The Great Decline – Chapter 9 - Part 02

“The resin from the wounded pines flowed like tears, dripping on the pine leaves, sticking them together. The wind picked them up, whipped them around and turned them into wreaths which then dropped on the burning ground… The speech that our commander gave was picked up by the wind and carried into the gorge. It was forced through the cracks of the rocks and hauled away to the brooks like sand between toes... We cast branches upon them with a promise that we would crown their altar... the bloody soil between the branches we covered with rubble. We added rocks on top to record their place of eternal sleep which the rain forever would wash, the wind would dry, the sun would warm and the white dawn would shine upon them making them glitter like pearls on the chest of a young maiden... And above all that we added our own wishes: May the winds blow all fires burning on the hills and tilt them to bow in honour of the fallen. May the crosses on their graves be made of black pine and white birch and shine in the purple light of dusk. May each fire burning in Gramos be a crown and each grave be that of a king…

In time, orchids would sprout and bluebottles would mourn over them in early dawn: Young saplings of white birch would spring up and grow branches like long braids flying over them and gleaming like silver... Fresh summer dew would cool them at dawn and golden leaves would cover them from fall to spring. A flock of nightingales would cluster over them and sing a song for them... And without pause the pine trees would rustle quietly over them. And in their everlasting memory, the stones and the trees under which they lay; the pine, the oak, the maple, the stone, the hill, the pieces of rusted shrapnel, the broken knife blade and everything else that was then wounded, would keep a record of their time... And in place of flags, singed branches would rustle over them; and in place of a somber salvo, lightning and thunder would echo for them...

Raven do not crow, lightning do not strike, nightingale do not sing; keep silent for a moment; for as long as the soil resting upon the youth it has taken, has not settled… And say nothing… let the mothers weave garments for a wedding, let them gather the dowry in wooden chests, let them knead loaves of bread and send gifts and invitations for a wedding. Let them make diapers and prepare cradles… Let them wait.... Let them wait and wait and wait… because in wait there is hope... In the eyes of a young maiden the stars have not yet extinguished… not everything has withered… and she has not ceased to breathe… It is a good thing that churches are in ruins and the bells are broken… let mothers pray...

They have all perished... they are all gone... The top has shrunk by a hand or two… They were left for eternity to guard Kopanche, Sveti Ilia, Koteltse, Gupata, Gorusha, Bel Kamen and Krusha… those who were boldly brave yesterday and pledged to be crowned in front of the altar before they were even born… are now resting... resting under wounded pine trees which cry tears of resin over them. Resin that binds leaves together… Leaves that the winds whip up… circles around and weaves into garlands… garlands that drop on scorched soil... And the flames that burn over Gramos must have crowns and each and every one of the graves is a grave of a king... May the bells ring and oil lamps burn bright for all eternity...

Well, this is what I have for you; this is my advice to you. It would have been nice if I were a poet...” concluded Iani.

Iani suddenly lost his voice, he went silent. Everyone thought he was choked up by some deep emotions and that was why his voice had withered. No one wanted to interrupt his silence. Each in their own mind entertained their own thoughts; thoughts of pain and anguish; thoughts that squeezed, gripped and tormented them. Thoughts that were deeply private, best thought of in silence! It seemed like everyone was standing on the side of the road and, in their own minds, were watching his or her blossoming youth pass them by. They stood there sober and collected, immersed in thought, thinking of yesterday and of what the near future might bring. A bee flew by and landed on a flower in a nearby Ianovo flower plant. It extended the diameter of the flower cup with its wings and entered deep into the flower, gobbling up its aromatic nectar…. Then, at a moment when no one expected it, Iani began to talk again:

“Now I would like to go home and be in my own yard, in my own room, in my own field, under the thick shade of my cherry tree. I wouldn’t even mind if I was sitting on top of my compost heap, if I could only be home… I will lay in it like this… my head tilted back… I will stare down the valley, up at the sky and into the eyes of my beloved... I would reach and die of old age doing just this... What I don’t want is to go with a ‘bam’ on the forehead or in the chest, or from a grenade going off and blowing up my body. Not by fire falling on me from the sky and turning me into ashes and smoke to be blown away by the wind... where not a trace of me is left to find. Is there an end to killing and hatred? Why does man surrender to killing with such zeal? I, you, he, we here and they there are mutually wounded… we kill each other. And tomorrow someone will say to me ‘you killed my brother’ or I will say to him ‘you killed my brother’, meaning that I and he are both killers. And what is he who gave me the gun? What is he who keeps guns in stock, who every day writes in his notebook how many guns, grenades, machine guns, mines, bullets, swords… he gave out...

