seen strange iron ribs that could radiate warmth. Everything was strange in this place...

They looked at themselves in the big mirrors and wondered if they were truly themselves. For the next seven days that they were there the doctors kept examining them, giving them medicine and applying various potions and creams on them. They were fed well five times a day. They were given bottles of buttermilk to drink which, along with water, were placed in wooden boxes in each corner of the room. That wonder and amazement lasted seven days. Seven days of lying around, eating, drinking and not working. Seven

days filled with thoughts that they would be going home soon but no one told them how and when they were going home.

On the eighth day they separated them from their straw beds and their dirty blankets. The men were sent to shave and get a haircut and the women and children were sent to the baths. The men were sent to the baths after the women were done. Everyone was shy about taking their filthy clothes off. Their bodies were encrusted with difficult to remove dried dirt which had been building for months. Scrub brushes and soap were used to remove it, turning their bodies red from the scrubbing. After everyone was washed and cleaned they were dressed in their old rustic clothes that had been boiled in large buckets for a long time to remove the lice and nits. The next day they were sent for a medical examination.

“Does your head hurt?” asked the doctor. “No, my head doesn’t hurt...” “Does your throat hurt?” “No, my throat doesn’t hurt...” “Do any of your teeth hurt?” “No, none of my teeth hurt...” “Do your ears hurt?” “No, my ears don’t hurt...”

The doctors asked in Polish and the patients answered in Macedonian. Both sides were amazed how they understood each other and how close the two languages were.

Well fed, washed and cleaned they spent their autumn days waiting. They waited during the rain, fog, hot days and gypsy (Indian) summer filled with thoughts of soon going back home. They waited for someone to come and tell them when they would set out on their journey to return home.

Dedo Nake separated himself from a group of men and called on one of the younger boys to come over.

“Come here my boy, let me ask you something. Tell me are we far from home?”

“Yes we are far Dedo, very far from home... that’s what they say...”

“Aha, in other words we can’t go on foot. Too bad, too bad son ... And how far are we? Do you know?”

“The boy didn’t answer and left, and with the boy left Dedo Nake’s unfulfilled dream...

After the quarantine they were placed in local houses. Each house had a basement, a ground floor and other floors with a lot of empty rooms. Each house also had indoor running water and electricity, a wide courtyard with various fruit trees, lots of greenery, flowers and a barn for housing animals. Scattered through all the yards were various machines that they had never seen before and wondered what they were for... For the first time in a long time the refugees felt clean and free of lice. They were well fed and slept in beds covered with white sheets and clean blankets that didn’t smell of mold and rot. For the first time they used soap that had a scent of roses and acacia… For the first time, after spending so much time on the road and hiding on the slope near Pegin, they didn’t feel the hard dusty ground under them, the humidity and mist, the heavy thunderstorms, the cold during the night and the hard boards on the ship’s floor that substituted for a mattress. The soft white pillows brought back their good dreams, peace of mind and hope. They were no longer awakened by long machine gun bursts, the roar of flying aircraft and the moans and sight of the wounded. They no longer had to listen to the daily promises made to them and demands made of them to give everything to the struggle including their lives, their children, their homes, their possessions… which they did. But even all that wasn’t enough... For the first time during their first days at Mijndziguzhe they walked without fear, for the first time they saw the sky clear, for the first time they weren’t called and forced to dig trenches and carry long logs and stones to build bunkers. They had their first peaceful sleep without fear here in Mijndziguzhe. Here they lived in peace inside a living green environment surrounded by green fields and low hills but their thoughts were elsewhere. They spent their days thinking about going back home. They kept thinking of how they had gotten here over the sea and by train and wondered how far home might be. But in time their desire to go back home began to subside and they became more focused on finding their

loved ones. They were hurting deep in their souls as they searched for a husband, a wife, a daughter, a son, a brother, a sister and all other relatives who were missing from their lives. Now they spent their days and nights in pain wondering if they would ever see their loved ones again. As they learned more and more about their fate, more and more began to wear black – black dresses, black head kerchiefs, black bands around their arms and black collars. They may have looked calm on the outside, and indeed their souls were calmer today than they had been yesterday, but deep inside they felt unbearable sadness, a stinging of their soul, they felt unbearable pain which they couldn’t control. They constantly carried a great weight wherever they went and no one was able to offer them relief. Their suffering made them silent, resentful, desperate and inconsolable. And this is what they had to endure...

