FIRST PRIZE

THE STAR

Dedicated to Avram Romano

The last rabbi of Bitola

We had six synagogues in Bitola. I was only going for the big holidays while my brother and my father were going always. For a long time I was involved in the organization Hashomer Hatsair, and there at the lectures of Leon Kamhi, a friend of my father, I would transform into ear, dreamed of leaving for Palestine, dreamed of leaving by boat, how I say goodbyes to my family and friends. I was sixteen years old. On the day my mother died, my friend Raphael gave me the book Remnants of Paradise. I am giving it to you as a souvenir, and on the nights when we sat at home by the fireplace, sipping tea, my father enjoyed telling us about family history. He said that, when a person has the hardest time, he goes back to his memories and from there, he draws strength from the past, so that he can move forward. Those days were really hard, there was unrest among the neighbors in the Jewish Quarter, we were all scared, our movement was very difficult, we had to wear a yellow star, Bulgarian police was constantly identifying us. The more the repression on us grew, the longer my father's stories were, running away into the memories as a safe haven, drinking tea sip by sip on cold evenings, resting his elbows on the table, and diving his gaze into the floor, staring into the emptiness. From time to time, with some melancholy in his voice, a few quiet words could be heard from the evening prayer Shema Izrael Adonaj Elohinu, Adonaj Ehad and then silence again, followed by the slow sipping from the team. I read the book by Raphael until he interrupted me again to tell me about my grandfather Avram and his shops, about the trade before the war, before the new borders were created, and before the road from Bitola to Thessaloniki was closed. Our days were spent in anticipation and fear, and when a man is afraid, when he is in a panic, he seeks to look into the unknown, he wants to know the future, he seeks ways to pass the fear he feels to someone, and that is why we started praying, we wanted to hand over this unbearable burden to God, what befalls us is God's will, my brother said, or God's punishment for our sins, and he would ask my father what does he think, but he was silent.

The lights were on all night. The elders talked anxiously, what would a man do in these difficult times for us, except to hope. There was talk that they would take us somewhere, but no one knew where, there was talk that they would round us up and take us to labor camps. They will not take you, my father told me, you are little, he petted my head and grabbed me by the collars of the coat with both hands, covered my left side with the right side and said hold it like this, and he covered my star. My brother Kalmi was a very modest boy, often silent, he could shut himself in his room and read for hours from the sidur, he went down the stairs and stood next to us. Today I will not sleep, he said, I will pray until it is late. I went out, and across the bridge that separates the Jewish Quarter from the city center, I came to the house of Maria Sekulova, my love. Because we were hiding from her parents, sometime after midnight, I quietly sneaked up to her house and up the stairs, silently climbing to the roof. We had our place on the roof and spent the nights here. Even before dawn, I would usually go out quietly, Maria comes out after me, she says, I'm tired of hiding already, I kiss her in front of the bridge and she goes back home, I continue across the bridge to our neighborhood, the city is completely blocked, the access to our house is forbidden from all directions, police, they are coming after me, Maria turns back and sees that I am returning to her, everything is blocked I tell her, and I see that in her eyes she feels my fear, stay with us tonight, he says to me and pulls me towards her, she pulls me by the right hand and from the left side of the collar of my coat the star is revealed. The star, she tells me, cover it – like a lightning that passed through me, I immediately cover it, I have no other choice, the policemen speak loudly and laugh, they cross the bridge, they pass by us uninterestedly, I will spend the night again at Maria.

At dawn, voices and cries could be heard. The crowd was coming towards us, wouldn't they just gather the old people for labor camps, the thought kills me, and here they are all, including the children. I feel I am covered in cold sweat, I stand still, stiff, frozen, what is the life of loners worth, I think to myself, when you have nothing of your own in the world. They took the Jews in a train and transported them to Skopje, Maria's father was talking to the shopkeeper next to his house. They will surely return, I was saying to myself, this war cannot last forever. Everyone was gone. Without greeting each other. One month later, Maria died of bronchopneumonia on my hands. I was left completely alone in the world. The only thing I had from home was a black coat with a yellow star. The memories to which my father was returning to in order to escape the current suffering became a nightmare for me. I have no memories, everything has been erased and forgotten, because everything is so painful, unbearably painful and deadly painful.

