The Great Decline – Chapter 6 - Part 02

Tsilka paused for a moment, took a deep breath and continued: “At his point my grandfather would stop, cross himself like this,” she showed the others how he did it, “and silently would begin to pray again: ‘Lord, hear my prayer which does not come out of a lying delusional mouth. Lord, establish my footsteps on Your road so that my feet don’t weaken. I call upon You because I know you will hear me, O God, hear my words…’ At this point my grandfather would cross himself again and continue to pray: ‘Save me, O Lord… O Lord, You are our Defender who protects us in this life and forever… Amen…’ That’s what he said at the end of the prayer.”

After taking another deep breath, Tsilka crossed herself three times and said: “This is how my grandfather prayed in front of our icon of the Virgin Mary.” Then Tsilka bowed her head, picked up a stick and began to knock unburned pieces of wood into the fire, flicking each onto the burning coals. The fire started burning again, illuminating the trench. And as Tsilka stared into the burning flames it seemed to her that she could still hear her grandfather’s voice speaking to her. From the corner of her eye Tsilka observed Tinka raise her hand with ease and touch her temple. Mita’s face looked illuminated and Zoia looked up at the ceiling, seeming like she was praying… Tsilka, in her usual tone of voice, then broke the serenity and said: “My grandfather always ended his prayers with the words: “Свjатиj Боже, cвjaтиj крепкиj, свjатиj бесмертниj, помилуj нас. Слава Отцу, и Сину, и Cвjaтoмy духу и ниња и присно и во вjекп вjеков амин...”

“Amen...” whispered Velika, followed by Tinka, Mita and Zoia. The trench then became silent. The fire continued to burn, its dancing flames caused shadows to appear and disappear all around the trench walls giving the place an eerie look…

Except for the occasional “snap” made by the fire, the flying sparks and the heavy breathing, the trench was practically silent. Circling in the silence were the people’s thoughts searching and longing, remembering and wishing… In the dead of silence, Tsilka, in her own mind, thought she heard the beating of a heart, but not that of her own heart, but the hearts of everyone in the trench. Sparks flew out of the fireplace momentarily creating lights and shadows on the

walls. Tsilka watched the sparks for as long as they lasted and in their luminance she saw Mita’s pale and gentle face. She watched her move her hand touching her forehead with her three fingers... She watched Mita look up, her view locked somewhere up on the pine logs of the trench ceiling. She was patiently and obediently looking and waiting… For a short moment her lips moved and were followed by a long nasal sigh. She then very quietly, so as not to break the silence or disturb the others, barely audibly, whispered: “Our father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven, give us our daily bread…”

Mita suddenly stopped whispering… but just for a moment to see if her words were reaching where she was sending them. Her prayer was coming straight from her heart, traveling up into the heavens and with it carrying the warmth of her soul... She looked like a lily with its leaves spread all around staring into the vastness of the sky and praying… She looked like a pine tree, soaring high, surly and proud with all its branches stretched, reaching for the sky and praying for light... Gently she moved her hand, like a quiet breeze, separating it from her forehead and, almost with an invisible movement, moved it down, first to the right shoulder and then, ever so gently, to the left shoulder. Mita then began to whisper again:

“Lord, if you can hear me, please protect us from harm, make sure our backpacks are filled with bread and thick socks to keep our feet warm. Please make sure our boots are sturdy so that we don’t have to walk in bare feet. Please make sure we all have thick pants and heavy coats so that we don’t freeze during our marches. Lord, please make sure the weather is not too cold and rainy during our marches and please make sure we come back alive and undamaged from battle. Please Lord, protect us from flying bullets and let our rifles feel light in our hands. Do whatever you can, Lord, so that we get a warm meal more often, perhaps a bowl of hot bean soup with some meat in it. Please Lord, punish the commissar who constantly abuses us and all those who spy and inform on us… Amen...”

Mita paused for a moment, looked down as if searching for something, then put her hands together in front of her, looked up and said: “Dear Lord, I beg of you… one more moment of your time…

Lord, the bread they bring to us, can we get it a bit earlier… and please make sure we all go home as soon as possible…”

