On the Road of Time – Chapter 10

On the Road of Time – Chapter 10

We had our SAHO washed and cleaned and were ready to head back. On our way we patiently waited awhile, so to speak, to merge into the express highway linking Albania to Greece. The highway was packed with a chain of traffic, mostly heavy trucks and tractor trailers with Albanian licence plates from Elbasan, Tirana, Durress, Fier and Flora. Some crossed the Greek border empty, others coming back carried construction material, bricks and tiles and headed west to Bilishcha (Bilisht), whose name is written on a blue sign with large capital letters. I quickly merged into a gap between two large trucks and kept up the pace. There was an exit at the entrance to Bilishcha. On the left there were instructions for heavy trucks. On the right there were instructions for passenger cars and a wide sidewalk for pedestrians. I took the exit. We drove into the city on the main street which was covered in shade. Almost the entire street was shaded by wild chestnut and linden trees. The trees were in bloom and the aroma from their yellow flowers was intoxicating. We looked for a place to park but all the parking spaces were taken. There were vans, Mercedes and all kinds of vehicles with Greek license plates. Here they called the owners of Greek cars “Giorgos”. So while looking for a parking space I went past the city limits and then I saw a sign for “Korcha”. To the left of the road there was a beautiful, big gas station with an empty parking lot large enough to park dozens of cars and trucks. Inside there was a restaurant, a café, a car part store and a grocery store with all kinds of food items. The place was clean and tidy and the employees we neatly dressed and full of smiles. As I struck up a conversation I could see that these people had no problem looking directly into my eyes. They also spoke English, Italian, Macedonian and Greek. There was not even fifteen kilometers distance between here and Trstenik (Trestenik) but there was decades of difference in the conduct of these people compared to those in Trstenik; if such a difference can be measured in time. A middle aged man dressed in a company uniform came out of the building and approached us. We greeted each other with the customary “mir dita”, which in Albanian means “good day” and from what he was saying in Albanian I gathered that he was asking us something. “We are looking for the road to Vrbnik,” I said to him in Macedonian. “Oh, you are Macedonians? From Macedonia? It is rare for us to receive guests from Macedonia,” he said, “how can I help you?” We again greeted each other “mir dita, si shkoine, mir,” shook hands and were invited for coffee. “Falaminderit,” I said to him, which means ‘thank you’ in Albanian and again I was not sure if I had said it correctly, so I put my right hand to

my heart, a sign for thank you, and again said that we were looking for the road to Vrbnik. “To Vrbnik?” he asked and thought for a moment. “Ah, I know but it is not called Vrbnik, it is now called Vrnik,” he said, “you need to return to the city and when you arrive at the centre you will see a bank. After you pass the bank turn left and drive uphill to the first corner. At the corner turn right and then left and then drive straight to where a new house is being built. From there drive straight until you pass all the houses. There turn left and that road will take you directly to Vrnik. That is the only road that goes to Vrnik. You can’t go wrong. He wished us a good trip and all the best from him and his company. We thanked the man with the kindest of words and left. We then took the road towards Bilishcha’s city centre and drove slowly, looking at the newly constructed residential buildings and at the one and two storey houses constructed with colourful facades. We looked at the small shops, restaurants, cafés, bars and tea houses. When we arrived at the city square I immediately turned left, drove uphill, turned right, right again and then left and taking the wide road we arrived at Vrbnik now called Vrnik. Vrbnik is a Macedonian village. It lies in a slightly flat valley overlooking the south. All around it are bare hills laden with grey rubble. The houses are low, old, built with stone and covered with stone slabs and old ceramic tiles. The yards are fenced with walls of medium height constructed from stone and every terrace has a well and many vines. The cobblestone lanes are narrow but kept clean and in good repair. Before the village entrance on the left, above the old road, was an Orthodox Church, built with chiselled stone, half-buried underground. The church bell rarely tolled these days because the worshippers were not there any more; they were gone, dispersed all around the world. Beyond the hill was the village cemetery where many pechalbari (migrant workers) were laid to rest. They found peace here. They came here from America, Australia, Canada and some European countries. It was their last wish; to be brought here to be laid to rest on their own land and under their own sky. They returned from overseas and as their pictures attest, they were well dressed, smiling with faces full of joy. They looked content and satisfied dressed in their city clothing. In contrast to the pechalbari were the other villagers who lived here all their lives, who dressed mostly in peasant clothing and who looked sad with deep concern painted on their faces. Their gloomy look and sad eyes left us with the impression that they were waiting for someone or for something... In the cemeteries, their Macedonian names and surnames are inscribed on white marble slabs and crosses, written mostly in Cyrillic letters with a few written in Latin letters…

