BROTHERHOOD UNITY - Part 03

The night during which Evgenia and the other women were returning to Zhelevo, three men surrounded them on the road and asked, “Which one of you is Evgenia?” “I am…” replied Evgenia. “Come with us!” one of the men ordered. “Where?” asked Evgenia. “To a new assignment…” replied one of them. One day after the NOF Congress, on March 27th, 700 delegates were elected in Nivitsi, out of whom 163 were Macedonian communists, who, under orders and under Zahariadis’s watchful eye, formed the Communist Organization of Aegean Macedonia (KOEM). In the big room in the Trendafilovski house, the newly elected NOF Central Council and members of the newly formed KOEM prepared refreshments in honour of the leader, for the successful completion of the Congress and for the formation of the new vanguard. On the table, covered with a red tablecloth (someone jokingly said it was the same tablecloth used to cover the table in the Congress) were two large baskets full of pieces of bread resembling nafora (Communion bread). Beside them were plates, full to the top, of fried Lake Ohrid trout and Lake Ohrid carp. In the middle of the table were two large baked fish (carp). At the end of the table glasses, collected from the village (Nivitsi), enough to serve the thirty or so guests present in the big room, were being filled with red wine. Serving near the table were two women dressed in military uniforms. Four kerosene lamps hung in the corners of the room emitting a pale light, providing light for the party. People were scattered around the room in small groups anxiously waiting for dinner to be served, secretly glancing at the food on the table while smelling the delicious aroma of freshly baked bread and fried fish. They were waiting, waiting for the leader to arrive. Then suddenly the room went quiet, silent. Zahariadis entered. They all turned towards him and made way for him to get to the table. Vera stood up on her toes and yelled at the top of her voice: “Long live comrade Zahariadis!” The entire room roared, voices could be heard beyond the upper village neighbourhood, voices accompanied by the song that was like a party anthem: “Zahariadis arhigos… (Zahariadis the leader…)” It seemed that some people hardly had the patience to finish one verse before jumping into the next: “To budrumi then ton liga (Prison cannot break him) Ke i skepsi trehi gorga (And quickly his thoughts fly) Stis sindrofus pu polemun (To the friends who are struggling) Apta katerga gia na vrun… (From slavery to break away…)” And before the final word in the verse was finished, another word was thrown in and sung with more devotion, a higher tone, more confrontational and louder: “Orko perni o vulevtis (The worker curses) Sto onoma tu o mahitis (In his name swears the fighter) Ke htipai tin mavri sklavia (And beats down black slavery) Gia na vri o laos lefteria. (So the people can have freedom.)” Zahariadis stopped clapping, picked up a glass of wine and said: “Comrades, allow me, with this glass, to convey to you my first toast…” Zahariadis toasted when he wanted to be like Stalin. His toast had to have an introduction which contained a ‘basic thought’ – the resolution in the execution of the task done in the name of the person being toasted. The order was as follows: first praise the people, the masses, with common words, then bestow big praises on the middle political and military cadres, who most likely were illiterate or semi-illiterate, the bootlickers and yes-men, whose only job, only by directive, was to mingle with guests and raise the fighting spirit and praise and popularize the leader. These middle cadres were first to swear in his name, first to glorify him, first to celebrate him and first to praise him – “cheers to them!” It was compulsory for someone else, someone persuaded beforehand, to repeat and add to the middle cadre praises, someone who inspires and, understandably, that would be Zahariadis – “cheers!” And of course it was compulsory for Zahariadis to ‘downplay’ these high praises of himself in the following fashion: “I, comrades, appreciate so and so, we are old friends, but I don’t agree with him.”