At this point Mita began to shake and was unable to speak properly. Her words sounded strange and unintelligible. She convulsed in silence, unable to stop, unable to stop her tears from flowing, unable to stop herself from the sadness that was overpowering her. But it was not all sadness she was feeling, it was the power of prayer which caused her tears to flow down her cheeks and her body to tremble with every word she attempted to mutter. And all this over some inconceivable spiritual joy and calm that came simultaneously with fear and despair. Every word she managed to remember she repeated even though she could not fully understand it. And just because she did not understand the words, it did not mean that they were not mysterious and that they did not have some invisible power, a kind of force that inspires, instills faith and confidence, encourages, and fills a person with hope... Perhaps the strength of the prayer lies in the words that are unfamiliar. Perhaps words such as these have magical power and are able to get closer to God. Perhaps it is words such as these, unknown words, known only to God, that evoke memories of returning home, of being close together, of feeling good, of bringing joy to the soul, of making the heart feel less lonely and of helping the body feel less pain and able to endure the long, cold winter nights... “Lord o God, please protects us from pain…” Mita managed to squeeze out after her last convulsion. She then shook again but this time it was because she felt the warmth of her own tears dripping on her crossed arms...

Tsilka bent down and threw some sticks into the fire. The tiny little flames suddenly flared up engulfing the dry wood, imprisoning it in its grasp, turning each stick black and then grey and making it twist and bend as if begging for mercy. The trench became bright again.

No one was moving. Mara, with her eyes looking like those of a frightened doe, was staring at the dancing flames in the fire. Iana was stealthily wiping her tears. Argir, who had ice cold fish eyes, was staring at the entrance, as if expecting someone or something to jump in. Tinka, with her cool, playful and curious eyes, was staring up at the trench ceiling, looking as if she was counting and measuring each beam and each stone. Zoia, looking grim, eyes

closed, was probably sleeping as one of her cheeks vibrated with each breath she took. The fire was burning bright and was reflected through Velika’s mesmerized eyes, as she sat there quietly, deep in thought. Andonis, the eighteen year old young man from the Thessalian villages, who only spoke and understood Greek, was leaning his head on Iana’s shoulder. Even though he did not understand what Tsilka was saying, he still listened to her with a sympathetic expression on his face. He enjoyed listening to Tsilka’s tame voice and enjoyed being with the girls he had met in the mountains and with whom he had spent half a year in the trenches, sharing water and bread. He was holding his chest at the moment because something inside was making him wheeze. When he started coughing he could go on uninterrupted for long bouts, coughing and turning blue, unable to dislodge and spit out whatever was inside him. His eyes looked glazed and carried the fear of fire in them. Stoian, who still had an open and festering wound, was rubbing his cheeks with his hands. Yesterday his cheeks turned white from the cold. Stoian was always hungry. He had his chin resting on top of his knees, which he was squeezing together with both arms. He rocked from side to side and back and forth with his eyes fixed on the fire. He was in pain. His stomach hurt and was making loud noises, loud enough for those near him to hear…

Tsilka glanced at Mita. Mita had a happy expression on her face. Probably as a result of praying. She was now looking at the fire. Her eyes were reflecting the flames and the sparks dancing in the fireplace. It was no longer the silence, but her soul and spirit that dominated her thoughts and feelings. She was thinking happy, loving thoughts. Finally she was able to separate good thoughts from the painful ones that caused her pain, tightness in her stomach and reminded her of the dampness and the cold, her blisters, her sore feet and her constant need of sleep...

Cramped together, tightly against one another, body to body, they all surrendered to their thoughts which took them to memories of home, their loved ones, food, joy, songs and dances, laughter and life back in the village. They were all sleepy with drooping eyes and eyelids half closed. And just at that very moment, when they were all warm and comfortable, blessed and full of hope, Tsilka, in the presence of

everyone, crossed herself three times and said: “Свjатиj Боже, свјатиj крепкиj, свjатиj бесмjертниj, помилуj нас...”

“Amen...” whispered Velika.

At that very moment Argir jumped to his feet, tightened his military belt, squeezed his hat on his head, raised his coat collar over his neck, stooped his head forward to avoid hitting the low trench ceiling entrance and silently walked out.

“Hey, fix the blanket!” Iana yelled, telling him to fix the blanket which substituted for a door to the trench, as he was leaving.

Tsilka, now in an altered tone of voice, filled with some anger and regret, continued to unfold the thread of her narrative but to everyone inside it seemed a different kind of wind and a different kind of sound was filling the trench.

“One day Dina, our neighbour, came inside our house. The woman had a habit of entering houses without knocking. She came over to borrow a cup of sugar and... heard my grandfather praying. She had a big mouth and told many people about it. Words were not like a donkey or an ox where you could go, take them back and tie them down. In time the words reached people that they were not supposed to reach. One day policemen came to our house and took my father and grandfather. Ten days later they summoned us to go to court. My mother and grandmother attended the trial. It was held in Kostur. The next day they returned and my mother told me what had happened.