There is a long two storey building in the upper part of the village. This used to be a school. Now it is a decrepit old building with broken windows and a gaping hole where the front door used to be. In bygone days more than two hundred students attended primary school here where they were taught subjects in both the Macedonian and Albanian language. After that the students were sent to the middle and high schools in Korcha, Elbasan and Tirana. Of the children that attended this school, thirty became teachers, ten became doctors and one became a lawyer and in time was promoted to public prosecutor in Albania. The people of Vrbnik were very proud of them. The people were also proud of the memories left behind by the village cultural arts group which undertook numerous performances throughout Albania, participating in various festivals all over the country and spreading Macedonian culture in the form of song and dance. It too is gone. Left there now are the sad memories and the sighs of older people who do remember... “Enver Hoxha, regardless of who he was, a dictator or a mad man, did not prohibit us from practicing our religion, from speaking and writing in our own language, or from singing Macedonian songs and dancing Macedonian dances. But now these new people who call themselves democratic and Europeans, after taking over, have forgotten the Macedonians…” complained an old-timer from Vrbnik who now lives in Korcha. Here too, as in Kapeshtitsa and Trstenik, it seemed like time had stood still but the difference here was that we were greeted very warmly and generously by the people. The first person we encountered was a woman dressed in black. We could see in her eyes that she was grief stricken and her face looked like it was covered in pain. She was mourning, we gathered. A close one must have passed on. A wooden gate was flung open and, gesturing with both hands, the woman invited us inside. We offered our hand and expressed our sympathy for the soul of her son when we found out that he had died in America. In her son’s honour she offered us rakia (homemade whiskey), lokum (Turkish delight) and cold water from the well. She then took out an album and showed us black and white photographs taken before the wars and colour photographs taken after the wars and during the rebellion against the Enver Hoxha regime. She showed us photographs taken in Vrbnik and in America of her son, daughter-in-law, grandchildren and close and distant relatives. She has been, she said, to Italy, Greece and Macedonia. She had photographs of all her close relatives, photographs taken from the places where they had been in pechalba (migrant work). As we could see from the photographs, those abroad were dressed in the type and style of clothing of the country they were in. Those photographs taken here in Vrbnik showed the people wearing homemade clothing. The village, said the woman, is almost empty now. The men are gone to pechalba, the local school is closed and the children are bussed daily to a school in Bilishcha. The church bell rarely tolls these days because most of the time the church is closed. There were days, she said, when a priest came from Macedonia to conduct prayer in the Macedonian language. Now we rarely get a priest and when we do, prayer is conducted in Greek or in Albanian. She begged us to tell the church authorities in Skopje to send them a Macedonian priest to conduct prayer in Macedonian. She promised the priest would be well looked after by the Vrbnik Macedonian community. The woman spoke in the Kostur Region Macedonian dialect and in that dialect we conducted our conversation. We heard a noise outside in the yard, it was a car. The woman looked outside the window and said: “It’s my son, my youngest son. He lives in Bilishcha where he owns and operates a restaurant located on the main street. He came here to bring medicine for his father who is resting in the room next door. He had an operation in Tirana a while ago and needs medicine.”

