The Refugees

Some of the shepherds brought sheep closer to the camp. The fog had lifted and the sun's rays lightened the helpless country, as if it wanted to disperse evil spirits. Suddenly, the camp reached out loud cries. Everyone looked in that direction. Approaching the camp and crying was seventeen-year-old Stoya, granddaughter of uncle Marko, well-developed, light-brown girl, who all living in the camp loved and appreciated for her good soul and nobility. Her flushed face was pale, scratched and bloody, shirt and colorful blouse ripped, her lush brown hair was streaked with straws, chaff and mud. She was depressed and was stumbling, beating her chests with her clenched fists. She was sadly whining and calling his father Petar, who is rumored to be alive and to be located at Salonika Front: - Daddy, my dear daddy, where have you been?! For whom do you fight!? Why you left me alone in the jaws of the enemy. Avenge me daddy, me and all of us who suffer like wild animals, weak and defenseless. Coming soon were other women, all wailing, broken and dejected. On each one, there were noticeable signs of struggle and violence. They were torn, scratched and black-blue in parts. Others were comforting them and spoke that they could not do nothing in that situation. But nothing could calm and comfort their broken souls and disturbed honor. The most disturbed and depressed of all the women, was Staniya. She thought of her Stevan, what will he say when he hears of shame and embarrassment, when he comes back. When she saw the knife, which was last night used by Vasiliye to slaughter the sheep, she grab it, and like a she-wolf ran towards the house of the torture. Many people from the camp ran to her, in order to prevent her causing even greater evil. The first to come to her was Yovan, thirteenth year old boy. He put his arms around her waist, saying in pleading voice: - No aunty, for God's sake, enough with this all. They will kill us all! Other came along and surrounded her, and took the knife out of her hands. She slumped to the ground, pale and exhausted. Tears streamed down her pale face, and her lips trembled as if she wanted to say something. But the words could not come out of her mouth. The injured elderly were raising themselves and looked sadly at the scene. No comforting word could come to their minds. What would be comforting to say here? The only thing to be done was to immediately move on from that place, and as far as possible, from the Bulgarian torturers.