With this he showed that he was superior and able to limit his own significance, merit and importance. Finally, again someone persuaded beforehand, would add: “We are so lucky to have such a wise leader and such excellent middle cadres.” Then they all, with a single voice, would toast, “Cheers to our leader and the middle cadres!” He then pretended that he did not deserve all those praises because there was only one of him. The words spoken were always enriched with promises, which for him had no meaning. The most important thing for him was to establish a connection with the masses; for the individuals he had a different dictionary. The masses, which he sometimes called “the flock”, he was able to grab by the legs and sow into them the spirit of faith and hope and make them believe that he was indeed their saviour… and the masses placed their unquestionable trust in him. He knew how to stand before the masses and speak to them, he knew how to raise them up high and bring them down low. He knew how to converse with villagers even though he knew nothing about farming, about ploughing, hoeing, or shoveling. He spoke with the workers as if he was a worker himself even though he had never been in a factory. He knew how to talk and dance with the fighters even though he had never held a gun in his hands… With the help of the narrow-minded, boot-licking middle cadres, he was a villager, a worker and a soldier. And that is exactly how the individuals and masses wanted him to be – one from respect and others from fear. By words and by looks he knew how to reward, criticize, boast and penalize and by his suspicion he knew how to destroy… Such rarity was this Zahariadis, for whom songs were sung and miracles and legends told. And most villagers in the Kostur, Lerin and Voden Regions believed in those miracles and legends, which by the merit of his middle, low and lower cadres, their beliefs were turned into a ‘burnt offering’ and a ‘heroic suicide’… The Great Lie – Chapter 12

In April, newspapers with news about the Central Committee’s Fifth Plenum and about NOF’s (Peoples’ Liberation Front) Second Congress arrived at the Prenies Refugee Camp in Albania. Lazo, who never passed up an opportunity to go to the camp office, was not feeling well that day so he asked his wife to ask Kuze to go to the office and bring him some newspapers. “In this rain?…” mumbled Kuze and, scratching his neck, looked out the narrow window. He then asked: “How is he doing? Has he recovered from his cold?” “It’s nothing. He got a bit of a cold yesterday when he was at the meeting with his superiors. He is complaining a bit about his throat and his nose is running…” replied Lazovitsa (Lazo’s wife). “It sounds like he was talking a lot,” interrupted Kuze. “I guess so. You know my Lazo very well. When he starts talking,” she boasted, “only his voice is heard and not even a teacher or a priest can out talk him, let alone this shameless guy, you know the one-armed man from the office who has no shame or subtlety. “Yes you are right, Lazovitse,” muttered Kuze. “Kuze, I should go and you can run the errand and bring Lazo the newspapers. He said to bring him both the Greek and Macedonian newspapers. That’s what he said…” trailed off Lazovitsa. After Lazovitsa left, Kuze stepped outside and noticing that it was pouring rain he stepped back in. His mattress made of straw looked inviting so he lay down and covered himself. Disturbed at the thought of Lazo asking him to walk in the rain just so that he could get his paper, Kuze began to swear and curse out loud: “That bum, so he wants to read the newspaper eh? Why doesn’t he mind his own business, instead of…” “Who are you talking about?” interrupted Kuze’s wife. “Lazo, who else?” replied Kuze. “Well, since he asked you then go,” advised the wife. “What are you afraid of, getting wet? Put this bag over your head.” “What?” inquired Kuze. “I said put the bag over your head so that you won’t get wet,” repeated his wife. “Are you out of your mind? Me with a bag over my head?” replied Kuze. “Well, we don’t have an umbrella!” complained the wife. “I prefer to get wet over putting a bag over my head. Those who see me will make fun of me. Got it?” protested Kuze. Kuze tucked his head into his shoulders, covered his neck with his collar and skipping over the mud puddles ran to the office. From there, with the Macedonian newspaper “ΗΕΠΟΚΟΡΕΗ” and the Greek newspaper “Προς τη Νικη” tucked in his underarm, he went to visit Lazo. “Lazo my friend,” Kuze complained “you sure found the time to send me to get the papers in this awful rain. Look at me I am drenched!” “Ok, ok,” said Lazo attempting to calm him down “you are not made of sugar and you won’t melt. My neighbour mentioned that there are some important things about us Macedonians in the papers, so I thought how is it possible that my half literate neighbour knows about these things and we don’t? Give me the Greek newspaper, let me read what they said…. My, my, Kuze miracles are about to happen. Did you know that?” “Where?” asked Kuze. “There, in the free territories…” replied Lazo. “Okay Lazo, enough with the lies…” interrupted Kuze. “What free territories are you talking about? The one that comes and goes through our village? You consider that a free territory? If there is such a ‘free territory’ as you say then why are we here in Prenies, in Albanian territory and not in our own so-called ‘free territory’, ha?” “There,” continued Lazo, as if he heard nothing that Kuze had said, “our dear Central Committee did a very important thing for us. Finally! I told you, some day a smart person would come along and find a solution for us. Listen now,” said Lazo as he took a deep breath and read to Kuze the Resolution that the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Greece undertook regarding the Macedonian question. Kuze stood there with a stunned look and, while staring at Lazo’s eyes, slowly said: “Nothing, I swear, I understand absolutely nothing about this.”