A few moments later we went outside to meet a man who looked like he was in his forties. He had a peaceful look about him and a wide smile on his face. He greeted us as if he had known us for a long time and asked many questions, especially about the “name.” “And what do you say, what are we going to do with the name? Are you going to give it up?” he asked. “And you?” I asked. “No, we are not giving it up. A name cannot be given up. And you must not give it up either! Do we understand one another?” he asked with reproach in his voice. “Forgive me,” he then said, “I need to go back to the restaurant, all my tables are reserved and I need to tend to my customers. Please come and visit us, I will find a table for you. I will be expecting you…” “We will come,” I said, “but another time.” “We will be expecting you but please call ahead,” he said and quickly left for Bilishcha. His mother watched him until he disappeared driving past the corner. “Let’s go back inside,” she said and walked in front of us. “On which side are the villages Vmbel and Smrdesh?” I asked before she entered the house, knowing that those two villages are close to Vrbnik and that many of their residents are related to the people of Vrbnik. “Over there…” she said quietly pointing to the east with her hand. I sensed distress and pain in her voice as she took a deep breath. “Over there…” she repeated and again pointed at the treeless hill, “there behind the hill, but there is nothing left of the villages now… not of Vmbel and not of Smrdesh… the people of those villages are also gone…” she said in a sad, quiet voice. A moment later she said, “They are gone…” and waved her hand in front of her face as if trying to swat something ugly and evil. The hill she pointed at was facing the sun and was overgrown with green grass. Above it we could see gray ripples of heat waves rising. The woman looked up and while pointing at the hill with her hand, quietly said: “I can remember it like it was yesterday, the multitude of people and animals descending. Aged men and woman, elderly, infants… the place was packed with people, with our people. The next day Partisans and Albanian officers came and disarmed those with weapons. There were also many wounded being carried on stretchers and in blankets. They were taken and housed in the school. And what did we do? The village council ordered us to help them. Unfortunately all we could do was give them food and water, we could not find the words to console them and to relieve them of their suffering. Did they stay here long? No. The Partisans collected them during the night and I don’t know where they took them. The next day, loaded with everything they had brought from home, driving their animals in front of them, oxen, sheep, goats… they all left on foot… Where did they go? They went down the hill towards Bilishcha…” The woman seemed to have lost her voice. She waved her hand in front of her eyes and after a long moment of silence, whispered: “A great tragedy… it was terrible what happened to those people…” An hour and a half later we left Vrbnik. As we drove past the first corner outside of the village we were cut off by a van. The driver of the van came out and ran towards us, followed by a number of children, two women and three young men. “Welcome, countryman,” shouted the driver. “I can see from your car’s licence plate that you are from Skopje, right?” But before I had a chance to answer, I found myself in his embrace. He gave me kisses on the cheeks, forehead and eyes. He then passed me on to the women and went to greet my wife. They too gave us hugs and kisses. Very happy to have made our acquaintance, the driver then turned to the children and yelled out: “What are you waiting for?! Greet our guests. They are our people. Can’t you see they are from Macedonia?” The children approached us shyly, gave us their hands, smiled and extended their cheeks for a kiss. “We are returning to the village from Bilishcha,” said the driver.

“Every morning I take the children there to attend school. Albanian. We have a school in the village but we have no teacher. There are not enough children to secure a teacher. The people have left for the cities. Almost all are in pechalba now. The village is falling apart, my brother… So, you were at the village. Who are your relatives?” “Everyone…” I said.

The man stood there for a moment with his mouth and eyes wide open. Then after recovering from the surprise, he hit me hard on the shoulder and said: “That’s right, brother. Now I remember. We are all relatives. Now turn around and let’s go to the village. Come to my home. We will eat and drink what God gave us, we will talk and tomorrow, God willing, we will each go our way. Come, turn the car around and drive… and you, all of you, back in the van,” he ordered the children. “Brother, thank you, but another time. We will be back here very soon…” I said. “What? You are not coming?” asked the man in a disappointed tone of voice. “We will come; we will come for sure next year…” I replied. “Please do come. Our door is always open. And by next year the road will be paved with asphalt. The bulldozers began to work the other day. By then even the old name of our village will be returned to us. We call it Vrnik now but its old name was Vrbnik. We were promised this by the government... Can I ask you something? What will you do with the name? Are you going to give it up?” the man asked. “Are you going to give it up?” I asked. “Never!” he said. “We will never give up our Macedonian name! What is ours will remain ours. That’s the way it is… end of discussion!” We said our goodbye’s and left. The day was coming to a close as the sky over Morava Mountain was burning purple… Far from here, over the mountain ridge as the sun descended behind the mountain the entire Devolsko valley began to change colour...