Two years later, on a stand at the green market, I found the book that Raphael gave me. The seller said to me to take it, you can give how much you have. I did not have much to give him. Remnants of paradise, I see it, I cannot touch it, pieces in heaven, it includes my brother Kalmi, my father, Rafael, my uncle Isaac, my mother, the whole neighborhood, the whole city, all the cities and countries, my head is spinning. I will take it, I tell him and I paid him as much as he asked. He happily turns around the stand, I am squeezing the book in my hands, I cry and I run home. The memories are written in this book. I run home. In my empty home, which has already been inhabited by unknown newcomers. In my home-less.

Mihajlo Sviderski

 

SECOND PRIZE

Ja vjeni dies

10 March 1943. 16 hours and 45 minutes, Bitola

The message came from Sofia. It read: "Prepare the excursion tonight, at dawn, by train to Skopje."

11 March 1943. 5 minutes after midnight. The Jewish ghetto was blocked.

10 March 1943. Morning. 8 hours and 20 minutes. In the house of Zakai the merchant there was a confusion, happiness, anticipation of the new family member which is about to arrive who had just arrived. Behira, his wife was giving birth to their third child. At the same time in the next house another innocent soul was rushing to see the light of day. It was the first child of Jovan and Donka.

They were born almost at the same time. Different, but connected with threads that nothing could break. Although they were of different faiths, their destiny was written in the stars.

Because Zakai was a respected person in the city under Pelister, late in the afternoon of the same day, he heard the news that came from Sofia. He knew for a long time that bad and difficult days were coming for his people. And he was ready. Everything valuable that his family owned was buried in a place that no one could find. And the place was known only to another person in whom he had complete confidence. Sometime before midnight, two silhouettes found themselves quietly, almost silently, in the backyard of the house. They were waiting for someone. With every little noise, their blood froze, forgetting to flow through their veins. Two silhouettes also fluttered silently through the small wooden door that was the only entrance and exit to the neighboring house. Behira was holding her newborn baby in her arms and was silently shedding tears down her face in seeking refuge for her son. She approached the woman and said in a quiet voice:

• Donka, dear sister. I am leaving with you one part of me, let him be your son. I named him Gill. It means ‘joy’ in Hebrew. Keep him as your child. May it bring joy to all of us. And she away gave the child, she tore him from herself and buried him in the deepest part of the soul. She handed her a larger bundle. Hide the things in the bundle. When he grows up you will give them to him. You will tell him. The tears did not stop. And how can they stop. She is leaving her child. The meat that came off her just a few hours ago.
• Wait - let me see his little face again. My dear, my beloved – she cried and caressed him. Tell him he has my eyes, tell him that... tell him we loved him so much. Tell him how they expelled us. We went on a journey from which there is no way back. It is not our fault.

Zakai turned to Jovan and said in a determined deep voice:

• Jovan, brother. I leave everything that is mine to you, I entrust it to you. To you and Gill. If I do not return... and maybe I will return... I do not know. Still... You know the place. Goodbye.
• Wait, what about the girls???
• They are safe too. There are only four of us – my father, my mother, Behira and I.
• God be with you and bless you - said Donka and turned her head to the side. She did not want her tears to be seen. She wanted them to be strong.
• Goodbye Zakai, my friend. I will keep your legacy.

Silent sobs, sighs, hugs, handshakes, torn souls. With a hope of seeing each other again. Behira did not stop crying. She looked up at the sky. It started to rain frozen a frozen rain. Blizzard. And her tears froze. She had to be as cold as ice. No feelings. To forget the children, to forget herself.

• Vjeni males, vjeni males, dies… males.

Donka and Jovan hurriedly slipped through the door. They put the things in a secret place. They laid the child next to their daughter. They looked at each other.

• We now have two children. Daughter and son. Twins. Only we will know the secret and carry this heavy burden. Go now, tell everyone that Donka gave birth to twins.