“Well Kuze, you don’t have to understand it. What is there in here, what can’t you understand? Everything is clear. Only comrade Zahariadis can write this clearly. This certainly comes from him. No one else can write like this,” replied Lazo “and what Zahariadis says and writes about us is like he is ‘Our Father’.” Finally God gave us a smart man who is telling us ‘listen, your way is this way!’ He has shown us the way, all we need to do is now follow it. Yes… Isn’t that what I was telling you Kuze, that one day we would create our own Macedonia? So, now the way is open. Zahariadis is very clearly telling us ‘you will create your Macedonia, the way you want to… Bravo Zahariadis. Bravo!” exclaimed Lazo loudly. “I don’t know, Lazo if that’s the way it is… My mind cannot fathom this… How do we know it is not a clever trick?...” asked Kuze. Lazo read the part about the Resolution again and placed his finger on the newspaper and proudly said: “There it is, clearly written wiser than what Solomon himself could have done. I told you Kuze, one day a smart man would come along, a great man, a leader… yes a leader!” “Let it be that way Lazo, but… But to me it seems like something is not right. And why are you boasting and rejoicing? Isn’t it this kind of rejoicing and boasting that divides us? Are we not of the same blood and religion as those in Vardarsko? Dear Lazo, find me a smart person, more educated than the two of us and let’s ask him to enlighten us on this…” replied Kuze. “There is nothing to be enlightened about,” replied Lazo angrily. “The Party said it and it will be done!..” “It will be that way because we have no thoughts of our own, our heads are filled with other people’s thoughts and that is how they make fools of us. Who, dear Lazo wants to dance with a fool? Doesn’t it seem to you that someone is playing mind games with us?” replied Kuze. Lazo angrily tossed the newspaper on the ground and jumped to his feet. “Now I should whack you one!” yelled Lazo “Is that how you feel? You should not talk like that. Do you know who talks like that today? The Contra! I want you to know. The Contra! And don’t push me or I will whack you one across the eyes so that you can see more clearly and if I whack you one across your big mouth then maybe you will speak wiser… Do you understand?!” “I understand, Lazo, how can I not understand? I understand…” replied Kuze feeling hurt and insulted. “Come now, don’t be bitter,” said Lazo. “We are just having a friendly discussion…” Kuze did not reply. He took his hat, bowed his head and left. The same evening the two met again. Side by side they stood in the line, waiting for the cook to serve food from the cauldron. Lazo was first to speak. “What do you say, Kuze, can I come to your place after supper for a smoke?” Extending his metal dish towards the cauldron, Kuze whispered, “The door will be open.” Later in the evening Lazo and Kuze sat opposite one another and while taking puffs of tobacco smoke, continued their interrupted conversation from earlier. “I am saying,” said Lazo, “that this is written by Zahariadis. Look how he praises our people? These people, he says, gave all they had for the struggle and are fighting with unprecedented courage and sacrifice, that is why they will have the right, after the victory, to live as they see fit… and even to create their own Macedonian state… Here, see for yourself what it says in ‘ΗΕΠΟΚΟΡΕΗ’… Let me find it. Here is what it says: ‘There is a need by the Congress to declare the Macedonian people’s national question, a people who by their own participation in today’s struggle have the right to form their own independent Macedonian state…’ It also says the same thing in the Resolution of the Second NOF Congress. Did you read it? No? You need to read it…” Kuze was silent. “Why are you so quiet?” asked Lazo. “What can I say now? I told you what I thought earlier and you accused me of being a Contra. You ask me if I read it. Yes I read everything but understood very little.