What is he? What is he who took count of how many were killed and how many were wounded and wrote those numbers down, just the numbers, in his notebook? What is he? What is he who issued weapons under orders? What is he who invented the gun, the cannon, the machine gun, the mine, the bomb? What is he, who

produced, who packed, who kept things well oiled and who issued orders to do all that? All these people, an entire chain of them, are killers… killers who, from near and from far, cry out ‘freedom!!!’ They cry out loud ‘we are fighting for freedom!’ Both sides fighting each other cry out loud ‘we are fighting for freedom’ while killing each other... And freedom, if it ever existed, it lay seated between the two front lines, drunkenly suffocating both sides. In the name of freedom we slaughtered each other; we indiscriminately killed, wounded, maimed, took eyes out and tore each other apart… we created unbelievable horrors… in the name of freedom…

For that desired freedom we loved so much, we dreamt about, on its behalf, and on behalf our own desires, yearnings and dreams, we lost all decency and reality and fought each other like monsters, as if not out of our own will, killing and mutilating each other like two bucks fighting for dominance of the herd, like two stallions fighting for possession of the mares… deceived with moving desires, hopes and aspirations we blindly fought to the death… our prize? Freedom!!! In the name of freedom, on both sides, we also fell forward, our faces hitting the bloody ground, biting it in hopes of alleviating our pain and before taking our last breath we had our final cry…

With our eyes locked in the sky, stinking in the hot sun, we were free of everything... caught between two fronts, on the hill, in the trench, in the bunker, in front of a rifle barrel, a sword, a knife, a dagger… well… that was our freedom... Like a bone, tossed away… waiting to be chewed… that was our freedom... Their freedom… their desire was to see us defeated and humiliated... Our freedom… our desire was to see them defeated and humiliated… Their freedom, our destruction and our loss of liberty, our freedom, their destruction and their loss of libery... To whom does freedom belong? Freedom from there hatred from here... And someone, watching all this from the sidelines, is rubbing his hands, monitoring things carefully and filling the hatred with more hatred... And maybe at a different time, a hand will be given to cover our bones. Graves will be dug and leveled, and thoughts of us will fly high in the sky... And a day, in the many days, will come when someone will ask and someone will answer: ‘Why and with whom did they go, and on whose name did they die?’

Which human trait is most valued today? The trait, of course, which will turn your life into ashes… Be a hero and just charge against a bunker and see what happens… you will remain there forever… Tell me, has anyone taken inventory of how many charged a bunker and lived to tell about it? I didn’t think so… For those who tried and didn’t make it, they will sing songs so that their deeds will remain in the memories of the survivors, and they, those brave souls who gave their lives, for them there will be a hole in the ground, dug with a dagger or a sword… and on top, if they are lucky, there will be a stone to mark their grave, their resting place… and perhaps someone will cut a marker in the bark of a nearby tree trunk to commemorate their sacrifice...

Yesterday is gone, our platoon has disappeared and we are only this many now, as many as we are here... We are as many today as we lost yesterday... we are that many now plus those who perished on the hill to keep the hill from falling. The hill did not fall but they did... They fought to the last gasp, to the last bullet! They fought until the last drop of blood was squeezed out of them… They fell heroically in the name of... because they had nothing to lose except their own stupid heads… devoid of thought...

There, in Oteshevo, amongst the enemies of the people, there was a man similar but distinctly different from them. He said: ‘Continue telling them the truth, tell the ones who are slightly different than you, even though they are small and humiliated, unlucky, but slightly different than you, but close company and similar thinkers like you, but you being slightly smarter than them. If you were to do that, then you can be sure that they would hate you and would snitch on you until they destroyed you. The most dangerous people are the ones who have tasted a bit of education and have eaten crumbs from the tables of the wealthy... The government desires those kinds of people the most…’ I still do not comprehend what this poor man wanted to tell me… I don’t have the cognitive capacity to figure it out… Maybe one of you will explain it to me? Argir, oh Argir! Perhaps you can?” said Iani.

