Download - Voices of Hellenism Volume I, Number II
Φω
νές | Voices V
OLU
ME I, N
UM
BER II | 2014
WHITE ISLAND by Constantin Alexiades
WINDOW by Sharon McNeil - Oil on Canvas, 30" x 40", 2004
A Literary Journal of Voices of Hellenism Publications
Φ ω ν έ ςV o i c e s
Volume I, Number II 2014
ISSN: 2330-4251
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“Greece offers you something harder— the discovery of yourself...”
Lawrence Durrell
Woman From Macedonia by Calliope Iconomacou
Copyright © 2013 by Voices of Hellenism Publications
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Printed in the United States of America
Second Edition
ISSN: 2330-4251
Volume I, Number II is dedicated in loving memory of Ciro A. Buonocore
NOW AVAILABLE AT
www.voicesofhellenism.orgVolume I, Number I
The Premiere Edition
Call 650-504-8549Or Email: [email protected].
Deadline for submissions: August 1, 2014
The beginning of a legacy of Hellenic literature.
12 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Φ ω ν έ ςV o i c e s
Poetry
Landmark (After Hitchcock) 9 Nick Mamatas To a Poet 10 Jonathan Beale Costa Rica Animals 12 Thanasis Maskaleris A Boy in Greece 13 Andrea Potos Fight 14 Belica Antonia Kubareli Caldera’s Happiness 15 Achilleas Katsaros My People 16 Katie Aliferis Doria 16 Ezra Pound The Good Ol’ Days 17 Phyllis Sembos Όπράσινοςκήπος(TheGreenGarden) 18 Vrettakos (Translation Anastasia Soundiati) Return From Exile 19 Lee Slonimsky Wisdom at Sweeties 20 Kimberly Escamilla ΙδανικόΖευγάρι(TheIdealCouple) 21 Marika Symenidou Διγλωσσίααλάελληνοαμερικανικά 22 Yiorgos Anagnostou (Bilingualism à la Greek-American)
Greek Widows of America (1950s) 24 Dan Georgakas Heaven’s Hands 24 Nick Johnson Memory-of 25 Angelos Sakkis Μητέρα(Mother) 26 Peter Nanopoulos TheTranslation 28 Brendan Constantine Mοίρες(Moires) 29 Stavroula Zervoulakou ΤοΣφαγείο(TheSlaughterhouse) 30 Despoina Anagnostakis Water Becomes Us 31 Katherine Hastings My Gary Kitchen 32 Paul J. Kachoris Οδοιπορικό(Travelogue) 34 Despoina Anagnostakis ΣτοΔάσκαλο(ToTheTeacher) 38 Kostis Palamas (Translation Peter Nanopoulos) ΜυρωδιάτουΚυριακάτικοψητό 39 Sotirios Pastakas (Translation Angelos Sakkis) (The Smell of Sunday Roast)
Fiction
Palimpsest 41 Kathryn Koromilas Bazaar 45 Belica Antonia Kubareli Eye of the Hydra (Feature Novella) 47 Akos Kirsh College Life: November, 1941 79 George Karnezis Sunday, Saturday, Sunday 87 Akrevoe Emmanouilides The Communist Leader’s Wife 93 Irena Karafilly Bringing Cheese to a Séance 97 Steve Pastis PrincessandIattheDanceoftheCrazies 99 Vangelis Manouvelos (Translation Angelos Sakkis) Courtship 105 Harry Mark Petrakis The Way Things Are 115 Will Manus
Creative Non-Fiction
About My Mother 117 Irene Sardanis Return to Symi 121 Richard Clark Journey to a New Reality 127 Dena Kouremetis InaTragicSplitSecond 133 Mary Pruitt An Extraordinary Man and Friend 135 Stephanie Quinn
Academia and Scholarship
On Being Greek in America 139 Dan Georgakas The Reunification of the Parthenon Marbles 153 Foti Jean-Pierre Fotiu and Lazar Larry Odzak Embracing the Humanities and the Arts 157 Yiorgos Anagnostou Strange Prisoners 159 Christine Salboudis
Art
Woman From Macedonia Calliope Iconomacou (Inside Front Cover) Seated Figure 44 Peter McNeill Up in the Air 46 Peter McNeill Toilet in Place 46 Eleftheria Lialios Eye of the Hydra 57 Akos Kirsch Aναπαράσταση(Representation) 78 Odysseas Anninos Ομελισσοκόμος(TheBeekeeper) 92 Odysseas Anninos Οθίασος(TheTroupe) 114 Odysseas Anninos Αγάπεςστηνάνοιξη(LoveinSpring) 119 Odysseas Anninos Greece 129 Odysseas Anninos Cold Fire 152 Annamarie Buonocore Kalamata Earthquake Photo Essay 164 Eleftheria Lialios Window Sharon McNeil (Back Cover)
32 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Biography
Pythagoras Caravellas 173 John B. Vlahos
Book Review
A Coffee Date with the Soul 177 Annamarie Buonocore
Film, Theatre, and Culture
Manoli...! 181 Giorgos Neophytou FromtheShoresoftheAegeantothe 187 Ilias Chrissochoidis Edge of the Pacific
Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I4
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disclaimer. Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal (Φωνἑς), its editors, board members, associates, and
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such content on our website or in our publications or have any other concerns. For more questions on
our policies regarding controversial content, please email us at [email protected]. Thank you.
Founding Editor and Publisher Annamarie P. Buonocore
Associate Editor Angelos Sakkis
Assistant Editor Peter Nanopoulos
Editorial Board Cassandra Vlahos, Dena Kouremetis,
David Windsor, Paula Wessels, Nick
Tarlson, GiotaTachtara,IriniHatzopoulos,
Steve Pastis
Translation Board Angelos Sakkis, Peter Nanopoulos,
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John Kyriazoglou, Vickie Buonocore,
Virginia Lagiss, John Bardis,
Thanasis Maskaleris (Honorary Chairman),
Annamarie Buonocore (Executive Director)
Advisory Board Peter Nanopoulos, Thanasis Maskaleris,
Angelos Sakkis
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VolumeI,NumberII ISSN:2330-4251 We accept submissions on a rolling basis with an August deadline for each issue. Voices of Hellenism is published once a year. We also welcome editors, board members, volunteers, and interns for two-year terms. Voices of Hellenism Publications is a 501c3 nonprofit corporation in the state of California.
Φ ω ν έ ςV o i c e s
Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I6
Under normal circumstances, Iconsider myself to be a fairly decisive individual.IrarelytakemorethanthreeorfourminutestodecidewhatIwilleatin a restaurant, and most home decorat-ing decisions are a walk in the park for me. But in the midst of such profound thinking, I foundmany unresolved con-tradictions. Often the best way to deal with many of these paradoxes is to just letthembe.I lovewriting,butIhateit.IfindthecrisisinGreecedepressingyetexhilarating in the artistic boom that is looming yet going unrecognized by many. I am essentially a rebellious non-tradi-tionalist but am often humbled and even silenced by the powerful momentum of tradition that comes from humble chant-inginanOrthodoxliturgy.IdecidedtolettheproblemsrollasIrolledwiththepunches of publishing the second issue.
One day while driving down a sce-nicroad,Ithoughtaboutaddressingthetwo above questions. While it is true that print media and publishing have seen bet-ter days, it is also true that there is an empowering sense of having the whole world at one’s fingertips in this eclectic corner of the world. When studying any field within the greater field of humanities, we are often faced with the dreaded ques-tion, “What are you going to do with that degree?” Many who have asked me that question over the years see teaching and academia as that default profession that serves as a refugee camp for those who live in fascination of letters and liberal sciences.
They see these fascinations as impractical. What many of these people forget is that the world can become open in more ways than imaginable through books, maga-zines,andjournalsofthehumanities.Iamnot saying that publishing is the only other choice for those of us who get the ques-tion, but it is a powerful profession that places the purpose in the humanities and proves the closed-minded wrong. People become who they become based on their knowledge, and books and other literature stands behind every ounce of that knowl-edge, the knowledge that fuels the world’s progress. That is why there will always be a need to continue publishing in-print journals such as Φωνές.
WhenIthinkaboutthemessliteraryjournalshave faced fordecades, I thinkof my earliest struggles to encourage fel-low students and members of the local community to submit to and read school-based blogs, newspapers, and student literary magazines. The struggle to keep the momentum and that little thing called funding are always challenges. The ques-tion all publishers and writers alike must ask is whether we see these as challenges or opportunities. Here at Φωνές, we see these as opportunities, and this leads me to my next point as to how it sets us apart.
The knowledge that fuels the world’s progress is the reason we must continue publishing and printing. Here at Φωνές, we receive many quality submissions that come across my desk. We receive so many that we cannot possibly publish all of
TOWARD THE NEW VOICE
Dear Readers,
72 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
them.Inthesesubmissionsoffiction,art,poetry, and scholarly essays, there are voices of our people that speak of human progress. As a freelance writer and poet myself, I realize like many others thatwriting is not a sure path to fortune or even financial security. There is a higher currency. That currency is the human voice. The human voice is the one that will answer the questions, “why go on liv-ing?”and“whoamI?”
Because we are a literary journal with a Hellenic theme that caters to Hellenes and Philhellenes, we have an overwhelm-ing amount of voices that not only speak of the oppressive struggles of the Greek migration and diaspora but also of today’s modern-day crisis in Greece, which is fueling a new diaspora of our people. Much of the literature by our people becomes overlooked in a changing world. Literary magazines that focus on such a niche like Φωνές are hard to come by, and much of the role of the literary magazine is being subsidized by academic publish-ers that may or may not be doing a quality job that gives justice to the community writer. Here at Φωνές, we are a com-munity journal with an academic and eccentrically intellectual backbone. We continuously make our mission to bridge the gaps that exist between our commu-nity and Modern Greek academia in many of the finest universities in the United States, Canada, England, Australia, and Greece where our people have excelled in academia to make our mark on the world. Itisourgoalmovingforwardtoincludemore works emerging from the current Greek crisis. We also strive to engage the works of scholars and researchers in the
fields of Modern Greek Studies and Greek American Studies and offer the different perspectives on the various issues taking place within these departments that offer our community a plethora of knowledge and opportunities.
We are a global publication that is brought to greatness in every issue because of our talented writers that deserve more than just the dark shadows of a file cabi-net. Our editors are the ones that bring a plethora of backgrounds and experiences to the table that shapes this journal. As always, Iwould like to thank all of thewriters, editors, financial sponsors, board members and volunteers who helped shape this second issue. From the poetry that reflects on our cultural history, such as the poem, “Greek Widows” by Dan Geor-gakas to fascinating essays that consider modern-day issues and trace them back to the foundations of our people and democ-racy, such as the essay, “Strange Prisoners” by Christine Salboudis, this journal offers a wide variety that speaks of the diversity and broadness of Hellenism in a global landscape. We look forward to your feed-back as always.
Sincerely,
Annamarie Buonocore Publisher, Founding Editor
92 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Landmark (After Hitchcock)by Nick Mamatas
Even the minor films feature
famous landmarks.