For example, this is what is written about Kostur Region.” Kuze took the newspaper from Lazo, turned the page and began to read: ‘There is a need for particular district boards to establish unity in the villages in the shortest possible time. It is of importance for personal reasons to stop the whining and establish internal organized democratic life and function. In today’s conditions, this type of shaky situation should not be allowed to continue especially between the various organs and all cadres are invited to establish normality and internal unity of the bodies’. “Okay Lazo, now you explain to me what you got from all this?” asked Kuze. “Well, what can I tell you, I think this was not written for us, because we are absent from it. We have now been absent from Kostur Region for more than ten months… Right?” replied Lazo. Kuze did not say anything. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, looked at the corner, shook his head and began to sway back and forth. “What do you think Kuze?” asked Lazo. The flame emanating from the candle began to dwindle. The wick was burning out. A few breaths later they found themselves in the dark. Two months after this conversation had taken place, Kuze and Lazo sat silently on the beam outside the barracks. The sharp smoke coming out of the thickly cut tobacco rolled in a piece of newspaper, torn from the same newspaper which they were reading two months ago, brought tears to their eyes and burned their lips. “Yes, yes… Who would have thought, eh?” said Lazo in a stretched out tone of voice. “Ah?” said Kuze. “Don’t ‘ah’ me, who would have thought?” repeated Lazo. “What?” asked Kuze. Lazo spit the bitterness out of his mouth and at the moment when he wanted to explain the meaning of his questions, Numo, the one legged invalid, stopped in front of them. He tossed a newspaper at their feet and, with a slight smile on his face, asked: “Eh brothers, did you welcome the news? Did you read what comrade Zahariadis told the Macedonian cadres? Did you not read? Eh brothers, daydreamers, listen and learn! Zahariadis changed his song.” “What?!” Lazo asked indignantly. “What song?! What song?!” “That song, which you comrade Lazo together with this bootlicker here were singing about an independent Macedonian state…” replied Numo. “It was decided like that during the Plenum, right? Did you not hear?” replied Lazo and asked: “And that song which you are referring to, what happened to that?” “Well brothers it happened, the big guy gathered all the Macedonian Cadres. He first criticized them and then he told them that the Central Committee’s Fifth Plenum decision regarding the Macedonian question, you know the one regarding self-determination, with which your brains were filled, and the one for an independent Macedonian state, was a mistake. He added that the resolution was taken under pressure from some divisive and treacherous elements at an inappropriate time for the requirements of the revolution, and because of that they should immediately forget the slogan about self-determination and start chanting the slogan about equality... And what? You Lazo, what were you going to say?” concluded Numo. “Well, if that is what the Party decided then let it be that way,” answered Lazo. “It doesn’t matter what the slogans is, if the Party rejected it, surely it is in its right to do so. And you, Numo or whatever your name is, it is best that you keep quiet and not confuse the people… It is shameful for a fighter, former fighter, to talk like that. Do you understand? Also remember that our existence lies in the hands of the Party… You should know that… And don’t think that you will not be a marked man for what you have said to me…” Numo left without saying a word and disappeared around the corner of the barracks. But Lazo and Kuze could still hear the creaking of his wooden leg. The Great Lie – Chapter 13

“Ladies, I came here today to see you, to bring the women of the first battle line greetings from your children who are now in the [Eastern European] countries. I, as head of a delegation, as requested by our comrade Zahariadis who is very concerned, was sent to visit the children. They are all well. How can they not be well when the Party and comrade Zahariadis cares for them like a mother and father? They are happy, very happy. They are joyful, very joyful. They are dressed in new clothing and new shoes. They are fed, well fed. Their cheeks are as red as Prespa apples and pomegranates. Each sleeps in his or her own bed. They have dances, songs and play every day. And food… as much as their hearts desire. What else can I tell you?