One Sunday morning in 1879 [actually 
        November 1878] father left home very early in order to be in time for 
        the first church service.  Nearing a square he was surprised to see 
        a crowd of armed men who told him to take his family and run to the 
        mountains, since a big force of "Bashi-bazouks" (irregular Turkish 
        soldiers) was approaching, killing everybody on their way.
        
        
        
        
        
        
        Father 
        took my younger brother in his arms, mother held her three-week baby and 
        told me to follow, holding her skirt, and thus we started running toward 
        the mountains. Although the silence was almost complete, we saw many 
        people running, as we did, for their safety.  I felt sleepy and 
        tired from the very beginning, stumbled and fell down, but was 
        immediately up again and running uphill as in a nightmare.  
        
        
        Thus we ran many hours, until finally we stopped at a place where 
        immediately I fell asleep to wake up only the next morning and see the 
        sun pouring through the trees on a miserable crowd of silent men, women 
        staring at nothing, and children whimpering for the hurts received from 
        stumbling and falling during their flight. 
        
        
        We stayed in the mountains for two days during which time the Turks had 
        sacked the town and killed many of those who had not succeeded in 
        escaping.  Father lost all his movable property, but that was 
        easily forgotten since none of the family had lost his life.  After 
        several months order was restored and life resumed its usual course for 
        most of the families. 
        
        
        The flight of the Stephanov family to safety must have been an 
        often-repeated family story.  Katarina’s younger brother, Professor 
        Constantine Stephanove, mentioned it to the English journalist, John 
        MacDonald, and the Englishman included it in his dispatch printed in the 
        March 30, 1903 issue of the London Daily News:
        
        One morning, 
        while we were strolling through the bazaar at Serres, Stephanoff 
        suddenly stood still before an inn gateway, into which a countryman was 
        leading his mules laden with merchandise of all sorts. They stared at 
        each other, the young man and the old. They grasped each other hands 
        affectionately, exchanged a few words and parted. It was Stephanoff's 
        uncle, from Bansko. After ten years they scarcely recognized each other.  
        With the Zaptiehs about, they did not venture to be more demonstrative. 
        "In 1879," said Stephanoff, "when I was three years old, and when my 
        father and mother and the rest of us, fearing a massacre in Bansko, fled 
        to Philippopolis, it was my uncle who carried me on his back across the 
        mountains. The scar on his lip was made by the knife of one of three 
        Bashi-Bazouks who attempted to rob him and a small company of his 
        fellow-traders returning home from market." So it still is the same 
        Macedonia--only twenty-four years nearer its end.