Five minutes after midnight, screams, crying, wailing began to be heard. They broke into Jewish houses. They treated people like cattle, dragged them, yelling at them. And the people, confused, did not know what was happening to them. They were kicked out on the street. They lined them up in a column. So their yellow stars can be seen. With one suitcase in each hand. They started a journey with no return. In uncertainty, in a new life – inanimate life. The city under Pelister was crying. The sky was crying too. The morning was sleet. The cobblestones were slippery. The people were heading towards the train station. They loaded them in wagons. Empty ones used for cargo, for goods. Sixty people inside each. Dead silence now reigned in the Jewish quarter. The wind was blowing and he was carrying the pieces of paper across the cobblestones, pieces of documents and some de-stitched yellow star that had torn off as they left. A song was heard from somewhere: Ja vjeni dies, vjeni males. The turntable was playing and repeating the same verses. It was probably scratched at the moment. How could it??? This was a prediction that days of misfortune were indeed coming. Days as hard as mountains. Two or three years have passed. War, poverty, fear. The long-awaited freedom has come but life was far from normal. The children grew up together and were brought up in the spirit of Christianity. Neither Donka nor Jovan had the courage to tell their son the truth. They had given him another name. They had to keep the legacy entrusted to them. They waited for years, days... Time passed and no one from Gill's family returned. It was more than obvious that no one survived.

10 March 1961. The children celebrated their 18th birthday. Coming of age. The time had come for them to tell their son the truth. But how to tell him? How will he react? As a gift, they gave him the bundle that Behira entrusted to Donka 18 years ago.

• My son, in this bundle is the truth about you. You are our legacy – Jovan said and with strong emotions and many tears told him the truth about his origin.

They slipped through the same door that brought new life to the child. They passed through the large courtyard and came in front of the entrance to the large abandoned house. His parents' home. She gave him the key. Gill was in disbelief. A happy smile played on his lips.

• My father. I somehow knew in my soul that there was something strange in my life. This house has always attracted me. As if it was part of me and I was part of her. Many times I was coming here in secret and listened to the silence and sadness with which it was wrapped. It was as if the house was whispering something to me. As if it wanted to tell me. Thank you.
• Son, there is something else. Your name is Gill. In Hebrew, in your language, it means happiness. It was given to you by your mother Behira. And it really brought us happiness in the family. And happiness was on your side. You stayed alive.

They entered the house. It smelled of memories, of happiness, of misfortune. A family portrait was hung on the wall in the large living room, although more hidden, depicting an older couple, a younger couple and two girls. Gill family. His roots that he will preserve and continue.

• I have sisters? Where are they?
• Only your father knew where they were. Jovan shook his head. If they are alive, they will surely come. They will find you. Zakai, my friend! I saved your legacy. Be at rest.

Quiet evening. Two candles lit for the Sabbath. A full table, a full soul. Two dear people. The sisters. They were dressed festively. There was no end to the happiness. Gill got up from his chair and said his first kidush with a wine in his hand.

Vjeni jamin tovim.

Svetlana Papachek

 

THIRD PRIZE

THE BROOMSTICK MAN

 All people are born to be clean, meticulous, to have clean shoes, clean homes, clean tables, clean songs, clean cheeks, clean crafts, clean bills and clean siblings – my great-grandfather used to tell me as he was turning it over, shaking it and was double-checking, for the last time, the new broom, before handing it over to the customer.

- Just like this, like these trees, do you see them? Like these thin stalks tied with a thread that is thorn, they should be together, fastened to each other. Only then will the world shine. Scatter them, separate each of them, it will hardly be possible for them to do something, either to grieve or to show sadness... in that case even a magic seed shall not help, my dear brother – he would stretch a smile on his beard even when the cloud would lean on the open window of this store-workshop.

My great-grandfather was appreciated as much as the most respected lawyers, bankers, merchants, artists in the city, in the area and even beyond, even more than them, although, as it can be seen from the photo, he was not dressed in a dignified suit that should include a dark suit, white shirt and a silver vest, but in garment that gave him lightness and enthusiasm in the work. However, he had something that the rest of the guild did not have, both older and more experienced, and younger and more agile. The paths of the housewives and the owners were licking the cobblestone from the tethering towards and from his shop, even though there were others in the neighborhood and in the town who were versatile in the craft. In each house, besides the few active brooms that were for the alley, for the yard, for the backs, for the houses, worn out and newer, one could find at least two or three unused ones, bought right from him and to be available in case there is a need for ‘em.