The refugees ranged in age from a few weeks old to 60 years old, some, a large number, were over 70 years old. There were also a few who were even older. There were some, mostly males, who could boast of having completed four years of elementary education in the Greek schools, and the rest, mostly women, were illiterate and didn’t know a single word of Greek. Some of the men who served in the Greek army learned a few Greek words and so did the men who spoke Macedonian at home or were communists and were caught and sent to serve their sentences in Greek prisons or in the Greek dry islands. There they learned some Greek words but not enough to master the Greek language, so to compensate they substituted Macedonian words. So, in time they created a mixed language which they spoke among themselves. This wasn’t unique to the Macedonians; the Prosfigi (Turkish Christian settlers and colonists deposited in Greek occupied Macedonia in the 1920’s) had also invented their own mix of Greek and Turkish which they spoke on the street. Athenians didn’t understand this language. Hence there were many misunderstandings among them that often ended in fights in the city, bars and inns. The Prosfigi, just like the Macedonians who spoke Greek poorly and with a heavy accent, were subjected to prejudice and ridicule. The Greeks often called them “Ponti” (meaning residents from the shores of the Black Sea) or Turkospori (meaning of Turkish seed). Over time the Prosfigi became a majority in some parts of the country and took charge of the police and special services. During the Greek Civil War, many

of the Prosfigi were commanders of larger partisan (DAG) units. In fact the CPG Central Committee and Politburo were made up mostly of Prosfigi. They were fanatical communists to the core. Many joined the Greek Communist movement because they were extremely poor. The majority were dock workers who had contact with Russians who introduced them to socialism and communist ideals. The largest number of the poor and poverty stricken Prosfigi lived in Greek occupied Macedonia and abused the Macedonian people because they saw them as the reason for their poverty and because the Athens government encouraged them to do so. They wanted all of what the Macedonians had including their identity. So, in time, they began to call themselves Macedonians and not much later the Athens government claimed them as the “real” so-called Macedonians and sole heirs of Alexander the Great. Amazingly, not one person in the Prosfigi community ever baptized their child by that name (Alexander). They avoided that name but wouldn’t explain why. They must have had their reasons.

One day about a dozen Prosfigi arrived in Mijndziguzhe. They kept to themselves and didn’t associate with the Macedonians, even though a few personally knew some of the Macedonians from back home and had had contact with them in the villages and markets in Kostur and Rupishta. When the Prosfigi first arrived in Greek occupied Macedonia in the 1920’s, they were quiet, frightened with eyes full of pleas and with stomachs empty. And, even though the Greeks gave them the most fertile lands, they didn’t know what to do with them. All they knew was how to plant and grow tobacco, corn and pumpkins, and nothing else. They didn’t speak Greek at all, so being with the Macedonians they began to learn to speak Macedonian. And, even though they occupied Macedonian lands that belonged to the Macedonian people, the Macedonians felt sorry for them and taught them how to farm; about the seasons, local climate and how to grow a variety of crops. Now they avoided the Macedonians, the very people who had helped them survive. They stood to the side feeling confidence in the Party and in the party leader who was one of them. He was their god, their stick, their hope and their intellect. They quickly moved to the cities saying: “We aren’t fighting so that we can work!” They also freed themselves of their children. They were the first to give up their children, without

regret, claiming that there was a place for them to study, let the Party take care of them!”

In the meantime those responsible for looking after the refugees sent the following report to the Warsaw authorities:

“Everyone in Mijndziguzhe was given a bath, upper and lower underwear and shoes. The medical team, the sanitary workers and the nurses worked from 6am to 6pm bathing the refugees, cutting their hair, dressing them and placing them in homes. The medical team completed its preliminary examination during the first day, and on the second day the doctors began to examine everyone in the homes where they were already accommodated. There were no serious illnesses, only mange, scabs and diarrhea. There were newborns, born only a few days ago, and many very old people among the refugees. Without exception, they all wore torn rags. Many were barefoot, some wore old rubber boots tied with strings and others wore torn up moccasins. The women covered their heads and half of their faces with black head kerchiefs, so we couldn’t tell whether they were young or old. Many of the women had their bodies tightly tied with ropes and we found it difficult to remove them. Generally, the refugees eagerly ripped their rags right off and bathed with pleasure but there were a few, mostly women, who didn’t want to strip naked, claiming that they had never been naked. After being bathed they couldn’t be recognized. Most of them turned out to be quite young and middle aged. They all looked like they had aged prematurely. They held their dignity, didn’t complain and tried to smile when they saw excitement on the faces of the people helping them. They allowed themselves to do with confidence and gratitude whatever the doctor or nurse told them. They expressed great joy at being in a Slavic country (Poland) and underlined that as Macedonians they had come to stay with their Slav brothers until the Democratic Army of Greece achieved its victory and then they would return to their homeland. Almost every adult had a key tightly tied to their body. They said they had to make sure they didn’t lose the key to their house back in their homeland when they were being undressed. The young people who had been in Poland for a year contributed to the creation of an atmosphere of trust and friendship. Besides that every Polish worker made every effort to help the