She said: ‘The moment we entered the court, the judge told your grandmother: “Katse, gria…” (Sit down, old woman…) Your grandmother first looked at him then at us and then turned to him and in Macedonian asked: “What are you saying to me, my son?” The judge became furious and yelled at her: “Katse, gpia!!!” Your grandmother then asked him in Macedonian: “Ami, de da katsna, de da letna, iaska kutraaa…? (Poor me, where should I land and were should I fly…?” Your grandmother then started crying…’ said my mother.”

The trench burst into laughter. Tsilka waited for everyone to calm down and then continued: “My mother then said: ‘At that moment the judge jumped to his feet and began to yell out loud: “Ekso paleo gria, gamoto Hristo sou ke tin Panagia sou!!! Pentakosia drahme prostimo!!!” (Get out you antiquated old woman, screw your Christ and your Virgin Mary. Five hundred drachmas fine!!!) After that your father got up, went to the judge’s bench and placed one thousand drachmas on it. The judge yelled at him too and said: “I said five hundred, not one thousand!” Your father then said: “Keep the other five hundred for the next time, because this old woman will do the same thing every day and with every spoken word. Keep it for the next penalty.” And that’s the way it was,’ my mother said.”

The trench burst into laughter again. Mita, laughing out loud, asked: “What did your grandmother say to the judge? De da katsna, de da letna… ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho!!! She sure told him good! Heh-heh-heh!”

Tsilka continued: “My father and grandfather were taken away and sent to jail. We did not see them for a long time. Our home felt empty and desolate without them. My mother and grandmother cried practically every day. My grandmother was sick with worry and it began to affect her heath. Her physical posture began to droop and she walked around stooped forward. She constantly filled the tiny oil lamp in front of the icon with oil and lit it at every opportunity. I remember watching her tremble in front of our icon, lighting a match and then lighting the oil lamp with it. Strangely, sometimes the lamp would light up with two tiny flames, one at each end of the ribbon-like tiny wick. And while my grandmother lit the lamp, my mother would place pillows against the window so that no one could look inside. The two of them then would kneel down, side by side, in front of the icon of the Virgin Mary, cross themselves and pray with the following words: ‘Несквернaja, неблазнаjа, нетленнаjа, пречистаjа, чистаjа дево, богоневесто владичице jаже Бога слова человjеком преславним Твоим рождеством... jаже ненадежних едина надежда, и боримих помошч... и приими мое, еже о скверних устен приносимое моление... СлаваТебе, ниње и присно, и во вjeки вjеков амин’...”

When Tsilka finished the prayer Mita quietly said “Amen…” and was followed by Velika, and Tinka. Then Tsilka said “Amen…” again. And with that the trench went silent again.

After a brief pause, Tsilka resumed telling her story: “My mother and grandmother always prayed together. Sometimes I would stand behind them and listen to their quiet, warm and gentle prayers; my mother with her gentle, clear and quiet voice and my grandmother with her hoarse and elevated voice. They would say: ‘Пресвjатаjа Богородице, несквернаjа, неблазнаjа, нетленнаjа, пречистаja, чистаjа дево... слава Тебе, ниње п присно, и во вjеки вjeков, амин...’ Standing there and listening to their prayers made me feel warm inside. They gave me hope that my father and grandfather would, one day, return to us… This was how we spent our time inside the house but not in the village. The village seemed as if it had been transformed into a song, which was constantly accompanied by a trumpet and a drum to which everyone marched from the upper to the lower neighbourhoods. The new teacher enlisted all the young people into the organization “EON” (National Youth Organization) and put them in uniforms... Then, with help of the police, he had all the dogs killed so that they wouldn’t bark when his spies eavesdropped under the windows of our homes, listening to what we were saying...”

“It was the same in our village,’” Zoia piped up.

“I too was recruited into EON... And who wasn’t in those days? In our village everyone was…” said Mita quietly.

“It was the same with us…” whispered Tinka.

“Most of the songs sung were about the greatest soldier, the greatest plowman... the greatest, the greatest, the greatest, and that greatest... who?” asked Tsilka.

“Metaxas!” piped up Tinka.

“It was the same in our village,” said Zoia quietly.” All we did was sing about him. The trumpets played about him… The drums beat about him… in the morning… in the afternoon and at sunset. We

were marching on dusty village streets and shouting at the top of our voices, calling him ‘great’; that bloody butcher Metaxas. And it went on and on like that until war broke out with Italy...”

