My Greek Odyssey

The Nation of the Greeks

 

The following is an address given recently by Athanasios, the Metropolitan of Limassol, Cyprus

"It is a fact that we are proud about our Greek origin and our relationship with Christ and with the Gospel, not wrongly of course, although sometimes we tend to exaggerate, but history justifies the Greek nation.
Many nations have heard the word of the Gospel, many nations were visited by the Apostles and for a time they became Christians, but over the centuries they were lost either because they were subjugated by other nations, or because they changed their religion entirely, or because they joined other sects whose beliefs  distorted the truth of the Gospel. The Greek nation, the Greek race, the Greeks, despite the many difficulties they had faced, kept the Bible, kept their faith in the Church, in Orthodoxy. They not only kept it intact but during the time of the Byzantine Empire they also gave the Gospel to other nations (e.g, Russians, Bulgarians, Romanians, Serbs, Georgians), throughout Eastern Europe.

Our Byzantine Greek ancestors insisted, although the West reacted against this, that nations new to the Orthodox faith should worship God in their own language. That is the reason why the Saints Cyril and Methodius who took the Gospel to the Slavs, created an alphabet for them, in order to make it possible for the Slavic people to have their own written language, to be able to become educated, to grow culturally as a people with their own identity, and worship God in their own language. The Gospel was never used by the Greeks as a means of conquest of other peoples. Instead, it was an offer of truth and light, offered as a choice, and never by force. In the Orthodox Church we do not have the phenomenon of imposing Orthodoxy by force on other nations. The question is, we Orthodox Christians, how can we identify the love for our country in conjunction with our Orthodox faith?

As Greeks and as Orthodox Christians, we are proud that until the present times we hold the Orthodox faith unchanged and unreformed, and with it, we have the blessing to carry the Cross, the Holy Cross of the Greek race in the world, which carries our glorious history. The Greek race, having very ancient roots in history, reached such high levels of philosophical depth and revelations that it has become to be considered as the precursor of Christianity.

I think that being Greek is not pride but a Cross , and only as a Cross and as a service to mankind we can keep ourselves today. We are Greeks and we have a history, like every nation and all peoples in the world, and we recognize the right for every person on earth to feel proud of his history, and his ancestors. We are proud as Greeks not because we worshiped the false gods of Olympus, but we are proud because we are a people with philosophical quests, we are proud because we are a nation that gave birth to democracy, to philosophy.National celebrations are of course celebrations of initiation in meaning, but they are also a way to judge our own life. And we must be able to accept this judgment because otherwise history will judge us as a people who have never learned from this same history and our course in it.

History must teach us, and we, if we are worthy of our ancestors, if we are their true children, then we must be willing to learn, because we have the heavy heritage of being Greek. This means that we have a glorious history in war and in struggles. The Greeks held their flag to show that they were fighting as they were saying "for the faith and the homeland", to show that they were fighting for certain ideals, they were idealists, they were not warriors in the real sense of the word, but became warriors when necessity called upon them, and when it was actually a vital need, in order to keep their faith and their homeland.  Today my brothers and sisters we have to keep this country within the margins that our heroes had delivered it to us , and within the same direction, with much care, with much wisdom, and with much patience."

Read the whole thing at NOCTOC

The Values of Hellenism: Pericles Funeral Oration

A Family of Patriots by Kevin Cullen

 

Chris Gavriel lives in Haverhill and when he drives down to Santarpio's in East Boston, it's usually for the lamb. But this day, he was there to talk about his kids, Dimitrios and Christina.

"They were a year-and-a-half apart," he said. "Christina adored her big brother."

When Chris Gavriel came here from Greece almost 40 years ago, he didn't speak a word of English, which is the only reason he didn't end up walking around the jungles of Vietnam. He got drafted, but the Army said he had to learn the language first, and by the time he did the war was over.

He and his wife, Penelope, embraced America, especially the upward mobility that education afforded. He became an aerospace engineer, she a scientist.

It was given that their kids would be high achievers. Dimi was an all-state wrestler, graduated from Brown University, and launched a career on Wall Street. Christina aced every test, got a doctorate, and became a pharmacist.

And then 9/11 happened and everything changed.

"Dimi had a lot of friends who worked in the World Trade Center," his father said. "He was on the phone with one of them, after the planes hit. He was talking to his friend when the tower fell. He heard the noise."

