My Greek Odyssey

Happy Birthday MGO

 

How time flies!  Five years, a quarter of a million hits and five hundred-fifty posts later, My Greek Odyssey blog is still going.  Fueled by a love of things Greek and of Greeks in particular, the search for Ithaka continues. Many thanks to the all those friends and readers who have made my life richer and who continue to read my musings. Best wishes to all.

                                                                   Stavros

Exodus

With the outbreak of the World War in 1914, a reign of terror descended upon the land of Pontos, a region on the southern coast of the Black Sea, located in modern-day northeastern Turkey which had been occupied by Greeks since antiquity. In dispatches from Constantinople the Austrian ambassador Pallavicini reported the of death and destruction that swept Greek villages throughout the Pontos. He relayed that Greek women and children were detained and carried off into captivity to be converted forcibly to Islam. His dispatches also reported that the Austrian Consul in Samsoun was told by the town's mayor that "we are getting rid of the Greeks as we did the Armenians." On July 31, 1917, before Greece had even entered the war, the Austrian Chancellor Hollweg reported to his cabinet that "all indications are that the Turks plan to eliminate the Greek element as enemies of the state, as they did earlier the Armenians. The strategy implemented by the Turks is of displacing people to the interior without taking measures for their survival by exposing them to death, hunger and illness. The abandoned homes are then looted and burned or destroyed."

All Christian men between the ages of 20-50 were told to report for military service within eleven days. The Christian recruits were not assigned to regular military units nor were they allowed to bear arms, instead they were assigned to the infamous labor battalions, the Amele Taroubou.  These recruits were overworked and lacking food, clothing and shelter, the life expectancy in these units was less than 4 months. Many Christians deserted and went into hiding. It was the search for the fugitives or deserters that gave the Turkish gendarmes and vigilante Muslim mobs the excuse to enter the villages and homes of the all infidels and to initiate the process of intimidation, rape, theft and murder throughout the Pontos. Between December 1916 and February 1917, the German Consul in Samsoun reported that in his region alone, on the pretext of seeking 300 Greek deserters, some 88 Greek villages were torched. Between 1914-1918 over 100,000 Pontic Greek unarmed civilians of all ages and gender perished at the hands of the Turks; and many others fled to Russia and Greece. 

The Russians occupied the area in 1916 but after the fall of the Kerensky government in 1918, they withdrew not only from Pontos but also from the adjacent territories of Kars and Ardahan, which had been annexed by Russia in 1878. With this withdrawal, thousands of Pontians, some 70,000 from Kars alone, followed the Russian army into the Caucasus, fearful for their lives in the wake of the advancing Turkish troops. Their situation was so desperate that the British control authorities in Batoum, Georgia demanded that the Greek Government repatriate these destitute refugees to Greece.

In May 1919, the Greek Government created a special delegation under the leadership of writer Nikos Kazantzakis to help the Greeks of the Caucasus. Kazantakis' mission was to save thousands of destitute refugees who were trying to escape from the areas of the Caucasus that were falling to the Turkish army. In the interior of Southern Russia, thousands of other Greeks were trying to reach the cities of Tiflis (Tbilisi) and Batumi before the advancement of the Bolshevik army. Over 110,ooo refugees were evacuated resettled in Northern Greece. The following is an excerpt from Report to Greco, the autobiography written by Kazantzakis, published by his widow in 1961 and beautifully translated by P.A. Bien:

The ship was filled with human beings uprooted from their land; I was on my way to transplant them in Greece. People, horses, oxen, kneading troughs, cradles, mattresses, holy icons, Bibles, picks, shovels—all were fleeing the Bolsheviks and Kurds and traveling toward free Greece. It is in no way shame- ful to say that I was deeply moved. I felt as though I were a centaur and that this ship with the great troop on it, was my body from the neck down.

There was a light swell on the Black Sea; the dark indigo surge smelled like watermelon. To our left the coast and mountains of Pontus, which once upon a time had been ours; to our right, the vast sparkling sea. The Caucasus had faded into the light, but the old men sat at the stern with turned backs, unable to tear their eyes away from the beloved hori zon. The Caucasus had vanished, they were a specter which had been dispelled; yet deep in the old men's pupils they re mained stationary and unsetting. It is difficult, exceedingly difficult for the soul to tear itself away from its homeland, from the mountains and seas, the beloved people, the poor little beloved house. The soul is an octopus and all these are its tentacles.