refugees and contributed above and beyond what was expected of them.

The second day of their stay in Mijndziguzhe the Greek representatives had a meeting with the Polish representatives during which they discussed organizational issues at the centre. It was decided that the Polish Council would gradually entrust its duties to the Greek council.” (A copy of this report can be found in the archives of the author’s collection.)

2

A decision was made by the CPG Central Committee Politburo, based in Bucharest, to allocate all refugees to various jobs in all the state-run farms where these refugees were settled. This decision was passed on to the lower ranking subordinates located everywhere among the refugees who were former Greek Civil War activists from the lowest Party ranks, who at home hung around headquarters and spent their time lingering around stores, kitchens, ovens and shoe repair shops, and now were put in charge here. The chairmen of the village councils who were appointed on the recommendation and strong support of the village councils now became the people’s government. The vast majority of these people we illiterate villagers or semi-literate at best but very obedient to the Party. Most were unusually greedy and great boasters about their contribution at the front lines. They were now everywhere. And here, in the agricultural holdings, they decided who was going to work in what job, in what factory and who was going to move to the city. They became the right hand of the party committee. Even though unqualified, some succeeded in getting jobs in children’s homes, some as teachers, others as educators, others as guardians. It was their time. They even began to appoint themselves to various positions without permission from the host country. The local senior management party committee would often receive either written instructions delivered by courier, or verbal instructions sent by radio communication from the top party leadership, conveniently located in Bucharest, and without following the laws of the host country they would take over local, executive and penal authorities. They were usually called “the comrades” of the committee. From the first day that they arrived, they took it upon themselves to take over all administrative duties. From day one they decided who would go to which farm, who would go where and whether people would be allowed to move elsewhere, and later to the towns and cities. They would decide who lived on which street and on which floor. They would decide who worked in what factory, who would be allowed to learn a trade, who

would be allowed to take preparatory courses for further studies at university, and so on. They also kept lists of who earned how much money and used that information at public gatherings to praise and humiliate people. They would disclose who was contributing below norm; a humiliation that was equivalent to a light sentence... For those who were party members, the hardest punishment was being expelled from the Party, which would entail exclusion from the collective. Some of those expelled were further punished by not being allowed to associate with their friends and even their relatives. They were sentenced to a life of loneliness. Exclusion from the party was like church anathema. It was the most severe punishment, not the same, but similar to the church anathema which was a rejection of Christianity; an act meant to severely damage the soul, mind, body and spirit of a person. Punishments such as these were an unbearable burden on people, which led to moral disorders and grave health consequences. For those isolated in this way the world that was once open to them became empty, deserted and closed. Many left their current lives and became isolated from their own countrymen. They left secretly, mostly at night, and moved to nearby towns. Some moved even further, to the big cities, where they found accommodation and, although difficult to manage, lived in a fear-free environment. They earned their bread by taking any job available, mostly as general labourers. They were now free of the committee looking into their pockets. On top of that they took their lives back and began to make their own life decisions. Being a tree in the forest of Poles, many felt truly free and secure.

The purpose of these punishments and this kind of behaviour was to create a closed circle around the refugees. They couldn’t be allowed to be individuals and belong to themselves. They couldn’t be allowed to have their own opinion which was different from that of the Party. The party line needed to be imposed on them. By the hand of their own activists they needed to be placed under the party yoke. They needed to be placed under the yoke of obedience, by force if necessary, and made increasingly dependent on the Party. So, even though they lived in a free society, the people in their souls felt like the war was still ongoing, it wasn’t over, it was constantly in their thoughts. The only escape from their misery was to think of returning home. They were still waiting and hoping to return to their homes. They stopped believing in the promises and other big scams

the activists fed them, like the scam that they hadn’t been defeated…This is what the Party was telling them even here, in the agricultural holdings, after all this time. The Party was telling them to always be ready for future struggles and that their stay here was temporary and would only last until the “right conditions” were created for their return. But as time kept on ticking, the “right conditions” were pushed further and further back with no end in sight.