Later, when Dimi Gavriel stood before his father and announced he was joining the Marines, Chris Gavriel was filled with fear and dread and pride and awe, and the emotions fought with each other even as Chris Gavriel knew he could not fight with his son.

"He said, 'Dad, someone's gotta go. I can't just ask everybody else to do it.' Dimi was patriotic, but not in a gung-ho, political sense. He was very aware of the fact that this country had blessed his family. His exact words were, 'I want to give something back.' "

Dimi was 27, ancient for a Marine recruit. He dropped 40 pounds and convinced the Marines those nagging wrestling injuries were just that.

"Christina didn't want him to go. None of us did. She begged him not to go," Chris Gavriel said.

The day before he left for training on Parris Island, Dimi Gavriel got a big job offer. But by this time, you could have offered him all the money in the world. His world was not on Wall Street anymore, but with Bravo Company, First Battalion of the Eighth Marine Regiment, Second Marine Division.

When he got to Iraq, he didn't want his family to worry, so he told them he was doing logistics.

"It made sense that they'd have him work intelligence," his father said.

But nothing makes sense in war. Lance Corporal Dimitrios Gavriel, who read poetry and people's faces, chose to man a machine gun.

In July 2004, as the Marines fought to take control of Fallujah, he was shot and killed.

"You go through a range of emotions," Chris Gavriel explained. "Grief. Anger. Pride. Everything at once and everything alone. There's not a minute in my life that it's not on my mind."

He was surprised and not so surprised when Christina came to him later and said she had to do something.

She had to join the Marines.

She had to feel what her brother felt. Duty. Honor. Blisters on Parris Island. Camaraderie.

"I couldn't walk in their shoes," Chris Gavriel said of his son and daughter. "The decision they made, I couldn't make. As much as I love this country, I couldn't do it."

Corporal Christina Gavriel fixes helicopters at Camp Pendleton in San Diego, but when she calls her dad, the aerospace engineer, they don't talk shop. He tells her he loves her. That's enough.

On Patriots Day, people in these parts sleep in, or they run the marathon, or they watch others run it.

Chris Gavriel spends it remembering a son who embodied the day, and thinking of a daughter who personifies its enduring power.

              The went with songs to the battle, they were young,
              Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
              They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
              They fell with their faces to the foe.       
           
              They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
              Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,
                    
              At the going down of the sun and in the morning
              We will remember them.

                                                                                 Laurence Binyon
                                                                                                               

        Ας είναι ελαφρύ το χώμα που τον σκεπάζει.

TAKING CHANCE by LtCol. Michael R. Strobl, USMC

"Chance Phelps was wearing his Saint Christopher medal when he was killed on Good Friday. Eight days later, I handed the medallion to his mother. I didn't know Chance before he died. Today, I miss him.

Over a year ago, I volunteered to escort the remains of Marines killed in Iraq should the need arise. The military provides a uniformed escort for all casualties to ensure they are delivered safely to the next of kin and are treated with dignity and respect along the way.

Thankfully, I hadn't been called on to be an escort since Operation Iraqi Freedom began. The first few weeks of April, however, had been a tough month for the Marines. On the Monday after Easter I was reviewing Department of Defense press releases when I saw that a Private First Class Chance Phelps was killed in action outside of Baghdad. The press release listed his hometown--the same town I'm from. I notified our Battalion adjutant and told him that, should the duty to escort PFC Phelps fall to our Battalion, I would take him."

Read the whole thing here.

Bitter Homage

The Pontian Greeks lived along the Black Sea coast of Turkey in a region loosely referred to as Pontus by many scholars. They were descendants of Ionian Greeks who settled there, beginning in 800 B.C.  Like other Christians in Turkey, the Armenians and Assyrians for example, the Pontic Greeks faced persecution and suffered during ethnic cleansing at the beginning of the 20th century. In 1923, after thousands of years, those remaining were expelled from Turkey to Greece as part of the exchange of populations between Greece and Turkey under Treaty of Lausanne.

