PART TWO - Part 03

“Was that it?! How did they do that?” asked Vishnievski looking surprised.

“The Ministries of Interior and Defense instructed all military personnel, police, gendarmeries, civil servants, judges, teachers, priests and so on to marry girls from the local population, meaning Macedonians... (Instructions on the Greek state’s attitude towards the Macedonian population were sent to the Aegean part of Macedonia almost every year. One such instruction is kept in the archives of the author’s collection. It reads: “Ελληνικη ∆ηµοκρατια, Υπουργειον ∆ηµοσιας Τακσεως, Υπουργια Εθνικης Σασφαλιας, ∆ιευνση Β. Τµηµα ΙΙ. Αριθ.Πρωτ. 6502/7-50428. Θεµα Επιβουλη τατα της Μακεδονιας, ΑΠΟΡΡΗΤΟΣ, Αθηνα 16 Φεβρουαрιου 1982. (Greek Republic, Ministry of Public Affairs, Ministry of National Security, Directorate В, Protocol No. 6502 / 7-50428. Subject: Conspiracy against Macedonia. Secret, Athens February 16, 1982”.) A well thought out plan concocted to break family ties. Of course, they also demanded a big dowry from the brides, often in money, which impoverished their entire family... By those traditions they valued the dowry as much as they valued the bride... And when their years of service ended they left and went back to their own hometowns only to come back during the fall after the harvest. Be they from the cities or most often from the islands, from where they belonged, almost every fall, when the bins were loaded with grains, the barrels with wine and the storehouses with beans, nuts, fruits and vegetables, they came back. They would bring their children with them, the grandchildren of those who remained behind in the village. They would bring the grandchildren with them, who now spoke Greek exclusively, to visit their grandparents who didn’t speak a single word of Greek. They could only communicate

through their mother who often hesitated to speak Macedonian because the Macedonian language was described as dirty and vile by the Greeks, who made this very clear even to their own children, often in front of their Macedonian mother. They didn’t stay long. They couldn’t stand the smelly and dirty village courtyards and lanes and the stuff the chickens, sheep, goats, cattle and pigs left behind. They cared only for their city and nothing for their village. They only came to the village for a few days, four at most. After their short stay they took what they wanted and left. They took with them bags full of nuts, chestnuts, beans, potatoes… The grandchildren were given money for which they would say “spolaiti” (thank you) taught to them by their mother so that they could be polite to their grandparents. They didn’t even know how to say goodbye to their grandparents... In the village they felt very lonely. They had no one to play with because the villagers didn’t speak their language. The children, however, even though they were taught to dislike the Macedonian language and were forbidden to speak it because, according to their father, it was vile, knew that it was the language of their grandparents and in the short time they were in the village they picked up a few words from the locals. Then when they went back to the city they used those words, the words from the language of their grandparents, to annoy their city cousins.”

Kole stopped talking and took a deep breath.

Vishnievski threw a log into the fireplace, sighed deeply and said:

“Yes... that’s right. That is how family ties were broken and re-broken… that’s how nations were broken, if there was no one to guide them and show them the way... And they, Pan Kole, those foreign grooms, I think they not only had marital obligations but also other commitments... And I think they are one of the great tools in the mill of internationalization...”

“My dear Pan Vishnievski, today all of Macedonia is full of such grooms and milling machines... We even have such grooms and milling machines here in Poland...” replied Kole.

There was silence. The log had caught fire and the fireplace was burning bright. Both men were lost in their own stormy thoughts.

Vishnievski broke the silence first and said:

“We, Pan Kole, stubbornly endured believing that with our endurance we were strengthening our faith in Poland and with our honour and self-sacrifice we defended the Polish name. We the Poles from the three parts of enslaved Poland, as well as Poles who were scattered around the world, have been defiant, not lying on our backs, our spirits were high and in our minds we never gave up hope that Poland one day would be resurrected. We defied every evil, and passing through evil we always remained Poles... Poland and Poles, those names, Pan Kole, have been ours since ancient times and will remain ours, it is our destiny. I would dare say we have been resurrected by those names because we have kept them in our past, which is our dignity and pride even though with them we had more defeats than victories. They also gave birth to our anthem, which originally was a regular military song sung by the Polish legions in Italy. Have you heard it? No? Here it is:

Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła (Poland will not be lost) Póki my żyjemy (While we are still alive) Co nam obca przemoc wzięła (The alien force that took from us) Szablą odbierzemy (We will get back with a sabre)

That’s right. As long as we Poles are alive, Poland will never die...” boasted Vishnievski in a triumphant tone of voice, and after waiting a while to see how his words resonated with Kole he asked: “Are you tired of hearing my stories, Pan Kole? And have I told you where I’m from?”