“Soon after war broke out with Italy, we received a letter from my father, who informed us that he had been released from the prison where he was held on one of the dry Greek islands. He said: ‘I was released because I volunteered to fight against the Italians. By the time this letter reaches you, I will be at the front fighting the Italians…’ Soon after that we received another letter, which, by the way, arrived very quickly, informing us that my father had been killed for the ‘greatness and glory of mother Greece...’ But by then there were no Greeks in Macedonia; they had fled. Then the Italians arrived. People from a nearby village, where the Italians had landed a few days earlier, came over to our village and told us that the Italians did not object to us speaking Macedonian and that people could speak whatever language they wanted. They said that they were already speaking Macedonian in their village and nobody was afraid because there were no fines or punishments like those the Greeks had imposed. Kuze, who the Greeks had beaten unconscious and given castor oil to drink because he spoke Macedonian and not Greek to his oxen, was so happy to see the Greeks go. When he heard that the Italians were coming, he ran to the entrance of the village to greet them. He stood on top of the hill, in front of the village, shouting: ‘Viva Italia, Avanti Italia’, and sang: ‘Bandera rosa la triumfera...’ The Italians immediately seized him and beat him on the stage in front of all the villagers that had assembled there… They then took six oxen from the village and left for Kostur. The next day, Kuze who had lost an ox to the Italians, went up on his balcony and yelled out: ‘Screw the freedom the Italians brought us…” said Tsilka as she waited for the laughter to subside before she continued:

“Two days after the ‘Italian freedom’ arrived, my grandfather returned home. Our house was full of people. Almost everyone from our village came over. We were all happy to see him return. The next day, in the afternoon, the church bell began to ring and the village crier went through the village streets with a funnel yelling: ‘People, people… Male and female… Young and old… Please go and assemble at the blacksmith shop!!!’ But as he was yelling, old

man Nake yelled at him and said: ‘What did I ask you to do, eh?! I asked you to invite only the men! Now go back and invite only the men!’

Old man Nake then raced towards old man Labro to catch up to him. The first to arrive at the blacksmith shop were Labro, Iano, Risto, Nake and Pando... all of them ex-guerillas, fighters from the Ilinden Uprising, and all of them the same age as my grandfather. After all the men were gathered together, old man Iano removed a Greek flag from his bag and Labro, Risto, Nake and Pando each grabbed a corner, spread it out and placed it on the wall. Iano took out a few nails from an apron pocket and nailed the flag on the wall, placing a nail in each corner. After he finished, he stepped back and looked at it. It looked as good as a stretched skin ready for tanning. He turned to the others, pointed at the flag and in a tone of voice resembling that of our commissar, said:

‘With the Lord’s help, let us move forward. Labro, you do the honours and start first since you came very close to being draped in this colorful cloth.’ Labro, without hesitation, untied his waistband and, while holding his pants with one hand, went closer to the wall and pissed all over the flag. When he finished, Labro coughed a few nasty coughs, spit on the flag and barked a few nasty curses. At the end he said: ‘May God will it that this flag never fly under our skies!’ He then turned his back to the wall and let out a loud fart.

After Labro was done Iano called on the others to do the same. He said: ‘Now Risto, followed by Nake, Pando, Krsto and all of you behind Krsto, line up and take your turn at the flag…’

My grandfather went closer to Iano and, making sure the others heard him, said: ‘This is no good… it’s shameful pissing on a flag…’

‘You say it’s shameful, Krsto?!’ Iano snapped back at my grandfather. ‘It wasn’t shameful when they hunted us down in our fields and in our gardens? It wasn’t disgraceful when they spied on us at our homes and under our windows? It wasn’t painful when they broke up our weddings and celebrations? It wasn’t criminal when they fined us, made us drink castor oil and eat salty fish for

speaking our language at home, in the market and in the streets of our villages? And you are trying to tell me it wasn’t shameful what they did to you; cutting a cross on top of your head, humiliating you and sending you to prison for nothing? I see that your hair has grown back but it seems you have not learned your lesson. Did they brainwash you there… at the prison on the island, eh?!! Even still, regardless of what you say, it was criminal and humiliating what these people did to us… And that is where the great shame lies…’

Iano, Pando, Labro, Risto and Nake; all began to argue with my grandfather, yelling at him one after another.

‘And I kept insisting that it was not good what we were doing…’ said my grandfather in a conciliatory tone of voice.

‘Okay, okay Krsto, we hear you…’ said Iano. ‘Now please tell us why this is bad… You, the person on whose head they cut a cross with goat shears… You, tell us your side of the story…’

‘We need to be smart about this…’ my grandfather said while pointing at the side of his temple with his finger. ‘And not with…’ he said, pointing below his navel.