I sat at the bow on a coil of rope. Assembled around me were men and women, some from Kars, some from Sukhumi, and still other persecuted Greeks from Taigan. Their suffering had no end; each was impatient to relate it all and unburden himself. I listened, secretly admiring the endurance of the Greek race, for in the midst of their lamentations for loved ones who had perished, homes which had been burned, and the hunger and fright they had suffered, one of them would suddenly loose an indelicate joke, whereupon all the calamity would vanish, and heads would once again be lifted high. While a chubby young woman was bewailing her husband who had been killed, a colossus with a drooping coal-black mustache extended his immense paw and touched her on the shoulder.

 
"Stop crying, Marioritsa," he said. "Even if only two people remained in the world—you and me, let's say—the Greek land would fill up again with children!"

  

He swept his eyes over the deck.

"Do you know where the hope of the world lies, brothers? In the head, you'll say? No, farther down! In the heart, you'll say? No, no, farther down, brothers, farther down!"

He cast a rapid glance toward the woman.

"Eh, by God, if I wasn't ashamed in front of the ladies, I'd show you, I would, where the hope of the world lies! . . . So stop your crying, will you!"

 The women blushed; the men laughed.

  

"Thodoris, there's no one comes near you," they exclaimed. "Bless you for making us laugh."

One man only sat off to the side and did not talk. This man did not laugh, did not relate his sufferings; he seemed reluctant to unburden himself. He had a monstrous body, bull neck, and great long paws that must have reached to his knees. His opened shirt revealed a chest covered with hair. Never had I seen a man who so closely resembled a bear.

When the others had all scattered and lain down on their tatters to go to sleep, this man remained staring at the sea, his thick neck craned forward. I went up to him, aware that a disquieting power sprang from this unmoving human bulk.

  

 "You didn't talk," I began, in order to open a conversation.

  

He turned to look at me, then extended his hand. His bones creaked.

  

"Talk? To say what? To describe my suffering and find relief? I don't want to find relief."

Falling silent, he rose as if wishing to go away, but then he sat down again. I felt him struggling inwardly. He did not want to talk, but his heart was overflowing. Besides, night had descended and we were alone. He softened a little.

"You saw the mountains and forests in the Caucasus, didn't you? I roamed them, all alone, for years. I was called the wild boar because I kept company with no one. I never went to the cafe, never went to church. As I said, I roamed the mountains and forests all alone. I devoured the mountains stone by stone. I was a quarrier, lumberjack, and charcoal-maker —naked and poor, but I was young, strong as an ox, and had no need of anyone. One day, however, I felt my strength choking me as I was climbing a mountain, and to keep myself from bursting I began to hack away at the mountain, to hew beams from the biggest pines, and build a house. I built it next to a spring—doors, windows, everything. It was ready. Men and women came from the nearby village to see it. They brought wine and food. But I just sat on a stone and looked at it. A girl came and sat down by my side. She looked at it too. And while we were both looking at it, my head went dizzy. The next morning I found myself a married man."

He sighed.

  

"I found myself a married man. The dizziness passed. My mind returned from the high mountains.

  

" 'What are we going to eat, wife?' I said to her. 'I can't feed one, how am I going to feed two? And what about the children?'

  

" 'Don't worry,' she said. 'Let's go to church.'

    

“'What do you expect me to do in church? I'm not going.'

  

" 'Let's go, I tell you.'

  

"We went. We crossed ourselves, felt encouraged.

  

" 'Now let's go and work our field,' said my wife.

  

" 'Field? What field, you idiot? Stones, you mean!'

  

" 'We'll   smash   the   stones, crush   them,   make   soil.'

  

"We went. We smashed the stones, made soil, planted our crop.

  

" 'Now let's go and prune the olive trees,' my wife said to me this time.

  

" 'What olive trees? Those dry sticks?'

   

" 'Let's go, I tell you.'

  

"We went. We pruned the dry sticks. We planted, pruned, filled ourselves with bread, lined our innards with olive oil. May God sanctify my grandfather's bones. 'No need to fear being poor and naked,' he used to tell me, 'provided you have a good wife.'"

  

Once more he fell silent. Seizing one end of the rope, he began to cleave it with his nails, like a wildcat. I could hear his teeth gnashing in the darkness.

  

"And after that, after that?" I asked him, troubled.

  

"Enough! You expect me to describe my suffering like all those others?"

  

"What about your wife?"

  

"Enough, I tell you!"
 

He wedged his head between his knees, and did not speak again.