“No, you haven’t told me...” replied Kole.

“My roots are from the East. We call these dear places that are now east of the current Polish border Kresy. But, unfortunately, we can’t talk about them now... In the Polish being my roots have marked 400 years of existence,” said Vishnievski.

“You mean you Poles went there and stayed for 400 years?” asked Kole.

“Something like that...” replied Vishnievski.

“We, Pan Vishnievski, haven’t taken root anywhere else outside of our country. Others have taken root in our country and that’s why they’re trying to eradicate us... In my country, Pan Vishnievski, wherever you dig, shallow or deep, you will find traces of us that go as far back as Philip II and his son Alexander. You will find shields and swords from the Roman legions… In the New Testament you will find St. Paul’s letters addressing the Macedonians. Everywhere you dig you will find foundations and crosses from the first Christian monasteries. You will find papyrus from the Bogomils and maybe some goose feather pens used by Saints Kiril and Metodi with which they wrote our alphabet... You will find the bones of warriors from the great Byzantium Empire, swords and daggers from the Crusaders. You will find Turkish yataghans and Serbian, Bulgarian and Greek skulls... Foreigners have invaded our country for centuries and turned us into slaves but we endured... In all those times, and even now, we are like the fool who stumbled on the same rock twice. We allowed these outsiders to lead us and make decisions for us. That’s how it was then and that’s how it is now. You see, Pan Vishnievski, everyone loves my country, even strangers. They love it even more; the little countries all around it and the big countries far away. But only the indigenous people carry it in their hearts and souls; the villagers, the urban and provincial craftsmen, the illiterate, the semi-literate, a handful of writers, the migrant workers, the exiled and the outcasts... My country is very much loved, Pan Vishnievski...” replied Kole.

Kole stopped talking. Something was burning inside him like the wood in the fireplace. He pushed a piece of wood with his foot further into the fire and said:

“We, Pan Vishnievski, are now like a dead and abandoned forest, with no new shoots growing. The old trees have been cut down and their juices are drained into the ground. We are like the old who go into the ground and their memories go with them with no one to remember them. Their memory is their heritage, their long legacy,

the memory of who they were, of what they did, of who did good or bad, who built, who destroyed, who contributed, who left, who was clever and who was wise. What will we build upon now that we are broken up, what will those who come after us and those who come after them add? Who knows, that’s what scares me, maybe the environment will slowly nibble on us if we don’t preserve what’s ours, if we foolishly accept values that are different from ours, which don’t drink from the juice of our roots. The old are dying and their knowledge, wisdom and memories are lost because there is no one there left to inherit them, to preserve them. You know, Pan Vishnievski, our past isn’t written on parchments or in thick books, it’s kept in the memory of our people and is passed on from generation to generation by word of mouth. When our children back home were collected and sent to the various Eastern European countries, the old people were left with their mouths closed. There was no next generation to pass their knowledge on to. There was no next generation to tell what happened to them and to those before them. Our existence has always been recorded orally, it wasn’t written down. What will we become of us when all that knowledge, all that wisdom, all those memories, all those traditions are lost? Please understand, it has been our tradition to pass our existence and memories down by word of mouth from generation to generation and not by writing them down. To whom will the grandfathers and grandmothers, now housed in various agricultural holdings and nursing homes, pass their knowledge of the land they left behind, and about the strangers who took them to end their existence? The land that the old people left behind now belongs to their grandchildren but they are no longer there, they don’t have it. What will happen to the grandchildren? Someone had a good idea on how to destroy us. They said get rid of the grandchildren first and then get rid of their grandparents so that the land which nourished them won’t be inherited by them. Back home, Pan Vishnievski, we had two schools, two ways of teaching our children. The first way, which was forced upon us, was to send our children to Greek school with books, notebooks and pencils in hand, sitting at a desk and being taught by a teacher who, during class, always held a rod in his or her hand with which they hit the children on their palms if they were ignorant of words in the Greek language, and most of all if they accidentally uttered a word of the forbidden language they spoke at home in secret. The second way of teaching our children,

