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f Time – Chapter 3 - Part 1
Risto StefovJuly 09, 2012
Kostur, compared to ten years ago, has become unrecognizable. The old, timeless market by the lakeshore has been turned into a city park. The only thing that has not changed is the fish market. The stores selling fish have remained as they were a long time ago. They were and still are operated by the fishermen from the village Mavrovo. The city stadium is gone and in its place is a new, recently built square. Part of the square substitutes as a market a couple of times a week. The place is clean and neat and a city government building has been added to it. Thanks to the European Union no doubt.
The winding road along the coast has been widened, paved and crammed with café´s, taverns, restaurants and small shops. There are seventy Orthodox churches in the city, most of which are older that five hundred years and built Byzantine style. This makes the city an exquisite tourist attraction. At the end there is a small square and in front of it, standing high up on a monument, is a statue of Bishop Karavangelis. Painted on the chest of the statue in black paint is the word "executioner". Beside Karavangelis´s statue is a headless statue of General Van Fleet, the Unites States general who commanded the Greek government generals during the Greek Civil War. But that´s not all; there are also other surprises and skeletons in Kostur.
We ordered coffee at the café (built of wood and decorated with many items made of plastic) next to the lake.
"Two Turkish coffees please," I said to the waiter.
"If you want Turkish coffee, go to Turkey," he replied angrily; a pale looking young man possibly suffering from insomnia. "We only serve Greek coffee here," he added strongly as he swatted a fly on the table with a towel.
After we drank our "Greek" coffee and the free water offered at this café, we left and went to the City Centre.
There were many stores side by side at the Kostur Centre, exhibiting mostly fur in their display windows. The fur trade was the oldest trade in the region and only the people of Kostur had the right to practice it by decree from the Sultan. But in the last thirty years or so the fur trade was taken over by the surrounding villages and towns, mostly by Russians. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russians with big money (only they know where they got it) came to Kostur and the surrounding region and built shops and on them they hung billboards with the inscription "SHUBЫ" (sheaths, furs) and since then the famous and renowned Kostur fur traders have become Russian employees and wage earners.
Out of curiosity we entered one of the stores. We looked at the fur coats and admired them without touching but were surprised and astonished at their very high prices. The talkative clerk, a middle-aged man, followed us around explaining and praising the merchandise in an attempt to make a sale and when we stepped further away from the door, in an almost whispering voice, he asked in Macedonian: "Are you from Serbia?"
"No," I said. "Serbia is further up, to the north of where we come from."
"Oh…" he said.
"And you?" I asked
"I am from here, from Macedonia… Greece is further south…" he said quietly and with his hand pointed to the south.
When we exited the store he asked: "From which city are you…"
"We live in a city but we were born in a village here," I replied.
"Which one?" he asked.
I said, "Polianemon."
"I know it," he boasted. "Its old name is Krchishta. Am I right?"
"Yes you are right. And that´s where we are going," I replied.
"What will you be doing there? There is nothing there except wind after which the village got its new name!" he yelled out loud, stunned. "Nothing, believe me, there is nothing…"
"That´s okay Sir, then we will see nothing…" I answered.
"Χρηστε και Παναγια!..." (Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary) he said in Greek and crossed himself.
The once terrible, potholed and narrow road leading from Dolno Papratsko to Krchishta has now been widened and paved with asphalt. The road ended where the threshing fields once used to be. On our way we made a stop at a place called Vishomo. Close to there, where the land rises and widens, is a church and all around the church there is nothing, only emptiness. The village Krchishta used to occupy that emptiness. As I stared at the desolate space where my village used to be, I was overwhelmed with a certain sickness and chills ran down my spine. The village was here but now it´s gone, only its name remains, a name given to it a long time ago, a name that means the "crackle" of chestnuts. I remember the old people saying that the name Krchishta was given to the village a very long time ago.
As I recall, a story was told that went something like this: During the Ottoman War against the Poles, which took place in 1689, a Beg (Ottoman officer) distinguished himself as a good fighter during the attack and capture of the city Hochim, so the Sultan rewarded him by giving him five villages and their residents, houses and land. So this Beg, in order to enlarge his fields, ordered the villagers to destroy the chestnut groves and their homes and relocate to a sandy, barren and less productive place. There he ordered them to build new houses for themselves, a house for himself and a mosque. The villagers did as ordered and, in respect of God, would not destroy the village churches. So the only buildings left standing, as markers of where the villages once used to be, were the five churches: Sveta Petka, Sveti Atanas, Sveti Giorgi, Sveti Jovan and Sveti Ilia. These church buildings survived the test of time, rebellions and wars.
