The Knock

Anica (front row left) with her family before the war. 

I awake in a startle to the nearby sound of knuckles on glass. It is not a loud noise - only the shallowest of sleepers would hear it. I slide out from under my warm quilt and silently enter the kitchen of my sister’s home. Through the window Jernej stands. Sweat glistens at his temple, his breath fogs the cold glass.  I open the window, the air bites through the warmth of the room. ‘We must all leave now, get your family and go- the Partisans are close’. And with those few, frantic words he is gone, making his way invisibly through the night to warn others in danger. I stand there unmoving, the still open window and the reality of Jernej’s words cover my arms in goosebumps and tears well in my eyes.  I close the window in a fury, the tears dry before they have a chance to fall.

I take the stairs to the bedrooms two at a time. I have to wake my sister and her husband, collect our things and leave home - and we don’t have much time to do it.

I had prepared myself for this, envisioned this happening hundreds of times over the past two weeks. Waiting for it to happen - praying it never would.

I swing the door open to wake them and find them already collecting their belongings, the things they just could not bear to leave behind. They are silent, silhouettes packing by the glow of the moon. They had been waiting for the knock as well.

I quickly turn and leave towards my room,

Just two weeks earlier I kept my bag packed by the door - ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I slept fully dressed every night – two nights I even slept with my shoes on my feet.

But days and nights passed without event and the Americans were closing in on the Partisans. We heard their airplanes rumble over top every day, their Tommy guns within earshot. I believed the Americans would save us from Tito. The fear of being forced to flee lessened and I began to take items out of my rucksack and not return them.

And so tonight I find my satchel empty but for three pairs of underwear. I throw in a sweater, wool stockings, and 2 wool skirts. It is not hard to choose what to bring. I own very little. The Partisans having already burned down my family home in one of their revenge night raids, most of my belongings burning up with it.

I turn to leave my room and find Maria and Matija in the door. Their faces look too old for their ages. My own sadness was shadowed heavily by my sister’s. I had been hardened by the war, had lost so much already. But she had remained somewhat unscathed, protected by the luxury of a living husband at home.

Three of us leave the house silently and unseen through the back door - a knowing neighbour is a dangerous thing. 

We hurry to my brother’s house. Understandably, no one in his house answers our knocks on the back door. Knocks at the door in the night usually led to family members disappearing for months at a time. The fortunate ones returning emaciated, scarred. But most never came back home.

We throw pebbles and twigs at the bedroom window in vain. The house remains dark and still. Too much time has passed and we cannot wait any longer. We must move on. Perhaps they have left already. Perhaps we will see them on the road.

We take the main road out of Cerknica and as dawn breaks we join the hundreds of fleeing farmers and peasants. Many loaded down with rucksacks, the luckier families have horsecarts or mules. My satchel suddenly feels light with the absence of any food or drink. Those of us on foot travel faster but all I can see ahead and behind me is the sad line of shuffle dark blotches forming a squiggly line through the countryside. The sight of a countryside in exodus. 

Families and their loaded carts trying to make their way to the safety across the Austrian border May 1945