Ever see a movie in which characters run into a cinema?
And the film on the screen mimics and mocks
the men and their scrambling runs?
Hitch did that, in Saboteur. Infabulous
Radio!
City!
Music Hall!
Nineteen forty-two.
Everyone knows Mount Rushmore.
Thanks to those fingertips.
Those flailing shoes.
Ifyou’reamanwhoknowstoomuch
you might end up shot at
at the Royal Albert Hall
Strangers on a Train
Didn’t stay there for long.
One stalks the other
at the Jefferson Memorial
How many other criminals
have been captured
at the Statue of Liberty?
Andyet,hereIamintheBritishMuseum
Everything is so calm and orderly.
Not like Blackmail so long ago.
That fellow hanging from a rope.
The Sphnix’s wry smile.
But they have my Elgin Marbles.
AndIhavemygun.
And so many tourists waiting here, gaping.
SoIguessit’suptome.
POETRY
10 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
To a Poet by Jonathan Beale
“Those who dare give nothing Are left with less than nothing.” — Robert Graves
Sothen.HowshouldIaddress?
Mr. Heaney, Famous or Seamus
Isthenamingrequiredorarealnecessity?
So from the word and idea. What?
Sculpted by the poet in a darkened
Moment when the key drops to reveal
From Silence, peace, patience
To be cast amongst stratosphere
Where it will flow silently on from one-to-another
Myth-makers dream of such —
Their manna, their beverage
And all the holy men stand to
Preach their light's light.
Yet the poet can cast more light.
Sagacity moulds him in the wind
Cut hard for and from the cold wind
No charlatan can ever fool
As the first flint then crashes
Against the stone
From some silent moment
The birth is sent
Crying out to the world -
The scream that is silence
Breaks the silence.
The vessel; poroused and ready.
As is the accident of birth
The ink to the mind
Alchemy? Or what?
112 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Some trickery?
Of whys and wherefores
Who then speaks and from where?
So then who devised the torment?
The discovery, the truthbearer
The line then the anomaly
Or receive in the mind’s eye
That blended upon the soul
To taste and forget the second
That as celebrant
One and all and so
For the tabula rasa.
And for the unwritten of tomorrow
Have the sod from whence
To grow their own ideas
And so their ideas will grow.
So said the voice from all the poets past.
The effort and obvious rhyme
So laboured the charlatan uncovered
And so. The poet. The craftsman
Born to give, the moment
Iscaughtforever
To be grown down the history line
Made fuller in tongues to come
“And empty shells reply That all things flourish.” — Philip Larkin
12 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Costa Rica Animals by Thanasis Maskaleris
You, peaceful children of this paradise land,
you stare at us, visitors, with the most amiable glances …
You, dogs at Lenny’s and Joan’s hacienda,
who accompany me to my morning wanderings …
youarethemostdevotedguidesIeverhad,
rejoicing in my appreciative response …
And you, caged and uncaged birds,
you look at us, puzzled by our human gestures,
as though you want to decipher us …
You are the barking, singing signal givers
Initiatingustoyourterrestrialriches…
You are in harmony with everything around you,
Even with us, the intruding strangers.
Here we, wanderers with dissonant psyches,
can attune to the harmony that Nature gives …
You can be our teachers of naturalness and peace,
toward co-existence with all—with Mother Earth
and with all of humankind …
132 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
A Boy in Greeceby Andrea Potos
My grandfather was a boy
in the mountains not far
from Delphi, great navel
of Mother Earth.
He lived in a village encircled
by a silvery-green sea
of olive trees and dust,
and lit by a billion stars.
He told me he could read by
their light alone.
Ilovetothinkofhim
under that luminous sky,
eons before
Iwasborntohisgentleness.
Even the darkness
cradled him,
a book creased open on his lap.
For Papouli
14 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Fight by Belica Antonia Kubareli
She said: “The chicken is in the oven”
and once again he replied with silence.
She knew she had lost him but
wouldn’t admit it even in her dreams.
Itwasn’tamatter
of keeping up appearances.
Itwasherneed
not to let silence penetrate her life.
So every now and then,
with the kids playing in the garden,
the dog sleeping on the sofa,
the kettle boiling and the windows rattling,
she would drop a word to him,
staring at his back typing on his laptop.
She would never stop fighting his silence,
trying to get him back to her world.
152 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Caldera’s Happinessby Achilleas Katsaros
Isawthehappiness
andIonlytookafewstepsbehind
to feel this emotion deeply in my soul.
Itwasshewhogaveherbeautyandbrightness
from inside her heart.
She gave her beauty to Unknown Out of Us
with no sense of despair.
The little moon fights against the sun
here in Caldera.
ThenIsaid,yes,happinesshasaface,
has also eyes, nose, hair … has body … has mouth and speaks
and says only the good news that you love to hear …
and then blows a little wind in the Aegean Sea and takes the words
to make them treasures of the whole world.
The little wind flies over the rocks here in Caldera
and paints the sunset as a bay of innocence.
it purifies the mind and at the same time is a promise of eternity.
That moment is the medicine of sorrow
and the little wind continues his game with your hair …
it becomes the white that blinds you
it becomes the friends who have a passport to your life …
16 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
My Peopleby Katie Aliferis
Sapphire and teal
Water crashes against the
White rock strewn shore
Towers of stone
Crown the horizon
Protecting what is ours
Victory or death
We will accept no less
Maintaining our freedom
Defending the Mani.
The poem "Doria" was first published in The Poetry Reviewin1912.Itisconsideredinthepublicdomainbecauseitwaspublishedbefore January 1, 1923. The copyright has expired.
Δώρια - Doriaby Ezra Pound
Be in me as the eternal moods
of the bleak wind, and not
As transient things are—
gaiety of flowers.
172 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
The Good Ol’ Days by Phyllis Sembos
Oh, for the carefree days
Of nineteen thirty-nine.
When there was no haze
And movies cost a dime.
When mild wasn’t strontium
And water was clean
That nightmare ‘plutonium’
Was only a dream,
When food was delicious
Without MSG
The bread was nutritious,
And ‘what’s LSD?’
Franks were real beefy
Not sodium nitrate,
Nothing made cheaply
Or sprinkled with phosphate.
No florides or chlorides.
Or bromides or DES,
No chlorophil, portomil
Or spilled oily mess
Oh, for the carefree days
When life was a bore.
We all got together
For a hell of a WAR.
18 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Ό πράσινος κήπος - The Green Gardenby Vrettakos Translated by Anastasia Soundiati
Έχωτρειςκόσμους.Μιάθάλασσα,έναν
ουρανόκι'ένανπράσινοκήπο;ταμάτιασου.
Θαμπορούσααντουςδιάβαινακαιτουςτρεις,νασας
έλεγα
πουφτάνειοκαθέναςτους.Ηθάλασσα,ξέρω.
Οουρανός,υποψιάζομαι.Γιάτονπράσινοκήπομου,
μημερωτήσετε.
Ihavethreeworlds.Asea,
a sky and a green garden: your eyes.
IfIcouldwalkallthreeofthem
Iwouldtellyou
whereeachoneofthemisbounded.Thesea,Iknow.
Thesky,Isuspect.Asformygreengarden
don’t ask me.
192 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Return From Exileby Lee Slonimsky
Exhilarated on his long-walked path,
Pythagoras, rejuvenated, basks
in lush sunlight and for a moment asks
why numbers matter, if the height and width
oftrianglesexplainsthisawe,thisIs
of branchery, smooth stones, the love of blue
for sky and water. How the wind, once true
to winter, now’s the tickle of soft breeze.
Exiled so long, he’ll soon be gone, but still
the shimmer of the pond slows sullen time
almost to sweet oblivion. His will
Can make a lot of what is left. Sublime,
the way age can lift attitude, rouse hope:
he gazes at some swallows’ perfect loops.
20 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Wisdom at Sweetiesby Kimberly Escamilla
The neighborhood bar in North Beach is barren
exceptforoneclutchofretiredItalianswhoselate
lunch has blurred into an evening of beer and gossip.
Iknowwhatmyhusbandisgoingtoorder
before we leave the tattoo shop, before Mary Joy
unties the baggie of our daughter’s ashes,
lowers her head and needle that will bind us for life.
Ouzo, tinged blue, like the inside of ice
is poured neat from a dusty bottle.
The bartender-mother asks—are you Greek?
We extend our saran-wrapped wrists,
the Hellenic epitaph still wet and nubile.
Asthesweetaniseburns,Ithinkofthemonks
at Mount Athos who could never have predicted
their pet-project some 700 years later would treat
sour stomachs and jack-knifed hearts around the globe.
Thebartender-motherandeavesdroppingItalianslisten
rapt and teary, they raise their glasses to the purity of grief,
the kind that a tattoo and Ouzo can only begin to admit.
212 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Ιδανικό Ζευγάρι - The Ideal Coupleby Marika Symenidou Translated by Krystalli Glyniadakis
Μεδιαφοράχρόνουφοιτήσανεμαζί
Έκαναναπόένααγόρικαιένακορίτσιχώρια
Αγαπούντηνποίηση,τιςταινίεςκαιτημουσική
Μαπιοπολύτηθάλασσα.
Τοναρνήθηκεστηναρχήγιαναμπορέσεινατονβρει
Τηνβρήκεγιαναμπορείνατηνχάνειστοσκοτάδι
Ω,ιδανικόζευγάριπαντρεύτηκεαυτός
Πήγεγαμήλιοταξίδιαυτή!
With years apart, they attended the same university
They had a boy, a girl, separately
They both love music, movies, poetry
But most of all, the sea.
She rejected him at first so she could find him
He found her so he could lose her in the dark.
The ideal couple, went on to marry –he.
Who went on honeymoon? Well, she!
22 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Διγλωσσία αλά ελληνοαμερικανικά Bilingualism à la Greek-Americanby Yiorgos Anagnostou
Ναδημοσιεύσωείπακιεγώ
δυοδίγλωσσαστιχάκια
πόρτεςχτυπώεκδόσεωνΑρgό
κουφότηταπικράσφηνάκια.
Πού’ναιοιδίγλωσσοιθεσμοί,
ηδίγλωσσηκοινότης;
Πούτωνντκαιdοικαλπασμοί,
τηςποικιλίαςοπότης;
Μονόκλαγγλικήςαγαπητοί
διπλή’ναιμυωπία
ξένοιεξόριστοιΕ.Τ.
ελλείψειήτακοινωνία.
Ότανλοιπόνκληρονομιές
διθύραμβοιυμνούνε
ομόφωνεςτσιριμονιές
κιτάπιαγλώσσαςπού’ναι;
ΣτοLAμόδαέριξαταπαρδαλάστανζάκια
στηςΟρλεάνηςταβαθιάτοδίστιχονμπλοκάκι
στοΦρίσκοκιανσπινάρισαοργανικάτιτλάκια
στημένοραντεβούπαντούτοδύστυχονποιητάκι.