There was a grove of tall oak trees to the left of the road from where we were standing. "There," I said to my wife pointing at the oak trees, "is where the village Dolno Vishomo used to be and under the oaks was the church, Sveta Petka. We walked across the road to the oak grove and stood under its magnificent shade. Unfortunately there was nothing left of the old church, not even its foundation. The only things we found were a couple of rocks, some broken ceramic tiles, remnants of the old church and part of a burned candle stuck in the ground amongst the tiles. It was quiet in the grove except for the sounds made by the rustling leaves of the oak trees in a gentle breeze. A flock of ravens flew over us and disappeared beyond the forest. The sight gave me pain and chills. With a heavy breath we crossed ourselves and silently walked away and headed for my village.
The wide road ended where the village threshing yards used to be. To the left there was a wide metal door and behind it was a wide yard divided by a fence, behind which calves were mooing. There were many calves. On the opposite side was a house. A dog, tied to a post, was barking. A young man came out of the house. He greeted us in Greek and asked, "Are you looking for someone?"
"Yes…" I said, with tearing eyes as I looked over the entire yard…
"For who?" he asked.
I got a lump in my throat, my knees got weak and my chin began to tremble.
"My name is Lefteris. Please come in," he said inviting us inside the small house.
"First we will walk over to the elms," I said, "and then we will return…"
We left the car outside the farm (for fattening calves) and at a slow pace we walked on the street so that I could show my wife the village. After taking a few steps I closed my eyes to the emptiness, overgrown grass and weeds and in my imagination replaced them with the homes of the Nanovtsi, Damovtsi, Purdovtsi, Laskini, Popovtsi, Donovtsi, Liapovtsi, Pindzovtsi, Penovtsi, Shkoklovtsi, Trajkovci, Nakovtsi, Pandovtsi, Filiovtsi, Guliovtsi and other families. I imagined the fifty-four houses that existed here, in several rows, under whose roofs once lived over four hundred souls. I tried to imagine the feeling of the fifty or so other souls, who at the time were pechalbars (migrant workers) overseas, gone beyond the great waters, who never got a chance to return to see their homes and to visit with their families.
I spoke at great length, telling my wife about each house and the people who had lived in it, about the streets, about the time of the Greek Civil War during which forty-three people were mobilized from whom twenty-nine were killed. I told her about the fifty-four children that were taken to Eastern European countries and about the seven families who fled to Kostur and Rupishta and all the other families that were exiled and scattered around the world.
"Well," I said to her, "this emptiness was once a village and this void was once filled with life ..." "And here," I said, "where we now stand was the house where I was born…" "Here," I said, "was the large wooden door that was locked from the inside with a thick wooden lever. And there was the garden and behind it was the outdoor oven. Here is where the steps that led to the second floor used to be." "Here," I said, "is where my mother Fimka brought eight children into this world of whom three were given rifles, four were collected and sent to the Eastern European countries and one, the youngest, died in Albania. My brother, her third born son, left his soul in Gramos just before reaching his eighteenth birthday. So Fimka was left alone and, abroad where she lived, every night she dreamt the same dream - that some day soon all her children would again be together and have a meal at the same dinner table..."
My thoughts had taken me back to a time gone by, but then, for a moment I returned to reality, to the emptiness which again reawakened more memories, seeming like they were tied together by a chain, flooding back, pushing, scratching, pounding, squeezing, burning and creating sorrow. To calm my spirit I kicked some soil with my foot and out came a broken ceramic tile and underneath it, in the ashes, was a broken stone. I picked it up and blew away the ashes with my warm breath and then placed it near my heart but I could not feel my heart beating, it felt as if it too had turned to stone....
I took my photo album out of my backpack; a photo-album to which I had been adding old photographs year after year and from the photographs life began to sprout. Who were those people in the old photographs? What had dhappened to them? Who went where and who returned from where? Where are they today and what happened to them in the past?
Where!
The images of the people in the photographs seem to float, to come alive, to reflect on the life which now appears to me only in spirit and in shadows. Through the photographs I was able to see the people with their joy, sorrow and pain of what once was. What once was, is now gone. The families are gone. The houses are gone. Everything is gone. Only the ghosts and the shadows of the ghosts remain...
I look at the images in the photographs and imagine the people leaving, taking the road to banishment.
To what country did they go?
To what unknown latitudes of the world did time take them?
When did they leave?
Under what circumstances did they leave?
