Tweet
The Great Lie – Chapter 2 - Part 1
The Great Lie – Chapter 2 - Part 1
By Petre Nakovski
Translated and edited by Risto Stefov
[email protected]
August 2011
Two days before Mitrovden snow had fallen on Vicho and Malimadi, it was the first snow of the season. Georgi, huddled under an old English overcoat, entered the battalion commander’s cabin and without the customary military salute, asked: “Commander, can I go to my village? It is not too far and I will not take long. The day after tomorrow is Mitrovden.”
“Do you celebrate Mitrovden?” asked the Commander.
“I do celebrate it and I don’t celebrate it; I just want to go. My father’s name was Mitre, may God bless his soul, and it is customary for me to visit his grave and light a candle… it is an annual tradition for me… and to see…” replied Georgi.
The commander put down his cup of tea and gazed piercingly at Georgi. “Go,” he said rubbing his red eyes from insomnia. “Go if you want but don’t come back. You are too old for all this. Winter is coming and it will become very cold… this is not for you. Remain in your village and stay warm by your fireplace.”
“Thank you Major and be well,” said Georgi. “You are welcome and have a nice trip,” replied the Commander.
Georgi left the cabin and on his way greeted the courier who had just arrived from the valley below. On his way down he stepped over a trench and as he passed a bunker someone called out to him; “Georgi, have a good trip and when you return don’t forget to bring something to eat.” “And don’t forget to bring some rakia (alcoholic beverage) too,” shouted another person.
They all thought that he was going home and home was on everyone’s mind. But deep down he suspected that no one was alive at home and waiting for him.
Nevertheless he rejoiced at the idea that after almost a year in the mountains he was finally going home. Not knowing if his house was still intact or burned down, his thoughts were of a big fire burning in the fireplace while he lay down on his bedcovers, stretched in front of the burning fire, smoking his pipe, staring at the ceiling and enjoying a well deserved rest under his own roof.
Hopes of sleeping in came to mind and in the morning at the crack of dawn, as he always did, he would like to go out on his balcony to check the colour of the sky and from that determine what the weather would be like. After that he would like to look around the house and yard to see what needed fixing. Unfortunately, deep down he suspected that there was nothing left of his house and property. Only health, he said to himself, is what is important, the rest can be acquired again. As long as a person is alive and strives he can… Only health…
“Do not go straight! It is mined. Do you hear? Hey, turn back! The place is mined, I am talking to you!” a voice called out to him from one of the bunkers.
Georgi stopped. Deep in his thoughts he had not noticed the rows of barbed wire, but he knew that beyond there the place was mined. Yesterday when he came by with his donkey, bringing a load of water and ammunition, he had been told where to pass. Now he remembered being told.
A young man came out of the bunker, which had two gun holes covered with four rows of thick logs and boulders, and asked Georgi:
“Are you going straight for the mines? And what devil made you go this way? Follow me to the Commander. Move!” ordered the young man in a loud voice while pointing his Shmaizer (gun) at him.
“But I just came from the Commander’s cabin. I am going home…” replied Georgi.
“Don’t do that! Go see him! You are going home, visiting, how so?” asked the young man.
“Just like that, I spoke with the Commander and he let me go,” replied Georgi.
“Come now, I had no idea he was such a nice man and your friend too. Go see him and you will find out how nice he is,” said the young man.
“Hey Nikola what’s all the shouting? Why are you holding this man? Let him go on his way,” said another man from another bunker.
“Did you tell him where to pass?” enquired the young man sarcastically.
“I told you let the man go. He has permission,” replied the other man.
“You have permission?” the young man asked Georgi.
“Yes I do but not in writing,” replied Georgi.
“You are a prankster aren’t you? You went off this way and you have no permission! Now go back to the good Commander and he will show you a different way to pass. Tell him that there is a minefield this way. Go, but not this way,” ordered the young man.
Georgi turned back and followed the trench. Georgi was not a stubborn man and had no reason to storm into the Commander’s cabin to berate one of his fighters just because he had stopped him from entering a minefield. Also he had no reason to be angry with the young man for doing his job. It was his own fault that he took the wrong path because he was rushing so much. While deep in thought Georgi heard footsteps following behind him.
“Hey, hey,” he heard a voice calling. It was the voice of the young man with whom he had spoken earlier. “Stop, wait! You again! I see that you really got mad and went straight for the Commander, ha? Don’t worry, I will show you where to pass and avoid the mines. Do you have one to twist? I have paper,” said the young man as he pulled an entire newspaper out of his pocket, cut a piece and gave it to Georgi. He then cut another piece and again gave it to Georgi. Georgi pulled out a wallet from his pocket and said, “Open your palm, come on, come on open it.”
“Enough, enough! Look, it’s full, leave some for yourself,” said the young man.
“Give some to the others,” replied Georgi.
“Of course I will, I will give them their share. Now you go as far as that rock over there then turn right and go straight down. You say you are going home eh? Oh, mother!...” said the young man.
“What?” enquired Georgi.
“I too want to… It’s been two years since I left home…” said the young man.
“Where are you from,” enquired Georgi?
“The Island villages…” replied the young man.
After the two men shook hands and said their goodbyes Georgi went on his way following the young man’s direction and quickly began the descent to the valley below. He walked straight and did not follow the path and after some hours at a fast pace, arrived at the entrance to his village. The tall trees blocked his view. He walked around until he found a better place from where he could see the full view of “Sinadev Rid” (Sinadev Hill) and then he paused. He sighed and as he wiped the sweat off his face he pondered which way he should take; the road or straight through the fields? He decided to go through the fields, it was quicker as he was in a hurry to get to his destination before dark. Certain sadness came over him when he saw that the fields were not plowed, there wasn’t a single field plowed. He pressed on walking though the fields, walking over dry, unharvested stalks of wheat, crunching them under his feet and scaring flocks of birds into flight. There were seeds everywhere, swollen and sprouting. The field was trodden down and wheat heads were lying on the ground. Around the field the soil was black. Georgi remembered the black clouds of smoke rising from the ground. Yes, then in July, when the grain of bread ripened under the hot sun, the immature wheat was burned…
He took a turn to shorten his walk and cut through a grove of trees. When he came close to the hill he could see the entire village. There wasn’t a single house left intact in the upper neighbourhood, only wrecked black walls remained. So they burned the village, he thought to himself, as dark and sorrowful thoughts began to cross his mind. He spat a bitter spit. There was no one in sight and there was no movement anywhere at all. Out of breath he reached the first houses, paused, looked around and listened. There was only silence. Something broken cracked under his feet.