Pan Vishnievski, was at home, in a half-dark room lit by borina (pine wood sticks), by a kerosene lamp, or by the flickering flame in the fireplace. While mothers and grandmothers worked hard weaving, spinning yarn, knitting, sewing and patching clothing, grandfathers sat by the fireplace and told stories. The grandchildren sat in a circle around them and listened. The grandfathers always started with something like: “Once upon a time...” No one wrote these stories on paper. What was said and heard was grounded in the minds of the children and remained there like a heavy stone in a deeply dug foundation. It was recorded in their memories like the word of God was inscribed in a thick book by an eagle feather pen, and protected by wooden book covers and wrapped in a white lamb’s skin. By the way, such a book did exist and was kept in one of our monasteries built a long time ago on a hard-to-reach mountain cliff... When we were kids we went there just to see it and pray...” Kole stopped for a moment and then continued:

“Now, Pan Vishnievski, those old men and women, here in the Kunuv agricultural economy, sit around in silence in their beautifully decorated rooms lit by electric lights and warmed by electric heaters. They are depressed and feel lost but haven’t given up hope that someday soon they will be back with their grandchildren and the silence will be broken. They are anxious to pass on everything they know from the past and what they have learned since then which, like a spool of silk thread, has been stuck in their heads. They are silent now because they don’t have their grandchildren to tell their stories to. The mothers and grandmothers here don’t weave, spin yarn, knit, sew, or patch clothing… They no longer sit in a semi-dark room rubbing their tired eyes, irritated by the smoke given off by the kerosene lamp. Whenever they want light they turn on a switch and light appears, hanging from the ceiling. They still shake their heads in amazement wondering where the lights come from and how it’s gathered and collected. They too are silent. All sorts of thoughts swarm under those black head kerchiefs. Their busy hands are now empty, and those empty hands can only caress their empty laps on which their loved ones used to sit… but now have been taken away. In their silence their minds are flooded with thoughts, mostly painful memories. And in these well-decorated, warm and wonderful rooms, Pan Vishnievski, every day

they wait for someone to come and tell them it’s time to go back home…” concluded Kole in a broken voice.

There was silence... The river of thoughts flowed… It flowed and along the way was supplemented by small streams. And those little streams were Kole’s thoughts and memories. Kole broke the silence and continued:

“Then Dedo (grandfather) would begin his story something like this:

‘Once upon a time there was a king who had a great kingdom, which had no name because it stretched from one end of the world to the other... They, the older ones, much older than me, and much older that the old ones,’ my Dedo would say with a sad voice, ‘proved to be unworthy and whether they put poison in his wine or did something worse to him, they killed the king and destroyed that great kingdom…’ My Dedo used to tell long stories about the great king and his great kingdom, and we, with our dreamy eyes, patiently listened to the story and felt sorry for both the king and his kingdom. During the long winter nights, after a couple of glasses of warm red wine, Dedo would also tell us other stories. Most of these stories were about fairies, about the multi-headed dragon and the brave young man who cut off its heads with a single swing of the sword. Dedo knew many stories and told us a lot of them. He told us stories about the Turks and the Begs who kidnapped the most beautiful girls, about the thieves who hid in secluded places along the road waiting for people to return from market so that they could rob them. He told us stories about the muggers who wore white dresses and white pants tied under their knees and moccasins with pompoms on their feet. They each brandished a rifle over their shoulder and raided, looted and robbed our villages, paid off their spies, killed people and yelled out loud that the land they walked on was and must be theirs again... In a quiet voice Dedo would finish each story with something like this: ‘They lived well, and we live even better...’ The last story he started to tell us began something like this: - Once upon a time there was a king who had a great kingdom, which didn’t have a name because from end to end it extended all over the world ... They, older than me and much older than them, he said in a sad voice proved to be unworthy and if they put some

poison in his wine or did something worse to him, they killed the emperor and shattered that great kingdom. The story of that great emperor and that great empire was long, but we, with the dream in our eyes, listened patiently to the story and felt sorry for both the emperor and his empire. In the next long winter nights, after a couple of glasses of mulled red wine, Dedo would tell us other stories. And the stories were about fairies, dragons with many heads and brave boys whose heads were cut off with a single blow of the sword. Dedo knew many stories and told us a lot about some Turks and beys who kidnapped the most beautiful girls, about some climbers who were waiting for the shopkeepers in hidden places when they came home from the market, about some muggers with white dresses and white panties tied under the knees and with opinci with puffs who went to our villages, robbed, bought spies, slaughtered and said that the country they were going to was and should be theirs ... Dedo, in a quiet voice, told and ended each story like this: - They lived well, and we even better ... The last story he started telling us started like this:

‘There was once a country in which there were some people...’

