Chapter 3 - Pray for Us
The women wait until dark to come out of their shelters hidden deep in the forest. Their children come with them. No one is concerned with the old tradition of sending children to bed at an early hour. They can’t sleep anyway. The sound of artillery fire roaring through the night makes sure of that.
The satchels slung over the women’s shoulders are heavy, and the women bend under the weight. Water, bread, cheese wrapped in torn bits of cloth, some apples if lucky, and needles and thread are packed with thick woollen vests and scraps of firewood and kindling. Utility knives, with heavy fixed blades running about four inches in length, hang from their belts, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. These weapons used to be protection against wolves and the occasional bear. The animals were attracted in the past by the herds of sheep driven by shepherds to graze the rich pastures along the base of the mountains. In those days, huge white čuvače flanked the sheep. These fierce guard dogs, deeply loyal to their shepherds and livestock, profoundly gentle and patient with their keepers’ families, were bred to protect grazing animals from predators. Their name, meaning “to listen,” is a tribute to their keen ability to make decisions independent of the shepherd when faced with imminent danger. Many sheep, and shepherds, have been saved by these fearless warriors.
The sheep and dogs are gone now. The shepherds traded their staffs for rifles and homemade bombs and, leaving behind their farms and families, disappeared into the mountains. Now, along with factory workers, tradesmen and villagers, they’re resistance fighters, striking from these strongholds against the enemy who has taken their homeland.
The children, sleepy and chilled by the night air, straggle behind their mothers. Their arms are wrapped tightly around balls of yarn and knitting needles. At least the yarn provides some warmth.
The travellers approach a small clearing. One of the women eyes the distance back to the forest. In the past, resting too close to the woods left them vulnerable to the wild predators. But the wolves and bears that once lurked there are mostly gone. Much of their hunting ground has been destroyed. Tank and artillery battles have levelled great swathes of woodland, and bombers have decimated the farms and villages. The danger, and the reason the women carry knives, now comes from what hunts in the open fields beyond the forest. Women and children left behind by their men are easy prey for enemy soldiers. Now the forest is a place of safety, and the clearing must be close to it if those soldiers approach.
The women let their heavy bags slide from their shoulders and gather rocks to build a small firepit. The children fling down the yarn and knitting needles. To be free of their dank forest shelters, to run in the open air and not be ordered to stay quiet in the corners of their huts, banish the last traces of sleepiness. At last, they can play like they used to, before everything changed. Their mothers may fear the open setting, but the children need a few hours of freedom. The night is safer than day for that.
The women open their satchels. They take out the firewood and kindling and stack them carefully in the newly made firepit. One woman, her long auburn hair braided underneath her headscarf, takes her knife and strikes it against a bit of flint. Sparks fly. The other women watch nervously. The wood is poor, just splinters of trees shattered by shells. The women have no axes to chop trees for proper firewood. Those tools are now weapons wielded by their men.
The woman strikes the flint again. Sparks dance around the wood but nothing more. A spark must take, they worry. They have vital work to do tonight and the air is growing colder. The children must have warmth.
The woman settles closer to the ground, giving her more strength in her arm. She strikes again and again, sparks racing from her hands, until she must stop to rest. Her companions hold their breath and wait.
Suddenly, a thin curl of smoke wafts up from the stacked wood. Another woman tears her scarf from her head and waves it carefully over the smoke. The wisps follow the current and, at last, draw up a few licks of flame. There will be warmth and a bit of cheering light tonight.
The women place their headscarves on the ground and unpack their bags. They spread the food on the scarves, breaking off pieces of bread with their hands and slicing chunks of cheese with their knives. They put the heavy woollen vests and sewing items next to the food. Finally, they go in search of the yarn and knitting needles scattered aimlessly by their children.
Returning to the fire, they wrap their long skirts around their legs to protect themselves from the cool grass, and sit cross-legged in a circle.
The children, tired again and hungry, come to the fire. They grab the cheese and bread and curl up next to their mothers. The women, having stretched out the strands of yarn, begin knitting them into sleeves and collars for the vests. Once sewn onto the tunics, they’ll be spirited to the resistance fighters as much-needed military jackets.
For a moment, the only sounds are friendly: the crackle of fire, the rapid clicking of knitting needles and gentle voices in conversation. The children, bellies full and warmed by the fire, are soothed by these reminders of what was once home.
The peace is violently shattered as the battle in the valley below resumes. The rhythmic thud of the field guns is followed seconds later by high-pitched screams as the shells plunge toward their targets.
The children cover their ears but don’t cry. They’re used to this way of life. They’re frightened, but tears won’t end the war.
The woman with the auburn hair pulls her son and daughter close to her. They’re so young, she thinks, stroking their upturned faces. Her son was just a couple of years into school when his father joined the resistance and the family fled into the forest. Her daughter, a few years younger, has never been to school. What terrible future awaits them, she agonizes. She has never felt such helplessness and rage.
My mother pauses. Her gaze wanders. She’s once again the small girl at the firepit in the clearing, I muse.
“Was it very loud?” I ask.
“Mmm?”
“The artillery. Was it loud?”
“Yes.”
“Were you scared?”
“Your grandmother sang to calm everyone,” she replies.
My grandmother had pursued classical training in voice, ballet and piano, but as a deep, expressive mezzo-soprano, singing was her passion. Married at 18, a mother by 20, a career in opera was always going to be a dream in those days. She devoted her talent to charity work instead. In peacetime, her performances raised countless funds for her city and church. When war broke out, she raised money to train pilots.
“What did she sing to calm everyone?” I asked.
“Ave Maria. It was the song she was always asked to perform at her concerts.”
Hail Mary, Mother of God… Pray, pray for us
My grandmother taught my mother and uncle many things about survival, resilience, hope and courage during the years of war, and those of exile and hardship that followed. I remember a woman of great beauty, gentleness and spirit. She died, aged 58, as a result of a car accident not far from where I live now. Through the Robins Hollow Charity Fund, her example and love of music encourage children and youth today, as they did my mother and uncle, and continue her legacy of compassion and generosity toward others.
Creativity changes lives. Your donation to the Robins Hollow Charity Fund helps children and youth discover their potential and grow in confidence, hope and success. Thank you for your support.
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