Θρυλοι του Ρεμπετικου

Mama

Three years have passed since the death of my mother and not a day goes by that I don't think of her.   I used to think she was always going to be around and had convinced myself that eventually we would be in the nursing home together. Mama would still be making sure I was blowing my nose and wearing a warm sweater or cautioning me to slow down in my wheelchair. Greek sons have a special indestructible bond with their mothers and their mothers take special pride in their sons. Greek mothers seem to have a particularly strong affinity for the top Mom, the Panagia (Blessed Virgin), so they spend a lot of time praying to her to put in a good word for their son with her son. In Greek society, mothers of sons receive a certain amount of respect and deference.  There is probably not much that they wouldn't do for their sons and their love is unconditional.

Mama and I got off to a shaky start when I was born. After a very difficult labor she was presented with a prune faced, screeching, tiny, red baby with a funny shaped head, who was not very happy about being dragged kicking and screaming into a cold, uninviting world. Mom had never seen a newborn since it is a Greek custom to keep babies at home for the first forty days of life. All the new babies she had ever seen were fat, pearly white and smiling. She was  shocked and horrified that this ugly little baby in her arms was hers. As she later related "I told myself that you weren't going to be handsome and that I would have to do my best to dress you up nicely to make up for that." There is no love like that of a mother. Even for an ugly duckling. 

My Mom was always a proud woman. She was proud of her Orthodox faith, being Greek, her children, her husband. Her mission in life was to instill in us a sense of pride in ourselves and the importance of preserving the family honor. Mama was not a meek wallflower, hanging on her husband's every word.  Dad may have been the head of the family, but my mama was not hesitant about telling the head of the family her opinion. When it came to the big decisions in our family I remember distinctly our parents huddling together, whispering in fluent Turkish, which neither I nor my kid sister could decipher. Then my Dad would proudly announce the outcome of the negotiation like it was all his idea. 

Mama loved to sew. When she first came to America she worked in a sweat shop doing piece work. It was tough work. As was often the case with Mom,  she excelled at it. Funny, it never soured her on sewing. She sewed most of our clothes. She loved to make beautiful things. She painted, sewed, embroidered, worked with wood, and tired everyone out with her boundless energy. When we were kids, every Saturday she would take my sister and I on her rounds of all the fabric stores, looking for just the right fabric or pattern.  Most of these stores were owned by Jewish shopkeepers and she took particular delight in bargaining with them as if she was in a Turkish bazaar. Unlike most other customers, who wouldn't even dream of not paying the listed price, Mama would haggle until the merchants gave up exasperated, dejected and defeated. I remember one guy who grudgingly paid her a compliment by saying, "Lady, you're driving me meshugga, enough already, OK take it.  If all my customers were like you I would go out of business tomorrow."  

Mom did not believe in eating out, paying some stranger your hard earned money to cook funny tasting food in a filthy kitchen was anathema to her. She always  insisted that we bring our friends over for dinner even if it included most of the 2nd Marine Regiment. She would always politely ask them if they wanted a little bit of this or that, if they had the temerity to refuse, she would just totally ignore them and fill up their plate. "Amerikanakia don't know how to eat so we have to teach them," she instructed. Mama always knew best.

Mama wasn't exactly thrilled when I joined the Marines, she was hoping I would be a doctor. I don't think even she realized what God had in store for her during the next twenty-two years. It is never easy being the parent of a son serving overseas in harm's way. It took a toll on her. I remember the morning we got the news that over two hundred Marines were killed in a bomb blast in Beirut, my leave had been cut short and I was getting ready to travel back to Camp Lejeune where I was a company commander of an infantry company. Some of my friends were among the dead. Mama, who was usually talkative in the morning was quiet, fighting back the tears and white as a ghost. The mothers of Spartan warriors used to send them to war with the words: "Return with your shield or on it."  I think my Mama was just praying I would come home in one piece, with or without the shield.

Mom got her driver's license when she moved to Maine at the tender age of 62.  At age 88 she continued to drive though she had a few run-ins with the local police department. Once she got pulled over for going "a little fast."  Mom got out of it by inviting the police officer for coffee and baklava (Greek pastry). "He was a good boy and so nice."  Another time she got a parking ticket, she marched over to to the police station, baklava in hand and, you guessed it, the desk Sargent tore it up. I knew cops liked donuts but who would have thought that baklava was their Achilles heel?

Funny, it was Mama who was the strong one when Baba died, not me. She comforted and put her arm around me. She was the one who whispered into my ear to tell me how much my father had loved me and wiped away my tears. Life for Mama after my father's death was lonely though she was surrounded by family and friends. It was the loneliness of sleeping in an empty bed and not being able to confide in your life's partner your fears and joys. She finally moved out of the house they had shared after his passing. She had lingered there as if  he might someday return to sit in the garden that he loved, even for a short time.