…” concluded Vera. “Vera, keep going, keep telling us…” begged Stavrovitsa. “Tell us Vera, did you see my Kirche? Did you see him? He is a tall and handsome boy…” Stavrovitsa could not finish her sentence before her eyes filled with tears. She began to whimper and lost her voice. Vera was silent. With sad and moist eyes the women looked at her anxiously waiting for her to tell them more about their children; about their loved ones who were sent far away to the countries. “Vera, please tell me, did you see my Kirche? A tall, slightly blond, handsome boy…?” Stavrovitsa asked again. No, Vera had not seen Stavrovitsa’s tall, blond and handsome boy. She had not seen Kirche, in fact she had not seen any blond, brown eyed, dark eyed, or blue eyed, tall and handsome boy at all because there were none left there to see. Age of the tall boys was not important, as long as they looked big and mature they were prime candidates for the draft. They were mature alright; war tends to do that to people. Only a short while ago, no more than three or four months ago, all the tall boys were collected, dressed in military uniforms, issued backpacks and heavy boots and readied for shipping out. Then, away from prying sympathetic eyes, they were escorted to a vacant railway station, loaded on empty railway cars and unloaded in Bitola in the dark of night. Again under the cover of darkness they were rushed onto trucks and before dawn were offloaded in a secluded willow tree grove somewhere near Lake Prespa. From there they were taken to Markova Noga where they were given rifles and turned into soldiers. While marching on the drill grounds in Shtrkovo and Rudari, the boys sang the battle songs and shouted out the slogans they had learned in those distant countries, which for a while they called their second home. Only after ten days of training, the taller, more compact, wide shouldered boys and the ones with firmer legs and shoulders were sent to the front lines to reinforce the fighting units in Mali-Madi and the surrounding mountains. These boys Vera did not see at all. And as long as the women were staring at her mouth and begging for more words to come out, Vera needed to tell them something, but what?... Then, as quick as lightning she thought of a different memory, one she had experienced in Poland. But of this memory she had told no one except for Zahariadis. Upon her return from the countries she went to see Zahariadis and told him this: “Our children, Comrade Zahariadis are best cared for in Poland. They are located in one of the richest places in the country. There are groves and meadows all around and the entire place is surrounded by flowers and ornamental trees. There is also a large resort equipped with hot baths. Many Poles care for our children. The large number, around one hundred or so, of young ladies that we sent to escort the children also care for them. Some have become their teachers. I noticed that there are around three hundred or so grown children there, ages 15 to 16. They are strong and able to fight. I called a meeting under my own initiative and informed the children about our successes with our struggle and about the heroic acts of our fighters who courageously fight under your wise leadership.

With one word I was able to lift their fighting and revolutionary spirits and they in turn showed willingness and readiness to enter the ranks of our army. We had already started preparations. However, the Poles found out. They questioned me. A tall, bold Pole, I forgot his name, I did not make an exact note, in a calm and confident tone of voice said to me: ‘My superiors authorized me to ask you to inform your top leadership that Poland will not allow mobilization of children ages 15 and 16. We accepted these children and gave them all our love. We are doing everything we can to make them forget the horrors of war. We are striving to restore their smiles and erase the sadness and pain from their faces. We want them to be happy here to play and learn. Tell their parents that we will return their children alive, healthy and well, not as soldiers but as doctors, engineers, architects, professors; as capable people able to rebuild their country from the ruins of war. We will also not allow mobilization of the Macedonian teachers, who the children now call mothers. They will remain here with the children so that they can care for them and teach them their Macedonian language, customs, songs and dances and make sure the children do not forget the traditions of their mothers and fathers… This is the wish of the Polish people and this is what you will pass on to their parents…’ This is what the tall, bold Polish man told me, which made me very angry. I wanted to tell him that at the moment we were involved in a bitter anti-imperialist war against the Anglo-Americans and their Greek lackeys and this kind of talk and behaviour was reactionary, but I held myself back…” Vera took this as a personal failure. After this, what kind of praises and words of recognition would she receive from the leader? For days now her name was circulating from the centre of DAG (Democratic Army of Greece) Headquarters to the centre of the Politburo. They were all wondering; would she succeed in bringing the teachers, the teacher’s aides and the young boys from Poland to Prespa? That many people would make an entire battalion! At night, lying down on a braided straw mattress, or on a bag filled with straw, or in a traveler’s bed in some house in one of the Prespa villages, if she even managed to fall asleep, which rarely ever happened, Vera inevitably entered the same dream listening to the words of the tall, bold Pole and felt horrible, awful, troubled, smothered, tortured, caught by the throat. Trapped in a nightmare she felt strangled and then awakened drenched in sweat and shaking with anger. She cursed and swore until dawn with the dirtiest words she could find… “Vera, please tell us more…” a voice was heard saying. “What more can I tell you? Only joy! When the children found out we were there, they gathered in a large yard and when they saw us they were all happy telling each other that ‘Aunt Vera was here to see us!’ They were very happy. I went from child to child, stroking their heads and they were very happy and rejoiced. I visited every one and patted them on the head, the youngest I picked up by their underarms, like this, and lifted them up in the air,” Vera lifted her officer’s briefcase, “and others I hugged and held in my lap for a while. They were all happy, joyful… And they, the older ones always asked about the struggle. I told them what I could and they were happy and begged me, asking: ‘Aunt Vera, when you return tell our mothers and fathers, our brothers and sisters to fight the Anglo-American imperialists and their Greek servants, harder and more courageously and not to worry about their own lives and about spilling their blood and to never let the enemy take Vicho.’ That’s what the older children told me and that’s what I am telling you. Ah, before I forget. A boy approached me. I think his name was Done. He said this to me: ‘Comrade Vera, my father was lost in Gramos last year…’ and like this, Done lifted his fist to greet me. I told him: ‘You, Done, should be very happy and very proud and should always feel glad that your father was lost in Gramos.

You should be happy and very proud my dear’, that’s what I told him and stroked the hair on his head like this,” Vera stroked her own knee to show the women how she did it. “And then I told him ‘all of you dear children, you must study, you must study a lot. Every letter you learn is a bullet in the heart of our enemies. Make many bullets with your learning so that we can use them against our cursed enemies…’ After that I called a meeting with all the women responsible for the children, you know the ones we sent with the children to look after them. Do you know why I called a meeting with them and why I had to reprimand them? I will tell you. I saw many boys with black patches sewn on the left side of their collar and many girls wearing black headscarves. I was angered by that and I made my feelings known to the women. I said to them, ‘Why are you dressing the children in Black!? You should be ashamed of yourselves’. The women said: ‘Comrade Vera it is not us who are doing this… The children learn of those who perished from the letters they receive from their mothers… The children are simply mourning the loss of their loved ones, according to our customs…’ Ladies now I am going to be mad at you,” said Vera with a raised voice. “Don’t write your children telling them about who was killed. It is you who are dressing your children in black, right? Okay, but from now on you are not going to write them, agreed? You should write to them about our heroic struggle, about the heroism of their fathers, brothers and sisters, and let them know that we are fighting the enemy on all fronts and we are winning. You should also write to them and encourage them to study and learn so that when they grow up they can take their place with pride in the front lines of the struggle. Let the children now play and be happy, let them learn and you here, together with all our people do everything we can not to allow our enemy to take Vicho. And do you know what else I noticed in our children? I noticed that they hardly know anything about our comrade Zahariadis. They know about Stalin, Tito, Enver, Dimitrov, Rakochi, Dezh, Gotvald and about this Pole, what was his name, Bairam or Biro? No. What was his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue and I am sure it starts with a ‘B’, but why can’t I remember the other letters, I don’t know? Anyway, it is not important. What is important is that the children must know about out greatest son and leader, comrade Zahariadis. For that I instructed the teachers. And when I returned from those countries I went to АГИТПРОПОТ where I found our poet, I think his name is Paskalevski. I took him aside and told him: ‘You constantly write poems about the birds, the grass, the stars and the moon. Poets in the entire world,’ I said to him, ‘write about Stalin, people in Yugoslavia have ripped their throats singing songs about Tito, but our children out there in the countries and our people here in the mountains and in the hills and in the free territories know nothing, not even a single poem about our beloved and greatest son and leader, comrade Zahariadis? Aren’t you ashamed,’ I yelled at him and asked him, ‘why haven’t you written anything about our dear Zahariadis?’ The poor man lowered his head and kept quiet. I told him not to worry and asked him to now write something. He took my advice. So I gave him a revolutionary task to write a poem about Zahariadis, the kind that can be recited in four voices. The first to ask who Zahariadis is and the others to answer it. And the four voices to stand in four places, I think four sides. For example one voice on this hill, the second on that hill, the third on the hill past that and the fourth way beyond there. That way the voices will echo on four hills and in four winds. And there in АГИТПРОПОТ I told them when the poem is ready, to publish it and send it to all the countries, to the villages in the free territories and occupied territories, to the combat units, to the front line and to you the workers here who are responsible for preventing our enemy from passing over Vicho.’” Vera stopped talking.