Λέωλοιπόνένατουίσττουράιντ
προςβόρειατουEastastride
στηςλεγομένηςδιασποράς
οικόπεδα
μηνκαιπροφτάσω
τιςκόπιεςναπεράσω
στηλεγάμενηAndromeda
μιαςκοπιάζουσαςαγοράς...
232 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
TopublishIdaredtothink
a bit of verse in bilingual ink
IknockondoorsofArgot publications
deaf ears, ah, cheers in bitter potions.
Where’s the bilingual fora,
the bilingual community?
Where’s the galloping ρα and ra,
the ippotis of multiplicity?
Double myopia of a coquettα
the monocle of English, dear sirs, yeah it is!
those societies defeating eta
exiled foreigners E.T.s.
So when dithyrambs
heritage extol
Ionlyhear“clappingofthumbs”
loss of language taking its toll.
InL.A.forfashionItossedsomespottystanzasdisco,
in New Orleans the notepad sings the blues,
anddidIeverspinsomeorganictitlesinFrisco!
the poor little poet still in pale hues.
SoIhitchmyfatearide
destination northeast astride
to the so-called diaspora
estate “asétora”
justsoIgetachance,any
aim to offer the copies for a penny
to, let’s say, the Andromeda
of an exhausted agora ...
24 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Greek Widows of America (1950s)by Dan Georgakas
Consider these Greek widows of America
completing black-clad lives
in the rented rooms of the old neighborhood
Or dreaming alone in their aging homes
now that children sleep in the wedlock
so eagerly sought for them,
but which strangely had no place
for those rough-skinned peasant girls
who once were matched to older men
and now endure November graveside days
sipping the last of the home made wine.
Heaven’s Handsby Nick Johnson
My hands have created a new path
My eyes will lead the way
My heart will speak when my eyes sleep
My mind will mend and be my friend
My soul will know just where to go
My legs will bear me
My lungs will breathe
My hands will toil until they bleed
My hunger will wait until the night
My sleep will be
inheavenIdream.
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Memory-ofby Angelos Sakkis
Leafing through an old book about a dictatorship in the Caribbean,
written in Greece more than a year before the hated dictatorship there
came to pass—the book sounding an utterly unheeded alarm—he spots a
passage side-barred and underneath a comment in his late father’s hand
“apofasizomen kai diatassomen,” the catchphrase of the odious ringleader
meaning “We decide and decree”.
Apart from any feelings stirred by those words, what catches him by
surprise, in retrospect, is a memory of the smell of his father’s hands
coming to him in stream-of-thought kind of way on looking at the writing,
can almost see the hand holding the pencil, most often just a pencil stub,
keeping accounts in the familiar longhand, and he remembers smells of the
old grocery store; unraveling the strands no more in actual sense, but as a
memory-of
stale olive oil, cheese, nasty “trinal” all mixed with
hand sweat, pungent touloumotyri, tarama and
olive brine salamoura, the dry whiffs of burlap sack,
damp sawdust on the tile floor in rainy weather
the stifling darkness of the basement at the other store.
26 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Μητέρα - Motherby Dr. Peter Nanopoulos Translated by Dr. Peter Nanopoulos
Εάνλυγίσηςστηζωή,
εάνποτέκιοτέψεις,
θυμήσουτισού΄λεγεημάνααπόπαιδί,
πάρεταλόγιατασοφἀ
καικάνεταχρυσάφι,
βάλταεμπρόςσουοδηγό
καιβάθισεορθός
σεστεριάήθαλάσσι.
Όσηαγάπηκι’ανθαβρείς,
καιόσηκαλωσύνη,
πέτραμηρίξειςπίσωσου
γιατίπίσωείναιπάνταεκείνη.
Εκείνηπουσενανούρισεαπόμικρόπαιδί
καιπιότερεςφορέςσ’εφίλησε
μ’αγάπηκαιστοργή.
Εκείνηπουστονύπνοτης
ακόμησ’ονειρεύει
καιλαχταράεινασεδεί
σαντότεπουήσουνα
έναμικρόπαιδί.
Όπουκαινά’σαιτώραπιά
κοντάήμακρυάτης,
σκείψεκαιπροσκύνησε
τηνΆγιαΠαρθένα
καικοίταξετηναγκάλητης
τοταλαιπωρημένοβλέμα:
Eσένακαιτημάνασου
μεεκστασηθαδείς.
Για τη Γιορτή της Μητέρας
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Ifyoufeellikegivingupinyourlife
if you ever have the urge to retreat,
remember what your mother said since you were a child,
take these wise words
and turn them into gold,
place them in front of you as a guide
and walk straight,
on land or at sea.
As much love as you may ever find,
and as much kindness,
do not throw a stone behind you
because behind (you) she is always there.
She, who lulled you since you were a small child
and many a times did she kiss you
with love and affection.
She, who in her sleep
still dreams of you
and longs to see you
like then when you were
a small child.
Wherever you may be now
near or far away from her,
bend down and worship
the Holy Virgin
and look at her embrace
her weary eyes:
You and your mother
with awe you shall see.
For Mother’s Day
28 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
The Translationby Brendan Constantine
IoncelovedagirlwithRussianFlu.
EverydayIclimbedhertreehouse,
to sit at her side and read Chekhov
in search of a cure. Neither of us
knew what the strange words meant
orifIsaidthemright,butshewould
sometimes nod weakly, her forehead
damp with candlelight, and say Nowwe're getting somewhere, though we
never did before she slept. How many
nightsdidIclimbdown,fearing
my pronunciation kept her ill?
How many branches hold the heart
above the belly? What noisy book is read
in the house of the heart, fruitlessly?
OnemorningIwoketosnow,theentire
forestrevised.WhenIgottoher,she
had passed completely from translation,
even her name no longer the right word
forher.Ispokeitanyway,overandagain
until it sounded wrong to me, spoke it
back into noise, then left it in the woods
for storms to say.
This poem appears in the collection Birthday Girl With Possum (Write Bloody Publishing, 2011)
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Mοίρες - Moiresby Stavroula Zervoulakou Translated by Angelos Sakkis
Χθεςέψαχνααπλάτοτιμουπήρες,
απόψεμεκοιμίζουνμοίρες
ΗΚλωθώ,ηΆτροπος,ηΔάχεση
αύριοχάνονταιοιελπίδες,
ροκανίζουντονήματηςζωήςτιςνύχτες.
Τοποτόκαιτοτσιγάροσυντροφιά
τομυαλόμουκαθημερινάσκορπά.
Αγάπεςπουπτώχευσαν,
ποτάμιαπουστέρεψαν,
ρόδαπουέσπασανχαιαίμαχυλά.
Αγάπεςπουήρθανε,
ποτάμιαπουτρέχουνε,
ροδιέςπουανθίσανεγιαμιακαρδιά.
YesterdayIlookedforwhatyoutookfromme
Tonight the Fates lay me to sleep.
Clotho, Atropos, Lachesis,
by tomorrow all hope will be lost,
they gnaw all night at life’s thread.
For company cigarettes and drink
my mind daily on the brink.
Love gone bankrupt,
rivers gone dry
roses were smashed and the blood flows.
New love is back
the rivers flow again
rose bushes bloom for someone’s heart.
30 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Το Σφαγείο - The Slaughterhouseby Despoina Anagnostakis Translated by Irini Hatzopoulos
ΖήτωηΕλλάδατουπαρελθόντοςκαιτωνμαντείων
ΟδόςΕλλήνωνμεαρετάς,ενδόξωνβίων
Κάτωηζούγκλατουπαρόντοςκαιτωναχρείων
Εμπρόςταζώαγιασυναχθείτε
Καιευρωπαϊκάπαραταχθείτε
Τοφορτηγόγιατοσφαγείοέφτασε
Μεελληνικήπερίσσιαλεβεντιά
Αντισταθείτε
Πρινπουληθείτε
Μαρούσι, Νοέμβριος 2011
Long live Greece
Of the past, of the oracles
Virtuous Hellenic way, illustrious lifetime
Down with the jungle of these soundrels
Onward animals, assemble
And marshal yourselves as Europeans
The lorry to the slaughterhouse is here
Loaded with the youth of Greece
Be brave! Resist!
Before you’re vended
Marousi, November 2011
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Water Becomes Us by Katherine Hastings
We wander the tangled meadow
of a newly birthed common
spring in our blood, the taste of spring
on our skin, in our hair. Spring is in
the song of the wending words
floating between us, words taken
from the latest film, the latest book, the news.
We give each other the music of our mouths,
hard land crunching beneath our heels,
note the young trees with their first blooms.
FordecadesIhavewatchedyou—younggirl
in the frilly dress belted by guns and holsters—
leap from the blue bridge into the Niagara.
Your determination was a lovely dive,
a dare, your platinum hair an unwilling
accessory to grace. As you flew off
betweenpapermillanddocks,Iclimbedhills
backwards to face the bay, the Gate.
Wehadn'tmet,ofcourse,butIthought
Iheardyousay,Lean into me like a wave.
We rode the water as the water wanted—
smooth at times, then rough. Stars landed their light
on the smooth deep blue of it
or turned to us their black backs.
WewalkandIsayThe apple blossoms of young trees fade so soon, but you are in the middle of a story
pulling a girl to shore, pulling me, those falls
roaringinthedistance,andIknow,
as that water always knew, something about
electricity, how we'd go over together.
32 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
My Gary Kitchenby Paul J. Kachoris
Passing through my cob webs once again.
Remembering the ironclad rules of steel-dusted Gary.
Lock-stepping into my old neighborhood.
Venturing out of my Greek kitchen to find a new land,
lurking out there,
just behind the white and sheer kitchen curtains
gaily tied back at their sides.
Bumping up against a language
so painfully tinged with guttural grunts.
Unintelligible to my refined and vowel-kissed ears.
Not like the yellow canary’d Greek spoken to me
by my proud, house-dressed and aproned mother,
who scurried around singing her Greek kitchen song to me:
“kanarini mou gliko, se mou peres to mialo, to proi pou keladas ....” (“my sweet canary, you have taken my mind, in the morning when you
warble ...”)
Lulling me and loving me
with her queenly smiles;
spinning golden notes around my heart
and blessing me, her little Greek prince.
Outside in the streets and in the school yard—
Aliens!! Creatures making up new words.
AndI,staringattheirmouthstransfixed,
wondering: “what babble are they spouting?”
These are not the sounds from my Greek kitchen!
They are deep attacks of a very painful exclusion:
pithy spears aimed,
oh! so straight into my heart;
shattering the little, yellow canary of a boy,
who only wanted to romp around,
play, love and be loved
and just be engulfed in kitchen magic.
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But these guttural Teutonic grunts were so unkind, so un-soothing.
Heavy, heavy stones of sharp edged cacophonies,
shaming and shoving me
into strange and frightening corners.
Cowering, shaking and trembling unprotected.
Slaying my sweet, innocent Greek kitchen happiness.
And finally, pinning me—naked
up against a foreign wall
to be shot summarily,
forcrimesIneverknewIhadevencommitted,
whenIfirstventuredalone,
out of my safe, little Greek Gary kitchen.