‘People, people, don’t listen to Krsto… his brain has been fried on the hot dry island where they sent him. His judgment is impaired, that’s why the poor man talks like that. Everyone, do your thing and get your anger out!’ Nake yelled out and by the time he got to the wall he pissed on his own feet.”

The blanket that was substituting for a door to the trench suddenly flung open and cold air rushed in. Argir was back and with him he brought snow, cold and howling wind.

“Put the blanket down!” Mita yelled. “We are losing all the heat! Fix the blanket!”

“Okay, okay!” replied Argir. “Pull your legs back so that I can pass by. You are stretched out like you own the trench... Move your legs!” he said sternly, but before Argir had a chance to sit down, a head popped into the trench and, in a loud commanding tone of

voice, said: “Attention!” It was the political commissar. He had a flashlight in his hand and was shining it on the faces of those inside the trench. “I hear,” he said, “in place of resting and sleeping, you have turned the trench into a church… and you are praying? Everyone can use a prayer, right? Is that right, Velika?”

“No, Comrade Commissar...” Velika replied timidly.

“And what then, were you doing?” he demanded to know.

“Well, were telling each other stories…” she replied.

“Telling each other stories? What kind of stories were you telling each other? The dark side of darkness?” the commissar asked mockingly.

“Stories about our past experiences, Comrade Commissar…” replied Velika.

The commissar raised his flashlight, pointed it at their faces and said: “All of you get out of the trench and form a line! Now!” He got out first. “Single file, form a line here!” he barked out loudly. “You turned a military trench into a church, eh? And you Tsilka, you are converting fighters into worshippers? So, you say you are telling each other stories, eh? The day before yesterday you were supposed to dig a trench. But as you can see, the job which you were expected to finish yesterday was not done. You left the trench half dug. Now I know why. You were rushing to go to your church! Argir, Kole, Velika, Panaiotis, run quickly and fetch picks and shovels! You have one hour to complete the job... Dig here and dig deep, and… stop telling each other stories. Dig deep, a deep ditch because tomorrow it will save your lives… stories and prayers will not... Gamoto Hristo sas! Tin Panagia sas ke to Stavro sas!!! Kolopeda!!!” (Screw your Christ! Your Virgin Mary and your Holy Cross!!! Queers!!!).

The commissar’s yelling and swearing created a chilly atmosphere for everyone in the trench. Now, on top of being scolded, they had to work outside where they were whipped by waves of blowing cold wind and pounded by whirling snow, ripped out of the branches of

the pine trees and deposited on their faces and bodies. The fierce wind was coming from above, from the tips of the bare hills where a howling blizzard was forming. It came whistling and moaning through the branches of the tall pines, picking up all the snow it could carry. And as one wave passed, seeming like the worst was over, another, more fierce, took its place, blowing and howling louder as it made its way down. The waves hit hard, scooping snow from the forest and depositing it everywhere… The waves relentlessly came one after another without end, making life unbearable for those caught in them…

“Argyris,” yelled out the commissar, his voice barely audible over the noise made by the blizzard, “you are in charge of the digging. And you” yelling at the others, at the top of his voice to compensate for the noise, “dig, dig right here… and no telling stories. Dig deep down past your shoulders, past your necks and past your heads. The deeper you dig, the safer the trench. And no telling stories… Gamoto Hristo sas! (Screw your Christ!)... Argyris! When the dig is completed as ordered, come to my trench and report to me! Is that clear?!”

“Clear! Comrade Commissar…” replied Argir.

The commissar then yelled: “Start digging!” knocked his heels together, stomped his heavy boots on the frozen soil, covered his face with his hand to prevent the snow from flying into his eyes, turned his back to the falling snow and headed straight for Tsilka. “And you Tsilka,” he yelled angrily at the top of his voice while pointing his finger at her, “you will serve three consecutive guard shifts! Understand?!”

“Understand…” replied Tsilka in a quiet, sad and hoarse voice.

Unable to hear her reply in the midst of a stormy wave, the commissar went closer, stuck his face in front of Tsilka’s face and yelled out loudly: “Three guard shifts in a row, I said, do you understand?!” sounding like a snake hissing.

“I understand…” Tsilka yelled out as loud as she could, but in the storm her hoarse voice sounded like a whisper. But it seemed like the commissar got the message because he soon backed off .