May 19 has been recognized by the Greek parliament as the day of remembrance of the Pontian Greek Genocide by the Turks. There are various estimates of the toll. Records kept mainly by priests show a minimum 350,000 Pontian Greeks exterminated through systematic slaughter by Turkish troops and Kurdish irregulars. Other estimates, including those of foreign missionaries, spoke of 500,000 deaths, most through deportation and forced marches into the Anatolian desert interior. Thriving Greek cities like Bafra, Samsous, Kerasous, and Trapezous, at the heart of Pontian Hellenism on the coast of the Black Sea, endured recurring massacres and deportations that eventually destroyed their Greek population. The genocide started with the order in 1914 for all Pontian men between the ages of 18 and 50 to report for military duty. Those who "refused" or "failed" to appear, the order provided, were to be summarily shot. The immediate result of this decree was the murder of thousands of the more prominent Pontians, whose names appeared on lists of "undesirables" already prepared by the Young Turk regime.

Thousands ended up in the notorious Labor Battalions. In a precursor of what was to become a favorite practice in Hitler's extermination camps, Pontian men were driven from their homes into the wilderness to perform hard labor and expire from exhaustion, thirst, and disease. German advisors of the Turkish regime suggested that Pontian populations be forced into internal exile. This "advise" led directly to the emptying of hundreds of Pontian villages and the forced march of women, children, and old people to nowhere. The details of this systematic slaughter of the Pontians by the Turks were dutifully recorded by both German and Austrian diplomats.

The Pontians did try to organize armed resistance. Pontian guerrilla bands had appeared in the mountains of Santa as early as 1916. Brave leaders, like Capitan Stylianos Kosmidis, even hoisted the flag of an independent Pontus in the hope of help from Greece and Russia (which never arrived).  The struggle was unequal. The Turkish army, assisted by the Tsets, who were of mostly Kurdish extraction, attacked and destroyed undefended Pontian villages. On May 19, 1919, Mustafa Kemal himself disembarked at Samsous to begin organizing the final phase of the Pontian genocide. Assisted by his German advisers, and surrounded by his own band of killers -- monsters like Topal Osman, Refet Bey, Ismet Inonu, and Talaat Pasha -- the founder of "modern" Turkey applied himself to the destruction of the Pontian Greeks. With the Greek army engaged in Anatolia, a new wave of deportations, mass killings, and "preventative" executions destroyed the remnants of Pontian Hellenism. The plan worked with deadly precision. In the Amasia province alone, with a pre-war population of some 180,000, records show a final tally of 134,000 people liquidated

In 1923, a population exchange negotiated by the participants resulted in a near-complete elimination of the Greek ethnic presence in Anatolia.  It is impossible to know exactly how many Greek inhabitants of Pontus, Smyrna and rest of Asia Minor died from 1916 to 1923, and how many ethnic Greeks of Anatolia were deported to Greece or fled to the Soviet Union. According to G.W. Rendel, " ... over 500,000 Greeks were deported of whom comparatively few survived.

U.S. Ambassador Henry Morgenthau accused the "Turkish government" of a campaign of "outrageous terrorizing, cruel torturing, driving of women into harems, debauchery of innocent girls, the sale of many of them at 80 cents each, the murdering of hundreds of thousands and the deportation to and starvation in the desert of other hundreds of thousands, and the destruction of hundreds of villages and many cities," all part of  "the willful execution" of a "scheme to annihilate the Armenian, Greek and Syrian Christians of Turkey." US Consul-General George Horton reported that "one of the cleverest statements circulated by the Turkish propagandists is to the effect that the massacred Christians were as bad as their executioners, that it was “50-50.”" On this issue he clarifies that "had the Greeks, after the massacres in the Pon­tus and at Smyrna, massacred all the Turks in Greece, the record would have been 50-50—almost." As an eye-witness, he also praises Greeks for their "conduct toward the thousands of Turks residing in Greece, while the ferocious massacres were going on.", which, according to his opinion, was "one of the most inspiring and beautiful chapters in all that country’s history." 

A number of Pontians wrote about their experiences and recorded in memoirs or simple testimonies the nightmarish events that they had lived through. The most famous of these was Elias Venezis with his book entitled: "The Number 31328," which chronicled his servitude in a Labor Battalion .  One eyewitness who survived the genocide and settled in Greece was Savas Kantartzis. The following is his vivid description of the massacre of the inhabitants of his native village of Beyeilan in the region of Kotyron in Pontus, by a paramilitary unit led by Topal Osman, now honored as a national hero of  modern Turkey. The tragedy of this village is the tragedy of hundreds of other Greek villages and thousands of Greeks, in Chios in 1821, in Pontus in 1916, in Asia Minor in 1922, in Constantinople in  1955 or in  occupied Cyprus in 1974...