None of the refugees quit their jobs.

The party leaders used to tell them:

“Comrades, today everyone in Poland is harnessed to build socialism. And we too need to get involved in that effort to help the Polish people build socialism with us as quickly as possible and then communism.

At home none of our people ever abandoned their jobs. They all worked on their farms. Working in the fields was in their blood; it was inherited from their ancestors and passed on from generation to generation.

The metallic sound of a hammer hitting a piece of rail signaled that it was time to wake up, have breakfast, go to work, have lunch, go home, have dinner and go the sleep. This is how the days were spent at PGR, the state owned farming company which those from the Party committee in Zgozhelets called “kolhoz”, the word the Poles despised. Many times the Poles corrected their Greek Party comrades and explained to them that “kolhozes” don’t exist in Poland, but the Greeks persistently insisted that their comrades and political refugees worked in kolhozes.

This was how it was decided and approved. And from then on and in the days, months and years to come, without full control, the Greek activists couldn’t force themselves on the Macedonian refugees like they had back home.

This is how it was for many years in their homeland…

Every one of the Macedonian refugees was a villager and knew very well what the jobs were like in the village and the amount of sweat it took to do them. A little later a Party directive came down with orders to deploy the refugees in a large agricultural holding. The directive said the holding had no local workers and needed the refugees to do the work because they were best suited for it. Village work was village work no matter where. But there were differences. At home the terrain was mountainous and hilly. Here the terrain was flat, windy, very humid, misty and plowed with machines, not with oxen or horses. All the agricultural holdings here were state owned. Everyone in the villages had to work to help build socialism and then communism. This is what the Party machine was grinding into people’s heads at every evening gathering. The loudest of them all were the former Macedonian cadres who had led the war back home.

They again grouped the people by village and made arrangements to transport them, be it by ship or train, to the “Państwowe Gospodarstwa Rolne”, meaning to the State owned agricultural holdings, which the people from the Party called “Kolhozi”. The Polish people didn’t like that word and made ugly faces and quietly muttered swear words when they heard it.

During the short break Mara wiped the sweat off her face and said:

“At home at this time of year we picked the grapes from our vineyards. Now there’s no one to pick them, the grapes will dry up on the vines and the apples in the orchards will fall on the ground and rot... All we do here is pick up these damn potatoes and carrots from the muddy ground. Why do they need so many potatoes? At home we loved to pick our grapes. We filled baskets full of them and every time we carried a basket to empty it, we ate a bunch. It was like a holiday. We sang songs and told jokes. The days were sunny and warm and the sky was blue and clear... Our hands smelled like grapes. Harvesting was our joy, not our burden. If we were at home, we’d be harvesting our vineyards now and after we were done we’d press the grapes and put them in barrels. A few days later they’d be fermenting and boiling... turning into wine.”

Autumn was soon approaching. There would be rainy, wet, foggy and cold days ahead. Dressed in rubber boots, all men and women

were deployed in the fields from six in the morning until six in the evening with only a lunch break. They collected potatoes, carrots, beets… and put them in sacks and baskets and then poured them into the tractor-drawn trailers and horse-drawn carts. Everyone was given a number of sacks or baskets, known as the norm, to fill and were encouraged to compete and be the best. All the work was overseen by the comrade from the committee who went from group to group writing down in his notebook the piles, baskets and sacks collected, the names of those who collected them and if they exceeded or fell short of the norm. And, without exception, all the names of the workers were read before dinner in the great hall, announcing how they had done. No one seemed to care how these people felt, if they were sick, if they were tired, or how much they were hurting. All they cared was if the norms were achieved or not before the working day ended. Both those who were praised and criticized (disgraced) went through the same nightly indignation and no one dared say anything, not a curse, not a swear word against the comrades in the committee who did this to them...