“Dig!” he yelled out one more time, stomped his boots on the frozen ground, to keep his feet warm, and said: “Argyris! When you dig up to here,” he pointed with his stick, “take them back to the trench. Now go find the corporal and tell him that Tsilka has been ordered to serve guard duty for three consecutive shifts! Got it?! And tell the corporal to call me at report tomorrow.” Without saying a word, Argir quickly left and, as if walking on broken glass, with a brisk step, disappeared into the storm.

They dug, picking at the frozen earth with their picks, breaking off small pieces of soil and tossing them to the side piece by piece. And while they dug, the storm kept filling the hole with snow.

About fifteen minutes later, the corporal arrived at the dig, pointed at Tsilka and gave her the signal to go with him. He led the way through the storm, holding his hand over his eyes, protecting them from the flying snow. Suddenly he stopped and turned around to make sure Tsilka was following him and said: “Are you afraid?”

“From what?” she asked.

“The dark of night, the cold, the wild beasts...” replied the corporal.

“No, I am not afraid... Not of those things… I am afraid of people...” said Tsilka.

“If you want, I can stay with you or come occasionally to visit you. Would you like me to do that?” asked the corporal.

“I wouldn’t mind it, but it would be better if you didn’t… They might check on you and if they don’t find you in your trench they will penalize you too…” replied Tsilka in a trembling voice. “Just take me to my place and go back… So you don’t get punished… Please let us get going…” added Tsilka.

On their way, they encountered a drift of snow as high as their heads.

“Let’s go around?” said the corporal sounding uncertain.

“Let’s go through it…” replied Tsilka. “If we go around, in the dark, we might lose our path…”

The corporal took Tsilka by the hand, bent his head forward, took a step and plunged neck deep into the drift.

“Don’t follow me,” the corporal yelled, with a worried sounding voice. “Do you hear me?” She helped him out of the drift and they tried going to the left but a large boulder was blocking their way. They came back to the same place.

“We will have to go through the drift…” said the corporal sounding uncertain and starting to dig his way through the snow with his bare hands. When they punched through the first drift, they were hit in the face by a blast of cold wind. They were out of breath for a moment, as if they had run out of air. They turned their backs to the storm. They remained with their backs turned until they caught their breath, then holding hands, they plunged into the next drift, pushing the snow aside with all their might. Their progress was very slow, measuring in inches with each swipe they took at the drift. Finally, their effort paid off and they reached open space.

“Halt!” ordered a strong commanding voice cutting through the storm and echoing on the rocks.

“Okay!” replied the corporal.

“Password!” yelled the voice.

“Meadow!” replied the corporal.

“Hair! Turn!” answered the voice, but this time in a soft friendly tone.

“Change of Guard…” announced the corporal.

“Finally! I am frozen from top to bottom. What kind of weather is this?” complained the guard. “Who is replacing me?” he then asked.

“Tsilka,” the corporal said quietly.

“Tsilka? So it is....” said the guard and moments later added: “This is not the kind of weather where you want young women on guard? Go back,” he said “I will stay on a bit longer. I will stay on guard another hour… I can take it… Take her back…” insisted the guard.

“Don’t be a fool!” said the corporal quietly. “It’s her turn, she has been sent here to be punished. Do you understand? Orders from the political commissar! Don’t feel sorry for her…”

“It’s that Bulkiotis, isn’t it? Screw him…” cursed the guard. “Those who came from Bulkesh are the worst. It is the same with the commanders… they are the worst... They act as if they are more knowledgeable, skilled, experienced, faithful and all...” he said without finishing his sentence. He then stepped out into the deep snow. “This is really bad,” he said. You are not even going to find a wolf leaving its lair in weather like this… Let me ask you something corporal. Is our commander one of those people who came from Bulkesh?”

“No,” replied the corporal. “He was one of those who were in the brigade…” he explained.

“Those Bulkiotes are dreadful people! I have been told that they were specifically taught how to act as commanders and commissars and… The rat ... Why is he punishing you?” the guard asked Tsilka.

“My friends will tell you when you get back,” replied Tsilka.

“They were taught as commanders and commissars but, it seems, that in all their education they forgot how to be people. Do you know what the commissar did to the people in my trench?” asked the guard.

“Did he invent something about them?” asked Tsilka.

“All ten were taken out of their trench... I was lucky, I just happened to be in the trench next door...” replied the guard.

“Well, brother, you were lucky. What happened after that?” asked Tsilka.

“They were ordered to dig trenches…” replied the guard.

“Dig!” yelled Tsilka, weighing in on the conversation. “Dig but no tell stories…” she added with a slight tone of guilt in her voice.

“He kept yelling like a mad man…” replied the guard.