“At daybreak, on Wednesday, the 16th of February, 1922, a nightmare begins.  News spread that  Tsets (Kurdish irregulars) lead by Topal Osman are coming to our village.  Everyone is frightened and apprehensive.  Some  men hurriedly escaped into the surrounding forest, others hid in special hiding places in their homes or stables, all well camouflaged.  Women, children and the elderly locked themselves in their homes, hearts pounding and awaiting their fates.  More than 150 Tsets, entered the village yelling and shooting. followed by villagers bent on plunder from the neighboring Turkish villages.

As soon as they entered the village, the atmosphere was electrified and the horizon darkened as if a storm was approaching. They screamed curses and kicked doors in, ordering the inhabitants out into the village square. They threatened to set fire to the houses unless everyone came out. In a short time, women, children and the old ones found themselves crying and trembling in the streets.  They sensed what would happen to them and many attempted to escape. The Turks and Tsets had foreseen such an eventuality and had blocked every avenue of escape. No one could leave. A few were shot and fell dead or limped back wounded.

These men revealed, once and for all, their criminal intent and it was now apparent to the entire terrorized group of  women and children that had been thrown into the streets, their cries rising in despair. Nothing they did now could soften the hardhearted cruelty of the henchman that had been chosen by Topal Osman for this “patriotic” expedition. These sadists began to enjoy the great fun of inflicting pain and torturing their victims.  They kicked, struck, and yelled, pushing them toward the village square.

The mothers, stood pale and disheveled in the bitter cold, trembling with fear while holding their clinging infants in close embrace. The young girls, some with their old parents and others with old women or holding up the sick, were herded like sheep, ready for slaughter, into the middle of a pandemonium punctuated by heart-breaking cries and lamentations. Then they ordered their victims to enter two pre-selected houses in the vicinity of the square where they could complete their crime. They herded this unwilling flock into the houses with kicks and shouts. There was no doubt now about the fate that awaited them. The Tsets crammed over three hundred into those houses, anxious to finish their macabre enterprise. When they were sure that no one remained outside, they locked the doors oblivious to the cacophony of cries and supplications for mercy that reverberated in the surrounding mountains and forests.

The  final phase of  this tragic event needed only a few handfuls of dry grass set alight to create a firestorm that engulfed the two houses in bloodcurdling screams through the pungent black smoke.  What followed during the next hour cannot be adequately described…

Crazed mothers clutched tightly, with the all the force of their souls, their crying babies to their bosom. Children cried for their mothers. The girls and the other women with the elderly, the children and the sick, screamed and seized each other as if they wanted to take and give the other courage and help until their hair, clothes and bodies were engulfed by the flames.  Piercing cries, maniacal screams and thunderous, wild howls of people, overcome by terror and pain.  They beat and flayed the air and the walls to no avail.  Hell on earth!

Some women and girls, in their despair and pain, threw themselves out of windows, preferring death from the bullets to the blazing inferno. Osman's men who looked on smiling, enjoying the spectacle before them, were more than happy to accommodate these poor women by shooting them dead. The screaming began to dwindle, replaced by the noise of the crackling timbers and the crumbling walls falling on the smoldering bodies.  Nothing remained but the ash and ruins of what used to be two homes in the town of Beyialan.

The tragedy of this village, described in all its horrific details, was repeated in other Christian villages throughout Turkey. We pay bitter homage to our dead without hate or vengeful thoughts but we should not forget their sacrifice or let the nation who murdered them forget its crime.

 

HAPPY 3rd BIRTHDAY MGO

Hello again everyone. Sorry about the long absence. I have been quite busy working with Typepad to fashion a new look and functionality for MGO in celebration of its three years in the blogosphere. Stay tuned.

How time flies. Three years, one hundred and twenty thousand hits, five hundred posts and three thousand comments later and MGO is still alive and well. I am hoping that I can continue to keep writing for you and eventually can attract other freelance bloggers who want to write about things Greek.

Coincidently, one of my posts was published on the front page of the May 6th issue of the Hellenic Voice weekly newspaper. I want to thank all those friends along the way who have encouraged me to keep writing, taught me so much and to thank in particular, the News Editor of the Voice, Steve Crowe, for allowing me the opportunity to reach a wider audience. My next artcile will appear in the Memorial Day issue.