The only sign that there was any life at all in this village was the faint, sad cry of a cat.
“There is no one here…” said Georgi out loud, “Not even a dog,” as he approached the place where the door of his house once used to be. “The yard… destroyed…” The only living thing in the yard left standing was the pear tree and that too was damaged. The bark on the tree trunk had been singed and stripped off.
“Yes…” Georgi muttered, stretching out his words, feeling as if he had come out of the depths of darkness, replaying in his mind his life’s experience under the roof and in the yard of this house. “I was born here; I grew up here and after the Young Turk Uprising, together with my friend Kiro, I went to America. I left my young bride here and when I returned I found a mother with a young boy.” Georgi went to America again but this time for a short time. He could not do without the cries of children and without his beloved wife Georgevitsa and his sons Naum, Vane and Vasil. He returned home, together with Kiro in 1929, this time for good. With the money he earned in America he built a new home and now it was gone. “I hope Vasil is alive and well and he returns to me and we will build a larger house…” Georgi muttered to himself as he lost his train of thought, distracted by the debris in the yard. This was where the family and neighbours gathered for celebrations.
Mitrovden was a great celebration, not only because it was a holiday but because it was the birthday of this house… Many came to celebrate Petrovden, Voditsi and many other holidays in this great big beautiful yard, to get together and have a glorious time, to drink wine and rakia not from bottles but directly from the barrels and kegs which were stored in the middle of the yard. Spirits and wines were always plentiful and flowed like water. It was unheard of that the casks in this household would run dry. In this yard there was singing and dancing until the crack of dawn. And now, and now it was dead – desolate… There was nothing left of what once was life. Death lay over the village and reigned supreme this day before Mitrovden, seeming more like mrtovden (day of death)…
A flock of birds flew over Georgi’s head. He watched them as they flew beyond the elms. The sound of birds chirping was soon replaced by his awareness that it was getting dark. Cruel silence had slowly descended over the village but in Georgi’s ears there was an eerie unrecognizable buzzing sound, coming from afar, barely audible, dying down and rising again, like a strong gust of wind. The sound of a meowing cat broke Georgi’s trance. He stooped down and pet the cat. “You are now left alone… and you are hungry, huh?” muttered Georgi and then he picked up the cat. “And you too are devastated…” he remarked to the cat.
Georgi sat down leaning on the darkened old trunk of the pear tree, put the cat in his lap and opened his backpack. He pulled out a chunk of dark army bread and a can of meat. He broke a bit of bread and put it on the skirt of his overcoat. The cat sniffed the bread, gave it a tug and then turned and looked into Georgi’s eyes.
“You don’t like it eh? Army bread not good enough for you?” muttered Georgi and then he opened the can of meat and smudged some on the bread. The cat hungrily ate it directly from his palm. Georgi broke another piece of bread and with it wiped the inside of the meat can and gave it to the cat. A little later the cat returned to Georgi’s lap. At the moment this warm, soft and furry creature was the only sign of life around and now it was standing under his rugged and abrasive hands.
Sitting down motionless, slumped against the pear tree in the pale light of the full moon, Georgi stared at the four naked and darkened walls of his once beautiful house. He was too tired to think as his memories began to fade. He no longer had the strength and lacked the ability to comprehend the reality of what had happened here. What he already saw devastated him, shook him savagely and took away his reasoning abilities. Time passed slowly in the night, slowly stretching forever. A cold breeze blew from the direction of Mount Malimadi causing an overhanging piece of sheet metal, hanging from the scorched wall, to rattle. Georgi stood up and immediately began to break up the remaining fence that divided his stable stall from the yard. Stepping over a pile of stones he walked to where his fireplace once was. He could hear the wind howl as it passed through the half wrecked chimney, a howl that grew into a heavy wail, pleading in despair. A strong gust of wind blew and brought down loose particles and debris from the top of the scorched wall. The loose sheet metal rattled even harder, over and over again, hitting the wall and sending its metallic sound outwards, bringing back the echoes that bounced off the walls of the ruined, empty houses, echoes that vanished somewhere far in the outskirts of the village.
Georgi lit a fire. A dog’s muffled bark could be heard in the distance, the sound was carried by the wind from up above, from the direction of Sinadev Rid. Another creepy sound could be heard coming from the cemetery. “Klop-klop,” was the sound made by a night bird – the keeper of the cemetery.
It was foggy and very quiet as dawn broke the next morning. Georgi came out of the ruins and looked down at the village. The houses stood bare and roofless. The belfry of the church was ruined. The boulders over yonder were nestled in thick gray fog. Beyond, Gorusha and further to the right Aliavitsa, were very still, sleeping in the morning silence. Georgi felt cold and wanted to return to his fire to sit by its glowing coals when he noticed a thin string of gray smoke rising from the lower end of the village. He felt like yelling, crying out at the top of his lungs, to wake the place from its slumber… He tossed his backpack over his shoulder and left.
To the left and to the right of the pathway everything was in ruins. When he reached the crossroad he stopped and slowly turned his head, glancing down the road that led to the water fountains and gardens and then glanced the other way which led to the vineyards. From here it seemed like these roads spread out and vanished behind the hill.
The hill looked naked and washed over by the rain, the great oak stood mute, a witness to times past, with only three hacked up branches still standing and a trunk marred with dents of shrapnel… At the top of the highest branch there was a single leaf, the only presence of life left on this great old oak.
The early morning light of a clear day made the oak tree shimmer like it was made of gold, like the cloudless dawn, the warm afternoon and the blue evening sky had poured gold on it.
It was fall now and Georgi felt cold against the light breeze of the blowing wind, trembling like a handkerchief in the hand of a shy bride. Suddenly here and there he bent and straightened back and forth as though he was a scarf wrapped around the hand of an old person playing the “Bajrach”.