“He may not be a mad man but he is a commissar. Even the commander is afraid of him,” added Tsilka.

“Someone will surface who will not be afraid of him, eh?” said the guard.

“I am sure someone will…” added the corporal, “But now it is time for us to go. And you, Tsilka, if you are afraid tell me right now…”

“Don’t worry about me... Fear, no fear, it’s the same to me,” Tsilka replied to the corporal and turned to the guard and asked: “Just let me know where to pay more attention?”

“Believe me Tsilka, in weather like this not even the devil dares to show its horns…” replied the guard.

“As you can see, visibility is very poor. Just keep your eyes on this side of the brook and if you see something fire a round or two…” instructed the corporal.

The two men departed and Tsilka was left all alone in the dark. She stood under a well-insulated giant pine tree whose underside was free of snow. She leaned against the tree’s giant trunk and listened carefully. She listened to the wind howl with waves hitting the trees and disappearing as soon as they arrived. They twisted and howled all through the trees making eerie noises giving Tsilka chills and

goose bumps. The snow began to freeze, squeaking under her heavy boots, torn and full of holes.

“It’s going to be a long chilling, cold night…” Tsilka said to herself very quietly as she took a couple of steps to the left, a couple to the right and then forward and back attempting to ward off the cold. She felt safe as long as the two men were in close proximity. But the moment she could no longer hear their voices she felt completely lost in the dark. Even though this was not her first night standing on guard, this time, perhaps due to the commissar being upset and everyone being kicked out of the warm trench, she found the silence more eerie and the blizzard much colder to endure than usual. She hung her rifle over her shoulder, rubbed her hands together vigorously, blew several warm breaths on them, stepped back towards the tree trunk, stepped forward again, raised herself on her tiptoes and attempted to look over the tall snowdrift.

She was too short to be able to look over the snowdrift so first she used her hands to clear off some of the snow on top, then she used her rifle butt like a shovel. She worked hard to make an opening, after which she realized that she was feeling very warm, so much so that she needed to unbutton her torn overcoat and loosen her scarf. After that she turned her back to the snowdrift and pushed hard until she pushed all the snow out of the way. She had opened a path through the snowdrift.

She was surprised at the thickness of the drift. It measured ten steps. So, to prevent the path from being filled again, and to keep warm, she decided to march back and forth over it. Ten steps forward and ten steps back. The frozen snow crunched under her boots as she marched, sounding like an entire squad was marching behind her. She walked backwards slowly, carefully, looking behind her, making sure she did not run into the fighter marching behind her. Unable to see in the dark, however, she stopped and listened. There was only silence, except for the noises made by nature. She listened some more. High above her, she could hear the snow falling through the pine needles, hissing its way down. She stopped breathing for a moment and took a few quiet steps forward. It was the same silence. She strained her ears to hear more. Something made a shuffling sound in the dry leaves. She held her breath. She shuddered. She

quietly raised her rifle. The sound petrified her. She listened some more. She took silent deep breaths. Then, just for a split moment, she glanced down at the thick woolen hand-knitted sweater she was wearing, which her mother had sent her a few months earlier, and saw her own strong heart restlessly thumping like it was trying to get out. A handful of chunks of snow dislodged from the tree branches above and fell on dried leaves. She was relieved.

Tsilka began breathing normally again. She was relaxed now as she stepped back under the pine tree, tilted her head and listened to the various sounds. There was nothing unusual going on so she resumed her march of ten steps forward and ten steps back. There was silence, only the frozen snow squeaked under her ripped boots. The snow also squeaked on the trees as the wind pushed them back and forth. High above Mount Bel Kamen the sky began to open up, but only for a moment. Behind the shabby cloud the moon suddenly appeared, looking pale, but was gone again. Tsilka now turned her head the other way and looked towards the brook. Beyond the brook, on the other side of the mountain she noticed the sky was slowly becoming bright. A strong gust of wind blew and dislodged clumps of snow from the tree branches.

Clumps of snow fell on her. Waves of wind began to blow from the north. Tsilka watched the clouds mingle, mix and twist in the dark sky as the winds drove them into a frenzy. She looked towards Bel Kamen again. Up high above Mount Bel Kamen the clouds were coming apart, torn like rags, then suddenly the full moon lit up the terrain, creating long shadows behind the great big pines covered in an infinitely large sheet of snow. And in the distance, on the open slopes, Tsilka saw the dark shadow of a suffering cloud being pushed around by the crazy winds. To the right, the terrain was dotted with dark spots tightly packed against one another; another pine forest. The north wind was now blowing fiercely and howling as it passed through the pine trees, dislodging more snow, dropping it carelessly all over the place. The wind was fierce sparing nothing and no one, not even the ancient rocks standing still and drawing and consuming its energy. The wind became angrier and dispatched wave after wave twisting and turning and uprooting snow from high above the pine trees. Again and again the waves came one after another causing snow clouds to form, grow and disburse again,

pushing the snow further down the hills and depositing it into the deep crevasses of the brooks down the hill.