The Hellenic Voice formerly known as the Hellenic Chronicle, is for and about Hellenic Americans. It continues a long tradition of newspapers that have brought together our community and continue to do so. I encourage you to visit their website at www.thehellenicvoice.com and sign up for a trial 30 day subscription.

As a little gift for all MGO readers, I am including a narration by Elli Lambeti of my favorite Cavafy poem, Ithaka. The music is by Mark Isham. Let the journey continue.

The Visitor

Based on a True Story

Darkness embraced the small village of Neohori on the banks of the Bosporus.  Panagioti looked up momentarily from the days receipts to say good night to his employees who were leaving for home. The store turned eerily quiet. The silence broken only by the comforting heartbeat of the railroad clock on the wall behind him. He turned off the light while his little white dog Bella tarried a while longer near her customary place near the wood stove. She waited for the next to last shutter to close and ran out to join her master before he locked the door of the grocery store.

There was a chill that night, the leaves had already started to fall and the wind would whip a pile into the air, swirling them around and around.  Panagioti turned up his collar and picked up his step with Bella trailing behind him. He opened the heavy oak door turning the polished brass door knob and stepped into the carpeted hallway of his home.  His senses were bombarded with a pleasant warmth and the smell of food cooking in the kitchen. Panagioti's two daughters, thirteen year old Fereniki and eight year old Evelini ran to meet him and hug him while Bella jumped on them balancing on her hind legs while her tail swung furiously to and fro. As he took off his coat his wife and Elias, his eleven year old son emerged from the kitchen to greet him.

Evdoxia had a worried look on her face and Pangioti sensed it immediately.  "What's wrong?" he said in a hushed tone.  "It's Evelini, she has what appears to be a small boil on her face. I only noticed it today and I tried some warm compresses on it.  It didn't help but it doesn't bother her too much."  Panagioti washed his hands in the kitchen and went into the dining room where the table was laid out for dinner.

"Come here a moment my sweet girl,"  he motioned to Evelini who was playing with Bella. As she approached he noticed a reddened area on the side of her cheek which was slightly swollen.  "Does it hurt much?" he asked.  "No patera, it's fine."  Alright, dear but I think we should let Dr. Pantelis look at it in the morning, now why don't we eat the wonderful dinner your mama has prepared for us. They all sat down including Bella who took her customary seat behind Evelini. Panagioti lead them all reciting the Our Father and after crossing themselves they all began to eat. Fereniki was teasing Elias who was about to pull her hair but was frozen in the act by his father's glare. Evelini unobtrusively lowered a morsel of food below the table where Bella was waiting quietly to eat it from her hand.  "A good day at the store today,"said Panagioti to Evdoxia. "We received delivery of the machine I ordered to slice pastrouma. We will be the only establishment in Neohori with such a contraption and I daresay that the Bey's cook will be very happy to present those paper thin slices at his table."  "I love pastrouma." said Fereniki  "Mind that you eat your supper before you dream about treats like that" Evdoxia proclaimed, smiling. 

Once dinner was over Panagioti took his customary seat in the parlor where he read his newspaper.  The world was still reeling from the effects of a worlwide depression. The oldest girl, Fereniki helped her mother clear the table while her brother appeared to be working on his lessons while surreptitiously hiding a small magazine in his mathematics book.. The youngest, Evelini was playing with a doll when she marched over to her father and asked him if she could recite a poem. " Would you like to hear my new poem, patera?"  "Of course, my child." Evdoxia peeked at them from the kitchen.  Half way through the poem, Panagioti would always say something to distract her, she would lose her train of thought, giggle and start again from the beginning. It was a game they played.

The house was quiet by the time Evdoxia finished her chores in the kitchen. The children were already in bed and Evdoxia feeling quite exhausted headed for her bedroom. She lingered for awhile at the family icons, an oil lamp flickering in front of them and said a silent prayer after which she laid down next to Panagioti who was already fast asleep. A few hours later she was awakened suddenly by the crying of a child. She looked at the alarm clock next to the bed.  It was one o'clock and she ran quietly to the sound of the crying. It was Evelini, Fereniki was holding her hand. When she turned the light on she was shocked by the swelling on one side of the child's face. Her eye was swollen shut. She crossed herself and put her arms around Evelini who was burning up with fever and drenched in sweat. Panagioti walked into the room, crouching in front of them.  He was white as a ghost. "I'll fetch the doctor."