She looked around expecting applause from the women. Disappointed she then said: “And now we should talk a bit about your assistance.” Vera took a notebook from her officer’s leather briefcase, placed it on her lap, and then looked at the women sitting in front of her for a long time. She coughed slightly, opened the notebook and with a formal tone of voice began to read: “For the people’s hospital, the women from the village Zhelevo willingly and happily donated 10 woolen bedcovers, 17 shirts, 17 facecloths, 7 pairs of socks, 9 pieces of clothing, 2 white aprons, 56 plates, 85 forks, 49 spoons and 17 cups. The women from the village Gabresh donated 20 white pillows, 9 woolen pillows, 1 bed, 2 woolen bedcovers, 1 area rug, 8 cups, 2 water bottles, 11 forks and 7 chairs. The women from the village Posdivishcha donated 1 bed, 4 sheets, 17 facecloths, 2 pairs of socks, 29 plates, 19 cups, 2 shirts, 11 spoons, 2 water bottles, 1 frying pan and 3 kerosene lamps…” Vera paused. Then after coughing several times, she licked her finger and turned the page and resumed reading: “The village Oshchima donated 62 forks, 35 spoons, 39 plates, 5 aprons, 8 pillows, 10 shirts, 3 sweaters, 3 pairs of underwear, 10 facecloths, 2 meters of fabric, 1 pair of pajamas, 4 woolen bedcovers and 2 empty sacks. The village Drenoveni donated 3 facecloths, 2 shirts, 5 pullovers, 1 pair of slippers, 2 frying pans, 4 chairs and 1 water bottle. In the village Tsrnovishta we collected 18 plates, 6 pairs of socks, 4 facecloths, 2 sweaters, 13 pillows, 9 cups, a bed, 1 woman’s dress and 1 chair… For our brave troops from the village D’mbeni we collected 15.5 oki (Turkish measuring unit heavier that a kilogram) of flat breads, 17 oki of granular pasta, 22 oki of beans, 38 oki of onions, 72 oki of potatoes, 164 oki of bread, 1.5 oki of pork lard and 12 pullovers and 30 pairs of socks. In the village Labanitsa the following voluntary donations were made for the Democratic Army of Greece (DAG): 65 oki of grain, 45 oki of potatoes, 23 oki of beans and 10 oki of lentils. The women from the village Lagen, 70 in total, donated their labour and cleared the road from Lagen to Bapchor to make the trip of our fighters easier. The women from Lagen also donated 700 oki of grain and 6,000 oki of potatoes. The people of Rudari donated 47 eggs, 1 oka of pork fat, 10 oki of flour, 43 oki of cheese, 1 oka of tobacco, 4 oki of onions and 1 lamb, for the people’s hospital… Vera paused her reading for a moment and said: “The assistance we received is not as good as last year’s, right? “Well, last year,” offered Sotiritsa, “we had more so we gave more…” “That’s true,” confirmed Vera with sudden vigour in her voice. “Ah, here is the photographer. Hey you, you, give me your revolver and the hat,” and after strapping the revolver around her waist and putting the hat on slightly crooked she said, “and you women, go to the side, over there, a little that way so that the mountain will be in full view. Now my friend Marika and I will have our picture taken… Like this?” she smiled and they all saw her gold tooth which she had acquired in Bitola a while back. “No, no, from this side,” she adjusted herself, turned her face, smiled, looked at the distant mountains from top to bottom, then looked at Vicho and Mali-Madi. Her golden tooth sparkled with her wide smile. “Hold it,” yelled the photographer, “look at the birdie here!” “Ah, that’s good, a picture for the history books… And you women be patient, be patient for a while longer. Freedom is on its way. A little bit longer and it will be here, before you…” There was silence. Everyone was quiet. “But what will freedom mean when everything is destroyed? My son is dead, my daughter is crippled, my home has been burned down, there is nothing left of our livestock, you took our sheep, goats and horse for the struggle, our fields have not been ploughed, the soil is poor and barren, everything you asked us, Vera, to give we gave for the sick, for the hospital, for the struggle.