“Be quiet and stop babbling!” replied Argir, turning his back and covering his face with his hat.

Mita adjusted herself slightly, looked into Iani’s face, leaned her head on her hand and, after a long silence, said: “Such is our fate. We have been caught by the wheel of time and it has pulled us under it; tossing us here and there, holding us and keeping us down. It will let us go only when we are burned, cut down and dispersed… Only then will the wheel drop us off and stop spinning. Otherwise it will spin and roll and collect and shatter everything that comes under its treads... It asks no one, has no remorse and cares for no one...”

Bitterness flowed from Mita’s mouth and every word she spoke had a vile taste. Woven in her words were all her thoughts and faces of those close to her, of those who she had left behind and who, all the time; be it during a march, a short rest, a stolen moment of sleep, in a trench, in a bunker, during a charge, on the stretcher and underground; appeared before her eyes... Mita bowed her head down and silently, looking like a frightened deer, looked back at her trodden path, at what was hers yesterday and said:

“The wheel has scooped us all. It has taken us under it, and with every revolution it squeezes out our lives, taking a piece of it at a time, bleeding us drop by drop… draining the blood out of our veins… How many of us will go, will disappear… never to be seen again, each time the wheel turns? Who and when will they contact our loved ones… waiting for us… when we are dead and gone? Will they give them the devastating news in the field, in the garden, in the vineyard, during lunch, or during dinner time? How will our loved ones react? Will a glass of wine never touch their lips? Will a mother’s arms ache from being held up… raised in prayer? Who will cry the loudest? Who will tear their hair out the most? Whose heart will harden with pain? Whose pain will be the strongest and most severe? Who will cry the most and whose heart will ache the longest?

And when I think about them… my family… I love them more, so much that my heart aches… I long for them and it hurts… Every time I think of them I melt, I freeze and I lose myself in my thoughts which brings me closer to them, close to our home and to our life the way it was; the orchard, the vineyard, the garden, the happiness and

laughter, the joy and pain and, thank the Lord, for everything we had!

And why do we deserve what we received… the fate we were handed down… the fear, the beatings, the machine guns, the rifles, and Zoia’s heavy machine gun. Why was Zoia handed that damn heavy killing machine? Was there no thought given that the poor girl might be too small… her shoulders might be too tiny to carry such a big gun? Did the Lord not consider her fate when he gave Zoia her height… her build? Or was it a different God that determined Zoia’s fate? Was Zoia’s destiny cast in stone… to carry that damn machine gun, to shoot and kill, and to keep the enemy under fire? Did God know that Zoia’s life was taken over by a different God and that this God changed the thread of her life? Well, did he?

I have said this before and I will say it again: She is very fortunate she was wounded yesterday and they took her away. She cried and moaned… she was in a great deal of pain… it could have been worse… I stood over her and winked at her… she could barely find the strength to smile... I kissed her forehead... I just hope she made it to the hospital, the doctors there will know what to do... Pop Vasil, our neighbour, used to say ‘God loves his children equally’. I wish he was here in front of me so that I could ask him: ‘If God loves his children equally then why did he reward them with unequal bravery, strength, endurance, courage and cowardice? Why did God make the world in which Zoia… and many others like her… had to be disfigured?” continued Mita.

“To better rule over us!” piped up Argir, who since Mita had known, had never had anything good to say about anybody.

“Everyone is at fault but no one wants to admit it…” added Argir.

“Amen!” replied Mita with a tiny smile on her face.

“You, Mita!” said Iani pointing at her with his finger. “Where is your part in this wheel of yours, which you mentioned so many times… the biggest and most fateful part built into this new Holy Trinity…”

“Which Trinity?” asked Mita.

“Go to hell, you!” yelled Argir with an angry voice. “You constantly yap and nobody can get shut-eye around here. Enough! No more talking! Not a single word…”

“As if I care…” added Mita.