They worked in these large fields and they weren’t paid for their work. Their names were on the list with a wage beside them and how they’d done based on the daily norms. Those who could read and write put their signature beside their name. Those who were illiterate, like most, put an “X” in the place where the “comrade” told them. When everyone had signed the list the comrade took it and placed it in his leather briefcase. He then removed a number of packages from a cardboard box and handed each person one. And as he did, with a tone of recognition, said:

“This is a gift from the people’s government... and from the Party...”

They were all fed from the same cauldron and always at the same time.

Everyone pretended to be happy, not only because of the free breakfast, lunch and dinner they received, but also because every day they were convinced that someone cared about them, thinking to make their life easier. Let their plates be full of mashed potatoes and give them a small package donated by the people’s government and by the caring party...

They were obedient, silent and satisfied...

The short-lived, warm gypsy (Indian) summer, in the meantime, had passed. Black clouds descended from the north and carried cold winds. Wild chestnuts grew where there were none and their leaves were turning gold-coloured and falling on the ground, turning it into a bed of gold.

“People, autumn is coming,” said Dedo Tode, pointing to the hazy and frowning sky.

As autumn took hold it began to rain more often. The north wind blew cold air, fog and moisture. The sky began to get cloudy, with black clouds. The fields were wide and long, very much larger than what the people were used to. The rows were long with potatoes, beets, carrots, cabbages, onions and other vegetables, ready to be harvested.

The work had to be done in the state holdings for the entire year; rain, wind, fog, or shine. Most of the work was done by machines. Here they didn’t plow with oxen, horses, or donkeys. Here they didn’t sow by hand, taking the grain out of a bag carried on their shoulders and putting it in the ground one seed at a time. Here each kilometre long row was dug by a machine and seeds were equally spaced, deposited and covered by soil automatically by the same machine. And at harvest time, all the villagers from Kostur and Lerin had to do was walk behind the machines and collect the potatoes, sugar beets, carrots and other vegetables the machines had unearthed. And they did just that. Some people collected the vegetables from the ground and piled them in big piles. Others took them off the piles and put them in sacks. Others took the sacks and loaded them on horse-drawn carts and trailers pulled by tractors. The people did this every day all day long with a short break for lunch, brought to them in bins. They worked long hours in the sun, in the rain, in the mist, in humidity and in the cold. This work was normally done by the Poles but now it was done by the refugees; going from field to field, working from sunrise to sunset and returning home. But when the workers came home they didn’t have to wait in line to be served from a cauldron, they went straight to the

dining hall where their dinner was waiting. Before eating, the commander in charge of each group, usually a former Party commander, read out the names of the workers and how much work each had done compared to the norm. In other words, he read out the name of each worker and how many more or less piles of potatoes, carrots, beets, etc., they had collected, how many more or less sacks they had filled, how many more or less sacks they took to the trailers and carts, and so on, compared to what was considered average. This is how their hard work, sweat and hardship were measured. And by doing so some people were praised while others were embarrassed. But that wasn’t all. All the names and work done that was read out loud before dinner, was posted on a bulletin board on the dining room door for everyone to see the next day. This was reward for some and punishment for others...

Someone looking at the bulleting board said: “Here is Traikovski for example. His counts are always below the norm. I don’t know what his problem is. If he’s sick he should say so, they’ll send him to a doctor...”

Overhearing the comment Traikovski said: “I’m not sick. I just think like this with my simple mind. All day we collect heaps of potatoes, carrots, beets... and put them on the trailer and in magazines. Trucks come and take them... Nothing stays here. I don’t know where they’re taken. Back in my village I used to take the bundles of wheat stalks to my threshing yard. I used my horses or oxen to shake the grain out and deposited it in my grain bin. I kept my flour at home too. And the milk, and the cheese, and the fat and the curds, I kept them in my pots and barrels. Here I collect, transfer and load vegetables but I don’t know where they go. Sorry, but I want to know...”

The man turned to Traikovski and said: “They go to the cities for the working class people to eat, you understand?”

Traikovski then said: “Yes I understand, if it’s like that I understand, I must understand. But I don’t understand anything else. A week ago I was in the hospital where my appendix was removed. I had three hours to wait before the train departed. I walked down some streets and what did I see? Long lines of men and women with bags and

baskets in their hands waiting... They were standing in front of the shops waiting. I spoke to one of them who said:

‘The potatoes and flour have arrived...’ I heard it but I didn’t believe it. They had to wait in line to buy the potatoes we collected in big stacks every day? We don’t eat all the potatoes we have here, boiled or fried, because there are too many. And there, in the city, they have to wait in line to buy potatoes? I find that strange. I find it strange that in the neighbouring farm where only Poles work, they have to wait in line to buy potatoes, bread, flour, sugar and even a stick of matches...”

