Blood for the Freedom

This story occurred during the Second Balkan War in the summer of 1913.

My great-grandfather participated in the war.

The cause of the war was the dispute among the members of the Balkan League over the distribution of the lands taken from the Ottomans during the First Balkan War.

Pirin Macedonia or Bulgarian Macedonia is the third-biggest part of the geographical region of Macedonia, today in southwestern Bulgaria. This region coincides with the borders of the Blagoevgrad Province, where my hometown is situated.

***

July 15, 1913

My dearest Kalina, my beloved wife, it pains me deeply that I had to leave so suddenly and abandon you—alone with our little daughter. Such are the times we live in, Kalina—there is no peace, no rest. I could not stay home and watch my brothers die for Bulgaria, fighting to free our land. You know I couldn't.

It must be hard for you there, alone in our house, with no one close to help. I know you have only me since you followed me, leaving your village behind to come to Macedonia for our love.

And for that same love, I came to fight, Kalina. How else could I go on living? I no longer want us to be slaves, Kalina. To be trampled by Turkish aghas, murdered without trial, robbed, with our women and daughters violated...

I cannot endure this any longer, Kalina.

Forgive me for leaving you all alone and setting off.

I know you came to this distant valley because of me. I know your Thracian soul longs for your homeland... You love Thrace, and you miss it.

But you loved me more, my sweet soul.

You are brave. You are strong. Though still so young, barely more than a lasse... You believed in me. You followed me, giving me your pure soul. And your pure maiden body.

I will remember it for all eternity, my dear Kalina...!

Your pure love rebirthed me, saved me, made me a better man, and gave me strength.

And later, when I fell from the roof and broke my leg—you gave me strength again. With those delicate, fragile hands, you lifted me, with your small, slender body, you held me up until I could walk again.

And even now, crippled, you still love me. You still look at me with tenderness and hold me close to your heart.

Thank you, Kalina.

***

July 16, 1913

It’s scorching here, Kalina, unbearable... The summer sun burns us. Not a single cloud in the sky. And my lame leg aches terribly. But don’t think I’m complaining, my love. I write so I don’t think too much. And one day, if I survive, if I return to you when this fratricidal war is over, I will read it all to you—so you know how much I missed you and what it was like here.

It is hard, but we are all determined not to abandon these hills. This is Bulgarian land now; it is ours. We will not return it to the enemy. We won it with blood, and with blood, we shall defend it. May God grant that we keep it for our children—to be born and grow up free, not bowing to hateful tyrants as we have...

At least we have water now, for we found a source. And the pines—bless the pines!—shelter us from yesterday’s heat. It is still stifling, but at least the pines give us shade...

I am grateful to my Father for letting me learn to read and write... so that I can write this to you.

Long ago, Grandfather used to scold Father for sending me to school instead of having me tend the livestock. But Father was right when he always said:

"We need light—light! And what greater light than knowledge? It gives us clarity of sight. It is strength. It shows us the way and makes us wiser. So, Dincho, my son—learn! Learn to write your letters. Learn to count well..."

Father was right, Kalina, my love. I learned to count and write, and later, it helped me in trade—with the accounts, with everything—knowing what goods I had, how many, how much I paid, and how much to sell them for.

I promised you—I will teach you to read and write, too, when I return.

There is still so much I have not done—so much I have sworn to do. That is why, if I must, I will clench my soul between my teeth and not let it fly off to the heavens.

Pray for me, Kalina, my soul, my love… Pray that God spares me—that He spares you and our child too. For if I perish… if I die here, in this ancient forest, who, Kalina, will care for you both with our daugter?

Who will protect you, my heart?

I do not fear the bullet for my own sake, Kalina, but for yours.

Ah, my heart, it begins again. I hear gunfire in the distance, coming closer.

Here comes our lieutenant.

It is time to steel myself, Kalina, and grip my rifle!

Pray for me, my love.

***

July 17, 1913

The black night has passed, and Kalina I look eastward at dawn. The sky blushes pink, and I am at peace, knowing we held the forest and these hills for another day.

This damn leg hurts unbearably. I want to groan every time I move, but I grit my teeth—I will shatter them with the strain if I must—but I cannot show weakness here, among the men. Sweat drips from my forehead, down my chest, down my back... from the pain, not just the heat. At least the nights are cool, soft, and quiet—but not peaceful.

There is no peace here, my heart.

It is as if tension lingers in the air. A fear that feels alive. As if it breathes.

Yesterday, the lieutenant came to us, the simple soldiers, spoke with us, ate with us—dry bread and white cheese, drinking water from our flasks. Whatever we had, he ate. Not a word of complaint. He is a good man. Young, but wise and brave. Even bold. He always rides at the front, ahead of everyone. He does not hide from enemy bullets. He gives us strength, teaches us courage...

Praise him for what he is, though he is likely younger than me. He knows we are ordinary men, not trained soldiers like him, and that only love for our land brought us here. We are not heroes, but ready to fall here rather than surrender these lands. We will not live under tyranny again.

I hear his horse—he rides toward us again. And behind him, the gunfire echoes.

The day begins, my heart, and it begins early.

My dearest, Kalina!

I will love you forever, my beautiful one.

***

Dincho was wounded in the final battle for the "Predela" area. The Bulgarians held the vital pass, and on the same day, July 17, 1913, an armistice was signed.

At dawn, just as the last battle began, Dincho was shot in the shoulder by an enemy bullet while rushing to help his lieutenant, who commanded their unit. The lieutenant's foot became tangled in his stirrups, and he risked injury or even death from the fall. Dincho saw his plight and ran to free him from the stirrups. While doing so, he was wounded.

Dincho’s life hung by a thread due to severe blood loss, but in the end, he survived.

For his heroic act, the lieutenant gifted him his black stallion—the very horse that had nearly cost him his life, had it not been for Dincho’s swift intervention.