Did they travel one behind the other?
Did they leave quickly, en masse?
Time…
What is time and what are people in time?
Time kills.
Time wounds.
Time heals.
Time forgets.
Time leaves no footprints.
Time destroys.
Time is a killer.
Is time a witness?
Time passes.
Time brings concerns.
Time remembers.
Time tells.
Time verifies.
Time accepts and rejects.
It is said at this and this time.
During the time of great upheaval.
During the time of war.
During the time of so and so plagues.
We are here. At the empty, naked, scarred place.
Time has passed, it has expired.
And here, now, at this time, today, at this moment of time, we are in a moment of time.
We are at the time divided between now and yesterday.
Time…
Whose and what kind of time?...
We are here in time past, time without people and without homes; we are here in time present without life, only empty fields and flocks of crows.
Time.
Whose time?
What kind of time?
Time for what?
Time measured with what?
Time marked with what and how?
Time lost.
Time brings.
Time brings what?
Time of happiness.
Time of hunger.
Time of fear.
For victims, lies and curses.
Time for cursing, lies and betrayals.
Time for cursing and waiting.
Time compressed between times.
What kind?
Time for remembering.
Remembering what?
Time for existence, time for endurance, time for safeguarding time.
Here time was measured with time for digging foundations, for carving stones, for building walls, for laying roof tiles, for plowing and sowing, for living, for reaping crops, for celebrations, for holidays, for growing and aging, for happiness and sadness, for life…
After that time came time for war. It was a time of bad times, a time of great promises and many lies. It was time to separate the children from their mothers, it was time for eradication. It was a time of silence of the church bells. It was a time without faith in God.
Where did time stop?
Now there is only time for recollection of time past so that time past is not forgotten. Here now there is only now.
Will it last only that much, as long as we remain bowed over the burned out places and foundation remains of our homes?
Time remains in us forever preserved and baked in our memory.
Time over which the fog and dust of forgetfulness whirls and glides.
It is time for the fog to lift.
It is time for the dust that rests in time to be blown off.
It is time for ripening.
It is time to change time.
By Petre Nakovski
Translated and edited by Risto Stefov
Other articles by Risto Stefov:
Free electronic books by Risto Stefov available at:
Our Name is Macedonia
You can contact the author at [email protected]
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Risto StefovJuly 09, 2012
Kostur, compared to ten years ago, has become unrecognizable. The old, timeless market by the lakeshore has been turned into a city park. The only thing that has not changed is the fish market. The stores selling fish have remained as they were a long time ago. They were and still are operated by the fishermen from the village Mavrovo. The city stadium is gone and in its place is a new, recently built square. Part of the square substitutes as a market a couple of times a week. The place is clean and neat and a city government building has been added to it. Thanks to the European Union no doubt.
The winding road along the coast has been widened, paved and crammed with café´s, taverns, restaurants and small shops. There are seventy Orthodox churches in the city, most of which are older that five hundred years and built Byzantine style. This makes the city an exquisite tourist attraction. At the end there is a small square and in front of it, standing high up on a monument, is a statue of Bishop Karavangelis. Painted on the chest of the statue in black paint is the word "executioner". Beside Karavangelis´s statue is a headless statue of General Van Fleet, the Unites States general who commanded the Greek government generals during the Greek Civil War. But that´s not all; there are also other surprises and skeletons in Kostur.
We ordered coffee at the café (built of wood and decorated with many items made of plastic) next to the lake.
"Two Turkish coffees please," I said to the waiter.
"If you want Turkish coffee, go to Turkey," he replied angrily; a pale looking young man possibly suffering from insomnia. "We only serve Greek coffee here," he added strongly as he swatted a fly on the table with a towel.
After we drank our "Greek" coffee and the free water offered at this café, we left and went to the City Centre.
There were many stores side by side at the Kostur Centre, exhibiting mostly fur in their display windows. The fur trade was the oldest trade in the region and only the people of Kostur had the right to practice it by decree from the Sultan. But in the last thirty years or so the fur trade was taken over by the surrounding villages and towns, mostly by Russians. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russians with big money (only they know where they got it) came to Kostur and the surrounding region and built shops and on them they hung billboards with the inscription "SHUBЫ" (sheaths, furs) and since then the famous and renowned Kostur fur traders have become Russian employees and wage earners.
Out of curiosity we entered one of the stores. We looked at the fur coats and admired them without touching but were surprised and astonished at their very high prices. The talkative clerk, a middle-aged man, followed us around explaining and praising the merchandise in an attempt to make a sale and when we stepped further away from the door, in an almost whispering voice, he asked in Macedonian: "Are you from Serbia?"