Kiro Traikovski was puzzled by the whole situation and couldn’t find anyone to explain to him why people in the cities and the neighbouring economy had to stand in line in front of the shops and wait for hours to buy the very potatoes Kiro was collecting without making the norm. What was also not clear to him was why there was so much leftover food in the canteen; bread, potatoes and other foods, collected in barrels and taken somewhere to feed the pigs…

In a casual way Mitre turned to Kiro and quietly said:

“Listen to what I’m going to tell you Kiro. First, don’t ask too many questions. Second, to say the least, here the state feeds you. Third, those in line in the city waiting to buy food… they feed the state, and here the state feeds you... Now do you understand?”

“No, it still isn’t clear to me, but if you say so, then let it be so like you said...I will gather as many potatoes as I can for the proletariat in the city but I don’t want to damage my back from lifting and carrying... Look over there, look at the women...”

There were a bunch of women at the end of the field leaning on the bushels and bags.

Mara put down the bushel, sat down next to the women and, after wiping the sweat off her forehead, said:

“Yesterday I went to see the local church and what did I see, a cold church. There were only two icons above the altar, that of the Virgin

Mary and Jesus Christ, and in front of the altar only a long table and nothing else. The church walls were naked. It wasn’t like our churches where you go in and you aren’t alone. In our churches, on one side you see St. Dimitria, beside him you see St. Nikola and on the other side you see St. Ilia. Everywhere you look you see an icon. There are saints and angels on every wall and on the ceiling. Every one of them is looking at you, directly at your eyes. They watch you but won’t talk to you. Everyone looks at you with kindness, gentleness and warmth. They look at you as if you are the most important person in the world, and with their eyes they seem to be telling you that you are. They’re telling you that we are all with you, come, come on in and don’t be afraid...”

Mara paused for a moment, changed the subject and said: “The wind here isn’t like it was at home. Here when it blows it blows like it wants to carry you away, like it wants to blow you away. It’s not gentle and caressing like it was at home... At home when the wind blew down the chimney, when the sun shone through the window, when thunder roared overhead, when lightning flashed in your eyes, when... eh... what can I say…? It was lovely! Believe me! And the sky?! It was blue, clear and star-studded at night... The aroma and taste of the apples and the smell of hay here isn’t like those at home...”

3

The end of the year was approaching. The weather brought knee-deep snow. The fields were turned white with snow. It was fine and felt like sand in the hand. It was much too cold for these people from the south. They had to endure. The day of the great feast - the birth of Christ - was near.

Two days in advance, all the tables in the dining room were ordered in two rows with benches on both sides. The tables were covered with white sheets and food, brought from the city in two trucks, was laid out on top of them. Behind the front row of tables, in the corner, was a large pine tree adorned with numerous colourful, small and large spherical ornaments which reflected the lights of the low hanging lamps. Sitting among the plates on top of the tables were lit, tall, thick candles as well as lit, short, fragrant candles.

All this was overseen by the watchful and worried eyes of Pan (Mr.) Vishnievski, manager of the Kunuv state agricultural company. In all the days that preceded this day and this dinner Vishnievski had done everything in his power to not only show himself as a good host, but to also wholeheartedly offer the people old fashioned Polish hospitality. And not only that, deep down in his heart, deep in himself, and most of all in his mind, he cherished the desire to arrange a dinner for those, with whom he laboured together in Kunuv and whose great pain he felt.

It was Christmas Eve.

A family holiday...

Pan Vishnievski organized the traditional twelve-dish Christmas Eve dinner for those who had lost their family, loved ones, houses, property, homeland... A solemn dinner for the exiles for whom, at every step and every encounter and meeting, he extended his hand

of friendship with a warm smile and flattering words. A festive feast of great joy - the birth and coming of our Saviour who would bring joy and hope here to the dining room of Kunuv...

There was silence in the great hall. All one could hear were spoons touching plates and loud sighs. Crouched together sitting side by side the guests were deep in thought, looking away into the distance... Sitting in a line with bowed heads bound by black head kerchiefs and arms crossed over their chests, were the widows whose eternal pain was betrayed by their blackness.