The sky above began to clear, the moon was shining bright, the grey was turning white and darkness vanished right before Tsilka’s open eyes. Stirred by the clearing sky, the north wind delivered more cold; a dry cold which froze the snow even more. Tsilka looked around as night gave way to day and everything began to look bright and shiny. She watched the silvery moon slowly turn pale and the black sky turn blue. Everything looked bright and beautiful... The cold wind blowing in her eyes caused Tsilka’s eyes to tear as she watched the birth of a new day. She suddenly shuddered. She felt the morning cold deep inide her. Chills and tremors gripped her entire body as if she was standing bare naked in the cold. Her feet were frozen, feeling like a swarm of ants were crawling all over them. Her fingers clenching her rifle were stiff like icicles. She bumped her feet together and attempted to wiggle her toes. Her cheeks felt like they were pinched. She placed her rifle over her shoulder and began to rub her hands, then her fingers, cheeks and ears.

A sharp chill overpowered her and shook her entire body. She leaned forward, slapped her hands together and, for a moment, placed them under her arms. She then began to blow warm breath on them as she rubbed and squeezed each finger individually, starting at the tip. She felt nothing except for the sensation that a swarm of ants were crawling on them. She felt the same sensation when she rubbed her cheeks, forehead and ears. Suddenly she heard a thundering, cracking sound originating below her, on the other side of the brook. She looked. A large branch broke off a pine tree. It surrendered to the cold and gave away to the weight of the snow. Tsilka grabbed a handful of snow and with a single movements rubbed her cheeks and ears with it. With tears in her eyes she looked up at the pale bluish sky. Then as she gazed lower she noticed that everything was covered in snow, cold frozen snow. And the more she thought of the snow and the cold, the colder she felt, unbearably cold, the kind of cold that spreads through your body, penetrates deep down inside you and coagulates your blood. Despite the cold, it was beautiful out there, the endless sheet of snow glistening and competing for attention with the bluish sky and the pale full moon. A strong gust of

wind blew, shook the pine tree branches above, dislodging small chunks of frozen snow. Tsilka looked up and then as she looked away into the distance, her eyes became blurred and her eyelids felt heavy. The rustling of the pine trees, the falling of snow, all made Tsilka sleepy. She tilted her head and placed it on her rifle and then, suddenly she was dreaming dreadful dreams, spinning and turning in her head, mixing and bubbling. She shuddered and woke up. She grabbed a handful of snow and tossed it on her face.

Tsilka attempted to raise her leg and move it, but she could not feel it. It felt like it was stuck deep inside an ant hill and ants were crawling all over it. Her foot was completely frozen and she could not feel it at all. The numbness of it began to hurt her, to burn her and torment her. She kicked her heels together but felt nothing; like they did not exist. She alternately pounded the frozen ground with her boots, which made a sound but still she could not feel her feet. Chills began to rise up and travel over her entire body, making her shiver all over. The wind died down and the squeaks from the snow became louder. She looked around. The snow looked a little brighter. She tightened the collar around her neck and the belt around her waist and wiggled her shoulders. Then she thought she saw a flash far away in the valley, she looked in that direction. She continued to gaze. Her shivers died down. It seemed to her that mist was forming in the distance. She persistently stared at it until she was lost in it, like she was having a dream inside it. Her eyelids became heavy and she became lost somewhere deep down in her consciousness. She was experiencing a crisis: one side was telling her to stay awake and be vigilant, the other side was telling her to take a nap, just a little one, a tiny nap, to slightly lower her eyelids for as long as it took to count to five, just a little nap...

Her heavy eyelids began to close slowly. Her sleepy side was winning. Opposition to her sleepiness seemed to slowly disappear in the far away mist over the hills and... a thundering sound rushed from below, from the brook. A large ice sheet slipped down and broke the branches of several beech trees. Tsilka was shaken by the noise. She quickly lifted her head and rubbed her eyes with her frozen hands. She was awake, but only for a moment. Her need for sleep again overcame her. She began to stare into the distance

looking for the mist and she again surrendered to her inexorable need for sleep…