This poem was the Second Prize winner in the Lyric Poem Category; Poets and Patrons 50th Annual Chicagoland Poetry Contest 2006 [2002-2006]
34 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Οδοιπορικό - Travelogueby Despoina Anagnostakis Translated by Angelos Sakkis
Οδρόμοςμάκρυνεαφόρητα
απόκαμαπιακαιτοκορμίμουγέρνει
γέρικοκαθώςγίνεται
είναιφορέςπουθέλωοδρόμοςνακοπείσταδυο
κιεγώσαπεταλούδαανάλαφρη
νανιώσωτουγκρεμούτοδέος
δενέχωμάτιαγιάλλοδρόμο
αυτόνμουόρισεημοίραναπορευτώαγόγγυστα
μού’ταξεοδόστρωμακαλό
δίχωςκαμπέςκαισκάρτουλικόγιαναπατώγερά
μαεγώ,χιλιάδεςοιφορέςπουσκόνταψα
καιλύγισανταπόδιαμου
σατραυματίαγλάρουστηςλίμνηςταλασπόνερα
ημοίραπάντααδέκασταορίζειπουθαπερπατήσω
κιεγώκιεσύάξιεσυνοδοιπόρε
Οδρόμοςείναιαφόρηταμακρύςσαςλέω
κιεγώδενξέρωανθαφτάσω
εκείπουόλοιξαποστάζουν
ανφτάσωκάποτε,αν,λέω,
θα’ναισανα’κλεισεέναςκύκλος
οκύκλοςτηςζωήςπερπατώνταςωςτοθάνατο
κουράστηκαναπερπατώ,κουράστηκαναπεριμένω
είναιφορέςπουφτιάχνωόμορφεςατσάλινεςφτερούγες
γιαναπετάξωκαιπιογρήγοραναφτάσω
μαπρολαβαίνουνδυνατοίαέρηδες,τιςσπάνε
καιείμαιμόνηστοκενόσανκαρυδότσουφλοσωστό
στομένοςτωνανέμων
Κιηανατολή,
αυτήδεμπόρεσαποτέκατάματα
νατηνκοιτάξω
πωςνακοιτάξωκάθετατομέγαήλιο
μετάταβόριακαινότιαταξίδια
352 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
ημόνησίγουρηπορείαείναιστηδύση
εκείοήλιοςδενπονάμόνοκαλωσορίζει
καιμετοπέπλοτοχρυσό
πουπιαπορτοκαλίζει
όλητηφύσητηνεκρήμαζίκαιμαςσκεπάζει
Νύχτωσεκαιφοβήθηκαμηχάσωτοδρόμομου
γιατίόσοκιαντονβαρέθηκα
αυτόντονίσιοδρόμο
δενντρέπομαινασαςτοπω
φοβάμαιμηλοξέψει
καιστοσκοτάδιπιαχαθώ
καιχάσωτηψυχήμου
αυτήπουημάναμουμ’ευχέςκιαγάπηφόρτισε
καισπίθασπίθαηλεκτρισμούηαγάπητης
φώτισετηζωήμου
σαςλέωπιαάλλονεγώδρόμοδενέχωμάθει
καιτοφεγγάριμεβοηθάαντύχεικαιξεφύγω
πάλιταχνάριαμουναβρω
ξανάναπερπατήσω
τονανεκπλήρωτοσκοπόευθύςνασυνεχίσω
Πολύς,ατέλειωτοςοδρόμος
σ’αυτόμουτοταξίδι
τέλοςδεβλέπωπια
έχεικρυφτείστουχρόνουτομπαούλο
καισαθ’ανοίξεικάποτεαυτό
αντίγιατέλοςμιααρχήσάμπωςμεταλλαγμένη
θαξεπροβάλλει,ηαρχήτηςανυπαρξίας
σ’αυτήπουήμουνάχροναπροτούτηγέννησήμου
Μαρούσι, Απρίλιος 2009
36 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
The road has become so unbearably long
I’mdeadtiredandmybodylists
as it gets older
attimesIwishtheroadwouldbreakintwo
and like a weightless butterfly
I’dgettofeeltheawesomeprecipice
I’mnotlookingforanotherroad
fate has ordained this one for me to tread ungrudgingly
its smooth surface has been assigned to me
withnoturnsorbadconstruction,soIcouldfirmlyplantmyfeet
butme,I’vestumbledmorethanathousandtimes
and my legs have buckled under me
like those of an injured seagull at the water’s muddy edge
fatealwaysimpartiallyordainswhereI’mtowalk
both me and you my worthy fellow traveler
TheroadhasbecomesounbearablylongItellyou
andIdon’tknowifIwilleverreach
the place where everybody rests
ifIeverdo,if,Isay
it’s going to be as if life’s circle has closed
and there’s nowhere to walk but to death
I’mtiredofwalking,I’mtiredofwaiting
attimesIconstructbeautifulwingsofsteel
soIcanflyhighandgettherefaster
but strong winds catch up with me, they break them
andI’mleftaloneinthevoid
like a nutshell in the raging gales
And the sunrise
thatoneIcouldneverface
straight on
howcouldIgazesquarelyattheglorioussun
after the journeys to the north and south
372 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
the only reliable course is to the west
the sun from there doesn’t wound, it only welcomes
and with its golden mantle
that slowly turns to orange
it cloaks the entire still nature along with all of us
NighthasfallenandIfearoflosingmyway
becausenomatterhowsickIamofit
of that straight roadway
I’mnotashamedtotellyou
I’mafraiditmightswerve
andinthedarknessI’dgetlost
I’dlosemysoul
the one my mother charged with blessings and with love
her love a spark, a spark of electricity
that has illuminated my life
Itellyou,I’veknownnootherroad
andthemoonhelpsme,incaseIdriftoff
soIcanfindmytracksagain
andsoonIresumethewalk
toward the unfulfilled end
A long and endless road
during this journey of mine
Inolongerseeanend
it must be hiding in time’s steamer trunk
someday when that’s opened
instead of an end perhaps a somewhat altered beginning
is going to appear, the beginning of non-existence
likewhereIwasoutsideoftimebeforeIwasborn.
Marousi, April 2009
38 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I I
Στο Δάσκαλο - To The Teacherby Kostis Palamas (1859-1943) Translated by Dr. Peter Nanopoulos
Chisel, again, teacher, souls!
And whatever is still left in your life,
Don’t deny it! Sacrifice it to your last breath!
Build the palace, wise teacher!
And if some strength in your body remains,
Don’t get tired! Your soul is made of steel.
Lay now deeper foundations,
So that war cannot destroy them.
Mine deeply. So what if many have forgotten you?
Sometime they too will remember
The burdens that you bear like Atlas on your shoulders,
Patience! Keep building, wise one, society’s palace.
Σμίλεψεπάλι,δάσκαλε,ψυχές!
Κιότισ'απόμεινεακόμηστηζωήσου,
Μηντ'αρνηθείς!Θυσίασέτοωςτηστερνήπνοήσου!
Χτισ'τοπαλάτι,δάσκαλεσοφέ!
Κιανλίγηδύναμημεσ'τοκορμίσουμένει,
Μηνκουρασθείς.Είν'ηψυχήσουατσαλωμένη.
Θέμελαβάλετώραπιοβαθειά,
Οπόλεμοςναμημπορείναταγκρεμίσει.
Σκάψεβαθειά.Τικι'ανπολλοίσ’έχουνελησμονήσει;
Θαθυμηθούνεκάποτεκιαυτοί
ΤαβάρηπουκρατάςσανΆτλανταςστηνπλάτη,
Υπομονή!Χτίζε,σοφέ,τηςκοινωνίαςτοπαλάτι!
Kostis Palamas, a beloved and highly respected figure in Modern Greek literature, lived in Athens during the first half of the 1900s. He wrote the inspiring lyrics to the Olympic Anthem and a long array of deeply patriotic poems that earned him the unofficial title of the National Poet of Greece. He also wrote many moving short stories and incisive studies related to the work of influential writers who had preceded him, including Andreas Kalvos and Dionysios Solomos. Palamas was nominated twice for the Nobel Prize in Literature andhisworkhasbeentranslatedinmanylanguages.Thepoem"ΣτοΔάσκαλο"("ToTheTeacher")servesasanappreciativetestimonyto teachers everywhere. (See Kostis Palamas, A Study of his Life and Work, by Thanasis Maskaleris; Twayne Publishers, 1972.)
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Μυρωδιά του Κυριακάτικο ψητόThe Smell of Sunday Roast by Sotirios Pastakas Translated by Angelos Sakkis
Μυρίζει ψητότηςΚυριακής
στομπαλκόνιμου.Απλώνω
ταχέριακαιβρίσκω
τηνκουζίνασβηστή,
ταπιάτακρύα.Ξέχασα
ναμαγειρέψωπάλι.Χορταίνω
μετιςμυρουδιέςκιαςμην
μεκάλεσεκανείςναμοιραστώ
τοκοτόπουλομεπατάτες
στατρία.Σετάγμαανεπιθυμήτων,
λέω,δενυπηρέτησατυχαία.
It smells like Sunday roast
onmybalcony.Istretch
my hands and find
the stove turned off,
theplatescold.Iforgotagain
tocook.Ifeelfull
just with the aroma, even though
nobody’s asked me to share
the chicken and potatoes
splitinthree.Itwasn’tbychance,Ifigure,
thatI’dservedinabattalionofundesirables.
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Palimpsest: A Novel
BYKATHRYNKOROMILAS
Greek light. The ancients likened the
light of day to Being. Light gave life.
Darkness took it away. I could never have
understood this had I not arrived in my
father's village and sat under its sun. In
Zelopolis the sun was no metaphor, it was
real. It forced clarity upon the landscape,
making its topographic idiosyncrasies com-
pletely seeable; exposing everything as far as
the eye could see, even beyond the eye. Forced
knowledge that only the mind could compre-
hend, that only the spirit could intuit.
My first encounter with Greek light, how-
ever,wasmerelytheoretical.Itcamethrough
the world of books in my father’s artificially
litlibrarybackinCooberPedy.Itwasthere
in the dim, dry ambience of that room that
I first readthepoetsandthephilosophers.
ItwastherethatIcametounderstandthat
the sun generated the best conditions under
which a person may discern objects and
scrutinisetruths.ItwastherethatIplayed
out the drama of light and of darkness, the
drama that determined, for the poet Ely-
tis,whatitwastobeGreek.Ifollowedthe
Homeric myths underground—down the
dark and dank stairways—curious about the
underworld, but always, reluctantly, coming
back up. Greeks were supposed to be chil-
dren of the light, and would always choose
light over darkness, sight over blindness, rea-
son over confusion, life over death.
It was in Akindynos’s aphotic room,
drilled into the dismal underground of Coo-
ber Pedy land and fitted with shelves filled
withbookandbookandbook,whereIspent
thelongdaysofmyyouth.I’dalwaysbeen
drawn to my father’s library as it revealed a
worldofcolourinthedarkness.Iimagined
that Greece must be a lot like Coober Pedy.
InCooberPedy,manypeoplespokeGreek,
and looked Greek, and had Greek names.