Crammed next to each other, for the first time since they had left home, they were celebrating a holiday away from home, in a foreign country.

The long tables reminded them of the lunches they used to have at the monasteries back home. But this, the food, the Christmas tree in the corner, all seemed strange to them. They all sat silently deep in their own thoughts. They looked like they were all lost in their own world. Crammed on the wooden benches they sat in silence dreaming of returning home, and with each bite of the rich festive food they swallowed, they swallowed a memory of sadness. Deep inside them they were hurting...

There was silence...

More silence...

This was the festive dinner that was expected to bring great joy -The Birth of Christ...

Would the pain ever ease and would there ever be even a little hope?

It was midnight...

The church bells in the city began to ring...

Christ was born...

Joy to all and may all live long, happy and healthy years...

Mara collected a handful of crumbs from the long table, put them into her apron and, as she was leaving the table, said:

“For the souls...”

The Christmas Eve dinner ended late, at midnight. Kole and Pan Vishnievski were sitting at the end of the long table opposite one another, near the fireplace with dwindling flames. With glasses full of vodka in their hands they were having a conversation.

“The people looked very sad and deep in their own thoughts during the entire Christmas Eve dinner, Pan (Mr.) Kole. They hardly ate or drank anything... Did we do something wrong?” asked Pan Vishnievski.

“Lord God, no! You shouldn’t even think that way, Pan Vishnievski. Everything was done in the best way possible. It was wonderful. Unexpected, unprecedented so far... The people got together and saw each other, but...” replied Kole.

“So there was something they didn’t like? asked Vishnievski.

“It wasn’t something they didn’t like or appreciate about the dinner, they are deeply troubled because of the trauma they’ve experienced and, because of what they lost, they feel great pain in their hearts and souls… Their thoughts are elsewhere…” replied Kole.

“What does that mean?” asked Vishnievski.

“It means that they miss something very much. The holiday seemed like it wasn’t a holiday for them. For them, Pan Vishnievski, this holiday didn’t bring joy. Did you see any joy in their eyes or any brightness on their faces? Tonight time stopped for them. This was the first time in their lives that they had greeted this great holiday under someone else’s roof, despite the fact that you did everything possible to make them feel safe, cared for, calm, satisfied and grateful. Christmas Eve isn’t a holiday like any other holiday. For that matter each day isn’t a day without the homemade meal which brings the entire family together, including the souls of those who

are absent. Tonight, I think, they faced this great holiday with much sadness because their home circle was broken. The family who gathered and sat in a circle around the table, next to each other, close to one another, to have dinner together wasn’t there...”

Kole unexpectedly stopped talking. His voice began to crackle. He picked up a log of wood and placed it in the fireplace. All this time he turned his head away from Vishnievski to avoid him seeing the tears that had pooled in his eyes. After calming his twitching lips, Kole quietly said:

“Forgive me Pan Vishnievski, I get a bit emotional when I think about these things... Yes... Like we did tonight, my entire family used to gather together on Christmas Eve. We gathered together around the table crowded with many dishes and a big candle lit in the middle, stuck inside a large round loaf of bread made from the finest white flour. The top of the bread was adorned with nuts, hazelnuts and raisins sitting around the candle like a pyramid. My mother used to put the main dish, the centrepiece of our meal, in the middle of the table but not before she made her offerings to the spirits… According to our centuries-old traditions, hidden from our eyes, she took the plate to the balcony from where she threw a handful of food for the Lord, for her husband, for her children, for the health and happiness of the entire household, for the flocks of sheep and cattle to be fruitful, and for the new days to bring joy to the family... And while she was feeding the souls and the spirits outside, we, with spoons in our hands, anxiously waited for her return and then... then we would start eating our way to the centre of the plate to see who would reach the apple sitting on top, first. Tonight, Pan Vishnievski, our families weren’t there, they were missing from the table; for me and for them. A table without our families isn’t a complete table. Tonight, Pan Vishnievski, not a single mother got up from the table to take food to the yard and make offerings to the souls and spirits. There was no dinner for them tonight. No offerings were made during this great feast to bring harmony and joy and all the wishes for tomorrow and for all the days to come. The table in the middle of the room is a sacred place, and during the holidays on top of the table the sacred loaf of bread was placed with a large candle lit on top of it. The sacred bread was evenly divided among the people around the table. The lit candle,