Pangioti didn't remember how he got to Dr. Pantelis' home nor the trip back to his own home. All he could remember were the words Dr. Pantelis had spoken, "The child has a serious skin infection called Erisypelas. I have done all I can do. The rest is in God's hands." Those words kept repeating themselves in his head over and over again. He was supposed to be his family's protector, their eyes were upon him, pleading and for the first time in his life he was totally helpless.  Evelini was vomiting now. "I'm going to get Father Arsenios." he told his wife and ran into the street toward his home near the Church. Breathless he arrived there and began banging on the door. "Father please, it's Panagioti Gellati."  The door opened slowly. It was Father's wife, Polixeni.  "What's wrong Panagioti?" "It's my daughter she is seriously ill and I need Father to come to my home to pray for her."   "Oh my, but Father left yesterday for Imbros to pay his sister a visit."  

Panagioti stood on the marble steps in a daze. The wind picked up as the first raindrops began to fall. Polixeni continued speaking but her words were lost in the deluge that followed. Panagioti stumbled home passing by the wharf where the fishermen tied up their boats. The masts swung back and forth as the water churned below them.  Plodding home with his head down, he kept repeating, "Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me a sinner," endlessly.  "Where are you going in this rain, efenti. Even the fish seek shelter."  Panagioti looked up. It was Osman the fisherman.  Osman was a devout Muslim and a simple fisherman who was respected by Greeks and Turks alike for his piety.  The Muslims who lived in Neohori often called upon him to pray for the sick.  Panagioti had always been impressed by his soft spoken humility and his honesty.  His clothes were covered with patches. "OSMAN!" he shouted for joy and put his arms around him in a bear hug.  "Peace be upon you, efendi." "You must come with me and pray for my sick child. I beg of you."  Osman looked into his eyes and said: "The Prophet teaches us: Show compassion to those on earth, and the One in the heavens will show mercy upon you. How can I do otherwise. Quickly, show me the way."  They plodded through the narrow streets together. Each reciting a different prayer to the same God.

As the door closed behind them, the sound of the rain became muffled.  Osman turned to Panagioti and asked for a basin of water while he removed his shoes. Standing in his bare feet he knelt. Cupping water in his hands he washed his face, then his hands, arms up to the elbows, he wiped his hair back, and washed his feet to the ankles. The two men climbed the stairs to the girl's room. Evdoxia was sitting on the bed next to her daughter wringing a washcloth in a small basin and draping it on her forehead. She looked up, surprised to see Osman in the room. Panagioti sensing her discomfort, said: "This is my friend Osman, God sent him to us and he has kindly consented to pray for our Evelini."  Evdoxia looked perplexed but she said nothing. Osman smiled, knelt at the foot of the bed with his prayer beads and prayer book in his outstretched hands. He began to pray softly. "O Allah remove the hardship, O Lord of mankind, grant cure for You are the Healer. There is no cure but from You, a cure which leaves no illness behind."  He touched his head to the floor. Panagioti also knelt beside him and prayed softly.

After an hour, Osman stood quietly and walked over to Evelini. He held her hand briefly, turned and put his hand on Panayioti's shoulder whispering "It is in the hands of God now."  He walked out of the room, down the stairs, put his shoes on and opened the door. Panagioti rushed down to catch him before he left. "Osman, don't leave without letting me thank you." He placed a handful of bills into his huge rough hand.  "There is no need for bahsis. I do this willingly for you. There are plenty of poor people much more deserving, give it to them. May Allah bless your home and those underneath your roof."  He opened the door and walked out into the night. 

Panagioti climbed the stairs to Evelini's bedroom, she was asleep and her mother was sleeping next to her. Panagioti collapsed in the chair, watching them until the sun began peeking through the shutters at dawn until sleep overtook him. A few hours later, Evdoxia shook him awake, "Wake up Panagioti, wake up, look, look, it's a miracle, a miracle. The fever has broken and the swelling is almost gone."  He opened his eyes to see Evelini sitting up in bed smiling with Bella on her lap wagging her tail. Tears ran down his cheeks as he embraced his daughter, kissing her repeatedly while the sunlight of a new day bathed the room.