These Coober Pedy Greeks were also curious
about darkness. They sought treasures in the
antipodean shadows, underground where
ochre turned black. But more than that, they
recoiled from the day, and sought refuge in
darkness, where they built their homes. I
then understood that it wasn’t Coober Pedy
light that they shrank from, it was the heat.
Even back then, Akindynos burrowed
into the darkness seeking out the Greek light.
He sought all possible knowledge of the Hel-
lenic world, and of the Hellenes. He added
books to his library that were either about
Greeks or about other things, but written
by Greeks. Amongst all the Greek volumes,
Akindynos also included encyclopaedic
texts that, by virtue of their broad scope,
appended information of a world that took
me far beyond the confines of Coober Pedy
and the Coober Pedy Primary School, the
disseminating-curriculum and the teaching
staff, those blood-filled narratives of coloni-
sation, the dark stories of indigenous culture,
of witjuti grubs, red kangaroos, and the
Dreaming. There was the world of Coober
Pedy in which Akindynos was a visitor and
FICTION
42 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
the world of Hellas in which Akindynos, and
by extension me, belonged.
But there inmy father's library I also
found my own world, another world, between
this one and that one, a world that opposed
the vivid Greek optimism of light. One day
I turned a page in an illustrated book of
world religions only to be shocked into rec-
ognition, to recollect some old knowledge, to
rediscover a black goddess who held a bloody
knife in one arm and a decapitated head in
another. That was Kali, the Hindu goddess.
Kali, she who is black. Kali, with a long red
tongue lolling out of her open mouth. Kali,
symbolising violence and death. But also, life.
Kali, motherly love. Kali. Her name full of
the same sound of my own name, my nature
already drawn to the same darkness. My
namesake may have been the bright-starred
constellation that my father called Callisto,
but darkness was always more becoming of
me than light.
As it was of Thalia. From the very
moment she was born, or maybe a little
later, a few months after she was born, she
wouldcrywheneverItookheroutsideinto
thesun,oreveninsidewhenIpulledaside
thecurtainstositinthelight.JulianandI
had moved into a three-bedroom house in
Adelaide. A light, airy, sunny home, optimis-
tic and welcoming, a family home. Thalia’s
was the front room where the light of the day
would stream inside, making her unhappy.
The two back rooms were for Julian and for
me, a bedroom and an office, filled with arti-
ficial light that could be manipulated and
focused onto whatever needed to be seen.
Duringmypregnancy,Ihadsoughtout
the sun, spent most of my time in the front
room, bringing my books with me, but then,
usually leaving them aside, the room too
brightforreading.WhenThaliawasborn,I
would drink tea in the front garden under
the shade of the Jacaranda with the specta-
cle of light all around. But Thalia was always
distressed. She was always in a battle with
the sun. Thalia was not a child of the light.
Not a Greek at all.
And so, there we were—mother and
daughter—and we developed a new habit.
We slept throughout most of the day, and
stayed awake until late at night when she was
able to function, performing all the normal
actions that children perform during the day,
andIcouldbeanormalmother.Intheeven-
ing’s darkness, Thalia would happily play,
laugh, listen to my stories, listen to me sing,
crawl into Julian’s embrace, feel about his
face.Iunderstoodveryearlyon,muchearlier
than Julian, much earlier than the doctors,
that Thalia’s rejection of light was a mat-
ter of confusion, not contempt. She did not
know how to filter the shafts of light. They
came to her potent and dangerous. When the
diagnosis came, Thalia had already learnt to
negotiate her way around the space, seek-
ing the dark, covering her eyes in the light.
Along with the diagnosis came a dark pair
of glasses to help with the day, but even
then Thalia would keep her tiny hand to her
forehead—a constant salute—keeping every
single ray of sunlight from making contact.
I should have expected it, should have
been prepared that day. We were in Coober
Pedy—a visit to see Thalia’s grandmother,
Anastasia. Thalia, having mastered her walk
was already so confident in making her way
about the space; not seeing and yet seeing by
counting steps, and feeling around obstacles,
smellingpathsandintuitingspaces.Itmust
not have been more than a minute, less than
that. Ihadturnedmyback. It isawonder
mothers ever do that—turn their backs—but
they do.
And it was in that moment, and not the
previousmoment,not themomentwhen I
waslookingrightatherasIspoketoAna-
stasiaabouther.ItwasthemomentwhenI
had turned away. Anastasia had begun talk-
ingabout themine,anewmachine,and I
432 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
had turned to see the thing she described.
This was the moment that Thalia sought
the darkness, and the deep shaft, the treas-
urebelow.Iknewshe’dfallenevenbeforeI
turned around to see that she wasn’t there.
To see that her short figure with her large
blonde head had disappeared from the
landscape.Iunderstooditinmybodyfirst,
andthen,whenIturnedbacktofindaflat
landscapewithoutachild,Iknewitinmy
head. Thalia, who’d become so confident in
navigating herself in the dark, must have run
toward that black hole in the bright land-
scape, her joy must have been so great, her
trust in the blackness so complete that she
had stepped right into it, and fallen down,
there.
Broken.
Later,when I returned toCooberPedy,
to the hot ochre land with the holes in the
ground, I would sit for long hours, just
sit, next to that single hole. In the begin-
ning, itwasinconceivablethatIwoulddo
anything but sit, and stare, and replay the
moment again and again, rearranging the
facts, placing myself, or Julian, or Anasta-
siaovertheholethattookThalia.I’dreplay
even further back, and rearrange the entire
day, shifting the visit to another day, an
overcast day when the black hole would be
lessattractive.AndI’dgoevenfurtherback,
to the moment of Thalia’s conception, shift-
ing that day to another day, rearranging the
chromosomes, so that different genes would
connect, disease-free genes that would have
avoidedtheblindness.AndI’dgoevenfur-
ther back, murdering off the conception
entirely, removing all evidence of there ever
having been a Thalia. The past was not sat-
isfactory.Itwasnotsatisfactoryatall.Butit
had past, and could not be changed now. Not
now. Not ever. Enough. �
Excerpted from the novel PALIMPSEST
Seated Figure by Peter McNeill.
452 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Bazaar
BYBELICAANTONIAKUBARELI
An old beggar bumps into me saying, “Your eyes are yellow” and starts crying. A fat
African woman dances to her internal music oblivious to the hubbub with her hands
stretched up in the skies and her eyes closed. A young couple rolls half naked under the sunny
bushesandIenjoytheirhugslikeachildinthemiddleofMomandDad.Mydogfallsinlove
with a cat who scratches her wildly while she licks him. A pair of boots land on my head. Not
mysize.Dazzlingsmellscausemehunger—hungerforyou.ApeddlersellsthebooksIhad
giventomybestfriendwhenIleftGreece.TheSundaybazaarleadstoAcropolis.Thegods
still overlook Athens. �
FICTION
Up in the Air by Peter McNeill
Toilet in Place by Eleftheria Lialios
472 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Eye of the Hydra
BYAKOSKIRSH
PROLOGUE
Tolo, GreeceThesunraysofApollocaressedmyskinasI
laid on the beach near to the road, which
ledintothetown.Icouldn’tstopadmiring
the beautiful girls who passed by me in the
sand,butsadlynoneofthemwerealonesoI
couldn’t use my charming personality to get
their attention.
Without a single cloud in the azure sky,
some whistling seagulls circled above the
water surface. Windsurfers flickered from
one end of the bay to another while swimming
tourists enjoyed the water constantly at the
beach. The wind brought to them the sound
of a ship’s horn from a remote port. Behind
the nearby islands the outline of mountains
emergedonthedistanthorizon.Iwaswatch-
ing the people and enjoying every minute of
my free time.
Only two days had passed since I'd
arrived in Tolo to release the dead steam,
whichIwasfilledbyduringmyjob.Thelife
of a private detective is never an easy one.
Usually full of danger and tension. That is
why every year I tried to scrape together
a small amount of money for a vacation.
Sometimes it was really hard. Practically
everydayIwanderedthestreetsofLondon,
even on the weekends. In any case, I had
managed to get to Greece once again.
Afewyearsago,IhadtravelledtoAthens
and Rhodes also, but for the charming lit-
tletownofToloIhadn’thadanyluckuntil
now. Iwas ready to go and jump into the
warm waves when suddenly a shadow fell on
me and a pink paper kite crashed into my
head.Iwasthoroughlysurprisedandfellto
thegroundinfright,asIstartedtostruggle
with the monster which was stuck to my face.
“Oh my God! Are you alright, sir?” Asked
a tinkling female voice.
Ihardlyheardthewords,buttoserveas
an excuse for me, some sand went into my
ears.Once I realized therewasnothing to
fear,Idroppedthekiteandstoodup.Iwas
about to start shouting at its master but an
etheric phenomenon appeared before my
eyes,onwhichIcouldjustblinkanddared
not quarrel with. Slender body, long blonde
hairandabluebikini…aviewwhichIcould
not resist. Her tanned skin was almost glow-
ing in the sun.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you deaf?”
She asked impatiently.
“Oh … sorry! I got carried away. This
thing is yours?”
“Yesitis.I’msorryforwhathappenedbut
a strong wind came and …”
“Don’t worry!” I smiled kindly and the
impact on her was obvious, as she returned
the gesture. “Let me introduce myself! My
name is Ron Wyatt.”
“Jennifer Borchardt.”
“You have an interesting name. Does it
come from a German father perhaps?”
“That’s right. How did you guess?”
FICTION
48 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“Good instinct. May I invite you for a
cocktail?” I asked by a rush of idea, but I
noticed for her it wasn’t unexpected because
she agreed immediately. Probably she realized
what a big impression her presence had on me.
Leaving the coast we crossed the road
andsatinanearbytavern,whereIordered
the drinks and, accompanied by the roar-
ingsoundof the sea,westarted talking. It
turned out that she worked as a restorer at
the British Museum, but now she was spend-
ing her holiday here. Jennifer seemed happy
in my company, although at times it looked
like she was spiritually somewhere else—but
Ididn’tgivemuchcredittothat.
WhenItalkedaboutmyjobshewasthor-
oughly surprised. Then we ordered another
round. The more we talked, the more she
fascinated me. Especially when she began
twisting a strand of her hair and flirtatiously
smiled at me.
“Would you like to go dancing tonight
withme?”Iasked,thoughIhadnoideawhy
sinceIwasn’tgoodatdancing.Onthefloor
my movements reminded one of a nervous
chicken.
“Absolutely. Where?”
“There is a nightclub not far from here, it
goesbythenameofDiscoClub,Ithink.”
“YesIknowwhereitis.Inwhichhotelare
you staying?”
“In theDemosApartmenthouseon the
other side of town.”
“Nice. My place is the Apollon Hotel. Just
five minutes away from here.”
“IguessIknowwhichoneitis.Teno’clock
would be okay for you?”
“That will be fine,” Jennifer nodded,
smoothing a stray hair from her forehead,
then looked at her watch. “Well … time went
fast. I thinkIwillgoandswima littlebit,
andafterthatIwillreturntomyroom.Left
all my stuff on the shore anyway.”