He never did finish his last story. He’s gone now… He’s no longer here. He’s not in Kunuv to tell us the story about the country in which there were people, on these long winter evenings, where the old people rested in warm rooms... I, Pan Vishnievski, always sat in the corner and didn’t miss a word Dedo said about the country in which there were people... That story survived and was brought here. Not once and not only one night did the old people gather in their warm chambers and tell that story, the story of the country that was and the people who were in it… One would begin telling one version of the story and another would pick it up and weave it like an old string and tell an older version of it.

One version went something like this: ‘It was one country and in that country there were people. Now those people are no longer there, they’re gone. Some other people came to that country and told the native people ‘this isn’t your country and you aren’t who you think you are. You will be who we want you to be. And who you think you are, you aren’t because someone else created you, our great enemy, and we, for your own good, will make you who we

want you to be and we will give you a new name...’ So, Pan Vishnievski... here in Kunuv, in those warm rooms the old people keep telling that story, the story of a country that was and of some people who were... What happened to that country and those people? Some say that some of the other people who came there chased out the original people who had lived there for centuries and exiled them. They destroyed their houses down to the foundations. They also destroyed the graves of their ancestors so that no trace of them was left... These other people then brought new people, newcomers to the country to replace the native people who were exiled. But not all of the newcomers were content with what the other people wanted them to be. So the newcomers became divided. Some wanted to accept and be what the others wanted them to be. The others wanted to be who they were and refused to become what the others wanted them to be. And so, Pan Vishnievski, the story continues. And that’s how it was… a disgusting time during which there were many divisions, quarrels, hatred and slander and because of all that some people put their fate in foreign hands… and the others defended themselves with their bare hands.

At one time it was a single country and the people who lived in that country rejoiced and plowed, sowed and reaped the fruit it bore.

They were one people once...

It was one country once...

What is left of them now are only stories…” said Kole in a broken voice and stopped talking. Tears began to run down his cheeks.

There was silence.

Silent thoughts were boiling in silence.

They were both silent as they searched their distant and stormy memories. This was where their thoughts were taking them... Vishnievski’s deep and sad sigh broke the thread of the long silence. He said:

“Let me tell you, Pan Kole, even though we came to what is called and written as “Ziemie Odzyskane” (Returned Lands), I don’t feel like I belong here. At least for now. My genealogy says that all of my ancestors, including myself, were born there, in Kresy. I came from there and now I’m here. When? Five years ago. The war was still raging when we were added to the eviction lists. When the German army was pushed far into the west, that’s when they opened their notebooks and began to take a census of the people who were to be moved. Then, when the Great Powers placed the cross of death on defeated Germany, they told us we were going to our ancestral Ziemie Odzyskane. That’s what the newspapers used to say... And we left ... We traveled for days in freight wagons together with the goods they were carrying. People and goods, traveling together. Even today we can’t talk about that in public. Exchange between countries; take a little, give a little, that’s how this was explained. It was decided by the Great Powers, it was their law. Before they moved us we were a big family: a noble family, owner of thousands of acres of land that included fertile fields, forests, fisheries, hunting grounds, breweries, palaces and even villages. We had our own guards and contributed to the army. My family mattered and even had its own voice in the choice of kings. When things weren’t going well in the kingdom, my dedo was called to parliament to call for a “Liberum veto” (Latin: - literally – I will freely not allow… -nothing can be done without me. In Poland during the XVII - XVIII centuries there was the principle of unanimous adoption of laws in the Sejm (parliament) that allowed the vote of one MP to dissolve the Sejm and remove already adopted laws). Nothing more was needed. But it wasn’t without brawls. Yes, there were great quarrels, strife and divisions in the Polish kingdom that led to its weakening, which was used by our neighbours to divide us. In one of those divisions our family came under Russian rule and some of our people served faithfully and were left alone, those who didn’t were sent to Siberia to be punished. And now I have relatives in Siberia. Now, Pan Kole, nobody talks about them or how and why they ended up in Siberia. When the Bolsheviks came we lost everything including most of our family. Only a few people from my large noble family were left alive. Everyone was educated and had a university degree from Lavov, a city where Polish science and culture flourished for centuries... It’s now forbidden to even talk about that too. I was a university professor there. Now at Ziemie