My wife Anna and I begged her to come live with us. We had plenty of room. "Two women cannot cook in the same kitchen, " she said wisely. She moved into a nearby apartment building for retirees and she proceeded to make her small apartment her own. She sewed curtains, hung pictures of her family throughout and placed her icons above her solitary bed.  Mama was no wallflower. Within a few weeks she had made plenty of new friends. She played cards, invited neighbors over for coffee and food, talked with a steady stream of people on the phone. She would invite her friends from church over for formal dinners when she would break out her best china and her embroidered tablecloths. She was, as one resident put it: "the happiest person here."   

Mama's constant companion during her last year was "Cloudy" the parakeet. My son had given him that particular name because he was blue and white, resembling a cloud. I bought him for her thinking she might enjoy him as much as her brother Elias enjoyed his parakeet "Budgie."  It was a match made in heaven. I have never seen a bird so enamored with a human being. His cage was next to her bed. In the morning he would emerge and wake her by flying onto her head, then walking down her nose and pecking at her lips. After a full day together, he would allow her to gently caress him in her hand, kiss him and then place him in his cage.

Mama was always working on something.  A week before her death she confessed that she was more tired than usual. Assuming the parental role, I admonished her for doing too much.  Easter was fast approaching, I took her to church and we talked about her coming and staying with us through Holy Week. I kissed her and gave her a hug after dropping her off. Little did I realize it would be the last time I would see her alive. 

On Friday, she spent most of the day cooking for the luncheon after my father's upcoming memorial service  and she built two window boxes for the tomato plants she had bought.  That evening she played cards with her friends and retired early saying that she didn't feel well and was going to get some sleep. The next day her next door neighbor went to check on her and she didn't answer her door. Her blinds were still down at midday even though she always awakened at 5 AM for her morning coffee. The neighbor called the police and they in turn called me to inform me that she had died. My younger son, Chris and I had been out shopping and we were driving home when we got the call. Chris could sense something was wrong from the look on my face as I spoke with the police officer.  I was stunned. Chris began crying when he heard the news and I am not exactly sure how I managed to drive us to her home. I don't remember the trip there. One of Mama's friends comforted Chris while I walked up to her apartment, my heart beating out of my chest. I entered and found her lying on her bed. She looked like she was sleeping peacefully, her icons and oil lamp above her. I reached out to touch her face. It was cold as ice. It was Saturday, the day when our Lord resurrected Lazarus from the dead. I broke down and cried like a baby. It would not be the last time. She had left me suddenly, without any warning. So much left unsaid, and no time to say our good byes.

The hardest part was trying to comfort my inconsolable son, then breaking the news to my sister, wife and older son. Anna was in Athens, she wanted to fly home to be with us and attend Mama's funeral. With her father in the hospital, fighting for his own life, I insisted that she stay put. The living had more need of her than the dead.  My sister drove up from New York. She sent an email before leaving:

My dear brother,

I know you will appreciate this quote from John Quincy Adams who spoke about Abigail, his mother upon her death.  "She... has been more to me than a mother.  She has been a spirit from above watching over me for good, contributing by my mere consciousness of her existence, to the comfort of my life... Never have I known another human being, the perpetual object of whose life, was so unremittingly to do good." 

Those are my feelings exactly, and I am sure yours. If we are anything, it is because of her. Whatever successes our families' have had,  it is a direct result of her goodness. Let us pray that we can continue her good works and pass on her strength and love to our children and to our children's children, from one generation to another. That is our parents' legacy. This is our purpose in life.

Somewhere I read that an act of love is like a pebble that falls in a pond.   The rings, which represent love, spread out infinitely and touches all in its path.  It is an never ending pattern of goodness and love. Our mother has bestowed this gift on us. May she rest in peace. Until we are all together again, in God's glory, forever and ever and unto the ages of ages.

Your sister. Katina

The wake at the funeral home was a celebration of her life surrounded by her children and grandchildren. The mourners just kept on coming, everyone touched in some way by her life. For our small community she was the uber yiayia, handing out food, hugs and love, unstintingly to all who crossed her path. During the last years of her life she had distributed most of her worldly possessions, planned and paid for her funeral and that of her husband. She counseled her children to feed the multitudes well. "Make sure you give them more than those little sandwiches and some potato chips" she insisted.  And so we did, with the help of many others who loved her.

Happy Mother's Day Mama, may your memory be eternal. 

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