“I’mafraidmetoo.Let’shopeeverything
will still be there!”
Fortunately, none of our stuff seemed
tobemissing.AsIbegantopack,Jennifer
walked into the sea, cheerfully waving her
hand. She jumped into the waves like a mer-
maid. When she reappeared, she was already
in the deeper section of the water. Nobody
was around her, so she could swim wherever
she wanted. Only a white speed boat, with
two fishing men, rocked in her vicinity. They
werefaraway,soIcouldn’tseethemclearly
enough to be sure, but it looked like one of
themwaswearingadivingsuit.Ishrugged
my shoulders and grabbed my backpack.
Istrolledinthesand,thenturnedbackto
take a last glimpse of her, but a terrible sight
met my eyes. Jennifer was desperately flap-
ping her arms in the water, then she sank in
amoment.Icriedoutandracedbreathlessly
towardherdirection.Idroppedmybagand
clothes, then jumped into the water. With
powerfulstrokesIswamtowardsher.Inthe
meantime, she turned up again and again,
crying for help in horror.
Idoubledthepace.Thenshesubmerged
once more and didn’t come up this time. When
Ireachedher,Itookadeepbreathanddived.
A blank unbroken silence reigned under the
water. The salt heavily stung my open eyes,
butItriedtocontrolmyselfnottoclosethem.
Soon, I discovered her slowly sinking body.
Imanaged to grab her arm and pulled her
towardsthesurface.AsIemergedfromthe
water,Isawsomepeoplewatchingfromthe
shore, then a sailor man popped up next to
us and helped us out of the sea. Together we
pulled Jennifer onboard and laid her down.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t breathing.
I was terrified and tried to artificially
respirate her to get the swallowed water out
of her lungs. All in vain. Filled with disap-
pointmentandexhaustion,Ihadtositdown
on the deck. Meanwhile, the unknown Greek
mansteeredtowardstheshore.Itwasunbe-
lievablethatthewomanIhadjustmetand
invited on a date was now, on the same day,
492 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
dead.IcursedFateandmournedforJennifer,
when something captured my gaze.
Ileanedoverherandexaminedherbody.
Myeyeswidened,asIstaredattheredstripe
that ran around Jennifer’s neck. There was
no doubt; it hadn’t been there before she went
toswim.AsIlookedcloser,Ialreadyknew
what Iwas looking at. Someone had stran-
gledJenniferprofessionally.Ijumpedupand
looked for the speed boat with the fishing
men, but couldn’t find it.
They had disappeared like a grey donkey
in the mist, and left behind nothing but the
bodyofacharmingwoman.AsIreachedthe
shore, I couldn’t stop wondering what the
hell had happened before my eyes.
CHAPTER ONE
InspectorStratosFotopouloswasamiddle-
aged man. His straight hair had started to
bald strongly on top of his head, and he tried
to compensate for it with a surprisingly thick
beard. His manner was rough and straight-
forward. Fotopoulos didn’t even attempt to
hide that he didn’t sympathize with me, but
at least he believed my story. There wasn’t
much furniture in the white-walled office.
Apartfromafilecabinetandhisdesk,Isaw
nothing else in the room, except one chair,
onwhichIwassittingoppositetheinspector.
“You are lucky to be a private detective
and pure as freshly fallen snow,” Fotopoulos
growled, after making me wait for an hour
until they checked my data. “So you didn’t
see anything?”
“Justwhat I toldyoualready. I imagine
those two guys from the boat could tell you
more.”
“The problem is that we don’t have any
description of their appearances. However,
many witnesses also claim that they saw
one of them climbing out of the water in a
diving suit. Only the foam they churned up
remainedafterthem.Inotherwords,weare
completely in the dark. But something else
did turn up,” he said, leaning closer to me.
“My colleagues called the British Museum
and asked about Miss Borchardt. They have
never heard of her.”
“What?”Icouldn’tbelievemyears.This
informationwassomethingIdidn’texpect.
“You heard me right. Whoever she was,
she lied to you, Mr. Wyatt.”
“But why?”
“Good question,” he nodded, then stood
up and held out his hand. “You can go now.
Your statement was recorded but … don’t
leave town for a while!”
I said goodbye and left the building.
Immersedinmythoughts,Iwalkedthrough
the main street of Tolo, passing taverns and
shops. The whole situation seemed surreal
and absurd. My holiday couldn’t get any
worse than this. Who were you really, Jen-
nifer?IdecidedIhadtofindout,soIheaded
straight for the Apollon Hotel.
It didn’t take long to find the building,
which was marked by a billboard featur-
ing a golden harp and lettering on a brown
background. I arrived at the parking lot,
from which people could access the build-
ing through a glass door. Pleasantly cool air
waited for me inside. The marble hall was
furnished with a white piece suit and a large-
screen TV.
Behind the reception desk, a bald bespec-
tacled man was seated. He immediately arose
as he saw me.
“Good afternoon! How can I help you?”
He asked in slightly accented, but under-
standable, English.
“Greetings! My name is Ron Wyatt.
InspectorFotopoulossentmetolookaround
the room of Miss Jennifer Borchardt.”
“I believe the police closed the suite
already,”hefrowned,butIdidn’tletmyself
be distracted.
“I’m here unofficially. The inspector is
a good friend and a colleague of mine. You
50 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
know, I’m a detective inLondon.Actually,
he isn’t satisfied with the performance of his
men and asked me to help. Neither would he
be happy to learn that you were not willing
to cooperate with the authorities. We are
talking about a serious crime here, sir! But if
youthinkitnecessary,Ishallmakeaphone
call…”Ishruggedmyshouldersandreached
for my mobile phone.
“No need for that!” Replied the man sud-
denly,fromwhichIfoundoutthathedidn’t
wish to experience the wrath of the inspector.
“Here is the room key. Second floor!”
SoIwentupthestairs.Icouldhaveused
the elevator, but twoyears ago I got stuck
inoneduringapowerfailure.Sincethen,I
couldn’t force myself to use the mechanism.
Afterafewminutes,Iwasstandinginthe
corridor outside of the room. A yellow rib-
bon was stretched across the door, indicating
that the police had already scanned the place.
Withouthesitation,Itoreofftheribbonand
steppedinside.Ifoundmyselfinanelegant
room with a double bed and a balcony. From
there, one could enjoy a stunning view of the
opensea.Beforeentering,Itookoutahand-
kerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints, and
opened the cabinets and drawers.
I'dhoped to findsomething thatwould
explain the whole situation, but there wasn’t
muchtocheck.Itappearedshehadmoved
in recently and didn’t feel like unloading
her luggage. In the open suitcase, onlyher
clotheswere lying. I searched through and
through the room but couldn’t find anything
thatwouldbringthecasefurther.UntilIdis-
covered some strange scratches on the floor
atthefootofthebed.Icrouchedandlooked
under it. To my surprise, one of the tiles was
located differently in comparison with the
others. The local authorities had been really
careless.
Iquicklypulledaside thebedand took
a closer look. As I displaced the tile, an
envelopecaughtmyeye.Ipickeditupand
extracted an old newspaper as well as a letter
with the following writing on it:
Meet me at midnight on Thursday in the port! I know why your father died. His diary is in my possession. Come alone!
Professor Alain Bergman
Iwasthoroughlysurprisedbythecontent
of the letter. It seemedIhadgottenmyself
into a complicated affair where nothing was
asitappearedtobe.Ialsoreadthenewspa-
per article, which was about a fire that had
occurred on the island of Hydra twenty years
ago. A French man had died in the flames,
but the article didn’t mention his name. The
rest of the newspaper was missing.
Isatdownonthebedandbegantowon-
der. Whoever Jennifer was, it was certain she
didn’tstumbleacrossmypathbychance.I
feltit.Nevertheless,Iknewhowtocontinue
theinvestigation.Idecidedtogotothemeet-
ing and see who this Professor Bergman was
with my own eyes. Because today was Thurs-
day! I needed answers, and only he could
provide them.
I tookthecontentsof theenvelope,put
everything back in its place, and then left the
building. The receptionist gave me a puzzled
lookbutIdidn’tcareaboutit.Mythoughts
were focusing on the meeting already.
NowI really regrettednotbringingmy
gun with me. But who would do such a thing,
when he was going on a vacation? However,
Fate had yet again intervened.
CHAPTER TWO
The silky cloak of the night fell quickly. Tolo’s
nightlife became more lively. Locals and
tourists sat in the taverns to have their din-
ner, listening to pleasant music and talking,
or just visited the bazaars to buy some sou-
venirs. Dozens of cars and mopeds travelled
512 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
on the sidewalk-less main street. A parade
of French, English and Hungarian words
buzzed around me. The vibrant nightlife
proved to be attractive, though it was the
least interesting thing to me.
I lookedatmywatchwhileheading to
the harbor. Only ten minutes left until the
meeting.AsIapproachedtheedgeoftown,
there were increasingly few pedestrians,
until I foundmyself alone on the street. I
passed a long row of parked cars, shoot-
ing a quick glance at the pink flowers of a
bougainvillea which ran along the wall of a
house. Tolo had lost none of its scenic beauty
and charm in the light of the street lamps. A
fewminutes later, I reached theport.Doz-
ens of fishing boats and cruise ships rocked
on the waves, while the night lights calmly
danced on the water. The colored lights were
strengthened by the reflector of a passing
vehicle, as the port was located next to a
road which bypassed the town on the nearby
hillside.
A row of benches and lamps stood on the
longpromenadeoftheharbor.Ididn’tseea
singlesoul,butItriedtobecautious.Iwas
walking in the shadow of the concrete wall
along the promenade, listening to the sound
of the seaas thewaves lapped the shore. I
almostfeltlikeIwasonanislandofpeace
andtranquillity.Almost.Finally,Ireached
the end of the promenade, where the shadows
deepened.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps reached
my ears. Someone was walking up and down
near the rocks, outside the light of the lamps.
SlowlyImanagedtomakeoutthecontours
of his figure. He was short and had his hands
clasped behind his back. I thought it was
time to reveal myself.
“ProfessorAlainBergman?”Iasked,and
my voice made him stop. His glasses glinted
as a stray beam of light wandered over his
face.
“Who are you?”
“Icametothemeeting.MynameisRon
Wyatt.”
“Iwasexpectingawoman.”
“I know. She sentme,” I lied. “She was
afraid it might be dangerous to meet here, so
Iagreedtocomeinherplace.”
“I still don’t understand what you are
doing here.” He wrinkled his forehead and
stepped out of the shadows, revealing his
skinny body and grey hair. He appeared to
be in his seventies.
“I’maprivatedetective.”
“Oh … I get it! This means that Miss
Sicard hired you?”
Sicard.NowIhadlearnedJennifer’sreal
nameatleast!OfcourseIansweredwitha
yes, but confessed that there was much infor-
mationinthismatterthatIstilldidn’tknow.
“Intheletteryousenther,youmentioned
adiary,”Icametothepoint.
“Yes, it’s here with me,” he said, point-
ingtohispantspocket.“ItbelongedtoLuc,
Miss Sicard's father. We were colleagues and
friends for a long time until … he was killed.”