Odzyskane (returned Lands) I’m the manager of this Państwowe Gospodarstwo Rolne (State Farming) and assigned by the authorities to be your good host... Yes... this is where we have come to; this is what others have decided for us, Pan Kole... I’ll also tell you this; when our Polish royal lineage was extinguished, we no longer had our own Polish king; we brought foreign kings from foreign tribes and nations. We had kings from the Hungarian, Swedish and French royal lineages. One time we picked one by choice. His name was Poniatovsky. He was rumoured to be a lover of the Russian Empress Catherine the Great. The poor man drowned in a river near the German city Leipzig while fleeing the onslaught of the Russian armies pursuing Napoleon. Unfortunately he proved to be incapable of being a king or a swimmer... but from what we hear, he was a good lover...”

Pan Vishnievski stopped talking and looked at Kole’s face as if seeking confirmation and support for his words in expressing his past. After lighting a cigarette, he continued:

“Let me tell you, Pan Kole, not that we Poles are united today... Here we have a government and a President of the People’s Republic of Poland, and in London we have a government and a President in exile. Through their press and radio they both sputter and swear mercilessly at each other trying to prove that they alone are the true saviours, and I am deeply convinced that neither serves the Polish people, they both serve someone else. This is sad but true. But, there is always that hope that someone right for this country will be born, like the one who resurrected Poland some thirty years ago, and put Poland on the right path again. Let’s not lose hope and let our hope be our strong support... And let’s not forget the great truth that he who forgets his birthplace will always be a stranger...”

A deep sigh poured out of Vishnevski’s mouth and silence prevailed only to be broken by the loud howl of the north wind.

Kole listened to every word Vishnievski said but when he noticed a note of distress in the tone of his voice, to appease him he put a log on the fire and, with a curious tone of voice, asked:

“The books and the big library you mentioned you had, what happened to them? What happened to the books?”

“Let me say that we didn’t leave them to the Bolsheviks. The entire Osolinski library and many other private libraries were packed up and transported to Breslau, now Vrotslav. All the books and old manuscripts that had been collected by generations of the great Osolinski family for centuries are now housed in a large building in Vrotslav. We also transferred the entire library fund to the Lavov Polytechnic and the Lavov University. They are still a source of knowledge and a great testament to Polish culture. Like before, they are now used by teachers to teach and students to learn. And when I go to Vrotslav, if I have some free time, I go there and in the silence of the large reading room I renew my knowledge and sometimes borrow books...” replied Vishnievski.

“I, Pan Vishnievski, haven’t had a book in my hands for a long time. I used to read a lot... I love books…” said Kole.

“If you’re interested, Pan Kole, I can get you some books from the Vrotslav libraries, either from the Osolinski library or from the university, and bring them to you. Just tell me what subjects interest you... Do you want me to bring you books, Pan Kole? Also let me ask you another question which I find a bit difficult to ask...” said Vishnievski before he was interrupted by Kole who said:

“Please don’t hesitate, ask away...”

“Why did you, an educated and intelligent man, decide to come here to this agricultural economy and work as...” asked Vishnievski and didn’t finish his question so as not to offend his guest.

Kole noticed the hesitation in Vishnievski’s voice, quietly sighed and said:

“Pan Vishnievski, I didn’t decide to come here. It wasn’t my wish to come here... I was sent here... sent for...” said Kole and paused while searching for an answer as to why he had been sent there.

The fire was burning low in the fireplace, the logs were almost burnt out and the ash was slowly covering the glowing embers. The north wind was howling outside and the snowstorm was piling snow on the windowsill.

Sitting there in silence, lost in their own thoughts, the two men kept digging into their past while sipping vodka from their crystal shot glasses, trying to drown their incurable pain...