The wind howled in the great hollow seemingly expressing the land’s solitude and pain, expressing the uneasy secrets hidden over the centuries, and seemingly gasping from the torment of being torn up. The wind howled in quiet whispers – speaking of timeless memories and of bygone eras… The wind howled in the hollow, mixing sounds, sobbing and wailing, even screaming, then suddenly subsiding and feeling peaceful until it again repeated the cycle, and as long as it howled and wept, there was something there, there was sorrow… A big spider web quivered and shook in the wind and inside it a great big black spider quickly dashed around, then slowed down lurking; anxiously waiting for a victim…
The once great, bushy and dense oak crown – was now gone. Together with it the wide and thick shadow was gone, under which centuries of memories were threaded and had found rest. The great oak was now dead; stripped naked of its branches and leaves; hacked up and silent, it stood on top of the hill. Just for a moment a raven dove down and snapped its wings but flew off again beyond the hill, over there, between the rocks and the trees, where human bones had been washed and left to bleach…
Georgi spent a long time in front of the mangled oak tree looking up at its branches and down at the earth on which it grew and flourished. Until several months ago the great oak stood bushy and well, and now… Three branches and a trunk…
With an intense look Georgi observed the tree’s trunk and its three remaining branches feeling a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut as if someone had stuck a knife into him evoking a tortured memory reminiscent of something being savagely torn apart. A trunk and three branches; standing silent in endless pain and agony.
Georgi stood silent before the great oak. They stood together – two muted loners, each weighed down with years of burden and with the grief of emptiness in them. Georgi wiped a tear of sorrow as he shuffled his feet… He scratched, dug deeper for more memories… He glanced away from the bare tree trunk and forced his memory to restore the tree to its former beauty which, as recently as only a few months ago, had been alive and well. He took note of the voices of old men, their worries, joys, sorrows, despair and grief. And now the oak befriends grief, pain and solitude. Until recently it had befriended the joy of thousands of chirping birds and the laughter and sighs of young lovers.
People returning from the vineyards, from the fields, from harvesting grain, from the market, from weddings and celebrations, all came to rest under the shade of the great oak tree. Under the oak tree they enjoyed the aroma of cut grass in the meadows, of peppermint, of freshly baked bread and cheese and the sigh of beautiful maidens…
Just before sunset the birds, on their last flight of the day, rested on the branches of the great oak tree and in the morning sang in celebration and in joy of a new dawn, a daily ritual repeated for centuries. And now the devastation had left the great oak naked, stripped of its size and beauty with only three branches and a hollow trunk for the wind to spin and howl, with only itself as a companion. The three thick and twisted branches resisted the strong wind and weathered many storms. The rain rinsed and washed the dust from them that had been deposited there by the north and south winds. But now there was nothing that could rinse the great oak’s pain, the cry of the wounded turtle-dove, the brilliance of the sun, the wildness of the sunset, the sadness of the broken branches crackling and old and current anguish. Stuck to it, like moss were the silence and pain of the times.
Georgi knew and remembered from his childhood and younger days the many experiences that took place under the shadow of this great oak, for the sighs and joys which occurred under its crown were tangled with the rustling and dancing of its leaves in the wind. With the first melt of snow, its swollen buds signaled a warm spring and when the buds began to show a dark green colour and become firm, the leaves unwound, the mischievous cuckoo sang to the village as the first swallows began to cross the sky, then the oak tree began to create its shadow for the plowmen, the threshers, the gardeners, the grape growers….
No one knows the great oak’s age. And no one learned from their elders how many summers this great tree passed. It seems the years went by like flying birds and grew into centuries. Its trunk was as thick as twelve hands in a circle; its bark in places was cracked like the crust of freshly baked bread baked in the village oven. Everyone who passed by the great oak took a good look at it and shook their head, astonished by its majesty and beauty. The oak was born on top of the hill, beaten by the wind from all sides, with a view of Kostur valley and the blue of Lake Kostur. And the wind, again the wind, when it blew violently, lost its energy in the great oak’s thick body of leaves. And then the great oak turned the wind’s energy into a flutter of leaves, sounding like the buzzing of many bees. It seemed like the shaking from its branches poured a sigh of relief that forever sang about the heaven and earth which gave it birth, helped it grow and gave it its firm support. Around it and near it, all there, where its shadow lay and beyond it, not once had the soil been desecrated by foreign feet.
Near the great oak and here at the small church, not even the oldest cemetery had been left in peace. The evil burned it; the dead now shared the fate of the living… They too had been chased from their timeless resting places… And for them, for the cemetery, it had always been spoken quietly, as in a prayer which was spoken in secret, that here Samoil’s Warriors were forever at rest and only once a year the village church bell tolled for them in long and intermittent rings.
The bell tower unfortunately was wrecked by the new masters because they did not like it and considered it pagan and ugly. After their arrival the community became silent. The new masters were not content and made all kinds of threats, spying on people by listening to them from outside their homes, from outside their doors and then gathered them in the village square in order to silence them, to silence every moment of their lives with threats, making sure everyone felt the horror of the day, the uncertainty of the dawn, the nightly nightmares and at all times, to remain silent. Silence reigned supreme in each person individually and in the community as a whole. Daily and nightly prayer was left to the old – everyone kept silent and silence even became the habit of the young; be silent because even whispers can be heard, warnings were the only words spoken and remained in the thoughts of the people. Silence and fear darkened their minds, and silence created and reinforced obedience; even if one word, not in the language of their masters, was spoken, their honour was taken away.
But life had to go on and stealthily, avoiding alien eyes and ears, secretly by late night or before the crack of dawn, fleeting shadows, passing by the old unmarked tombstones, left boiled wheat, zelnik, mlechnik, pogacha (round loaf of bread), wine and a bottle of rakia, honouring those long gone …
Speechless, Georgi stared at the great oak tree, feeling its pain, listening to its cries; crying for the banished, for the mothers in pain shedding tears, for the children’s quiet sobs; giving the impression that it was in constant contact with the people who had been banished over and beyond the hills to unknown lands!? Georgi embraced the entire tree trunk with his stare and slowly, going backwards, began to walk away. He took the path leading downhill leaving the crippled old oak all alone. How much longer would this tree trunk, with its three mangled branches, be able to soak up the first rays of sun, take on the colour of gold in the fresh dawn or take on the colour of bronze? How many more times would the full moon rotate over the land and on clear nights gild its naked trunk? No one knows!
Georgi continued walking further down and stopped in front of the Zisovtsi house. It was ruined, there was nothing left of the roof and the walls were knocked down to the foundation. It looked like a cannon shell had hit the house square on. Why were there no black spots on the stones in the rubble? Georgi wondered and popped his head inside the broken door. There was a broken cradle in the yard. He thought it must have been left from the time the children [refugee children from the Greek Civil War] were taken away, out of the country. This was once a yard in which almost all the women in the village gathered together in the evening, and, sitting on a long wooden beam, hungry and thirsty, listened to the cooing and laughter of the one year old, first born in this house. They watched, listened and wept as they stared in the distance and only they knew by which hills and paths, by which creeks and mountains their thoughts wandered. Each woman wanted to touch, to stroke, to take in her arms, to embrace, to feel on her chest the little one’s hot breath. That was all they needed to pacify their thoughts, their pain, the sorrow and anguish that tore inside their chests. And after that they took to the hill and stared in the direction of Labanitsa, at the path between the fields, forests and rocks which their children took when they left… They stared in the distance, wiped tears with the corner of their black kerchiefs and, in their whimper, shook their heads. On the hill, near the great oak, they cried for their living offspring and after returning home, opened the trunks and chests and for a long time folded the clothing of their children, caressing them, showering them with their tears…
Georgi entered the yard, took the remnants of the cradle and put it inside the outdoor oven. What happened to the child he wondered? This question he could not get out of his mind. He stood there a while and then left the yard. It took him a while to notice that under his feet lay a soiled rag from a wedding gown. A little further lay a twisted and broken belt buckle. “Mitra,” Georgi muttered out loud – she was the last bride in the village. That was two years ago, there had been no other wedding in the village since. She brought the last child into the world in this place; she gave birth right here. And now the place was empty, desolate and who knows if anyone would ever build another house here. Would they build a fireplace and would a baby ever cry beside it?
A little to the side, close to the foundation, Georgi noticed a big hole. He went closer. That was the Zisoftsi hollow in which the family had hidden all their possessions. The chests were open. At the bottom there were torn and scattered clothes, broken glasses, plates, jugs… Just now it occurred to him to go and check the pit at his own house.
When he got there he noticed that the upper yard was also destroyed. The blackened walls of the burned house stood half demolished. He passed through the yard stepping on stones and rubble and entered the barn. The pit was open and empty. Quietly, slowly and with measured words he spat out the most disgusting profanity he knew… and then came out. From the place where the door used to be – down, in one of the last houses of the lower neighbourhood – he saw bluish smoke. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and went in that direction. Under his heavy military boots parts of broken cups and saucers crackled, his feet became tangled among torn clothes thrown all around the village streets; around him he saw remnants of saddles, pitchforks, sickles…
Georgi stopped in front of the Mitrevtsi house. He thought of Lina and Krsto Mitrevi. “They destroyed the man for nothing,” Georgi muttered. The memory of him was still fresh in his mind as he remembered the bitter feelings the villagers left. No one in the village wanted to speak about him for a long time. Krsto was one of the poorest persons in the village and in Georgi’s memory, besides poverty, there was nothing to remember except for the episode which made Georgi silent and feel sick.
It was February when, after a brief battle fought on the cliffs, Royal government troops came to the village. One unit stayed at Krsto’s house overnight. The next morning the government soldiers left and in the night a DAG (Democratic Army of Greece) Cheta (Company) arrived and spread itself around the houses. Just before midnight, the Cheta Commissar came to Krsto’s house and took Krsto to the DAG Commander, who at the time was lodging with Kuze.
“Is it true that last night you hosted and fed guests from the Royal army,” the Commissar demanded sternly?
Krsto adjusted his feet, tightened his grip on his hat with his bony fingers, looked at the Commissar and said: “The soldiers only stayed at my place, but ate the food they brought with them…”
“I asked you if you fed them or not,” demanded the Commissar?
“Yes I fed them, but with what,” replied Krsto?
“That’s what you say, but your friend Kuze here says that you fed them. Is that right Kuze or is that wrong?” demanded the Commissar.
Kuze adjusted himself, half coughed, looking at the corner and muttered: “I did not see if he fed them, but I heard that the soldiers were laughing, so I said, mother, if they are that happy, for sure Krsto fed them well…”
Unable to bear Krsto’s piercing stare in front of the Commissar, and especially in front of the Commander, Kuze got up and shouted: “Since the soldiers were so happy then you must have fed them!”
“Take him,” the Commissar firmly ordered.
They took Krsto to the church and there they beat him until dawn. Before sunrise they took him to the brook on the other side of the village and shot him dead. In the afternoon the villagers buried him.
Not much later tragedy befell the Krsto household again. Lina, Krsto’s wife, refused to send her children to the Eastern European Countries as part of the save the children program; so she kept them at home. After her husband’s episode her hatred for the Greek Partisans ate away at her and she wanted nothing to do with them. Unfortunately her attempt to save them from the Partisans landed them in a different kind of trouble. The tragic episode took place in the beginning of April when her children found an unexploded mortar shell and decided to play with it. The damn thing exploded and cut them to pieces.
This memory tortures Georgi, it tormented him last year while serving in the mountains of Gramos, where he dug trenches and bunkers, and it is tormenting him now. He crossed himself and went on. There is Sultana’s house. The villagers called her Sulta. She is the widow of a living husband with two children. They say her husband lost his mind and went crazy and does not want to return home. Sulta was left without a husband and very poor. She earned very little and was just barely able to survive. When the military occupied the village school and turned it into a barracks, Sulta worked for the soldiers, washed their dirty underwear in exchange for a small meal as payment. When the army left, the Partisans came and took Sulta to Breznitsa and there under a bridge they murdered her. Someone in the village whispered to the Commissar and told him that she was a traitor...
from email by r stefov
The Great Lie – Chapter 2 - Part 1
By Petre Nakovski
Translated and edited by Risto Stefov
[email protected]
August 2011
Two days before Mitrovden snow had fallen on Vicho and Malimadi, it was the first snow of the season. Georgi, huddled under an old English overcoat, entered the battalion commander’s cabin and without the customary military salute, asked: “Commander, can I go to my village? It is not too far and I will not take long. The day after tomorrow is Mitrovden.”
“Do you celebrate Mitrovden?” asked the Commander.
“I do celebrate it and I don’t celebrate it; I just want to go. My father’s name was Mitre, may God bless his soul, and it is customary for me to visit his grave and light a candle… it is an annual tradition for me… and to see…” replied Georgi.
The commander put down his cup of tea and gazed piercingly at Georgi. “Go,” he said rubbing his red eyes from insomnia. “Go if you want but don’t come back. You are too old for all this. Winter is coming and it will become very cold… this is not for you. Remain in your village and stay warm by your fireplace.”
“Thank you Major and be well,” said Georgi. “You are welcome and have a nice trip,” replied the Commander.
Georgi left the cabin and on his way greeted the courier who had just arrived from the valley below. On his way down he stepped over a trench and as he passed a bunker someone called out to him; “Georgi, have a good trip and when you return don’t forget to bring something to eat.” “And don’t forget to bring some rakia (alcoholic beverage) too,” shouted another person.
They all thought that he was going home and home was on everyone’s mind. But deep down he suspected that no one was alive at home and waiting for him.
Nevertheless he rejoiced at the idea that after almost a year in the mountains he was finally going home. Not knowing if his house was still intact or burned down, his thoughts were of a big fire burning in the fireplace while he lay down on his bedcovers, stretched in front of the burning fire, smoking his pipe, staring at the ceiling and enjoying a well deserved rest under his own roof.
Hopes of sleeping in came to mind and in the morning at the crack of dawn, as he always did, he would like to go out on his balcony to check the colour of the sky and from that determine what the weather would be like. After that he would like to look around the house and yard to see what needed fixing. Unfortunately, deep down he suspected that there was nothing left of his house and property. Only health, he said to himself, is what is important, the rest can be acquired again. As long as a person is alive and strives he can… Only health…
“Do not go straight! It is mined. Do you hear? Hey, turn back! The place is mined, I am talking to you!” a voice called out to him from one of the bunkers.
Georgi stopped. Deep in his thoughts he had not noticed the rows of barbed wire, but he knew that beyond there the place was mined. Yesterday when he came by with his donkey, bringing a load of water and ammunition, he had been told where to pass. Now he remembered being told.
A young man came out of the bunker, which had two gun holes covered with four rows of thick logs and boulders, and asked Georgi:
“Are you going straight for the mines? And what devil made you go this way? Follow me to the Commander. Move!” ordered the young man in a loud voice while pointing his Shmaizer (gun) at him.
“But I just came from the Commander’s cabin. I am going home…” replied Georgi.
“Don’t do that! Go see him! You are going home, visiting, how so?” asked the young man.
“Just like that, I spoke with the Commander and he let me go,” replied Georgi.
“Come now, I had no idea he was such a nice man and your friend too. Go see him and you will find out how nice he is,” said the young man.
“Hey Nikola what’s all the shouting? Why are you holding this man? Let him go on his way,” said another man from another bunker.
“Did you tell him where to pass?” enquired the young man sarcastically.
“I told you let the man go. He has permission,” replied the other man.
“You have permission?” the young man asked Georgi.
“Yes I do but not in writing,” replied Georgi.
“You are a prankster aren’t you? You went off this way and you have no permission! Now go back to the good Commander and he will show you a different way to pass. Tell him that there is a minefield this way. Go, but not this way,” ordered the young man.
Georgi turned back and followed the trench. Georgi was not a stubborn man and had no reason to storm into the Commander’s cabin to berate one of his fighters just because he had stopped him from entering a minefield. Also he had no reason to be angry with the young man for doing his job. It was his own fault that he took the wrong path because he was rushing so much. While deep in thought Georgi heard footsteps following behind him.
“Hey, hey,” he heard a voice calling. It was the voice of the young man with whom he had spoken earlier. “Stop, wait! You again! I see that you really got mad and went straight for the Commander, ha? Don’t worry, I will show you where to pass and avoid the mines. Do you have one to twist? I have paper,” said the young man as he pulled an entire newspaper out of his pocket, cut a piece and gave it to Georgi. He then cut another piece and again gave it to Georgi. Georgi pulled out a wallet from his pocket and said, “Open your palm, come on, come on open it.”
“Enough, enough! Look, it’s full, leave some for yourself,” said the young man.
“Give some to the others,” replied Georgi.
“Of course I will, I will give them their share. Now you go as far as that rock over there then turn right and go straight down. You say you are going home eh? Oh, mother!...” said the young man.
“What?” enquired Georgi.
“I too want to… It’s been two years since I left home…” said the young man.
“Where are you from,” enquired Georgi?
“The Island villages…” replied the young man.
After the two men shook hands and said their goodbyes Georgi went on his way following the young man’s direction and quickly began the descent to the valley below. He walked straight and did not follow the path and after some hours at a fast pace, arrived at the entrance to his village. The tall trees blocked his view. He walked around until he found a better place from where he could see the full view of “Sinadev Rid” (Sinadev Hill) and then he paused. He sighed and as he wiped the sweat off his face he pondered which way he should take; the road or straight through the fields? He decided to go through the fields, it was quicker as he was in a hurry to get to his destination before dark. Certain sadness came over him when he saw that the fields were not plowed, there wasn’t a single field plowed. He pressed on walking though the fields, walking over dry, unharvested stalks of wheat, crunching them under his feet and scaring flocks of birds into flight. There were seeds everywhere, swollen and sprouting. The field was trodden down and wheat heads were lying on the ground. Around the field the soil was black. Georgi remembered the black clouds of smoke rising from the ground. Yes, then in July, when the grain of bread ripened under the hot sun, the immature wheat was burned…
He took a turn to shorten his walk and cut through a grove of trees. When he came close to the hill he could see the entire village. There wasn’t a single house left intact in the upper neighbourhood, only wrecked black walls remained. So they burned the village, he thought to himself, as dark and sorrowful thoughts began to cross his mind. He spat a bitter spit. There was no one in sight and there was no movement anywhere at all. Out of breath he reached the first houses, paused, looked around and listened. There was only silence. Something broken cracked under his feet.
The only sign that there was any life at all in this village was the faint, sad cry of a cat.
“There is no one here…” said Georgi out loud, “Not even a dog,” as he approached the place where the door of his house once used to be. “The yard… destroyed…” The only living thing in the yard left standing was the pear tree and that too was damaged. The bark on the tree trunk had been singed and stripped off.
“Yes…” Georgi muttered, stretching out his words, feeling as if he had come out of the depths of darkness, replaying in his mind his life’s experience under the roof and in the yard of this house. “I was born here; I grew up here and after the Young Turk Uprising, together with my friend Kiro, I went to America. I left my young bride here and when I returned I found a mother with a young boy.” Georgi went to America again but this time for a short time. He could not do without the cries of children and without his beloved wife Georgevitsa and his sons Naum, Vane and Vasil. He returned home, together with Kiro in 1929, this time for good. With the money he earned in America he built a new home and now it was gone. “I hope Vasil is alive and well and he returns to me and we will build a larger house…” Georgi muttered to himself as he lost his train of thought, distracted by the debris in the yard. This was where the family and neighbours gathered for celebrations.
Mitrovden was a great celebration, not only because it was a holiday but because it was the birthday of this house… Many came to celebrate Petrovden, Voditsi and many other holidays in this great big beautiful yard, to get together and have a glorious time, to drink wine and rakia not from bottles but directly from the barrels and kegs which were stored in the middle of the yard. Spirits and wines were always plentiful and flowed like water. It was unheard of that the casks in this household would run dry. In this yard there was singing and dancing until the crack of dawn. And now, and now it was dead – desolate… There was nothing left of what once was life. Death lay over the village and reigned supreme this day before Mitrovden, seeming more like mrtovden (day of death)…
A flock of birds flew over Georgi’s head. He watched them as they flew beyond the elms. The sound of birds chirping was soon replaced by his awareness that it was getting dark. Cruel silence had slowly descended over the village but in Georgi’s ears there was an eerie unrecognizable buzzing sound, coming from afar, barely audible, dying down and rising again, like a strong gust of wind. The sound of a meowing cat broke Georgi’s trance. He stooped down and pet the cat. “You are now left alone… and you are hungry, huh?” muttered Georgi and then he picked up the cat. “And you too are devastated…” he remarked to the cat.
Georgi sat down leaning on the darkened old trunk of the pear tree, put the cat in his lap and opened his backpack. He pulled out a chunk of dark army bread and a can of meat. He broke a bit of bread and put it on the skirt of his overcoat. The cat sniffed the bread, gave it a tug and then turned and looked into Georgi’s eyes.
“You don’t like it eh? Army bread not good enough for you?” muttered Georgi and then he opened the can of meat and smudged some on the bread. The cat hungrily ate it directly from his palm. Georgi broke another piece of bread and with it wiped the inside of the meat can and gave it to the cat. A little later the cat returned to Georgi’s lap. At the moment this warm, soft and furry creature was the only sign of life around and now it was standing under his rugged and abrasive hands.
Sitting down motionless, slumped against the pear tree in the pale light of the full moon, Georgi stared at the four naked and darkened walls of his once beautiful house. He was too tired to think as his memories began to fade. He no longer had the strength and lacked the ability to comprehend the reality of what had happened here. What he already saw devastated him, shook him savagely and took away his reasoning abilities. Time passed slowly in the night, slowly stretching forever. A cold breeze blew from the direction of Mount Malimadi causing an overhanging piece of sheet metal, hanging from the scorched wall, to rattle. Georgi stood up and immediately began to break up the remaining fence that divided his stable stall from the yard. Stepping over a pile of stones he walked to where his fireplace once was. He could hear the wind howl as it passed through the half wrecked chimney, a howl that grew into a heavy wail, pleading in despair. A strong gust of wind blew and brought down loose particles and debris from the top of the scorched wall. The loose sheet metal rattled even harder, over and over again, hitting the wall and sending its metallic sound outwards, bringing back the echoes that bounced off the walls of the ruined, empty houses, echoes that vanished somewhere far in the outskirts of the village.
Georgi lit a fire. A dog’s muffled bark could be heard in the distance, the sound was carried by the wind from up above, from the direction of Sinadev Rid. Another creepy sound could be heard coming from the cemetery. “Klop-klop,” was the sound made by a night bird – the keeper of the cemetery.
It was foggy and very quiet as dawn broke the next morning. Georgi came out of the ruins and looked down at the village. The houses stood bare and roofless. The belfry of the church was ruined. The boulders over yonder were nestled in thick gray fog. Beyond, Gorusha and further to the right Aliavitsa, were very still, sleeping in the morning silence. Georgi felt cold and wanted to return to his fire to sit by its glowing coals when he noticed a thin string of gray smoke rising from the lower end of the village. He felt like yelling, crying out at the top of his lungs, to wake the place from its slumber… He tossed his backpack over his shoulder and left.
To the left and to the right of the pathway everything was in ruins. When he reached the crossroad he stopped and slowly turned his head, glancing down the road that led to the water fountains and gardens and then glanced the other way which led to the vineyards. From here it seemed like these roads spread out and vanished behind the hill.
The hill looked naked and washed over by the rain, the great oak stood mute, a witness to times past, with only three hacked up branches still standing and a trunk marred with dents of shrapnel… At the top of the highest branch there was a single leaf, the only presence of life left on this great old oak.
The early morning light of a clear day made the oak tree shimmer like it was made of gold, like the cloudless dawn, the warm afternoon and the blue evening sky had poured gold on it.
It was fall now and Georgi felt cold against the light breeze of the blowing wind, trembling like a handkerchief in the hand of a shy bride. Suddenly here and there he bent and straightened back and forth as though he was a scarf wrapped around the hand of an old person playing the “Bajrach”.
The wind howled in the great hollow seemingly expressing the land’s solitude and pain, expressing the uneasy secrets hidden over the centuries, and seemingly gasping from the torment of being torn up. The wind howled in quiet whispers – speaking of timeless memories and of bygone eras… The wind howled in the hollow, mixing sounds, sobbing and wailing, even screaming, then suddenly subsiding and feeling peaceful until it again repeated the cycle, and as long as it howled and wept, there was something there, there was sorrow… A big spider web quivered and shook in the wind and inside it a great big black spider quickly dashed around, then slowed down lurking; anxiously waiting for a victim…
The once great, bushy and dense oak crown – was now gone. Together with it the wide and thick shadow was gone, under which centuries of memories were threaded and had found rest. The great oak was now dead; stripped naked of its branches and leaves; hacked up and silent, it stood on top of the hill. Just for a moment a raven dove down and snapped its wings but flew off again beyond the hill, over there, between the rocks and the trees, where human bones had been washed and left to bleach…
Georgi spent a long time in front of the mangled oak tree looking up at its branches and down at the earth on which it grew and flourished. Until several months ago the great oak stood bushy and well, and now… Three branches and a trunk…
With an intense look Georgi observed the tree’s trunk and its three remaining branches feeling a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut as if someone had stuck a knife into him evoking a tortured memory reminiscent of something being savagely torn apart. A trunk and three branches; standing silent in endless pain and agony.
Georgi stood silent before the great oak. They stood together – two muted loners, each weighed down with years of burden and with the grief of emptiness in them. Georgi wiped a tear of sorrow as he shuffled his feet… He scratched, dug deeper for more memories… He glanced away from the bare tree trunk and forced his memory to restore the tree to its former beauty which, as recently as only a few months ago, had been alive and well. He took note of the voices of old men, their worries, joys, sorrows, despair and grief. And now the oak befriends grief, pain and solitude. Until recently it had befriended the joy of thousands of chirping birds and the laughter and sighs of young lovers.
People returning from the vineyards, from the fields, from harvesting grain, from the market, from weddings and celebrations, all came to rest under the shade of the great oak tree. Under the oak tree they enjoyed the aroma of cut grass in the meadows, of peppermint, of freshly baked bread and cheese and the sigh of beautiful maidens…
Just before sunset the birds, on their last flight of the day, rested on the branches of the great oak tree and in the morning sang in celebration and in joy of a new dawn, a daily ritual repeated for centuries. And now the devastation had left the great oak naked, stripped of its size and beauty with only three branches and a hollow trunk for the wind to spin and howl, with only itself as a companion. The three thick and twisted branches resisted the strong wind and weathered many storms. The rain rinsed and washed the dust from them that had been deposited there by the north and south winds. But now there was nothing that could rinse the great oak’s pain, the cry of the wounded turtle-dove, the brilliance of the sun, the wildness of the sunset, the sadness of the broken branches crackling and old and current anguish. Stuck to it, like moss were the silence and pain of the times.
Georgi knew and remembered from his childhood and younger days the many experiences that took place under the shadow of this great oak, for the sighs and joys which occurred under its crown were tangled with the rustling and dancing of its leaves in the wind. With the first melt of snow, its swollen buds signaled a warm spring and when the buds began to show a dark green colour and become firm, the leaves unwound, the mischievous cuckoo sang to the village as the first swallows began to cross the sky, then the oak tree began to create its shadow for the plowmen, the threshers, the gardeners, the grape growers….
No one knows the great oak’s age. And no one learned from their elders how many summers this great tree passed. It seems the years went by like flying birds and grew into centuries. Its trunk was as thick as twelve hands in a circle; its bark in places was cracked like the crust of freshly baked bread baked in the village oven. Everyone who passed by the great oak took a good look at it and shook their head, astonished by its majesty and beauty. The oak was born on top of the hill, beaten by the wind from all sides, with a view of Kostur valley and the blue of Lake Kostur. And the wind, again the wind, when it blew violently, lost its energy in the great oak’s thick body of leaves. And then the great oak turned the wind’s energy into a flutter of leaves, sounding like the buzzing of many bees. It seemed like the shaking from its branches poured a sigh of relief that forever sang about the heaven and earth which gave it birth, helped it grow and gave it its firm support. Around it and near it, all there, where its shadow lay and beyond it, not once had the soil been desecrated by foreign feet.
Near the great oak and here at the small church, not even the oldest cemetery had been left in peace. The evil burned it; the dead now shared the fate of the living… They too had been chased from their timeless resting places… And for them, for the cemetery, it had always been spoken quietly, as in a prayer which was spoken in secret, that here Samoil’s Warriors were forever at rest and only once a year the village church bell tolled for them in long and intermittent rings.
The bell tower unfortunately was wrecked by the new masters because they did not like it and considered it pagan and ugly. After their arrival the community became silent. The new masters were not content and made all kinds of threats, spying on people by listening to them from outside their homes, from outside their doors and then gathered them in the village square in order to silence them, to silence every moment of their lives with threats, making sure everyone felt the horror of the day, the uncertainty of the dawn, the nightly nightmares and at all times, to remain silent. Silence reigned supreme in each person individually and in the community as a whole. Daily and nightly prayer was left to the old – everyone kept silent and silence even became the habit of the young; be silent because even whispers can be heard, warnings were the only words spoken and remained in the thoughts of the people. Silence and fear darkened their minds, and silence created and reinforced obedience; even if one word, not in the language of their masters, was spoken, their honour was taken away.
But life had to go on and stealthily, avoiding alien eyes and ears, secretly by late night or before the crack of dawn, fleeting shadows, passing by the old unmarked tombstones, left boiled wheat, zelnik, mlechnik, pogacha (round loaf of bread), wine and a bottle of rakia, honouring those long gone …
Speechless, Georgi stared at the great oak tree, feeling its pain, listening to its cries; crying for the banished, for the mothers in pain shedding tears, for the children’s quiet sobs; giving the impression that it was in constant contact with the people who had been banished over and beyond the hills to unknown lands!? Georgi embraced the entire tree trunk with his stare and slowly, going backwards, began to walk away. He took the path leading downhill leaving the crippled old oak all alone. How much longer would this tree trunk, with its three mangled branches, be able to soak up the first rays of sun, take on the colour of gold in the fresh dawn or take on the colour of bronze? How many more times would the full moon rotate over the land and on clear nights gild its naked trunk? No one knows!
Georgi continued walking further down and stopped in front of the Zisovtsi house. It was ruined, there was nothing left of the roof and the walls were knocked down to the foundation. It looked like a cannon shell had hit the house square on. Why were there no black spots on the stones in the rubble? Georgi wondered and popped his head inside the broken door. There was a broken cradle in the yard. He thought it must have been left from the time the children [refugee children from the Greek Civil War] were taken away, out of the country. This was once a yard in which almost all the women in the village gathered together in the evening, and, sitting on a long wooden beam, hungry and thirsty, listened to the cooing and laughter of the one year old, first born in this house. They watched, listened and wept as they stared in the distance and only they knew by which hills and paths, by which creeks and mountains their thoughts wandered. Each woman wanted to touch, to stroke, to take in her arms, to embrace, to feel on her chest the little one’s hot breath. That was all they needed to pacify their thoughts, their pain, the sorrow and anguish that tore inside their chests. And after that they took to the hill and stared in the direction of Labanitsa, at the path between the fields, forests and rocks which their children took when they left… They stared in the distance, wiped tears with the corner of their black kerchiefs and, in their whimper, shook their heads. On the hill, near the great oak, they cried for their living offspring and after returning home, opened the trunks and chests and for a long time folded the clothing of their children, caressing them, showering them with their tears…
Georgi entered the yard, took the remnants of the cradle and put it inside the outdoor oven. What happened to the child he wondered? This question he could not get out of his mind. He stood there a while and then left the yard. It took him a while to notice that under his feet lay a soiled rag from a wedding gown. A little further lay a twisted and broken belt buckle. “Mitra,” Georgi muttered out loud – she was the last bride in the village. That was two years ago, there had been no other wedding in the village since. She brought the last child into the world in this place; she gave birth right here. And now the place was empty, desolate and who knows if anyone would ever build another house here. Would they build a fireplace and would a baby ever cry beside it?
A little to the side, close to the foundation, Georgi noticed a big hole. He went closer. That was the Zisoftsi hollow in which the family had hidden all their possessions. The chests were open. At the bottom there were torn and scattered clothes, broken glasses, plates, jugs… Just now it occurred to him to go and check the pit at his own house.
When he got there he noticed that the upper yard was also destroyed. The blackened walls of the burned house stood half demolished. He passed through the yard stepping on stones and rubble and entered the barn. The pit was open and empty. Quietly, slowly and with measured words he spat out the most disgusting profanity he knew… and then came out. From the place where the door used to be – down, in one of the last houses of the lower neighbourhood – he saw bluish smoke. He threw his backpack over his shoulder and went in that direction. Under his heavy military boots parts of broken cups and saucers crackled, his feet became tangled among torn clothes thrown all around the village streets; around him he saw remnants of saddles, pitchforks, sickles…
Georgi stopped in front of the Mitrevtsi house. He thought of Lina and Krsto Mitrevi. “They destroyed the man for nothing,” Georgi muttered. The memory of him was still fresh in his mind as he remembered the bitter feelings the villagers left. No one in the village wanted to speak about him for a long time. Krsto was one of the poorest persons in the village and in Georgi’s memory, besides poverty, there was nothing to remember except for the episode which made Georgi silent and feel sick.
It was February when, after a brief battle fought on the cliffs, Royal government troops came to the village. One unit stayed at Krsto’s house overnight. The next morning the government soldiers left and in the night a DAG (Democratic Army of Greece) Cheta (Company) arrived and spread itself around the houses. Just before midnight, the Cheta Commissar came to Krsto’s house and took Krsto to the DAG Commander, who at the time was lodging with Kuze.
“Is it true that last night you hosted and fed guests from the Royal army,” the Commissar demanded sternly?
Krsto adjusted his feet, tightened his grip on his hat with his bony fingers, looked at the Commissar and said: “The soldiers only stayed at my place, but ate the food they brought with them…”
“I asked you if you fed them or not,” demanded the Commissar?
“Yes I fed them, but with what,” replied Krsto?
“That’s what you say, but your friend Kuze here says that you fed them. Is that right Kuze or is that wrong?” demanded the Commissar.
Kuze adjusted himself, half coughed, looking at the corner and muttered: “I did not see if he fed them, but I heard that the soldiers were laughing, so I said, mother, if they are that happy, for sure Krsto fed them well…”
Unable to bear Krsto’s piercing stare in front of the Commissar, and especially in front of the Commander, Kuze got up and shouted: “Since the soldiers were so happy then you must have fed them!”
“Take him,” the Commissar firmly ordered.
They took Krsto to the church and there they beat him until dawn. Before sunrise they took him to the brook on the other side of the village and shot him dead. In the afternoon the villagers buried him.
Not much later tragedy befell the Krsto household again. Lina, Krsto’s wife, refused to send her children to the Eastern European Countries as part of the save the children program; so she kept them at home. After her husband’s episode her hatred for the Greek Partisans ate away at her and she wanted nothing to do with them. Unfortunately her attempt to save them from the Partisans landed them in a different kind of trouble. The tragic episode took place in the beginning of April when her children found an unexploded mortar shell and decided to play with it. The damn thing exploded and cut them to pieces.
This memory tortures Georgi, it tormented him last year while serving in the mountains of Gramos, where he dug trenches and bunkers, and it is tormenting him now. He crossed himself and went on. There is Sultana’s house. The villagers called her Sulta. She is the widow of a living husband with two children. They say her husband lost his mind and went crazy and does not want to return home. Sulta was left without a husband and very poor. She earned very little and was just barely able to survive. When the military occupied the village school and turned it into a barracks, Sulta worked for the soldiers, washed their dirty underwear in exchange for a small meal as payment. When the army left, the Partisans came and took Sulta to Breznitsa and there under a bridge they murdered her. Someone in the village whispered to the Commissar and told him that she was a traitor...
from email by r stefov
Comment