I, as you can see, am now all alone here and can’t seem to distance myself from carrying logs… What use to me is this kind of freedom,” insisted the woman, “when everything is desolate?... You know that…” “And with whom,” another voice was heard from the other side, “with whom am I going to share this freedom here where it is desolate. Everything is empty and what kind of freedom will it be in this emptiness?” “My husband is locked up on some island…” another woman complained. “Why fret so much?” Vera yelled. “He is not the only one on the island! The islands are full of our people. They too we will free. Once we win up here at Vicho we will free them too, we will push our enemies out and force them back all the way to Athens. When that happens I will be the first to free your husband and sit him here on your lap… I will do that for you, I promise you… Only please don’t pause when you are carrying logs because that’s how you block progress… Do you understand me?” “I,” said Tina “have two girls who carry rifles. And you, I see, don’t even carry a pistol…” Stavrovitsa leaned towards Tina and whispered in her ear: “Don’t say that, she does carry a gun but as an ornament, for showing off…” “One of my daughters,” continued Tina, “is 19 years old and the other only 17…” “How is it Vera that they,” uttered Stavrovitsa “did not collect you like they collected our daughters?” “I am from High Command and people like me fight on different fronts. And this is the truth. Last year when the NOF (Peoples’ Liberation Front) and AFZH (Women’s Anti-Fascist Front) cadres were mobilized, Iannidis personally told me that there was no law for mobilizing women…” replied Vera. “You are saying there is no law? He told you that?” inquired Stavrovitsa. “That is exactly right.” said Vera. “And that is why you don’t have to carry a rifle?” Stavrovitsa again inquired. “Exactly like that,” replied Vera. “So with which law did you draft the two young ladies? One 19 and the other 17. Under which law?” inquired Tina loudly. “I told you there is no law for the women, I did not say there is no law for young ladies…” Vera replied angrily and changed the subject: “I want you to know that the entire assistance our people provide, they provide it for our victory. And victory, dear women, is not far…” At that moment a horse was heard neighing. Vera jumped to her toes and yelled out: “Get up! Get up! Look over there! Do you see the horse? It looks like a red horse, yes, red… It is running, it is running towards us! You see? It is running… That horse is carrying our victory! Victory, dear women, is coming; it is coming riding on a red horse… Look? It is coming towards us to give us the news that our enemy will never cross Vicho!” Just at that moment a man came out of a bunker on the opposite side of the hill and at the top of his voice began to yell: “Hey you down there, the commander’s horse is running towards you! Turn it back! Hey you over there! Turn it back because it is headed straight for the mine field!” Moments later there was a thundering sound and dirt flew up in the air. Vera went pale and tucked her head into her shoulders. The Unit Commander ordered them to collect the horse’s remains and take them to the kitchen. Vera did not stay for dinner. She left with her courier and stopped off at Zhelevo for the night. Then while spooning her diluted lentils into her mouth, on top of which she had broken up chunks of unsalted rye bread, she began to write: “I am in Zhelevo. Stop. I gave a speech at a popular rally close to the battle line front. Stop. In attendance were the women from the working brigade. Stop. I raised their fighting and revolutionary spirit with strong revolutionary words. Stop. I will rest a while now and afterwards I will head on to the designated place. Stop. I greet you with revolutionary greetings. Stop. Death to fascism – freedom to the people. Stop. All to arms – everything for victory. Stop. Vera. Stop.” She folded the page four times, gave it to the courier and said: “Tomorrow early in the morning take it to the designated place.

Understand?” The Great Lie – Chapter 14