"No," I said. "Serbia is further up, to the north of where we come from."
"Oh…" he said.
"And you?" I asked
"I am from here, from Macedonia… Greece is further south…" he said quietly and with his hand pointed to the south.
When we exited the store he asked: "From which city are you…"
"We live in a city but we were born in a village here," I replied.
"Which one?" he asked.
I said, "Polianemon."
"I know it," he boasted. "Its old name is Krchishta. Am I right?"
"Yes you are right. And that´s where we are going," I replied.
"What will you be doing there? There is nothing there except wind after which the village got its new name!" he yelled out loud, stunned. "Nothing, believe me, there is nothing…"
"That´s okay Sir, then we will see nothing…" I answered.
"Χρηστε και Παναγια!..." (Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary) he said in Greek and crossed himself.
The once terrible, potholed and narrow road leading from Dolno Papratsko to Krchishta has now been widened and paved with asphalt. The road ended where the threshing fields once used to be. On our way we made a stop at a place called Vishomo. Close to there, where the land rises and widens, is a church and all around the church there is nothing, only emptiness. The village Krchishta used to occupy that emptiness. As I stared at the desolate space where my village used to be, I was overwhelmed with a certain sickness and chills ran down my spine. The village was here but now it´s gone, only its name remains, a name given to it a long time ago, a name that means the "crackle" of chestnuts. I remember the old people saying that the name Krchishta was given to the village a very long time ago.
As I recall, a story was told that went something like this: During the Ottoman War against the Poles, which took place in 1689, a Beg (Ottoman officer) distinguished himself as a good fighter during the attack and capture of the city Hochim, so the Sultan rewarded him by giving him five villages and their residents, houses and land. So this Beg, in order to enlarge his fields, ordered the villagers to destroy the chestnut groves and their homes and relocate to a sandy, barren and less productive place. There he ordered them to build new houses for themselves, a house for himself and a mosque. The villagers did as ordered and, in respect of God, would not destroy the village churches. So the only buildings left standing, as markers of where the villages once used to be, were the five churches: Sveta Petka, Sveti Atanas, Sveti Giorgi, Sveti Jovan and Sveti Ilia. These church buildings survived the test of time, rebellions and wars.
There was a grove of tall oak trees to the left of the road from where we were standing. "There," I said to my wife pointing at the oak trees, "is where the village Dolno Vishomo used to be and under the oaks was the church, Sveta Petka. We walked across the road to the oak grove and stood under its magnificent shade. Unfortunately there was nothing left of the old church, not even its foundation. The only things we found were a couple of rocks, some broken ceramic tiles, remnants of the old church and part of a burned candle stuck in the ground amongst the tiles. It was quiet in the grove except for the sounds made by the rustling leaves of the oak trees in a gentle breeze. A flock of ravens flew over us and disappeared beyond the forest. The sight gave me pain and chills. With a heavy breath we crossed ourselves and silently walked away and headed for my village.
The wide road ended where the village threshing yards used to be. To the left there was a wide metal door and behind it was a wide yard divided by a fence, behind which calves were mooing. There were many calves. On the opposite side was a house. A dog, tied to a post, was barking. A young man came out of the house. He greeted us in Greek and asked, "Are you looking for someone?"
"Yes…" I said, with tearing eyes as I looked over the entire yard…
"For who?" he asked.
I got a lump in my throat, my knees got weak and my chin began to tremble.
"My name is Lefteris. Please come in," he said inviting us inside the small house.
"First we will walk over to the elms," I said, "and then we will return…"
We left the car outside the farm (for fattening calves) and at a slow pace we walked on the street so that I could show my wife the village. After taking a few steps I closed my eyes to the emptiness, overgrown grass and weeds and in my imagination replaced them with the homes of the Nanovtsi, Damovtsi, Purdovtsi, Laskini, Popovtsi, Donovtsi, Liapovtsi, Pindzovtsi, Penovtsi, Shkoklovtsi, Trajkovci, Nakovtsi, Pandovtsi, Filiovtsi, Guliovtsi and other families. I imagined the fifty-four houses that existed here, in several rows, under whose roofs once lived over four hundred souls. I tried to imagine the feeling of the fifty or so other souls, who at the time were pechalbars (migrant workers) overseas, gone beyond the great waters, who never got a chance to return to see their homes and to visit with their families.