After a long silence, Kole spoke first. He said:

“A few months after our admission to Poland, somehow we, a few comrades from the gymnasiums from Bitola and Veles and a couple from the battlefields of the Greek Civil War, managed to find each other and get back together. But not all of us made it. Four remained on the battlefield forever. We also learned of another being alive but without legs. Our group shrank to only five. We decided to study, and we went to the city education council to inquire if the Polish authorities would allow us to enroll in any of the gymnasiums here. They didn’t ask what kind of education we had, they told us that those who didn’t have a high school diploma would need to attend a two-year preparatory seminar, and I, since I’d graduated from the Faculty of Philology in Solun, was advised to contact the rector of the Vrotslav University. I was treated very kindly there and about a week after I was interviewed by an old gentleman, who introduced himself as a professor of ancient Greek at the University of Lavov, I received word that my qualifications had checked out. On the recommendation of the old gentleman I was offered a job to teach Ancient Greek. I accepted the position and at the same time asked if I could take courses and get a bachelor’s degree in Slavic Studies. The professors agreed and we all shook hands on it. So for me the grand gate of the University of Vrotslav was now open. My friends also received letters from the educational authorities informing them that they had been provided with boarding accommodation and scholarships. How much better could life get? I thought. After that we all waited patiently for the school year to begin and we passed the time working at the train car manufacturing factory,” said Kole before he was interrupted by Vishnievski who asked:

“What did you do there?”

“We moved iron from one place to another. Not that we had any profession! We worked in the day and late at night we learned Polish. We each paid the teacher a couple of hundred...” said Kole before he again was interrupted by Vishnievski who asked:

“Ah, and where did you live?”

“On Hubska Street... Yes, there on Hubska Street... it had no number...” said Kole before he was interrupted by Vishnievski again who asked:

“Where was it?”

“Beyond the central train station behind a large grey building. All the buildings around it were wrecked from the heavy Soviet bombardments. Some said that this part of the city had been bombed by Katiusha rockets. That was the only building in the area that was left alive. I say alive because the first floor, the ground floor and the basement were still livable even though there was no water or electricity. Most importantly the residents there were protected from the wind and rain. The busiest areas were the basement and the ground floor. There were all sorts of people living there and all sorts of things going on. There were robbers, pimps and street prostitutes. They were the most numerous residents of the basement. There were also waiters, service people, informants, city couriers serving the Vratslav underground and some homeless people. They all stayed up late at night until the last drop of vodka was drunk. They slept on the floor and relieved themselves behind the building. They also had bosses but they weren’t with them in the basement. Their bosses had apartments in hotels and some in luxury villas that were untouched by the Soviet-led offensive. That’s what we were told and we had no reason not to believe what we were told because we too were witnesses of the risen and witnesses of the fallen...” said Kole, took a deep breath and continued:

“All the buildings around the central railway station, where trains rumbled day and night, were demolished, only piles of rubble remained. I also want to tell you that when I was there something else happened to me. I always walked on the paths. I say paths

because the streets were covered with ruins. On my way towards our residence in Hubska a masked man suddenly jumped in front of me holding a brick in his hand pointing it at me. Stop he yelled and then said ‘kup, pan, cegłę!’ (buy a brick sir). I recognized his voice and said to him in Polish: ‘Te, Jacek, te skurwi synie, te świnio, to ty mnie, kurwa, mnie cegłę, kurwa, co!’ (You, Jatsek, a whore’s son, you pig, whore, me, brick, whore!). I also quoted a few more of the many similar words I’d learned in the streets and from the underground vocabulary. I hit him one and before he fell I gave him a kick between his legs... That night I was agitated all night long, I couldn’t calm down. Then a stranger came over and, in a mild tone of voice, asked me if I could give him a cigarette. Being distracted I was suddenly attacked in the corridor from above. Someone, or perhaps more of them, threw a sack full of something hard over my head. I was hurt but still alive. Bricks in Vratslav were sold at night behind the train station. Who was brave enough not to buy one when a knife was flashed in front of their eyes? Yes. Bricks were sold but only at night. The residents of Hubska left for work early in the morning and came back late at night. They carried piles of stolen items from abandoned German apartments. Trucks would then arrive before dawn and pick up the stolen or should I say looted goods. The same tracks, with lights off patrolled the roads leading to the Warsaw markets and robbed unsuspecting travelers. This was the same road on which many inhabitants lost their lives during the war, especially during the Warsaw Uprising when everything was lost. Nothing was left. Everything was done underhanded and sold and resold. This is what they told us in order to persuade us to join them because, they said, there was a lot of money to be made in this type of work...