After a short pause, Iani, in spite of Argir’s threat to yell at him, resumed talking. In a serious tone of voice, demanding respect and attention, he said: “I want you to know that our entire human mind is engaged in inventing better weapons to destroy people like ourselves. People are strange in this way… doing everything they can to destroy people just like themselves and then… celebrate about it… And I, no matter what, I love my sweet imagination fulfilled: when I go somewhere I want to have a jug full of water and a plate full of food beside me. And you, stupid idiots, you can put on your aprons, grab your trowels, hammers, measuring tapes and go to work. But before you leave, do me a favour and measure me a well-ventilated nice patch of green under the thick foliage of a tree, maybe on top of a hill somewhere, from where I can watch the sunset, listen to the birds sing and spend my long summer days laying in the shade…

Take a measure of those who were left lying on the hills and in the brooks. Take a measure of the young men and women who were buried in a shallow pit yesterday. For them we dug a shallow pit without measurements… we measured them only in pain... We did not measure anyone… not a young lady… not a young man… we lumped them all together, covered them up, leveled the soil over them and shed a few secret tears for them. And if I die tomorrow… toss me in a pit and cover me with soil… treat me no better and no differently that I would treat you… than I treated those who perished yesterday… because I am no better… Just because you and I have survived the day and may live another day or perhaps ten more days… it makes us no difference and no better…

And you, when you are sent out to build buildings, you had better take accurate measurements… you had better pay careful attention. Beware of how you measure, because the slightest defect… the

slightest crooked line… the slightest crack… will send you to Oteshevo… there will be no escape for you from Oteshevo… mark my words… Now is the time to think… carefully… and find out what you are fighting for… your justification for spilling blood, leaving wounds, scars and causing a lot of suffering...

The Party makes no mistakes… even when it makes mistakes… it will acknowledge its mistakes and continues to sin. And you, if you make a mistake, you will not be given the time to justify it to the Party, because errors such as yours turn people like you into enemies of the people. So do not make mistakes… not even one. Because you don’t know who is watching and listening… some louse, nit, flea… will inform on you... Beware, be very wary and remember what you did, two, three or more years ago… to whom you said what and to whom you made promises… When and if the Party comes to power all will be revealed. And who knows, if I am still alive, I may have to pay for what I did in Oteshevo and for what I am telling you now about Oteshevo... Who knows? Things may change. Just like what happened to his grandfather... A couple of words spoken to the major’s mistress… and, oh my dear, almost no more nuts…” Iani paused and took a long puff from his cigarette. There was silence but only for a moment. When Iani felt the burning cigarette between his fingers, he shook the ashes off it and, looking sad, he said:

“We are used to the mud, the rain, the cold, the hunger, the thirst, the fog, the lice, the dirt… We are used to bombs exploding and being shot at… We are used to the suffering, the blood, the pain… We are used to being wounded and crippled… We are used to watching our friends and enemies die, and we are used to killing and being killed. How will we overcome or even justify to ourselves all these things when we go back to plowing, hammering and living normal lives... How will you handle the silence, the dark under our warm bedcovers, when you begin to feel happy; you know; when you watch the stars, count the seeds in your hand, romp in the hay, run your fingers through your sweetheart’s hair, take a deep breath… and generally feel good because you are still alive?

And you Mita and Tsilka and all the others like you, will you ever get used to wearing a dress again? I hope that time comes sooner

than later, when you shake off your lice and lice infested shirts and trousers and replace them with a dress which will make you look like girls... Let that time come as soon as possible so that you can be girls again, and we the fools here can go nuts about you. Do whatever you do, but I want one of you to pick me before I choose another...” concluded Iani.

There was silence again. The wind picked up slightly and blew on the scorched grass making it rustle. There were many thoughts and desires going through the minds of those standing there staring into the distance with eyes wide open, mesmerized. The day was coming to its end. The sky above Bel Kamen was turning purple and the sun was setting. There, beyond those hills, it looked like a fire was burning… Further down the waters of the river Bistritsa ran, washing, scrubbing, rolling and pushing sand and pebbles to the shore. And when more water built up, it picked up the same sand and pebbles and washed them, scrubbed them and pushed them along once more… This had been going on for centuries; but no one knows for how many centuries; they do know, however, that it happens every day. In the past few days and today, the river water has been a bit muddy... and on its coast black leeches prowl, swollen with human blood...