If the broom's place is behind the door, she is still the watchdog in the home. Some are the days for cleaning, others when the housewives are sick, so the floor is full of thorns. The floors are the faces of the family happiness, as my great-grandfather believed, and regretted not being able to weave even more brooms for the people that live further away. If you are building, demolishing or a lot of garbage accumulates in your house, start putting an order one by one. Then, as if for trouble, all the garbage will come out in front of your eyes – everything you’ve put under the carpet I do not know when... But, have no fear, do not run away – strike! Start from somewhere and, little by little, your path will be cleared. For he who does not keep clean around himself, has no purity in himself. The inside and the outside are connected, one cleans the other, and other cleans the one. It is important that the approach to the one is clean, and they will find the passage between them on their own.

 Apart from being a great philosopher without a diploma, my great-grandfather was also a great lover, but not a lover with many lovers, but with a chat and a great desire for everything. Whoever sweep – thinks of no evil because you sing when you sweep – he was lucid and funny. When he was selling the brooms, he was also giving a small paper with a Sephardic wise thought and with a name of a song that goes together with that broom, and that delighted the agile owners. As soon as they started to sweep, the pulse above the palm in which they were squeezing the handle started playing in the rhythm of the song. The song flowed from partially through the throat and partially through the body, which grabbed the host's attention who would stare at the bent body, and the broom would often ended up beside the wide bed. "Come on" were the wordless words of the beard raised to the bedroom door, and far away, in the bazaar, my great-grandfather happily caressed the aphrodisiac in a form of small sticks that work wonders: throw them in the fire – they burn, and behold, the fire creates and keeps the embers in houses.

Five in an hour! It is the smile from the photo in which he hugs the freshly woven brooms with long handles with the same gentle firmness and endless mercy with which he took the brittle arms, legs and heads of his five children, running to him in his arms – some straight, some standing on hands and the head upside-down, in the twilight as he parted from the knitted sandals in the workshop and was in a hurry to rest on the wide sofa in the living room. In a year, over ten thousand! The eyes of the intentional or unintentional guest in the city were staring with golden admiration not because of the brooms, but because of the tens of thousands of different papers woven into them and given to the customers. Because a broom is sold and a heart is given as a gift.

My great-grandfather who was making brooms produced so many of them, and so many houses shone with his smile intertwined in them, so many suns shone in the winter on the verandas, that he collected everything in knowledge about them, but he failed to predict the operation ‘broom’. It never occurred to him how someone might want to sweep the people from the Earth, regardless whether they are Jews, or Roma... they are not crumbs, so you can collect them in a garbage dump and throw them away... They must not be a speckle of dust or a thorn in the eye – he was creating thoughts while his gaze through the bars of the train car for cattle crowded with people stuck to the thorns in nature.

When they picked him up for the train, his palms were full of metal stalks, so he just crumpled them in his pocket. He sucked one of those stalks all night was squeezing the desire for some kind of life from the taste. The long-awaited morning did not diminish the crying of a boy, so the sly man came up with an idea how to calm that boy down. There was no place to stand and breathe, but he skillfully and slowly moved his knotted fingers to show him how to knit a broom. Then he gave him the broom from Palche, which was the most miniature broomstick woven in their world and in the world of fairy tales. When the child held out his hand, my great-grandfather smiled for the last time. Get it and get the hell outta here! You are neither a witch nor a witcher. Let this be your magic broom and magic flute, let it take you as far as possible, to safety!

In the end, my great-grandfather was placed in a dump, burned like dirty poisonous waste, turned into a black dust, partly blown away by the wind, partly washed away by the water. And the little broomstick worked secretly, it managed to sweep away the gaze of the guard, to get under the hole in the fence and do the broomstick job with the new boss, on whose face, years later, some recognized the most beautiful smile of the broomstick man – the smile of freedom.

My great-grandfather the broomstick man did not bequeath his blood to me, but the message he wrote that morning to the boy: He who does not go his own way will not have good days.

- And what would be the best song that goes along with this broomstick? – was the question I was asking my grandfather when I was little.

- The song of life, my dear boy. And the broomstick men also told something else: If you want to light all the rooms, both the left and the right pre-front and the front, including the entrance, the hall, the windows, the stairs, the cellars, the ceiling and the chimney of the heart – believe me, there is no better broom than the forgiveness!

Габриела Стојаноска-Станоеска