It was here on Hubska Street that we received news that Macedonian teachers and educators were being expelled from the Macedonian schools in the state education centre in Zgozhelets. The Party made a decision to replace the Macedonian Cyrillic alphabet with the Bulgarian one, or, like they said, to replace it with the ‘new Aegean’ alphabet. We immediately rejected their decision and, after a few brief consultations among us, we decided to send a protest letter to the Greek party committee, whose seat was in Zgozhelets. Several days later, a couple of people in civilian clothes arrived to see us. They asked us if we were the ones who had written the letter. We

said yes. Then they told us to go with them and took us to Zgozhelets by train. There they locked us up in the basement. They ordered us to sit down and flashed bright lights in our faces. From the way the basement was arranged, I realized that we weren’t the first visitors there. They opened their notebooks, sharpened their pencils and began to interrogate us. They accused us of being, reactionaries, chauvinists, nationalists, anti-party elements and Tito’s agents...” said Kole before he was interrupted by Vishnievski who asked:

‘Here, in a report submitted to us by the Party committee in Zgozhelets, it says that you considered the expulsion of Macedonian teachers and educators by the Greek party organization from the schools in the state educational centre (State Education Centre - in Polish: Państwowy Ośrodek Wychowawczy. In Zgozhelets Macedonian and Greek children were housed in a centre which in the past had been a German barracks. It consisted of two parts – “Białe koszary” - White Barracks - which included preschool and school children, and “Zgorzelec Ujazd” in which children over the age of fifteen studied crafts. The Greek committee, without Polish consent, called the first part “Παιδουπολη Ζαχαριαδης” (Pedioupolis Zahariadis) meaning Children’s Town Zahariadis, and the second part “Παιδουπολη Τερποφσκι” (Pedioupoli Trpovski) meaning Children’s Town Trpovski) in Zgozhelets and the change from the Macedonian Cyrillic alphabet to Russian or Bulgarian a hostile anti-Macedonian act. Do you agree with that?’

I said: ‘Yes.’

‘I also agree... I don’t think one can change the alphabet by a party directive... Further down in the report it said that you said: ‘The Party has decided that the language and alphabet are artificially created...’ I don’t want to read any more... Did you say that or not?’ he asked.

I said: ‘Yes we said that...’

And he said: ‘Yes... I agree with you...”

The colonel put the papers aside and, after taking a few puffs from his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of his nose, looked at me and quietly said:

‘I was taught, young man, that the language of birth, with the first milk of a mother’s breast, is learned and passed on from generation to generation and not created by party decision... To claim that a language and an alphabet were created by someone for political reasons and needs is...’ He didn’t finish his sentence. He took the report out of my file, handed me the red pencil and, in a commanding voice, said:

‘I was taught, young man, that the language of birth, with the first milk of a mother’s breast, is learned and passed on from generation to generation, and not created by party decision... To claim that a language and an alphabet were created by someone for political reasons and needs is...’ He didn’t finish his sentence. He took the report out of my file, handed me the red pencil, and in a commanding voice, said:

‘Sign your full name here and sit there in the corner.’ He then growled ‘Next!’ with his hoarse voice.

The next person was Traiche, the irreconcilable Traiche, the best student in the Bitola gymnasium, a clear thinker, well-read and clever, a favourite of his comrades, of the girls in the gymnasium and the girls in Bitola in general. He was the first to join the partisans as a fighter and commander in the 18th brigade, who swore by Pando Vaina. He’d told us that his dedo had been slaughtered by the Greek Andartes, the criminal Cretans who the Athenians called ‘Makedonomahi” Macedonian fighters. He’d told us that his father had served many years in the most notorious prison in Greece, the Akronavplion from which he never recovered. He’d told us that his younger, 17 year-old brother was a partisan in the 103 DAG brigade who was killed in the battle for Lerin. He’d told us that his mother was killed by a mortar shell along with the wounded person she was carrying on her shoulders. Traiche was now the only one of his entire family left alive. He didn’t like the Party or its leader and hated all Macedonians who swore by him... Traiche was also wounded, struck by a bullet in his right shoulder and a piece of

shrapnel. He was taken to the hospital secretly known as ‘Hospital 250’ where he was treated by Polish doctors. It was in this hospital that he quickly learned the Polish language, often begging nurse Pani (Ms) Tereska, whom he admired and about whom he had long dreams, to bring him books from the hospital library.