I spoke at great length, telling my wife about each house and the people who had lived in it, about the streets, about the time of the Greek Civil War during which forty-three people were mobilized from whom twenty-nine were killed. I told her about the fifty-four children that were taken to Eastern European countries and about the seven families who fled to Kostur and Rupishta and all the other families that were exiled and scattered around the world.
"Well," I said to her, "this emptiness was once a village and this void was once filled with life ..." "And here," I said, "where we now stand was the house where I was born…" "Here," I said, "was the large wooden door that was locked from the inside with a thick wooden lever. And there was the garden and behind it was the outdoor oven. Here is where the steps that led to the second floor used to be." "Here," I said, "is where my mother Fimka brought eight children into this world of whom three were given rifles, four were collected and sent to the Eastern European countries and one, the youngest, died in Albania. My brother, her third born son, left his soul in Gramos just before reaching his eighteenth birthday. So Fimka was left alone and, abroad where she lived, every night she dreamt the same dream - that some day soon all her children would again be together and have a meal at the same dinner table..."
My thoughts had taken me back to a time gone by, but then, for a moment I returned to reality, to the emptiness which again reawakened more memories, seeming like they were tied together by a chain, flooding back, pushing, scratching, pounding, squeezing, burning and creating sorrow. To calm my spirit I kicked some soil with my foot and out came a broken ceramic tile and underneath it, in the ashes, was a broken stone. I picked it up and blew away the ashes with my warm breath and then placed it near my heart but I could not feel my heart beating, it felt as if it too had turned to stone....
I took my photo album out of my backpack; a photo-album to which I had been adding old photographs year after year and from the photographs life began to sprout. Who were those people in the old photographs? What had dhappened to them? Who went where and who returned from where? Where are they today and what happened to them in the past?
Where!
The images of the people in the photographs seem to float, to come alive, to reflect on the life which now appears to me only in spirit and in shadows. Through the photographs I was able to see the people with their joy, sorrow and pain of what once was. What once was, is now gone. The families are gone. The houses are gone. Everything is gone. Only the ghosts and the shadows of the ghosts remain...
I look at the images in the photographs and imagine the people leaving, taking the road to banishment.
To what country did they go?
To what unknown latitudes of the world did time take them?
When did they leave?
Under what circumstances did they leave?
Did they travel one behind the other?
Did they leave quickly, en masse?
Time…
What is time and what are people in time?
Time kills.
Time wounds.
Time heals.
Time forgets.
Time leaves no footprints.
Time destroys.
Time is a killer.
Is time a witness?
Time passes.
Time brings concerns.
Time remembers.
Time tells.
Time verifies.
Time accepts and rejects.
It is said at this and this time.
During the time of great upheaval.
During the time of war.
During the time of so and so plagues.
We are here. At the empty, naked, scarred place.
Time has passed, it has expired.
And here, now, at this time, today, at this moment of time, we are in a moment of time.
We are at the time divided between now and yesterday.
Time…
Whose and what kind of time?...
We are here in time past, time without people and without homes; we are here in time present without life, only empty fields and flocks of crows.
Time.
Whose time?
What kind of time?
Time for what?
Time measured with what?
Time marked with what and how?
Time lost.
Time brings.
Time brings what?
Time of happiness.
Time of hunger.
Time of fear.
For victims, lies and curses.
Time for cursing, lies and betrayals.
Time for cursing and waiting.
Time compressed between times.
What kind?
Time for remembering.
Remembering what?
Time for existence, time for endurance, time for safeguarding time.
Here time was measured with time for digging foundations, for carving stones, for building walls, for laying roof tiles, for plowing and sowing, for living, for reaping crops, for celebrations, for holidays, for growing and aging, for happiness and sadness, for life…
After that time came time for war. It was a time of bad times, a time of great promises and many lies. It was time to separate the children from their mothers, it was time for eradication. It was a time of silence of the church bells. It was a time without faith in God.
Where did time stop?
Now there is only time for recollection of time past so that time past is not forgotten. Here now there is only now.
Will it last only that much, as long as we remain bowed over the burned out places and foundation remains of our homes?
Time remains in us forever preserved and baked in our memory.
Time over which the fog and dust of forgetfulness whirls and glides.
It is time for the fog to lift.
It is time for the dust that rests in time to be blown off.
It is time for ripening.
It is time to change time.
By Petre Nakovski
Translated and edited by Risto Stefov
Other articles by Risto Stefov:
Free electronic books by Risto Stefov available at:
Our Name is Macedonia
You can contact the author at [email protected]
Print Email
Risto Stefov
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