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Copyright Victor Sinadinoski 2014

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Lions and Wolves

Three Short Stories










Victor Sinadinoski











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Welcome to Macedonia, and enjoy your stay.


























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Im Macedonian

The villages remaining patriots with their hands in
the air and chunks of their flesh rotting in the grass behind
them followed their captors, who smirked in unison
whenever the villagers spattered blood or tissue from an
unlikely opening. Contrary to the shaven and fat faces of the
Bulgarian soldiers, the famished Macedonian faces carried
ancient beards harboring mud, flies, shrapnel, blood, bone and
everything else beards absorb when grenades detonate near
ones feet. The Bulgarians, with their snow-white and cocoa
eyes, gawked at their prisoners; the Macedonians, with blood
and debris concealing their eyes, struggled to glimpse ahead.
The Bulgarians uniforms were clean and orderly, their boots
black and shiny. The Macedonians slacks were dirty and
shredded, their feet mostly toeless and contorted. The
Bulgarians reeked of brandy and tobacco; the Macedonians
stunk of sweat and vomit.
The soldiers chuckled at their captives groans as they
hurled salt on their wounds and smacked the exposed tissue on
their arms with the butts of their rifles whenever their elbows
sagged below their heads. They continued marching Pavle and
his comrades, each step zipping pain up their backs through
their exposed nerve endings, further from their village and
toward an assortment of military apparatuses atop Saint
Georgija Hill.
The hill, a steep clamber that boasted vast views of
Pavles village and Lake Prespa behind it, once housed Saint
Georgija Monastery. Had Pavle been born before a patrol of
drunken Turks charred it to the ground, the exterior of the
monastery would have not looked much different to him than a
typical Macedonian house, with stick pillars supporting a
wooden roof that sheltered an amalgamation of mud and stone.
Inside, though, the peaceful candlelight that illuminated the
array of colorful icons, which had bore mysterious saints and
angels floating across the room to meet their savior at the altar,

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would have captivated even the most stubborn of
nonbelievers.
But now a small Bulgarian camp, celebrating a ruthless
subjugation, trampled over the ruins of a Byzantine marvel, a
medieval site to which destitute villagers had ventured
annually in order to reclaim the hope and faith that Turks,
looters and winter had purloined from them. An outsider
would have been baffled by the procession of elderly
Macedonian women leading an entire village up a
mountainside to pray, feast and dance around mere rubbles of
rocks. To these peasants, however, the tradition arose out of
respect for their ancestors and from an inability to rebuild the
monastery under the vigilant scope of the Turkish pashas.
Yet, Pavles escorts today were rather insolent boys
driving him toward their murderous leaders, who were
clutching onto, and surrounded by, mounds of metal weaponry
the likes of which he had only heard about from defeated
Macedonian rebels limping through the village roads. But as
marred as Pavle appeared, and as dejected as the hilltop sights
made him, he embraced the company of the distorted figures
joining him on this doomed path.
To his right was Dimitri. The youngest of the four
captives, Dimitri came to Pavles village with a band of gypsies
who eventually abandoned him in Blagojces pig sty. That
happened some months after Dimitris parents donated him
(along with many valuable possessions) to the gypsies in order
to save him from a retaliatory Turkish attack on Macedonian
boys in a village outside Solun, which occurred quickly after a
Macedonian rebel murdered both of a pashas sons. Blagojce
adopted the orphan and named him after the son he had lost in
a failed Macedonian uprising during the 1870s. Today, Dimitri
was two less fingers than he began the day with, which
amounts to three less than he was born with; but considering
the circumstances, he was grateful for being in possession of
both eyes.
The other villager with both eyes was Pavle himself,
who stood to the right of Dimitri. Pavle and Dimitri were the
furthest away from the volley of grenades and ensuing spray of

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bullets, which helps explain the absence of severe mutilation
compared to the men on their left. Still, the bullet in his thigh,
the gash across his forehead, the wooden fragments in his
stomach, and the bone protruding from his left forearm were
not particularly pleasant ailments. But Pavle was from the sort
of breed that could withstand the most agonizing pain and
survive the most certain way to die, while succumbing to the
most peculiar of harms. His father walked away from a forty-
foot drop off a cliff; but choked to death on the tiniest portion
of bread. His grandfather survived two bullets to the back; but
succumbed to the stinger of a bee lodged in his throat. Pavle
kept these memories afloat as the Bulgars guns guided him to
the top of the hill.
To the left of Dimitri was Ace, whose missing eye was
being tossed about amongst the cruelest of the Bulgars as if it
was a coin. Had he been any less courageous, Ace would not be
hobbling in rhythm with Pavle, as the dagger jutting through
his calf and the tissue drooping from his cheekbones must have
not been the most agreeable of sensations. Yet, Ace requested
more pain by continuing to mutter obscenities at the
Bulgarians even though they plowed knives into a different
body part with every new account of a soldiers sister he
claimed to have fucked.
Lastly there was Tome, who struggled to keep up with
the rest, and only budged forward when the soldiers swords
poked pores into his back. Tomes left ear was clasped between
his teeth, as that is where the Bulgars found it to be most
amusing; and the right side of his scalp served as a trophy
mounted on one soldiers rifle. Pavle questioned whether or
not Tome was conscious; then again, Tome drank so much
brandy that Pavle doubted he had ever been conscious.
So, with dozens of pistols, rifles, swords, and knives
surrounding them, the Macedonians pushed upward, through
the dirt and grass that blanketed Saint Georgija Hill. The
unwelcoming sounds from their village below faded out with
each stride toward the top. The screaming children, the
frequent bursts of gunfire, the snickering Hyenas they were
all drowned out by Pavles thoughts, which seemed to change

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with each new plume of smoke that drifted over his head and
crashed into the Bulgarian camp at the top.
Every attempt to focus on his present condition tied him
to his past. The saltiness of the blood dripping from his lips
reminded him of his wifes vegetable stew, which she would
pour for him first, or only for him if one bowl was all she could
manage, even if it meant she would only eat bread that night.
The game of catch being played with Aces eye reminded him of
his sons skipping pebbles on the lake. The camp that was now
only a grenade-toss away reminded him of everything that was
antithetical to his village, everything that stood against peace,
quiet, love and honor. And the smell of decomposing humans
reminded him of everything for which he had fought and killed
the freedom and liberty he had only once ever tasted.
Pavles thoughts dissipated when the soldiers halted the
march a few meters from the Bulgarian display of tents, horses,
canons and other military equipment. A commander from the
hilltop hurried down, exchanged some words with two of the
soldiers, who then turned around and ordered their comrades
to stay put. The commander marched back toward his tent
while the two soldiers sprinted down the hill. Five minutes of
waiting turned into ten minutes of chatter, which then turned
into fifteen minutes of bored soldiers flinging curses and muck
at the Macedonians. The insults eventually subsided and
another fifteen minutes of nervousness elapsed. Pavle could
not recall whether such tactics were common antics within the
Bulgarian army, and he pondered whether the soldiers were
fetching medics or summoning torture experts.
The soldiers in front of Pavle stiffened and quieted as
they glanced over his shoulders. Someone was coming
somebody important. Pavle heard the heavy pounding of boots
trekking behind him, eventually slowing down until three
bodies came around the line from his right, stomping to a halt
in front of the captives. Two of the men were the soldiers who
had departed minutes earlier. But the man in the middle was a
general. The hat that covered his hair and the medals that
dangled from the breast of his coat indicated such to Pavle.

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More than that, though, Pavle recognized the man in the
middle; he knew him from a time in his past.
Yet, Pavle could not recall the general having ever been
presented to him in such a state. His hands and coat sleeves
were saturated in bloods of all shades, as was the dagger
implanted in his hand. His uniform was untidy and drenched
with sweat, blood and food; his neck exhibited fresh bite and
scratch marks; his mouth and chin were stained crimson; and
his eyes danced from prisoner to prisoner, beaming at the
discomfort into which his soldiers had plunked the
Macedonians.
The general fumbled around his pants pocket, the
pocket without the bulge. At first Pavle thought he was
searching for a weapon, but then discarded that hypothesis
upon noticing the generals pistol in its holster. The general
kept on fidgeting for a minute and abruptly stopped. Pavle
suspected he was trying to make him and his friends nervous.
The general paced over to the far end of the row, where
a half-dead Tome stood. As soon as the general was face to face
with Tome, he erupted in laughter. It was a volcanic laughter,
stemming from his belly and ejecting deep sound waves
upward through his discordant pipes. His soldiers, not quite
sure at what amused the general, smiled but refrained from
emitting any sounds, as to not disturb the fragile temperament
of their leader.
After a minute, the general smiled and pointed to
Tomes mouth. Who put this here? He flicked the ear lobe
hanging from Tomes mouth.
A young soldier, with shoulder length, wavy black hair
and a scruff that could barely pass as a beard, glanced
nervously at his comrades on both sides before slumping
forward.
I did, sir.
The general turned around and pointed at the soldier.
You? Whats your name, kid?
Zhivko Sugarieff, sir.
How old are you?
Twenty-four, answered Zhivko.

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Keep it up, young man. Youll be leading Bulgaria to
greatness before you know how to wipe your own ass.
Zhivko, relieved and honored, answered
enthusiastically.
Yes, sir!
The general turned back to Tome and examined him.
You dont look too well, old man. He patted Tomes exposed
cranial tissue, which caused Tome to whimper like a starved
dog. But theres still some usefulness left in you.
The general departed from Tome and now fixated his
interest on Aces skin that flopped from his cheekbone.
Fuck, Gypsy. How in Gods name did that happen?
Fuck your mother, mumbled Ace.
The general nodded his head expressionlessly for a few
moments before he calmly and rhythmically began jerking
Aces cheek, detaching it from the bone, a thread at a time,
while whistling a Bulgarian folk tune. Aces screams ripped
through the surrounding forest, drowning the generals ode to
Bulgaria and silencing even the attentive crows, but the
general did not seem the slightest disturbed as he continued
tugging on Aces face until it plopped onto the dirt below. Aces
screams echoed through the hills only for several seconds, but
the tears streaming from his eye persisted for much longer.
The general then gathered the cheek, rolled it into a ball and
stuffed it into Aces empty eye socket. The piercing screams
commenced.
Where the fuck is this ones other eye?
A soldier stepped forward. Here, General.
The general motioned with his hand and the soldier
tossed it to him. He held Aces eyeball in front of Aces
remaining eye, enfolded his hand over it and squeezed until
mush seeped to the ground from in between his fingers. After
chucking the remains to the ground, he wiped his hand on his
pants and then left the prisoner line.
He called some soldiers over and conversed with them,
inquiring about things that Pavle hoped had nothing to do with
the latest trends in torment. But the constant glances and
chuckles, along with the general unfastening his gun from its

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holster, slaughtered that optimism. Pavles heart began to
pound with such ferociousness that he prayed God was giving
him a hard-earned heart attack.
God did not answer his prayer. The general motioned to
the soldiers behind the Macedonians. Tie their hands.
The soldiers scurried about, pulling rope from their
sacks and grasping onto the Macedonians arms. Tomes arms
proved the most difficult, because they were missing hands,
which meant they needed extra cord and ingenuity to stay
secured. Pavle dreaded the process, as the soldiers treated his
ulna like a branch on a tree begging to be pruned. Groans,
screams and tears persevered, and the general would have it
no other way.
On your knees.
Before the Macedonians could begin to descend to the
earth, the soldiers kicked and rammed them from behind, until
all their faces smacked the ground, with dirt and ants intruding
into their nostrils and mouths.
On your knees, repeated the general, this time his
eyebrows concaving and voice roaring.
The Macedonians tussled with their aches and gravity
until they propped themselves up, struggling to remain
balanced throughout the ordeal. The general, satisfied with the
result, stomped toward Dimitri, raised his pistol, and launched
a bullet into his temple. Dimitris body plunged backwards and
his face withered as a soldier trampled on it. The general
reloaded the single-shot pistol, placed it back in its home, and
turned to Pavle.
Pavle locked his eyelids momentarily, fearing the waves
of sympathy that buzzed through his mind would take root. He
did not want to sympathize with his comrades, as
sympathizing would be affirmation that his turn to tumble with
the crazed Bulgar loomed closer after each surge of stench the
general burped from his mouth.
The general glared at Pavle with intrigue and
bewilderment, seemingly forgetting that he had just committed
murder, and his face evolved from a barbaric emptiness into a

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childish excitement. After several seconds of obsessive
observation and smiling eerily, the general spoke.
Peasant, do I know you?
Pavle raised his eyebrows, surprised by the generals
gentle tone.
The general continued. Did you not fight for me during
the Turkish occupation?
Pavle cleared his throat. Yes.
The general stepped back, amazed at the revelation, yet
proud of his awareness and recollection. He grinned.
I knew it. You fought with me not too many years ago,
but you were gone before we had reached Solun.
Silence permeated the space between their faces. The
general seemed confused.
But now you fight against me?
Pavle wrestled with a response that would guarantee
mercy. But he could only muster a sigh.
Answer me!
He locked into the generals stare. Hypnotized by the
generals sudden harshness, he responded as if he was a
soldier reporting to his commander.
I had to protect my village and family.
The general turned his head, stared at the muddy
puddle of blood encircling Dmitris head, and deliberated his
course of action. He reached into the pocket without the bulge
and fidgeted. Suddenly he stopped, gave a devilish smirk, and
then dove into his other pocket and snatched out Pavles prize
a slice of a womans breast, with its nipple intact and the flesh
raw and pink. The general squatted down so that he was eye-
level with Pavle and then slapped him with the meat.
Family, huh? Well, here is your family; here is your
wifes tit. He rubbed it on Pavles cheek, dragging it across his
lips. Come on, suck on it, suck on it. The general forced the
nipple between Pavles lips, but Pavle refused to unclench his
teeth. Come on, peasant. Its your last chance to suck off your
wife.
Pavle knew it was not his wife. She had died many years
before this monster torpedoed through his village. But that the

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general had chopped off the breast of a woman he undoubtedly
knew churned his stomach and triggered the bout of
resistance.
The general finally snapped the breast away from
Pavles mouth and stood up. Maybe you wont because its
your sister. I thought you motherfuckers in this part of the
country were nothing but inbred rubbish. Im surprised this
doesnt make your dick hard. He booted Pavle in the crotch.
Pavle grunted, but continued glowering at the barbaric man
hovering over him.
The general massaged the breast with his finger tips,
squeezing the nipple with his thumb and index finger. Sister
or not, she was a good fuck. He then deposited the breast back
in his pocket and shrugged his shoulders.
The general pointed behind Pavle. So that was your
village?
Pavle would not look. The general, a man accustomed to
getting his way, punched Pavle with such force that Pavle now
could not defer soaking up the view of ravage below in the
valley. Charcoal clouds carpeted the village, with pointed
flames occasionally rupturing through the haze. A few houses
remained, probably still being ransacked for any valuable
possessions. Some sheep scattered about near the hills, but
most visible livestock lay butchered on the roads and in the
fields. A group of soldiers steered a chain of children toward
horse-drawn wagons. Canoes of fishermens families raced
from the shores, with Bulgarian soldiers pursuing them on
rafts and other makeshift watercraft. Howls and shrieks were
infrequent, but they were hopeless enough to stir an
unyielding pity in Pavles heart.
Pavle turned to the general. That is my village.
The general removed his hat and scratched his head. I
have to understand this correctly. That was an unfortunately
stubborn Macedonian village. And you once fought under me
as a Bulgarian soldier. Now youre fighting against me to
defend this Gypsy shithole. He spit over Pavles head in the
direction of the scorched village, the mucus landing on Pavles
heels.

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After a prolonged staring contest, the general
repositioned his hat, drew his pistol, and pointed it at Pavles
head.
Tell me soldier, only because Im confused: are you or
are you not a Bulgarian?
Pavle blinked and coughed some blood. His gaze then
ventured down his shrapnel-infested stomach, to his clogged
thigh, and rested upon the blood pooling in front of his knees.
Blood. His wife spilt her blood for the purity of her
country. His friends to his left were drenched in it, while the
lonely Dmitri marinated in it under the scorching sun. His sons,
his boys their blood was probably being transformed at this
very moment. His village, his countrymen, and his comrades
that he had joined for a decade of battle all lost pints of it long
before they met their demise. And here he was, staring at his
own blood, watching the puddle evolve into a pond,
contemplating how he got here.
Ace, hunched over and looking at his mangled body
parts, volunteered an answer. If you want us to say were
Bulgars in order to save ourselves, it wont happen. Never. We
cant be Bulgars because were Macedonian. Macedonian
patriots.
How Ace managed to muster enough energy to burst
out with such vigor was beyond Pavle. Neither could Pavle
know if Ace interrupted the generals show out of selflessness
in order to delay Pavles fate, or to belittle the generals
nationalistic duty. But he was temporarily grateful for Aces
bravery.
The general walked over to Ace, flipped his pistol
around and whacked Tome on his exposed tissue, while never
unpeeling his eyes from the slouching Ace. Tome slumped over
and crashed next to the generals feet. Ace turned his head, his
eye acknowledging Tomes departure as the general shoved
Tomes head away from his vicinity with his boots. The general
then raised Aces chin with his index finger, until he was
staring down into Aces maimed eye socket.
What did you say?

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His words were dragged out and faint, his face was
distorted and his body was weak. But Aces guts were still
operational; his mood was still combative. He spat in the
generals face.
I am Macedonian, not Bulgarian. Rot in hell, you sick
motherfucker.
The general grabbed the handle of his gun, shoved the
barrel in Aces eye socket, and snapped the trigger while Ace
screamed his final curse. Ace fell to his left, his head settling
next to Tomes. The general flung his pistol to the earth behind
him, ordered a soldier to reload it, and whipped out his knife.
He then dropped to the ground onto all fours and began sawing
away at Aces neck.
Next to the generals workshop, Pavle grimaced, just as
much to the mutilation of his friends corpse as to the grins of
the surrounding Bulgarian soldiers. He fought off the wheezy
and fainting sensations as blood sprayed the generals already-
bloodied face, but he kept fixated on the general as he
struggled to undo the rope around his hands.
Once Aces head was disunited from his head, the
general seized it by the hair, grabbed his pistol from the
soldier, and carried both over to Pavle. He then pressed the
barrel of his gun to Pavles forehead and presented to him
Aces disfigured face, with strings of tissue dangling from his
neck and swaying in the breeze.
So now what are you: a Bulgarian or a Macedonian?.
Pavle closed his eyes as he retired from attempting to
escape, and inhaled the death encircling him.
Im Macedonian.







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Bread Crumbs


Oh Mother Macedonia,
From the Shar Mountains to the Aegean Sea
How many more days must I bleed,
My heart beating slowly and sadly,
How many more nights must I not sleep,
My mind dancing swiftly and wildly,
Before I can see you finally free?

Apostol, who had been listening and tapping his foot as
he chomped on a fistful of bread, adjusted the chain of bullets
across his chest and ran a hand through his thinning, grey hair,
shaking out the sweat that had been soaking him.
You know, kid, my wife baked the best bread in all of
Macedonia.
Petar, who was propped up against a tree not too far
from Apostol, lowered his water jug. Thats because it was still
warm when she served it to you. But its all the same
everywhere. Bread is bread.
Apostol snubbed Petars reasoning. No, kid, you dont
understand. First, you havent been everywhere. Second, there
were times when Id be lost in the forest for two weeks
pursuing some Turkish loot, and even when I knew the bread
had gone stale I would still devour it within seconds. But this?
This crap? He threw some at Petar. Im struggling to swallow
it.
Petar plopped a scrap in his mouth and brushed the
crumbs off his uniform.
After two weeks of failing to steal any food from even a
poor Gypsy, Im sure anything would have tasted good to you.
Apostol shook his head and leaned forward. Listen.
When youre lucky enough to have been where Ive been, seen
what Ive seen, and tasted what Ive tasted, then you can mock
me. Until that day, youre just a boy with a gun and a flute. And
you dont know how to use either.

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Petar whipped out his wooden flute and pretended to
finger a melody as he spat out some lyrics:

I almost stole a loaf from a Gypsy,
But instead dove into his bottle of whiskey;
Two tricks later I was more than just tipsy -
I was a whore to a Turk who was getting frisky.

Apostol flung some more bread at a chuckling Petar,
who was reveling in his mentors agitation. You can make
jokes about my few blunders, now. But evading Turkish
swords by sleeping in a freshly dug grave with a dead Turk was
the cheeriest of my experiences.
Apostol rarely boasted about his grand achievements.
Only when he felt insulted or slighted, or uncharacteristically
contemplative, did he venture into tales of his celebrated
adventures. Perhaps it was his old age, or perhaps it was
something about Petar, but Apostols narratives had become
more regular in the past months. Still, persuading the
legendary thief to talk about his wanderings was a tricky feat,
and Petar admired Apostols successes and courage so much
that he instigated any opening into his collection of heroics.
Only one time did I mistake a gypsy for a Turk. He was
parading around in a slain Turks uniform, how could I know?
Everything I stole from that gypsy I returned to him, along with
enough food to get his family through the rest of that winter.
You know, a lot of the Bulgars and Greeks here with us
criticize me for being nice to the gypsies. Forget that nonsense,
kid. The gypsies are Macedonians, too. They have suffered and
died under the sultans just as we have suffered and died. And
unlike the Bulgars and Greeks, theyre not calling for a
Bulgarian Macedonia or a Greek Macedonia.
Apostol, these Greeks and Bulgars are our friends. They
are here fighting with us, arent they? You dont see any Gypsy
in this camp, do you? Theres not one thats willing to sacrifice
sweat and blood for a free Macedonia.
I cant explain their culture to you, said Apostol. Its
not something understood through ignorance. But they have

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their own way of dealing with the suffering theyve faced.
However, I can guarantee you that not all of these Bulgars and
Greeks are our friends. He leaned closer to Petar and pointed
to the bread crumbs between them. After our independence,
they will work together to tear this land into pieces.
Petar shook his head. I dont believe that. How about
Gavril over there? He only ever talks about a free Macedonia
for all Macedonians, regardless of which church they belong to.
That scar running down his neck is proof of his dedication to
our cause.
Eh, Gavril is younger than you and almost as nave as
you. Sooner or later, after the Bulgars have sufficiently
educated him, hell end up like Sofche over there.
Petar glanced at the thick-bearded and loud snoring
soldier a few trees away. His hands were folded across his
belly, which almost rose to the tip of his beard with each
breath, while a large gold cross hung down from his neck and
rested atop his chest.
Whats wrong with the brave Sofche? Other than being
a little slow and fat? Hes been with VMRO from practically its
conception. You told me this yourself, many times.
Apostol leaned back on his tree and rambled to himself
for a few seconds. He bit into some bread and looked at Sofche
again.
Sofche the Brave is what he likes to call himself. He is
always the first to show at a fight and the last to flee. Yet, has
no other Macedonian considered how that, after over a decade
of battles, most of which were failures and massacres, all
rebels have some sort of visible scar to boast about, if they
havent been killed?
He pointed at Sofche. I beg you to find one scar on him.
Look at him. Look. His beard is neat, his stomach is a mountain,
his skin is smooth, and he smiles in his sleep. I dare you to find
a blemish that he wasnt born with and then you tell me if he is
a man who is first to fight and last to flee.
But you fight alongside him, all the time.
And the bullets always hit me.
Petar laughed. I guess hes just luckier than you.

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Maybe, said Apostol. Though, I think not. Im onto
him. I havent the proof yet, but Ive almost figured him out. I
just need a few more battles alongside that lard.
I think youve seen so much betrayal and dishonor in
your time that youre blinded to the purity of this new
Macedonian revival, said Petar. I think hes a good man. I
think all these soldiers are good, honorable men. Without
them, wed still be acting and thinking like slaves.
I think youre wrong about some of these men, said
Apostol. But youre right about one thing. This is not the
Macedonia of yesterday. Robbery, kidnapping and pillaging as
ways of life are dying. You wont ever have to follow that path,
kid. Thievery wont be your trade. Not after tomorrow, not
after we hunt those snakes out of our land for good. He shoved
some bread in his mouth and knocked Petars cap off his head
and rubbed his hair. Were going to be free tomorrow, Petar.
Free Macedonians for the first time since Alexander!
Petar smiled and threw the cap back on his head. Long
live Macedonia!
What are you two buffoons celebrating for? Were not
free, yet.
Apostol and Petar turned to their visitor.
Vasil, my comrade! Theres never a bad time to
celebrate. How was your trip?
Vasil pulled out some papers from his vest. Apostol, I
think this explains it all. Here, read it.
He handed the papers to Apostol and plopped down
next to Petar. Apostol silently read the messages.
You want some bread?
Not from that crap if I can help it, Petar. A handkerchief
would be nice, though. Mine is soaked.
Petar gave him a handkerchief that his mother had
sewn.
Thanks, said Vasil. He wiped his forehead and began
removing his outer layers of clothing. Whos doing the cooking
around here anyway? Eight hundred Macedonian men and not
even one knows how to make some halfway decent bread. I

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cant wait until I see Zora again. You should know that my wife
makes the best bread in all of Macedonia.
Petar rolled his eyes. Now I know that you and Apostol
have spent too much time together.
Brother, said Apostol, handing the papers to Vasil.
This is excellent news. I dont think we could have asked for
better news. Have you told Marjan yet?
No, not yet. Theres no hurry, it can wait until later. Let
our leader rest.
What does the message say?
It says that the other Macedonian divisions are
prepared for a full attack tomorrow, said Vasil. Our comrades
in the north, east, and south are all within five miles of the
Turkish compound. We even mustered some support from
several bands of Albanians.
Albanians, huh, asked Petar. Who knew they would
see the light?
Whats even better, continued Vasil. Is that the Turks
wont be able to have any reinforcements ready for at least a
week. Well be shooting and theyll be shitting.
Ah, freedom. Im ready to know what it feels like.
Apostol kicked the dirt in front of him. Im really happy.
Ive endured starvation, dodged bullets and evaded swords just
to see this day. But I dont think you young ones have really
grasped what living under Turkish occupation has meant. It
has been a way of life for me and so many others of my time.
Who we are has been defined by our struggle. What are we
going to do once we get that freedom? Once we govern and
rule ourselves?
Someone needs to defend it, said Petar.
Well, then you can be a commander in the new
Macedonian army, said Vasil. And protect our Eastern
frontier. But I will go back to my village near Skopje and tend
to my sheep, fix my house, and wait for grandchildren. Apostol
will probably move to Lerin or Voden and pick up a trade.
Open a business. Be a politician. Write books. Become a
priest?

20

Apostol laughed. Apostol the Priest. Although I like the
sound of it, I have too much blood on my hands for that. When I
was a kid, I thought I would be a fisherman. I imagined myself
on a boat with a net or a rod and plenty of fish, just soaking up
the sun and the peace. Id take them back to Stojanka and she
would sell them at the market in Solun.
He cleared his throat and gazed at the stars.
But those were just dreams. Stojanka is up there, Im
down here, and the closest Ive ever gotten to fishing was
stealing a few from a Turk on an excursion in Ohrid.
If its meant to be, then its meant to be, said Vasil.
Until then, we could start a band. You can keep a beat, and I
can whistle a tune. He pointed at Petar. Let me see your
flute.
Petar patted his chest and pockets, combed the dirt next
to him, and lifted his legs to pat the ground underneath him.
Huh, I just had that damn thing.
Apostol flashed Petars flute and threw it to Vasil. Eh,
kid, you better hope we kick out those Turks or you wont last
more than another decade.
What? When did you snatch that from me?
I can see why youre going to have a hard time in this
new Macedonia, my brother, said Vasil as he lifted the flute to
his mouth. Stealing and killing is all you know. Good thing you
still have it in you. I guess Ill just have to be a one man show.
Vasil began playing a melody and tapping along with his
foot.
Apostol scoffed at the idea. Ive retired from that.
Then maybe you can teach others how to steal, said
Petar.
I dont have the patience for that, son. Besides, like I
said, your generation wont have to worry about not having
enough food or money. Things will change here. I guarantee it.
Petar pointed at himself. Well, then teach me some
tricks at least. As Vasil said, were still not free yet. It could
come in handy, maybe save my life. You wouldnt want to see
me starve to death, would you?

21

Apostol grinned. You already have all the tricks you
need in your words, kid. Thats half the magic.
Show me the other half, begged Petar, smiling.
Okay. Just dont make a habit out of what you learn.
Sooner or later, we have to change with the times.
Apostol scooted over to Petar and began simple
demonstrations of his trade to the eager listener as Vasil
continued singing away on Petars flute. Ten years later would
be the last time the three comrades got together to play folk
music, chat about the future, and eat bad bread. Each of them
wanders alone now, playing music that is less folksy,
reminiscing of what once was, and eating bread that, although
tastes better, is merely crumbs.































22

The Census

The green pepper slipped out of Stojans hand as he
scurried to catch the hat dancing away from his head with the
gust of wind that swept through the garden. It floated in the air
for a moment, teasing him as he jumped up and down with his
tiny hands stretched out above him, before it dove into a
puddle of mud beside him.
Aw, crap.
He picked up the cap and wiped it on his trousers as he
shook the water out from his hair. The rain was relentless and
the wind was howling, but he could not go back to the sisters
empty handed. Either he returned with some peppers and
tomatoes for a salad, or it was another bowl of bean soup for
dinner.
Now where did that pepper go? Stojan looked in front,
to the sides, and behind but the pepper eluded him. I swear it
was right here.
Pouting to himself, he dashed over to the next row of
peppers and dug into the plants, examining each pepper for
ripeness and quality, until he was straddling about a dozen in
his arms. He hurried back to the basket at the end of the row,
emptied out the rising water, and skipped over to the tomato
plants. He prowled through the vegetables, pushing away the
green tomatoes in hopes that a few red ones were lurking in
the depths of the jungle of vines and leaves. From plant to
plant, he searched and searched but it was fruitless.
He stepped inside the garden, hoping to get a closer
look. Somehow, though, his foot caught onto a vine and he
tripped forward into the plants, squashing everything under
him.
He grunted, got on his knees and began propping
himself up when he felt his hand squishing a soft tomato. He
tried to release his grip, but there was already too much
pressure: the sticky and slimy insides of the tomato began
seeping into his pores. He looked down at his hand and pursed
his lips. Darn.

23

Stojans hand was covered in a reddish, seedy juice and
a once beautiful, plump red tomato was now a wrinkly and flat
pile of compost lying below him. Defeated, he sighed and stood
back up. Probably the only red tomato in this whole garden,
he thought. Maybe there are some cucumbers? He picked up
his basket, wiped the dirt off himself, and headed down the
row of tomatoes onward to the cucumbers.
As he walked, he could not help but smile. He always
smiled on the way to the cucumbers because it provided the
best view in the entire garden. Despite the grey sky and the
accompanying rain, the vast valley below was a marvelous
sight. There were forests and crops, livestock and fields,
houses and roads. He could see many roads. The road to the
monastery was rocky, long and windy, and it eventually turned
into to a road that curved through the woods and finally caught
up with the groomed path in the distance that lead to Lerin. He
loved roads just like he loved rivers. But he never used them.
They were full of thieves and murderers and soldiers. Not a
place for children, the sisters would tell him.
He was about to take his eyes off the road and begin
cucumber hunting when he spotted something in the distance.
He blinked and wiped the water from his brow. He still saw it,
and it was getting closer. It was a convoy of some cars and
trucks. They were green, and big, and being that it was only the
third time he had ever seen such vehicles, he was mesmerized.
They sped along trailing one another quite closely until he lost
them as they wound through the woods. After a minute of
anticipation, they popped out of the woods faster and bigger
than they had entered.
Eventually the vehicles came to a halt at the base of the
hill. The road to the monastery was too steep, uneven and
narrow for such large vehicles to traverse. As the doors
opened, Stojan squinted to get a better view of the people
getting out. There were over a dozen men, dressed in grey and
green uniforms, carrying guns, swords and other
unrecognizable objects.
Then it struck Stojan: it was the Greeks, the fascist
Greeks. And they were coming for him.

24

He dropped the basket of peppers and sprinted back to
the abode, screaming as loud as he could, trampling on
vegetables and tripping over his feet each time they sank into
some mud.
The Greeks! The Greeks are coming! Sisters, the Greeks
are coming! The army, theyre coming!
Stojan burst through the doors of the humble living
quarters, hollering until he got one of the sisters attention.
Theyre here, the Greeks! What are we going to do? The
army, theres so many of them!
Meri, who was setting plates at the small dinner table,
tried to calm Stojan.
Stojanche, child, what are you screaming about? Shut
that door behind you, youre letting the rain in! Where are the
vegetables for our salad?
Sister Meri, its the Greeks, said Stojan, hunched over
and panting. Look, theyre coming.
Meri put the plates down and dashed to the door. She
saw the uniformed men marching up the path.
Oh, God, she said, crossing herself.
She slammed the door shut. Sisters! Ljubica, Danica,
Nada, come here now.
Are they coming for me?
I dont know why theyre coming.
Yes, Sister Meri? Danica walked into the main room,
with the younger Ljubica and elder Nada tagging along. Whats
happening? Is Stojan alright?
Meri threw her hands in the air. The fascists. Theyre
outside.
Ljubicas eyes popped out. The Greeks?
What do we do? Danica looked from Meri to Nada and
back.
Theres nothing we can do, said Meri.
Nada grabbed Stojan by the arm. The boy must leave.
We must get him out of here.
Stojans face grimaced as Nadas grip strengthened. She
was the oldest and unhappiest of the sisters, and she never

25

really like him, thought Stojan. Me? Why do I have to go?
Where do I have to go?
We dont have time to get him out, said Meri, ignoring
Stojan. Theyll be here any minute. We must hide him. We
must.
Theres only one place to hide him, and thats in this
room. Nada pointed to the table.
Danica begged. Dont, Sister Meri, thats too risky. Hell
be right under their feet!
What if they burn it down? Oh Lord, please have mercy
on us. Ljubica crossed herself three times as she continued
praying.
Sister Danica, said Meri, theres nowhere else. We
dont have time to get him out. This is the best chance for him.
But what if they burn it down, asked Ljubica again.
Dont speak like that, Sister Ljubica, snapped Nada.
They wouldnt dare burn it down.
Sisters, Im scared, said Stojan.
See, you have the child scared now. Nada shook her
hand at Ljubica, who stood trembling in the corner.
Dont be scared, Stojanche, said Meri, taking him from
Nada. She rubbed his head. Everything will be okay. We just
need you to do as we say. Okay? Can you do that?
Stojan nodded.
Good. She squatted down until she was eye level with
him and grabbed his cheeks with both hands. Its going to be
alright, I promise. I love you as if you were my own son, we all
do. We wont let anything happen to you.
Danica, who had creaked open the front door,
interrupted Meri. Theyre almost here, theyre nearing the
garden. We must hide him now.
Meri squeezed Stojan tightly as her eyes twinkled with
tears, and then let go.
Come on, over here.
Nada had already begun lifting the boards, which were
partly under the dinner table, as Meri pushed Stojan toward
the small hideout.

26

You stay in here until the Greeks are gone. You
understand?
Stojan nodded.
And no matter what you hear or see, dont cry. Dont
scream. Dont make a sound. You must be quiet. Can you do
that?
Yes, Sister Meri..
Good, said Meri. Now go in and close your eyes.
Stojan lowered his small body into hideout and Nada
started putting the boards back. She was about to put down the
last board when Danica stopped her.
Wait.
What is it?
She unfastened a cross from around her neck and
slipped it down to Stojan, who was crouched down. God is
with you.
Come on, move, said Nada, pulling Danica back and
banging the final board down.
Nada turned to Ljubica, who was crying. Im sorry,
Sister. I know youre scared, too. She wrapped her frail arms
around her. Well be alright.
Meanwhile, Stojan began to shiver in his new home as
he grasped onto the cross. All his layers of clothing were
soaked, he was hungry, and his mind was venturing to the day
the Bulgarians had forced him out of his own village. Dont
think about that, dont go back there, he told himself.
He heard the sisters scurrying about above him, each
creaking of the board making him shiver more. He wondered
what they were doing. Some candlelight peeked through the
thin cracks between the boards, and he could occasionally get a
glimpse of a foot or an arm. He slowly adjusted himself,
peeping through different cracks. Some provided views of a
sister, some of the table, and some were just black.
He breathed on his hands to dry and warm them.
Maybe the Greeks werent coming? He listened to the sisters
conversation.
Dont cry, Sister Ljubica. It will be over almost as soon
as it begins.

27

Why here? Why now? Why cant they let us be?
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Silence engulfed the sisters. They remained glued to
their places: Meri leaning against the table, standing on the
boards that covered Stojan; Danica and Nada a few feet to her
left; and Ljubica in the corner near the door to the kitchen.
The Greeks banged on the door again, and a deep voice
spoke in a language that neither Stojan nor Ljubica understood.
Open the door for your visitors, sisters. Dont leave us
out in this storm; please be good hosts. We dont want to have
to break a perfectly good door.
The sisters didnt move.
Come on, we know youre inside. Lets not make this
any harder than it has to be.
Meri spoke. The door is unlocked.
The door swung open and the captain stepped inside,
followed by several soldiers. Hello, Sisters. Thank you for
having us. He smiled, twirled his mustahce and walked
straight for Meri. The rest of his horde filled the room behind
him: some with guns drawn and others with swords and knives
by their sides.
Meri looked at their boots and the puddles of mud that
surrounded them. The captain responded.
Eh, I apologize about the mess. We cant control the
weather. But Ill clean it up. He shouted behind him but kept
his gaze on Meri. Georgios, wipe this mud off the floor. We
cant ruin the floors; it looks like the Sisters had just cleaned.
With what, sir?
Thats a good question. The captain scanned Meris
dress. This ought to do. Do you mind, Sister? He went to
touch Meri but she slapped his hand and responded in Greek.
If theres something you want here, then let it be
known. If not, be on your way. This is Gods house. We dont
have time or room for the likes of you.
Im obliged to inform you that assaulting an official is
punishable by death, just so you know.
And violating anothers dignity will be punished by
God.

28

The captain nodded. Of course, of course. Well, if you
dont want your floors clean, we should just get straight down
to business. I see there are --. He stopped to count the women.
One, two, three, four. Four. Four of you here today. You got
that, Spiro?
Yes, sir. Writing it down now. Four Sisters.
Thank you. He turned back to the sisters. I have such
a good group of boys here. They always follow orders. If you
dont mind, Im going to have them search the place here.
What for?
People, of course. Were taking a census. I thought that
was obvious. The soldiers behind him laughed.
Be my guest. But this is all of us.
No doubt, Sister. No doubt. He raised his hand and
motioned with his fingers for some of his men to go search. Be
thorough, boys, just in case. I counted four heads, but five
bowls are on the table. He smiled and winked at Meri. She
took a deep breath as the other sisters eyes jumped across the
room.
Ah, dont stress, dont stress Sister. Well find her for
you. Maybe shes in the woods by now? Well find her, though.
We will.
On another note, I feel bad for misleading you earlier.
We arent here solely for a census. Well, we are, but Im afraid I
have to put down zero for this residence.
And why is that, asked Meri, gripping onto the side of
her dress.
Well, if Im not mistaken, none of you here are Greek,
are you?
Were Christians.
But of course, but of course. He raised his hands and
shrugged his shoulders. But Im willing to guess that youre
Christians of another tongue. Bulgarian, right?
Macedonian.
Oh, yes, Macedonian. Did you get that, Spiro?
Yes, sir.
You see, Sister, continued the captain. This is Greece
and only Greeks live here. Thus, Im afraid on the census we

29

have to put zero. Yet, we cant lie we are taking a census of
the people, after all. And you are a person, and I hope later on I
can explore your person more once we get acquainted.
However, I hope you understand where Im going with this?
Meri stared at the captain, blinking but showing no
expression.
You see, I have to make it as if there are no people
occupying these premises. In order to do that, you have to
leave, which is the preferable option, and which I hope you
would do voluntarily. On the other hand, if you choose not to
leave and make difficult our census taking process, we would
have to take alternative measures, which some of my men are
very well versed in.
He turned around to the remaining eight soldiers.
Chrysanthos and Demetrios, meet the Sisters. The two men
stepped forward and waved the knives and instruments in
their hands.
The captain turned back to Meri. Do you understand
better?
Meri nodded. Yes.
Well, great! Im glad we agree. Zero Greeks on the
census, you four go off, maybe to Bulgaria, more likely to
Serbia. And this monastery goes back to the Greek Church. All
is settled. He clapped his hands, excited. Phew! That was
easier than the last few places today. Busy morning, Sister. A
really, really busy morning. He began taking off his gloves.
These wont be necessary anymore. The higher-ups make me
do some terrible things; I get so happy when I dont have to
deal with blood for a change. Its messy. He handed them to a
soldier next to him. Do you have some coffee, Sister?
Meri twitched her nose. Yes, I do. She turned around,
concealing her hands, and pulled a pistol from underneath her
dress. She then whipped around and aimed it at the captain.
Forgive me, God.
Bang!
In his little hole, Stojans hands began shaking violently.
He knew that sound. It was a pistol. He didnt understand the
ensuing chaos upstairs, but he could sense it was not good. The

30

Greeks were screaming and shouting, and it was all so foreign
to him. That didnt bother him as much as the boots stomping
down on his roof. He felt the vibrations ringing down the side
boards through to the baseboards and into his feet, up his legs
and straight to his heart.
He heard the sisters crying and loud thumps, which
sounded like bodies hitting the floor, but through the cracks he
still saw Meris two feet above him. However, there were
several feet surrounding her now. They were still. Then there
was some deep laughing, followed by heavy screeching.
Then there was a wail so loud it forced Stojan to cover
his ears. It was followed by a light thump on board in front of
him. Then more wails. More thumps. He stretched his neck to
get a better view. His nose was touching the boards and his eye
was up to the crack when a finger came crashing down into his
view. It was wrinkly and tanned, and stringy tissue was
hanging off the end where he saw the tip of a white bone, with
blood encircling it.
He pulled back quickly and tears started to roll down
his face upon realizing what was happening. More light thumps
kept on hitting the floor, followed by shrieks and yelps. Some
fingers, an ear, an eye, some more fingers, another ear, a
tongue, another eye. They all kept plopping onto Stojans roof
and he could see bits and pieces of each of them.
And then there were three loud thumps, followed by
three louder thumps. Then black. Stojan could no longer see, a
body was obstructing his view. A few seconds later, the light
slowly crept back in as the bodies were dragged away. The
stomping faded into tapping, and then there was almost
complete silence -- except for a faint crying.
He heard the mans voice from earlier, repeatedly
emitting the same words. Then he heard a voice that he
recognized. It was Ljubicas.
I dont speak Greek.
Oh, thats okay, dear. We have a translator.
The response came from the same man as earlier, but
now he was speaking Macedonian. There was some commotion

31

and then some stomping toward him. He saw Ljubicas legs and
dress above him, and the lower body of a soldier.
Sisterwhat is your name?
Ljubica.
Ljubica. Thats a very pretty name, just like you. You
must be no more than twenty, no?
Im twenty-eight.
I would have never guessed, judging by your tits.
There was laughter and whistling amongst the soldiers.
Well, meet our translator. His name is Angelos.
The man stepped forward, there was some silence, and
then Stojan saw the mans slacks drop to his ankles. He
followed the mans long and dark hairy legs up until his eyes
locked onto a penis that was much longer and thicker than his
own.
Ljubica started whining. Please no, please. I am a
women of God. Please, I beg you.
Thats perfect! Because, as you can probably tell, Angelos
is a Greek God. Dont look so sad, most girls cant wait to meet
him.
Ljubicas whining turned into crying as the naked
soldier approached her. Stojan was confused as to what was
going on, and tried to get a better view. Angelos boots then
stopped right above him, next to Ljubicas feet. Then Ljubica
started screaming and the table above started shaking. The
screaming continually got louder and the shaking of the table
became so violent that a plate came crashing down onto the
floor. However, the worst part was the laughter and jeering
from the soldiers, which again reminded him of the conditions
that forced him to leave his own village five years ago.
Come on sister, you say youve never had a cock in your
nice little pussy? How does this feel? Huh?
Stop, please stop!
You know it feels good to be fucking a Greek cock. Mmm,
you know it feels good. Youre so fucking wet, it must feel good.
Ljubica stopped screaming and instead regressed into a
helpless whimpering.

32

I dont know if she was a true sister, Captain. Her pussy is
pretty loose. Who knows what shes been fucking here in the
mountains. Maybe a monk? A horse? Mmm, it doesnt matter, her
pussy feels good.
Stojan heard a lot of grunting from the man above and
looked up. A stream of blood was trickling down Ljubicas leg
onto the wooden floor.
Angelos backed away and pulled his slacks up. Ljubica
fell to the ground, holding onto a table leg. She then started
screaming hysterically as a couple of men started marching
toward her. The soldiers were not finished. They pulled her
over the boards and Stojan could no longer see what was
happening. But his ears were pierced by Ljubicas persistent
shrieks. He held the cross to his heart and began to cry.
After a few minutes, the screaming subsided into a
groaning and Stojans tears dried up. Ljubicas body had been
partly dragged away from the boards, and Stojan could finally
catch a few glimpses of what was going on. The soldiers were
walking around and making conversation. God, thought
Stojan. Make them leave, please God. Just make them leave.
Above, the captain, finally able to tend to the gap in his
muscle created by the bullet from Meris gun, had just finished
wrapping his arm with some bandages.
Stupid bitch, said Angelos, pointing to Meris headless
body on the floor. She deserved everything she got.
The captain shook his head. She was a smart lady. She
knew we were going to kill her anyway. Unfortunately for her,
she and her sisters had to depart in quite a gruesome manner. I
prefer a simple bullet to the head, or a knife to the throat, or a
hanging. Torture around God makes me uneasy.
The soldiers who had been searching the premises of
the monastery returned with clothes in their arms.
Captain, sir. We found these in one of the rooms.
The captain looked at them. Pants?
Boys pants. Must not be older than ten or so. There
were several other items in the room that must have belonged
to him.

33

The captain took the pants and sniffed the crotch area.
Hes been here recently. They mustve seen us coming in time
and got him out. Too bad for him. Well get the dogs and crew
out here in the morning to search this countryside. He wont
get far.
He threw the pants back to the soldier. Alright, boys.
Its time to go. Leave the mess, theyll take care of it tomorrow.
We have some other stops to get to before the sun goes down.
Angelos turned and followed his captain. I hope theres
some more sluts like this young bitch. He kicked Ljubica. She
was a good fuck.
Angelos, youre a sick lad. Did I ever tell you that?
He smiled. Every time, sir.
Thats why I like you. Youll stick your cock into
anything I tell you to. Ill have you fucking sheep in no time.
I prefer them over Slav whores.
The captain nodded in agreement.
Stojan heard the door slam shut and then silence
permeated from above. A few minutes passed and he heard no
footsteps, but he did not dare get out yet. He was too scared
and tired, and anyway, it took five minutes to walk down the
path. He had to make sure that they were gone.
But it was lonely in the hole. He wanted nothing more
than to get out, put on dry clothes, eat some lunch, and talk
with the sisters. He knew the sisters had just suffered through
some brutal pain. Yet, he would help them tend to their
injuries. After all, he learned a lot from watching them help
victims of the Great War that had just ended fingerless hands,
bullet wounds, broken bones, and sick stomachs. He watched
and helped the sisters since he was five. Its the least I can do
for them, he thought. Theyve taken care of me.
Stojan did not know how long it had been since the
soldiers left. It felt like an hour, but for all he knew, it could
have been ten minutes, five minutes, or one minute. He was
sweating from the stuffy heat and shivering from his soaked
clothes. He needed to get out, if not from increasingly
unbearable conditions, then for the sake of helping out the
sisters.

34

He pushed on one of the boards above him. It popped
out easily. He stuck his arm out and felt around the floor, but
could not feel anything but wood. He continued pushing out
each board until all were removed and he could squeeze his
body out of the hole.
As he was halfway out of the hole, the first sight to meet
him was a pool of blood in between the knees of Ljubica.
Stojans eyes followed the blood up her legs until they froze on
a sword handle that was partly sticking out of Ljubicas vagina.
His mouth dropped and his hands trembled as he looked at the
blood dripping from the blade that disappeared into Ljubica.
Stojan felt around the floor so he could lift himself
completely out. As he searched for balance, he felt his hand
clasp into another hand. He smiled and his eyes twinkled, as he
turned to his left hoping to see one of the sisters. But there was
no one. He looked down at his hand and then fell down back in
the hiding spot, hollering curses as he landed on his butt. The
bloody hand that he had grasped onto fell in with him.
After a few seconds of shouting, he quieted down and
picked up the womans hand by the middle finger and flung it
out of his hiding spot. Recollecting himself, he again lifted
himself out, but not opening his eyes until he was completely
out. Only when he opened his eyes and was standing on his two
feet could he truly absorb the magnitude of the chaos that had
ensued while he was hidden. Blood puddles of varying sizes
dotted nearly the entire open space in front of him. Where
there was no blood, there was a body or a body part. Fingers
were scattered randomly, an eyeball was peeking from behind
a severed arm, a tongue was perched on a knee, and a pair of
ears were cuddled up against a foot.
All of the bodies were headless, except for Ljubica, who
still had all of her digits and facial features. Stojan wondered
why Ljubica was left intact. He crept over to her and looked
down into her eyes. They were open. He then saw her chest
expand. He looked back at her face and she blinked.
Sister Ljubica, he cried. Sister, let me help you. He
looked back down at the sword coming out of her vagina. Let
me take this out for you.

35

He went to remove the sword but Ljubica grabbed his
armed and pulled him to her with the little strength she had in
her.
Stojan held his breath as Ljubicas lips began to move.
He lowered his face to her mouth to ascertain what she was
saying, and she suddenly coughed, spraying him with blood.
He froze, with droplets of blood dotting his face. He did not
wipe the blood from his face, he did not scream, and he did not
cry. He froze and listened to what Ljubica said. Her words were
soft, barely a whisper, but they were direct.
Child, leave. Now. Im dying, and the others are dead.
She pointed to the table from which Stojan had been partially
hiding under. He looked behind him, and a ghostly color
masked his olive skin. Atop of the table, directly facing him,
were three heads. He could not tell which head belonged to
which sister: they were eyeless, earless, lipless, and noseless.
Their skin was scratched, bloody and muddy; and their hair lay
in piles around them. That is how he would remember the
sisters every time thought about them in the future.
He turned back to Ljubica. I can try to help you. You
need help, youre bleeding.
Stojanche, Im dying. Im almost there, I can feel my
soul leaving me, I can hear God calling me. Leave.
Stojan reached out his hand and gently brushed her
cheek as tears dribbled down onto her dress. He then reached
into his pocket where he had tucked away the cross that
Danica had given and placed it on Ljubicas chest. You need
this more than I do, Sister Ljubica. I love you. Ill bring back
some help, just wait a little bit longer.
She smiled at him before coughing out some more
blood, laid her hand on the cross, and closed her eyes.
Stojan stood up, dried his eyes, and walked toward the
door, christening his feet in the sisters blood as he did so. He
was afraid to open it. What if the Greeks are still outside? He
shook his head. No, they cant be. They have no idea about me.
Theyll be gone by now.
He timidly began opening the door. With each
centimeter that the door creaked open, sunlight swarmed into

36

the room. At first there was just a little, but by the time the
door was completely open, the entire room was lit.
He looked outside. The sky was clear, the leaves were
still, the birds were chirping, and he could see the convoy of
cars driving on the long, groomed road to Lerin. The storm was
gone and one Macedonian remained.