The Colonel pulled out a sheet of paper folded in four from an envelope, opened it, read it carefully and highlighted some of its content with his red pencil. He then glanced over at Traiche and said:

‘It says here that you said that Macedonia doesn’t need parties. It only needs a strong leader… that a divided people needs a strong unifier... and not parties… You said parties are a tool of division. In a word - just a leader. Do you admit saying that?”

“Yes...” replied Traiche.

‘Good. Let me see what else you said and what the reason for bringing you here was,’ said the colonel, flipped over a few pages, hit the paper with his red pencil and said: ‘Here it says that you said that before the Inform biro resolution, the political commissars and party people forced you to praise Tito and after they made you swear at him. Do you admit that you said that? Is it true that you said that?’

‘Yes… we first praised him and then we cursed him...’ replied Traiche. ‘That’s what the political commissars told us to do and that’s exactly what we did… We had to be obedient...’

‘Let me see what else you said... Here it says: ‘Our people live in four countries. They live under four regimes each working to depersonalize and denationalize them. Hence the Macedonians have many enemies and their biggest enemies are Macedonians. And that is why they will always be just victims. And in order for them not to be exploited by foreigners and traitors who are forcing them to change their name, they need to be more Macedonian so that the name left to them by their dedos is kept intact. That name unites all the people who are of the same origin and faith. That name is the

link that binds all people, even those of other origins and faiths and entices them to live together...’

‘Do you admit saying that?’ asked the Colonel.

‘Yes...’ replied Traiche.

‘Well said... Do you have anything else to admit to?’ asked the Colonel.

‘Yes... I want to say something but not to admit to things...’ replied Traiche.

“Okay then, go ahead...” said the Colonel.

‘We aren’t against the party. We want the party to be with us, as we have been with it throughout the entire Greek Civil War. But, instead of being with us, every day the party spreads lies about us; that we are Tito’s agents, that we are the people’s enemies and so on. On top of that they have abolished our organization NOF and AFZH because the party claims they served Tito and contributed directly to DAG’s defeat. No one else is being blamed for DAG’s defeat except for NOF and AFZH, whose leaders were the biggest worshipers of the party. The leaders of NOF and AFZH were the ones calling the (Macedonian) people to arms for three years and to give everything they had so that the party could come out victorious. And the (Macedonian) people gave everything they had… and lost everything. Our people have been stripped bare and torn away from their homes... Our families are broken and we don’t know where they are. As if this wasn’t enough, the party further denigrated us by claiming that our Macedonian language was artificially created by Tito… that the Macedonian alphabet is artificial… and that Tito created the Macedonian identity artificially. So now they’re doing in Poland what they used to do to us in Greece. Now, here in Poland, the party has abolished the Macedonian language in favour of creating some sort of new ‘Aegean’ language. The party has abolished our Macedonian Cyrillic alphabet and introduced the Bulgarian Cyrillic and, in order to be able to implement it, found a solution; expel the teachers who taught the children the Macedonian language. They say this was a party decision... We also don’t accept

the party decision that expelled the mothers from the children’s boarding homes... These women accompanied the children from home to here and have dedicated their lives to look after them...’

Traiche stopped talking for a moment and then asked:

“Is what I’m telling you already written down on those pages in your yellow envelope?’

“No... It’s not written down. I’ll write it down now...” said the colonel and pressed a black button. An officer with two stars walked into the office. The Colonel ordered him to take us to the dining hall. There they gave us bread and cans of sardines. A short while later the two-star officer brought us back to the Colonel. He immediately began the interrogation.

‘In the apartment, in Hubska, what did you talk about?’ the Colonel asked.

I spoke first and said: “We have nothing to hide about what we talked during our nightly sessions there... Now that we were no longer in the war and lived free in Poland, we talked mostly about learning and how we could use our time to learn more. We don’t have much education and we wanted to build it up… we wanted to learn more. Work and learn...’

The colonel listened and took notes. He stopped for a moment, glanced at me and asked: