Front Matter - Part 02

Duro, the Gypsy musician from Osheni, with puffy cheeks like balls and with legs spread wide and firmly planted on the ground, raises up his clarinet, as if wanting his melody to fly, then kneels before the dancers and overtakes the voice of the young, singing maidens. The somewhat sad melody he plays is covered by the words: “for us to see your dresses,” and very tenderly laments and roars when the girls sing “for us to see your”… And exactly there the drum stops beating, and loudly beats again when the words “whose dress…” echoe through the mountains. – The drummer tilts his ear towards the drum, looks sideways at the young ladies, and beats the drum “doom-doom-doom”, skips and says: -“Taka –taka – taka – oh!” “Life was good then!” Georgi muttered softly. All conversation and commotion are interrupted. The crowd becomes silent when the “Levoto” (Left) or “Nevestinskoto” (Bridal) dance is danced. Dancing is an all day affair with only a small break before noon. Duro moves his fingers on the clarinet, his son Kiriak beats the drum quietly. The trumpeter blows a few squeaks “–ta-ta-ta” and then spits to the side. Kiro, holding his lit pipe in his left hand, and his wallet in his right, approaches Duro and whispers something in his ear. Duro moves his head up and down like a horse drinking water and then raises his eyebrows. This is the signal for the other musicians to get ready. Kiro raises his hand and yells out loud “Bajrecheno”, ordering his favourite dance. Nice and easy he takes his stride, as if testing the ground underneath to see if it can support his steps. Long and wide he looks at the houses over yonder – on the hill. Kiro pulls out a white handkerchief from his pocket and lightly waves it over his head, signaling for others to join the dance now. Following him is his wife Mara (Kirevitsa). After taking several steps, Kiro passes his handkerchief to Mara and steps out to the side. Mara now takes the lead, a step with her left foot – forward, and two steps on tiptoe, swaying her hips, lightly – playfully sliding her foot on the tender young, green grass, as if following the footsteps of a doe… She raises her head slightly, looking proud and dignified, as if wanting everyone to notice her – here I am, everyone look at me, pulls her right hand from her waist and puts it on her head, holds still for a moment and suddenly in a fast motion swings her handkerchief to the beat of the drum; she moves her arm, swings the white handkerchief and takes a step forward, moves her body, looks ahead in a long gaze and sways her hips. Kiro approaches Duro, removes his wallet from his pocket, opens it and searches through it looking for a large bill. He spits on the bill and glues it onto Duro’s forehead. Duro, who could not stop staring at Kiro’s wallet, feels the bill on his forehead, grabs his clarinet and plays a melody that can be heard as far away as Borovo, Telok, the boulders and the mounds… Mara, working on the third round of the circular line dance, turns, with her right hand grabs her friend’s right hand, and places her left hand on her friend’s shoulder, but not to rest, barely touching her as if wanting only to whisper something. Then moving forward one after the other, they both leap in step… Silence follows the clarinet, the trumpet takes over and the drum beats loudest as the drummer moves towards the dancers at the end of the line. Duro approaches Mara and from two, three steps away from her plays his trumpet at her legs. Mara breaks off, sways her hips and step by step – moves forward… Duro stops playing, but only for a moment… Young ladies join the dance, the older ones, wiping sweat from their foreheads, position themselves in a circle and sway their shoulders and hips to the rhythm of the dance. There is no fuss and no words are spoken, all eyes are glued to the young ladies. They in turn give it their all, because it is embarrassing for young ladies from Kostur Region not to know how to dance the “Bajracheto” dance well.

Not knowing how to dance the “Bajracheto” is akin to not knowing how to fetch water from the spring, to not knowing how to welcome guests, prepare the bedding in a room, make zelnik, mlechnic, oriznik, burek, poparnik or not to know how to knead and prepare bread… While the young ladies dance the “Bajracheto” by themselves, they become a mirror for many eyes to observe and a target for the bachelors. And as the dance grows – the youngest ladies join in, with Fana, who is well known for being the best dancer of the “Nevestinsko” dance, joining at the end of the line. The end of the line while dancing the “Bajracheto” dance in Kostur Region is always held by a good dancer and, in this case, that would be Fana. As for the head of the “Bajracheto”, there was but one in the entire village, and that would be Mara! Georgi shivered, uncrossed his arms and opened his eyes – the meadow was empty, desolate and devoid of people. Who knows, will this meadow ever return to its former glory?! “Good, times were good then…” Georgi muttered as he wiped a tear from his cheek… Usually at noon during such festivities people went indoors, visiting their friends and relatives but returned to the outdoors again later in the afternoon. For festive occasions the young ladies of Kostur Region, as was customary then, wore a special dress for the dance which was different from the dress worn for other activities as exemplified by the following song; “Donna has two dresses; One green, the other red. Green for dancing, Red for battle ...” Until last year, this was how people sang, danced and lived; then, last year the entire village was destroyed and people’s lives were shattered. The community’s destruction began with the military draft of all the young ladies, sent to Gramos to fight and be killed. Georgi met some of them there but they were not the same so it was easier for him to now remember them from better days through his memories here in the meadow, because in Gramos they were dressed in military uniforms, carried rifles or shmaizers and were often hungry, loaded with lice, wearing torn clothing, wounded and dead… His heart ached when he saw them like that. Georgi saw many wounds and many wounded people in the battlefield, he transported some himself, and it was always a young boy or a young girl. Many times he thought to himself visible wounds hurt but will heal, unfortunately it is the invisible wounds they have to worry about which also hurt and will hurt the longest. Georgi was overwhelmed with the pain of solitude at a place where only his memories of yesterday lived, -yesterday’s steps taken in this meadow… “Life was good then…good…” Georgi muttered as he looked in the direction of the desolate road leading to the lower neighbourhood. He turned slightly and gazed at the tall poplar trees standing supreme before the hill; unfortunately under them he could only see destruction. His eyes focused on what was once Kiro’s house. The balconies where he and Kiro sat, drinking the last drops of their coffee and discussing bygone days in America, were gone, destroyed. Georgi shook his head in sadness and moved on. He stopped in front of Labro Popovski’s house, of which he had even older memories. He remembered Labro as a peculiar person, somewhat detached from the others. He was well traveled, well read and a smart man. He understood things, knew how to explain them and made others think. He left the village in 1908 and returned in 1925. That was a long time ago. While away he joined Sandanski’s band of revolutionary freedom fighters and went to take down the Tsarigrad (Constantinople) Government. His name however was never mentioned in any of the publications or official stories. People came to believe that his life had ended somewhere in his travels which first took him to Bulgaria and then to Odessa, Russia, where he cried over Macedonia’s 1913 partition by Greece, Serbia and Bulgaria. Labro’s four daughters all got married and one after another left home, leaving Zoja, his wife all alone.

When he returned from Russia he was old and gray and within a week of his arrival he was arrested. There was a new regime in charge in his homeland now and it was worse than the one he remembered before leaving. A new person was elected in Kostur who wanted to have a word with Labro. After being taken to Kostur, Labro was interrogated and asked if he was a Russian or a Bulgarian spy and if he wanted the Greek part of Macedonia to be separated from Greece. Labro denied the charges that he was a spy but confirmed that for him there was only one Macedonia, a united Macedonia and that’s how he liked it. They beat him terribly again and again and then sent the government employee, who had summoned him, to inform the villagers to come and get him because he was in such bad shape. The villagers took him home all swollen and black and blue from the beatings. The entire village sat on pins and needles awaiting his fate; waiting for the church bell to toll his death. Some of the old women went to church and lit candles, praying to Mother Mary, praying to let Labro die at home in peace, not like the other men from this home who in the past had died either by the sword, dagger, or bullet. They lit candles praying that with Labro’s peaceful death at home the curse would be lifted, which had befallen this home for years. But Labro, one of the first men in the village to wear a moustache, recovered and during the Voditsi holiday invited all his friends with whom he served and fought against the Greek illegal bands, to join him in a celebration. The house was full of people and they all sang songs. Labro reminisced about old times, of hope for a better life, of the Ilinden days when gunpowder blackened, Ilinden flags flew and aspirations were resurrected. He then unearthed his old Maliher (rifle) which he had buried in 1905, went out to the balcony, fired several shots and shouted out loud “Long live Macedonia”. He showed that old, Greek-appointed village Mayor who he was. Sometime later the Gendarmes arrived and took Labro to Kostur. Nothing more was ever heard of him. Women prayed for him in secret under the church porch, offering God food and drink to save Labro’s soul. Georgi continued walking down the village trail and suddenly stopped in front of the ruins of what once was Pop Vasil’s house. What had happened here? What had happened to Pop Vasil? Georgi wondered to himself. He then remembered what people used to say. They said that when conflicts started up priests fled to Kostur and to Rupishta, where they were gathered together by the government army to be saved from the Communists. Had Pop Vasil gone with the army? Was he living in Kostur or in some other city where he was protected by the army? Puzzled, Georgi shook his head and smiled slightly remembering Pop Vasil’s deeds. Years ago the Dmbeni gendarmes came to the village to hunt down the boys and girls who had demonstrated in Kostur against the return of King Georgios. During the demonstrations they had sung Macedonian songs which made the Greeks very angry. Pop Vasil was first in line to defend them. He violently pushed the gendarme, out of the way, who stood guarding the front of the church where they were holding and beating the demonstrators. Visibly upset, with cross in hand, Pop Vasil entered the church and headed straight for Limneo, the tall and fat chief of the Dmbeni gendarme. Then in a loud voice Pop Vasil yelled out, “Limneo, leave my flock in peace. If there is a need for punishment, then I will punish them and I myself will be the one to contact Kostur about those who mean to do harm and who do not love the state!” Limneo laughed and shoved Pop Vasil to the side while slapping a young man standing close to him. “You see what happens? Don’t you dare speak to me in that tone of voice because here, I am the state, I am your God! You Understand?! Fuck your Mother Mary and your Jesus! Get out!” Limneo replied violently. It was hard for Pop Vasil to swallow the insults hurled at him so he left the church and, at a fast pace, went home, changed his clothes, took his mule and went to Kostur to complain to the Bishop.

The next day he returned and on his way home he met Lazo, a confirmed communist, who Pop Vasil knew was a communist even before the war had started. “Well, Father, did you beg for mercy from your Bishop and from the government?” Lazo mockingly enquired. “Mind your own business Lazo…” replied Pop Vasil in a tired and sad voice. “Lazo, all I know or don’t know, that much they have already figured out – but it is you I am concerned about. Knowing what you are, why have they not interrogated and beaten you? Until now they haven’t even asked what your name is. Why is that Lazo? Even stranger is the fact that the gendarmes have not said a single word to you, let alone slap and kick you around… Why aren’t you and the two or three others like you standing before Limneo’s rod? You lie to the young boys and girls, push them to go places and do things that are too dangerous for you and then you mock me? Think about it Lazo! Think about it, that is all I am going to say!” continued Pop Vasil and without looking at Lazo left for home. A few days later Limneo returned with his gendarmes, gathered all the villagers in front of the church and while standing on top of a large rock, with a threatening voice pointed at his hand and began to speak out loud: “With this hand I will pull out everyone’s tongue, if anyone tells me that someone has spoken in that abhorrent Slav language or what you call fucking Christ Macedonian!” He spoke long about what he was going to do to the villagers and with every second word he cursed Mary, mother of Jesus, the Holy Cross, and every father and mother in existence. That same evening Pop Vasil again crossed paths with him some distance from the church and signaled him to stop for a moment. “You sir, are you a believer?” Pop Vasil asked Limneo. “Yes, but so what?” Limneo replied. “In that case, listen to what I have to say. Do not dare swear in front of my flock, at Mary Mother of Jesus, God, the Holy Cross and… and I never want to see you enter this church again, do you understand you barbarian?!” Limneo raised his hand looking like he was going to strike the priest but instead came closer to him and through his teeth he hissed: “Papa Vasili, I hear, you speak with these people in their language. The Bishop will hear of this, Papa Vasili, mark my words!” Pop Vasil raised his cane and said: “Get lost you heathen! Get out of here!” The same night a couple of hoodlums broke into Pop Vasil’s house and in the dark of night attempted to shave off his beard. Fortunately they were no match for the old priest as he was stronger than they anticipated and managed to throw them off and call for help. The next morning everyone was talking about it. Kuze even took the opportunity to take a personal stab at Pop Vasil by telling him, “Well father, they did this to you because you went to visit the Bishop… And what exactly is wrong with that? If you must know then know this; if they didn’t shave you, we the communists will Papa Vasili, ha, ha, ha, he, he, he!” “Poor Pop Vasil on whose side was he anyway?” Georgi asked himself. Georgi continued his trek down the path and stopped in front of Kuze’s house. For some reason the villagers called him Lenka’s Kuze. They even knew him down at the Kostur market as Lenka’s Kuze. People knew him for many things but he was famous for one. In the fall of 1936, Lenka’s Kuze returned to the village from Thessaly where he had worked as a hired hand for four years. He was dressed in a dark suit with white stripes, wore fancy shoes and was well shaven. His hair was parted in the centre of his head and he looked like a Count all puffed up, as the old used to say, and carried himself like a nobleman. When he was greeted by the people he greeted them back with his two fingers. Passing by the village manure heaps, to avoid the stench, he covered his nose and mouth with his palm. With the money he earned Kuze repaired his leaking roof and bought a pair of healthy oxen and an iron ralo (plow) with a wheel.

He then invited Pop Vasil to bless them and, like all other good providers, he went to work plowing his fields. Kuze was well aware that the authorities had banned the Macedonian language which is why he spoke to his oxen in Greek. Those passing by his fields would hear him yelling at the oxen “Pano Gaito. Kato Balio”! (Up Gaito. Down Balio)! Unfortunately Gaito and Balio stood there dozing, waving their tails and shaking their ears. Kuze, frustrated, kept yelling and poked the oxen with his poker, but all the oxen did was kick and jab one another. Kuze stood behind them then ran in front of them showed the oxen where up, down and forward were as he spoke to them in Greek. Unfortunately Balio and Gaito still stood there motionless, dozing away. Kuze became even more frustrated and spit on the inside part of his hands, then with his right hand he grabbed the handle of the ralo and with his left the cow poker. He stung the oxen lightly and yelled at them loud in Macedonian: “Go Balio, go Gaito, go my dear, go like that, oh – oh – oh!” The oxen finally began to move. “Down Gaito, this way up, up Balio don’t drag down, you bandits!” After tilling about half the length of a furrow he again switched his commands to Greek “Up, down” and every day he became less confident in the eyes of the villagers. When other plowmen or shepherds passed by his field, they would stop for a moment and greet him with the words: “Good luck plowman… and teacher!” mocking him for his effort to teach the oxen Greek commands. Unfortunately his efforts did not go unnoticed by the Greek authorities who nabbed him and took him to the police station, even though he attempted to teach his oxen commands in Greek by using Macedonian examples. First they fined him for speaking the forbidden language and gave him a receipt. Kuze had no problem paying the fine but as he got ready to go home, they called him back again and asked him to go and see the superintendent. The Superintendent unfortunately was not satisfied with just issuing Kuze the fine and wanted to teach him a lesson he would never forget. He ordered Kuze to drink seventy-five grams of castor oil and eat three salted herrings; both of which incidentally always happened to be on hand, available at all police stations. Kuze had much respect for the government and had no objection to being punished twice for the same crime so he did what he was told. Then before leaving, the superintendent had his hands tied behind his back and hung a sign on his neck that said: “This will happen to all who do not speak Greek.” Kuze was unable to make it home. They found him lying flat, face down, outside of the village. He was filthy and had soiled himself. He was so ashamed. When they brought him home Lena had to wash him. She dumped all the water from her earthenware jugs in order to clean him; water she had to fetch from the village spring. After that episode Kuze was nicknamed “Kuze the lizard” because he had crawled his way to where they found him. And since then Kuze swore revenge. Such outrageous and cowardly acts must not go unpunished, he promised himself. It was time for pay back! But how? Then Lazo came to his aid and filled his head with various ideas which led him and Lenka to become members of the Communist Party. The poor and less intelligent people in his village told Kuze that “in some great country called Russia a proletarian revolution had taken place some years ago and communism ruled there, a political system in which people lived free, had whatever their hearts desired, worked very little and gained a lot and everyone was equal, there were no rich or poor and that if he joined the proletarian struggle, then here in the village and in all other villages and cities the violence, poverty, and most importantly the castor oil and salted herring, would all disappear, and those who did him harm, would be punished severely”. All these things they told Kuze he somehow found hard to believe, but for him the most important thing was to take revenge against those who forced him to drink castor oil and eat salted herring.

Kuze dreamed of the day when justice would be served. Deep inside him simmered the need for revenge and he wanted to avenge himself. Going from ruin to ruin Georgi left one yard and entered another remembering the people who had lived there and stringing his memories of them like beads on a string, only now noticing that the day was coming to an end. The sky and the mountains were changing colour and turning velvet purple. Suddenly the wind blew from Devolsko valley shaking the leaves on the old poplar tree. A flock of cawing ravens flew by in low flight and vanished beyond the hill. Georgi passed two more blocks noticing that here too the houses were in ruins. He could smell smoke so he followed the scent. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something. It was a person. The person slowly came out of the house, took a step outside, threw something out and then went back inside. Georgi went closer, placed his hand on his forehead and looked through the window. Inside, in front of the fireplace, with her back turned to him was an old lady kneeling and blowing on the fire. He looked up and noticed there was an icon of the Virgin Mary in the corner of the room. In front of it flickered a small flame from an oil lamp. Suddenly the fireplace lit up and the flames lit the entire room. The old women, leaning with her fingers on the floor, slowly got up and turned to the icon. Georgi now recognized her. It was Zoia, Labrovitsa. His heart pumped fast, Georgi knocked on the window. She did not hear him. He knocked again, this time she stopped and listened for a moment. Georgi knocked a third time and finally got her attention. She came to the door, pulled the door stop and without asking who it was, opened the door. Georgi nervously stood up straight and quietly greeted her: “Greetings Labrovitse…” “Welcome… who are you?” she asked as she continued to stare at him. “I am Georgi…” he replied. “Iorgi?” she asked. “Which Iorgi?” she repeated as she came closer and, in the dim light emanating from the fireplace, looked at his aged face. “Iorgi… Are you Iorgi from the Petkovtsi family?” she asked as she recognized him more by his voice and less by his looks. “Yes that is me, Labrovitse,” Georgi replied. “Ah, Iorgi…” replied the old lady with a long drawn out, melodious and surprised voice. “Where did you come from and how did you find yourself here Iorgi? I heard you were dead Iorgi… But now I can see that you are alive! The villagers, they all believed you were killed…” the old lady spoke excitedly and crossed herself several times all the while refraining from crying. “Turn around so I can see you… Thank God you are alive!” continued the old lady. “Well, here I am and as you can see Labrovitse I am still alive,” replied Georgi. “Come in, come in, where are my manners? Good to see you Iorgi. Sit there in the corner, beside the fire… It is cold out here. It is warm inside. Sit, sit. Iorgi…” insisted the old lady. Georgi took his backpack off his shoulder and set it aside. He sat down on the floor with his legs crossed and with his open hands he reached out towards the fire. “Hey Iorgi, where were you? We’ve not heard a word about you since you left here. People were asking what happened to Iorgi? What happened to him, but no one knew…” the old lady explained as she walked towards the earthenware water jug, took a sip of water and passed it on to Georgi. “Welcome, good to see you Iorgi,” she continued. “I am happy to be here and may God give you good health Labrovitse. Thank you…” replied Georgi and then drank some water from the jug. Then, while the old lady went to look in the old chest, Georgi untied his backpack, pulled out a can of meat and began to open it. When the old lady saw what he was doing she immediately told him not to open it. “Please Iorgi you don’t need to do that, save it for yourself, for later. I have food… I have bread, wheat, cheese and I still have the beehives… This evening we will eat what I have, what God has provided for us, please leave the can for yourself, you will need it later,” she insisted.

“Let me ask you Iorgi, are you back for good or are you just passing through?” the old lady wanted to know. Georgi lifted his eyes, briefly looked at her and said “I came, Labrovitse to light a candle at the cemetery… And after that…” “Are you going back again? You are too old for the mountains, Iorgi, you are too old…” interrupted the old lady as she took the lid off the little kettle in which she was boiling wheat. “Tomorrow we will go to the cemetery… Today I baked a large loaf of bread and I will get some wine,” the old lady said hurriedly. “And as is our tradition, on Mitrovden we will bring young wine to the cemetery…” continued the old lady. “The vineyards, Iorgi, this year had a bumper crop, but the grapes were left unpicked and remained on the vines. There was no one to pick them. Lazo and Lenka’s Kuze told the people to leave, urging ‘people please leave the village, the soldiers will capture and kill us, they will skin us all alive’. Then all the people left, they fled to Albania and so far no one has returned. Only Pandovti’s dog returned. She came back for her pups. Unfortunately one of the soldiers killed them and now she is up on Sinadev Rid hauling day and night. A victim of circumstances… the dog raises its muzzle and hauls, hauls, crying day and night, she is crying, crying for her pups, for her own pain and for the pain of her masters…” the old lady said as she trailed off. They ate dinner in silence. The loaf of rye bread with its thick crust was still warm as the old lady held it in her lap and broke pieces with her shaky old hands. The wheat was boiling in the small pot. Sparks flew out of the fireplace. The flames hugged the burning green oak logs extending upwards, licking the bottom of the boiling pot then slowly shrinking, trembling and turning bluish, eventually returning to the glowing coals. Born of the coals the flames turned pale and retracted to the coals. Once in a while a small flame would spring to life, tremble and disappear again… The flames in the fireplace trembled like the small flame in the oil lamp that burned in front of the smoke darkened icon of the Virgin Mary on the wall, creating shadowy images of the long gone buried elders. The wind began to blow outside causing loose metal debris to shake and rattle. It hit the smoke darkened walls in waves shaking off loose grit and carrying it away in swirls. As its intensity grew, it sped through the wall cavities making strange sounds, muddying the silence. Further yonder it swept through the trees caressing them as it touched them, twirling and displacing their leaves, dropping some in the yards of the smoke filled ruins and taking the rest far away beyond the village… The flames in the fireplace suddenly lifted and lit the room and Georgi’s face. It was not until then that the old lady truly noticed Georgi’s gray hair and how much he had aged. Sitting in front of her she saw a person, an old man with a cruel, wrinkled and bony face, carved by worries, tired and baked by the sun and by the mountain winds. “And the people, Iorgi,” spoke the old lady as she tied the broken string “have disappeared, they have been chased away, the village has been burned down… they burned it, may the fires burn them… its soul has been destroyed… Not a living soul has been left… They took the people and destroyed them… Kiro’s Mara was shot in the head by a bullet. Kiro went home to pick up something and evil found him there. He never returned. He was burned alive… Only I, wretched me, remained alive to look after the village and to gather the burned bones from the dead. The army (Greek Royalists) passed through, and after them came the Madzhiri (Christian settlers from Asia Minor). They pillaged the entire village. They took everything, everything… They fought among themselves over saddles, over hoes, over pitchforks and shovels… What they did not like, they tore up, broke, or burned down…” Georgi kept silent. He felt sick, her words weighed on him, they were painful and deafening.

He looked everywhere to find relief. He looked at the bread, then looked at the lit fireplace and then tried to imagine the good times. He tried hard to dig out memories from his childhood recollecting the past and what he had learned from his elders, old knowledge passed on by word of mouth from generation to generation. He strung his memories like pearls on a string. Old memories from his great grandfathers swirled in the yard and flowed out through the door and onto the narrow village street then to the meadows and fields, the valleys and forests, crossing the rural highways carrying themselves over the hills, as if looking for holidays, for happiness and joy, for songs and dances in the long winter night get-togethers, in the playground of Gjurgevden, in the green wreaths and flowers of Easter, in the harvesting and grape picking days, in festivals, weddings and baptisms, in the tears of the young and the newborn, in the skies of the long starry nights, in the waiting and anticipation… Georgi took a puff of tobacco from his pipe, releasing thick smoke while rolling his shut eyes and moving his head side to side first right then left. He looked like he was experiencing pleasant and tormenting emotions brought on by memories of pain and pleasure. The pain from this war was unfortunately too powerful to shake, a war which had brought devastation and madness… But for now, at this very moment, it was warm, quiet and peaceful under this small, battered shelter where only memories lived, slipped in and out and changed from one thing to another like many pearls strung on a long silk string, threaded by a loom, which for centuries has woven life without pause … Georgi, with every ounce of strength in his body, refused to believe that the thread had somehow been broken, that the loom no longer worked, that the spring had dried up and that the streams had gone dry. Then in the corner, in the place where the icon was, a spider wove its web and over the village a raven crowd foretelling its fate. It hurts to know, it hurts even more and his heart aches to imagine the narrow village cobblestone blanketed with ash and debris from the ruins, a village laid waste – it is even harder to accept that when the new sun sets no human will be left to set foot in this place… When Georgi awoke it was day outside. The old lady quietly opened the door and entered holding an earthenware jug filled with young wine. They only exchanged a few words, to let each other know that they were here and that it was Mitrovden and that they needed to go to the cemetery. They left the house. The old lady held the basket under her arm filled with boiled wheat, pieces of cut bread and several apples. Georgi, looking at the jug said, “This may be an overstatement Labrovitse, but will that be enough wine?” “I don’t have anything else to put it in,” the old lady answered shyly. Georgi looked around. He remembered that yesterday, at the far end of the old cemetery he had seen a discarded kettle. He went and found it, it was twisted and riddled with holes. Further over he saw a helmet. He picked it up, shook the dirt from it and looked through it at the sun. There were no holes. He put in under his arm and hurriedly went to the water spigot. He rubbed the helmet with sand and then rinsed it with water. “Labrovitse, can we put some wine in here?” enquired Georgi. “If you want…” said the old lady and they both returned to get some more wine. They walked back to the cemetery in silence. Georgi held the full helmet with both hands and slowly, step by step, walked closely behind the old lady, being very careful not to spill a drop. “There,” said the old lady motioning with her head “behind the place called Pretselo, in the grove, are the unburied young men and women. During the harvest, when they left Gramos they left their dead and wounded behind… Whoever could, even by dragging themselves along the ground, left for Labanitsa, and whoever couldn’t – was left there. In the night their cries and screams, begging for help, could be heard all the way here…

I went there, I brought them bread and water. People came from Prespa and collected the wounded. The dead were left unburied… They were all young men and women.” They arrived at the cemetery. The old lady undid her black scarf and knelt on the ground. She cried quietly as if praying. With a sob in her voice she asked Georgi, “From where are we going to start?” “We will give everyone a little bit,” murmured Georgi. They went from grave to grave and on the nameless crosses they lit candles. The old lady left a handful of boiled wheat and a piece of bread while Georgi poured some wine. “This is Yane’s grave…” indicated the old lady. Georgi poured some wine. “Yane’s grave has caved in and is full of acorns…” said the old lady as she crossed herself. A gust of wind blew from the direction of Mount Malimadi and ruffled Georgi’s gray hair. Georgi looked up noticing that the oak trees were dropping their acorns and the poplars were losing their leaves to the wind. The hillside was littered with leaves and a flock of ravens circled. Georgi and the old lady came to Mitre’s grave. Mitre was Georgi’s father. It was flattened to the ground and covered with grass. Beside it was a pile of soil which Georgi had brought from the place where his son Vane was killed. Georgi squeezed the last drops of wine from the helmet on top of the two graves and left the helmet on the rotting wooden cross to remind those passing by that people would live as long as there were people to remember them. He crossed himself, knelt down, put his hands in front of his face and began a long prayer... The day was almost over. There was not a sound or rustle coming from the village. It was all quiet and silence reigned supreme. Only anguish scratched, dug and yelled – “Don’t you know that all this will be covered in silence and this part of your world will be known as the land of silence?” A sudden strong untamable pain gripped Georgi’s throat, squeezing him from the inside, tearing at his chest, and spinning, scratching, straining and digging under his ribs, tightening his heart, twisting and distorting his face, clawing at his whole being. Relentlessly and like never before tears flooded his eyes… Gray clouds hung over the sky and covered the boulders by the hill. Wind blew from the direction of Mount Malimadi. Silence followed only to be broken by the quiet rustle of dried autumn leaves, a rustle made by the gentle fall of little snowflakes. In no time the hills beyond were white with snow and on Georgi’s lips surfaced the dry question, “Who did all this to us and why?”! The Great Lie – Chapter 3