“How did he die?”
“He was run over by a car on his way
home. There weren’t any witnesses. His body
was found lying on the Paris road the next
morning. The police investigation didn’t
last long. Allegedly they found alcohol in
his blood and they thought he was drunk
that night, though I’m sure he wasn’t. He
never drank. On the same day as his mur-
der, someone broke into his house and made
amess,butdidn’tstealanything. Isuspect
that someone bribed the police, which is why
they dropped the case. The killers were look-
ing for the diary, which Luc sent me via post
a day prior to his death.”
“He sent it to you and not his own daugh-
ter? Why?”
“Their relationship was not the best.”
“I see. And what can be found in the
diary? What was your profession by the way?
Miss Sicard wasn’t too talkative.”
52 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“We worked as art historians at the
University. At times, the Louvre used our
services as restorers as well.”
“Professor Bergman … this story becomes
more and more confusing. Why the hell did
your friend die?”
“Read it!” He said, handing over the diary.
“Then you will find out. I can’t say more
becausethereislittletimeleft…I’mafraid
they are on my trail.”
As soon as my fingers touched the
leather-bound book, a soft pop sounded from
somewhere above us, and Professor Berg-
man lurched. On his chest a red blood spot
appeared,increasinginsize.Iimmediately
dove for cover and flattened myself against
thewall.Idon’tknowhowIwasabletomove
atall. It’snotaneverydaythingthatsome-
one is killed before your eyes, and the sight
thoroughly shocked me. Despite the situation,
the adrenalin flowing through my body gave
me enough strength to act. However, there
wasnothingIcoulddofortheoldman.He
collapsed before my eyes and breathed out
hissoul.Itwastimetoleavetheport!
But I couldn’t go backwards, because
new bullets hit the ground around me. I
saw a dark figure stirring behind a bench.
I cursed my bad luck, then made a deci-
sionandmovedtowardstherocks.Iranas
muchas Icould,whilebullets flewaround
me like angry wasps. Fortunately, the night’s
darkness served as a perfect cover, though it
alsomademyescapeharder.Icouldbarely
see anything as I climbed down the rocks
and found a small crack to hide in. The sea
washed my shoes.
Above me, loud and angry words were
spoken and the figures of two men emerged,
then stopped at the edge of the hill and
looked down into the darkness. In their
hands, they held silenced pistols. After look-
ing at each other, the higher one motioned to
his companion, who started to climb down.
He moved like a panther, skillfully and
silently. He was a professional. The man was
onlyafewcentimetresawayfromme,andI
didn’t even dare take a breath. His compan-
ion joined him.
They knew Iwas there somewhere, but
they couldn’t rely on their eyes. Unfortu-
nately, the situation quickly turned to their
advantage when one of them pulled out a
flashlight and turned it on. The white light
pierced the night like a sword. Only seconds
separated me from death, so I had to act.
Usingthepowerofsurprise,Ibrokeoutand
pushedthemwithmyfullpower.Itwasfun
to listen to their cries as they fell into the
water with a loud splash. Without wasting
asecond,Iclimbedbacktothepromenade,
hoping that they didn’t have any friends, oth-
erwiseIwasdoomed!
But Goddess Fortuna stood next to me
thatnight.With the diary inmypocket, I
quickly disappeared into the shadows, like a
wandering spirit in an old castle.
CHAPTER THREE
I returnedtomyapartment, locatedon
one of the steeply rising side streets, with my
nervesonedge.OnceI'dsatdownonthebal-
conyanddrunkaglassofbeer,Imanagedto
calm down a bit. The area was quiet and the
noise of the bustling main street reached my
ears dully. Across the rolling dark sea, the
lights of other settlements vibrated on the
mainland. A little closer, the cross of Koron-
isiIsland’sonlychurchshonewithbluelight,
like an improvised lighthouse.
At this moment, I would have gladly
returned to my house in London to enjoy the
companyofmycat,Tom,whomI'dleftwith
oneofmyfriendsinmyabsence.Finally,I
gathered myself together and started reading
the diary. Surprisingly, it described the life
of Luc Sicard’s father, François Sicard. He
was born in Paris, into a moderately wealthy
family. François lost his mother at a young
532 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
age and his father became an alcoholic, so
as a teenager he was forced to look for a job.
After a long search, a local press employed
him as an assistant, but in his spare time,
François devoted himself to painting. He
often made drawings in the streets for money.
Intime,abenefactorandpatronofthearts
discovered his talent and searched for a
teacher to train him. Meanwhile, his father
slowly drank himself to death.
The young François soon became inde-
pendent, and under the tutelage of his teacher,
he grew up to be a true artist. Until the age
of twenty-six, François lived a modest life
despite the inherited family wealth, because
he didn’t want to throw away the money. At a
cafeteria, he met with his future wife, Patri-
cia Laroche. A year later, they married and
began to travel. The painter was charmed,
especially by the Mediterranean atmosphere
and historic monuments of Greece.
Despite his talent, he didn’t become
famous. His complicated nature made things
even more difficult. Apart from Patricia, not
many people were capable of develping a good
relationship with François—probably as a
consequence of his hard childhood. A break-
through came at the age of thirty, when a large
numberofhispaintingsweresold.Itwaseven
mentioned in the newspapers, because two
English Lords and a German lawyer were the
ones to purchase them.
However, the happiness of François was
overshadowedbyhiswife’sillness.Inevery
second month, a hot fever knocked Patricia
off her feet. The doctors didn’t know the
reason for it, and the medicines could only
ease the symptoms. She became skinny and
weaker over time. For three years, Patricia
battled the disease, but on an autumn day
shefinallyclosedhereyes.Inhisgrief,her
husband reached out to alcohol, as had his
late father, and became addicted too.
He had only a few friends, who unsuc-
cessfully tried to steer him back towards a
healthy lifestyle. Even his only son, the five-
year-old Luc, wasn’t able to change his mind.
Once the painter became incapable of raising
a child, a cousin of François looked after the
children. Finally, everyone turned away from
him and there wasn’t a gallery that would
exhibit his creations.
As a last hope, he sold his house and
moved to Greece, to the island of Hydra,
which had long been known as a centre for
culture and the arts. He built a new home
for himself three kilometres out of town. The
sea air and the hospitable residents helped
him find peace, and slowly François gave up
alcohol.
Then he began painting again, and in
a telegram made contact with his son and
cousin. On the island, he made numerous
paintings, which were purchased by several
galleries throughout Europe. Some even
reached America. However, fame never
found him again.
Though he established an acceptable
relationship with his son, the gap that sep-
arated them remained. Then, on a summer
night, tragedy occurred. The sixty-year-old
François, who was said to adore cigars, fell
asleep in his bed, and the sheet caught fire.
The whole building burned down. His fam-
ily transported his remains home, and the
memory of the artist was slowly forgotten on
the island.
His works were also destroyed by the
flames, but some said one painting survived
the fire.
Thediaryendedhere.Iwassittingwith
my thoughts, staring at the dark sea. Accord-
ing to Bergman, I would know what was
goingonafterreadingthediary,butIcould
only guess. For lack of any better ideas, I
flippedthroughthebookagain.ThenIcame
across an inscription at the bottom of a page,
writteninsmallletters.Itwashardtoread,
but in the end I succeeded:The victorious Heracles (1991 – François Sicard & Giannis
54 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Pavlis).NowIrealizedwhatwasgoingon!The victorious Heracles was probably the last
painting of François, which wasn’t destroyed
in the fire. Luc Sicard discovered the person
who knew something more about it. Unfor-
tunately, he didn’t have the time to get to
the bottom of things, just like his daughter,
who shared his fate. Professor Bergman also
passedaway.ItseemedIwasthelastperson
who could reveal the secret.
Iwasreadytofulfillthetask.Notbecause
of pride or a reckless desire for adventure.
Simplyduetomycommitmenttojustice.I
owed it to the memory of the Sicard family.
CHAPTER FOUR
The sun clothed the landscape in a red robe
as it leisurely rose above the horizon, strok-
ing the bottom of the cloud fragments lazily
slidingontheyellowsky.Ihadn’tsleptmuch
lastnight,butIwasreadytogototheisland
of Hydra.
Alas,Ihadtowait;itwastooearlyinthe
morningandeverythingwasclosedstill,soI
couldn’t pay for the tickets to the ship. How-
ever,IsuspectedthatinspectorFotopoulos
wouldbeinhisofficealready.Iwasright.
Iwanted to speakwithhim to askhis
permissiontoleaveTolo,whichIhopedhe
would grant me! Fortunately, although he
was sleepily wiping his eyes and yawning a
lot,heagreed.Iwasabouttoleavewhenhe
askedaquestionthatIwassecretlyexpect-
ing.
“Do you know a man called Alain Berg-
man, Mr. Wyatt?”
“Why do you ask, inspector?”
“He was killed last night in the harbor. A
fisherman found his body an hour ago. He
was shot. So … do you know him?”
“Never heard of him,” I answered,with
an innocent face. The inspector scowled at
me, then sighed and motioned, allowing me
to leave.
“Notify me when you return, Mr. Wyatt!”
“Of course.”
Oncefinished,Ilookedatmywatchand
headed towards one of the nearest offices of
Pegasus Cruises, a cruise organizing agency.
Not many people were standing around in
the street, so it wasn’t hard to spot once
again a curly-haired, bearded guy who had
beenfollowingmesinceIlefttheapartment.
Probably he was one of the armed men from
the harbor. This would mean they knew who
Iwas,whichwouldbepossibleonlyifthey
hadstartedfollowingmewhenImetJennifer.
Perhaps last night it wasn’t the professor but
me who drove them to the port.
PretendingthatIhadn’tnoticedanything,
Imoved on. Some of the tavernswere pre-
paring to open, as were a few souvenir shops.
Theofficewasstill fiveminutesaway,so I
decidedtotakearisk.Iwantedtoknowwho
the enemy was. Behind one of the taverns, a
narrowalley led down to the beach, and I
quickly turned in at the corner.
AssoonasIgotoutofthesightsofmy
unwantedshadow,Istartedrunning.Arriv-
ingatthebeach,Iquicklyflattenedmyself
against the wall of the nearest building, from
whichIwasabletokeepaneyeonthealley’s
entrance. Fortunately, there wasn’t anyone in
the vicinity except me. On the beach, stacked
sun-beds and folded white umbrellas lay in
the sand.
Inthenextmoment,therunningfigure
of the bearded man appeared as he rushed
through the alley. He was approaching fast,
and my muscles tightened. The moment he
reachedthesand,Ijumpedonhim.
Ipunchedhisfaceandwatchedwithsat-
isfaction the curve of his flight as he fell to
the ground. While the waves washed the sand
againandagain,I leanedoverhimtolook
into his eyes and pull him up, but in doing so
Iletdownmyguard.
He recovered very fast and scattered some
sandinmyface,whichItriedtogetridof
552 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
as quickly as possible. My opponent, how-
ever, didn’t hesitate to hit me on the chin. The
groundranoutfromundermyfeetasIlost
my balance. Stars jumped before my eyes.
The bearded man snarlingly stood over me,
pulling out a silenced pistol from his pocket.
“Where is the diary?” He asked, aiming
the pistol at me.
“In a safe place,” I replied sarcastically
to provoke him, until he made a mistake in
his anger.
“SpeakorI’llcreateaniceholebetween
your eyes!” He shouted, grabbing my shirt
and pulling me up.
My time had come! Taking advantage of
themomentum, I hit the arm inwhichhe
held the weapon, and then belted his face.
Ifelthisnasalbonebreakandwarmblood
splashed on my forehead. A painful scream
left his throat and the gun fell to the sand.
I immediately kicked theweapon into the
water, then punched its owner in the stom-
ach. The guy fell to his knees.
“Nowstartsingingnicely, likeabird!”I
said, gripping his hair strongly to make him
feel the pain. “Who are you working for?”
“To your mother!”
“Wronganswer,”Ishookmyheadthenhit
him again. “Let’s try it once more!”
“Idon’tknowhisname!”Hesaidtoavoid
any further punishment. “I’m just a free-
lancer. He contacted me via phone.”
“There must be something you know
about him! What does he look like?”
“Isawhimonlyonce.Wemetonhisyacht
two days ago. He was wearing a hat and sun-
glasses.”
“Isthatshipstillhere?What’sitsname?”
“Idon’tknow.Theycoveredthemarkings.”
“Ifyouarenotgoingtotellmesomething
useful, the fish will enjoy your company very
soon!”Ihissed,squeezingmyfingersonhis
throat in rage.
“Alright! Alright!” He responded, protect-
ing his damaged nose and reached into his
pocket to pull out a piece of paper. “He said
we had to call this number at ten o’clock in
the evening to report.”
“Goodboy,”Itookthenote.“Whereisyour
partner?”
“At our hiding place. When we fell into
the water last night, he was badly wounded
by a rock.”
“Poorguy,”Inoddedsympathetically,then
knocked him out with one punch. He fell to
the ground like a rag doll.
Itwas time to pay for the voyage, so I
walked back to the main street. My fist hurt,
butIwassmilingwithsatisfaction.AfterI
bought the ticket, there was only half an
hour left until the departure. Stepping out of
the office, my gaze flashed from one face to
another,butIdidnotseemybeardedfriend.
Iwalkedtotheharborrelaxed.Theslim,
streamlined body of the snow-white ship beat
back the beams of the sun like a crystal. A
fewminuteslater,IwasonmywaytoHydra.
CHAPTER FIVE
The picturesque island, dotted with mountain
ranges, appeared on the horizon like a barren
gem, covered with some trees and a few bushes.
Iwatchedasthecity,dominatedbygreyand
white houses and embedded in the mountains
like an amphitheatre surrounding the natu-
ral bay of the harbor, drew nearer. Fishing
vessels and yachts rocked in the waves. Sun-
beams were reflected back from the windows
of charming cafeterias, churches and bazaars.
“Inspiring sight, isn’t it?” Said a female
voice in my ear, and as I turned, a real
beauty caught my eyes. She was sitting on
a bench, wearing a white blouse. Her long
black hair looked alive as the strong wind
started playing with it. With slender fingers,
the woman set her sunglasses right on her
freckled nose, while she stood up and walked
next to me with a flirty smile. For a second,
IthoughtaGreekgoddesshadcometolife
56 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
before my eyes. The short skirt pointed out
the tempting line of her long legs.
“Breath…taking,”Imoaned,makingher
laugh with that jingling voice, which was
music to my ears.
“Me or the island? Don’t look at me like
you haven’t seen a woman before!”
“Hydra is beautiful but not as beautiful as
you,”Icomplimentedher.“MynameisRon
Wyatt.”
“AnnaTanakis.”Shetookmyhand,andI
almostfeltanelectricshockwhenItouched
her fingers.
“Do you often take the first step to meet
strangers?”
“OnlyifInolongerwantthemtobestran-
gers,” she said, flashing her white teeth.
At least fifteen minutes remained until
theshipmadeport,soIinvitedherforasoft
drink at the bar. Responding to my interest,
Anna revealed that she was a teacher at the
University of Athens and was currently on
holiday. She had been staying in Tolo for two
days. Before arriving in Tolo, she had already
called the cruise agency to tell them that she
was interested in the voyage to Hydra.
“This is your first time on the island?” she
asked.
“Yes. What about you?”
“For me this is the umpteenth visit, Mr.
Wyatt.Ispentmanyholidaysherewithmy
parents, until the age of ten. We rented a tiny
bungalow. Unfortunately, after their divorce,
Ididn’tcomebackhereforalongtime,”she
said, glancing at her empty glass.
“My parents also divorced, so I under-
standhowyoufeel,”Isaid,tryingtocomfort
her a bit clumsily, which she noticed and
smiled at.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Iworkasaprivatedetective.Ihavemy
own office.”
“Wow!Isn’titdangerous?”
“Occasionally. Maybe that’s the reason
mostwomendon’tstaywithmeforlong.”I
don’t know why but I felt an irresistible
wave of honesty inside me. For many years,
Iconsideredthisissueapainfulsubject,but
nowitbrokeoutofme.“ThreeyearsagoI
divorced my wife. Fortunately, we didn’t
have any children. I was enraged when I
learned that she left me for a bookkeeper,
though I gaveher everything. She said she
couldn’t continue to live with me because
of my insecure life. Yet … my work is far
frombeingsodangerous.UsuallythecasesI
get are busting cheaters or finding a missing
person.Soit’sveryrarethatIacceptadan-
gerous case. God has a weird sense of humor.”
“I’msorry!Noteveryoneisabletoendure
the hardships. Fortunately, there are some
women who aren’t afraid to escape the bore-
dom of everyday and take a risk,” she winked,
making me smile like a kid under the Christ-
mas tree, surrounded with presents.
“What do you teach exactly at the Univer-
sity?”
“Ancient literature and mythology. Why?”
“I’m just curious about something. Are
there any myths related to the island?”
“Iguess.Youaskbecauseofthenameof
the place, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Well … the locals connect one of the
twelve labors of Heracles to the island, the
defeating of the monster called Hydra,
although the location in the story doesn’t
match that of the island. However, the shape
of the island is longish so it could be seen as
a snake. Human imagination has no limits.”
“Tell me a bit more about this!”
“Alright. The monster had more than one
head.Itwassaidthatthecentralheadwas
immortalandhadpoisonousbreath.Ifone
of the heads was cut off, two new ones would
grow to replace it. Heracles and his armor-
bearer,hisnephewIolaus, figuredouthow
to kill the creature. They burned out the
wounds after a head was cut off, so new ones
couldn’t grow to replace it. To connect this
572 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
victory to the island, some explain it with the
draining of the swamps.”
“Isee.”
The victorious Heracles.Now I had anidea what Sicard’s intact painting could
depict.When the ship left Tolo, I checked
the Internet with my cell phone to search
forsomeinformation.AboutSicard,Ifound
that his pictures were worth at least five hun-
dred thousand dollars, and the price of them
Eye of the Hydra by Akos Kirsch.
58 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
went up even more after his death. A specu-
lation rumored that a Sicard collection could
beworthafewmilliondollars.ThenIreal-
ized that this game was played in big money,
soI’dbetterproceedwithcaution!
“I feel that you have business on the
island,” said Anna, and looked into my eyes.
“Indeed.Ihavetofindsomeone.Doyou
know a man called Giannis Pavlis?”
“Pavlis? Sounds familiar …” she started
thinking, then her eyes lit up. “The one you
are looking for must be at least ninety years
old! He lives in the north part of the island
as faras I remember. Ifhe is stillalive,of
course. But you better ask the locals for guid-
ance. What do you want with the old man?”
“Only he can answer a few questions
about an old case.”
“Clear. I’d rathernotknowwhat’sgoing
on,” she laughed. “When you finish we should
go to a tavern. Call my number if you have
thetime!Hereitis.I’lljustbebuyingsome
souvenirs.”
I was surprised how pushy she was
and found it suspiciousactually,but I still
accepted the offer because she was so attrac-
tive.Icouldneversaynotoawoman.
Suddenly the ship’s horn signalled that
we had arrived and the crew was preparing
to land. I hoped everythingwould gowell
with the old Pavlis!
CHAPTER SIX
The fiercely blazing sun almost burned my
skinwhen I stepped to the jetty, but fortu-
nately the wind blew pleasantly cool air from
the sea towards me. The harbour was loud
with the voices of tourists, and saddled don-
keys were lined up behind each other waiting
for passengers. Except those with bags
attachedtotheirbacks,ledbytheirmasters.I
watched an animal with amazement, because
a fridge was tied to its back and four men had
to keep it balanced as they unloaded a boat.
It wasn't actually that big a surprise,
because I read that most vehicles were
prohibited on the island, which remained
preserved from modern architecture as well.
The image of the port was still characterized
by the gray houses of old captains. This cre-
ated quite an idyllic atmosphere.
Iimmediatelynoticedthefortressandits
black guns, pointing at the sea. Hydra was
a significant sea power once and played a
major part in the struggle for independence
oftheGreeksagainsttheTurksin1821.The
memories of this event can be found still in
the Museum, located in the port. At least
that’swhatIgatheredfromwhatIreadon
theInternet.
Besides the fortress, the windmills and
white stone-built houses also caught my
eye.Forashorttime,Iconsideredwhereto
start.ThenIaskedaboutoldPavlisfromthe
master of a waiting donkey. Fortunately, the
man spoke English and willingly explained
whereIcouldfindthemanIwaslookingfor.
My way led through the stone-paved nar-
row alleys, which rose steeply upward. Some
of the winding streets proved to be so nar-
rowthatatonepointIwas forcedto lean
against the wall to allow a tourist group
topassby.Finally,Imanagedtoreachthe
end of the alley, fromwhich I had amag-
nificent view over the town and its harbor.
The mountains—rising over the city—looked
down on the teeming mass of people, like
ancient giants fading into the mist of the
past.
Slowly, I left behind the buildings and
headed for the dirt road that led to the home
of Giannis Pavlis. Dry bushes and grass
lined thepathonwhichIwalked.Thebar-
ren island showed its romantic but also its
poorface.Itwasnowonderthatpeoplewere
living off fishing and tourism on these lands.
From the distance, a ringing sound of bells
reachedmy ears, and I sawa little church
shining in the sun on a hilltop.
592 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
The stone house of old Pavlis sat in the
shadow of a cypress tree, surrounded by
rocks. Gray peaks stretched in the back-
ground. The owner of the house was sitting
on a bench, leaning on his walking stick and
talking to his grazing donkey, but the animal
didn’t react to his words. Pavlis was wearing
a beret and a plaid shirt. He greeted me with
apolite smilewhen I appeared in frontof
him. Vividly shining eyes sat in his wrinkled
face.
“Mr. Pavlis?”
“Yesthat’sme.WhatcanIdoforyou?”He
asked in his throaty but strong voice.
I introduced myself and asked if he
remembered his old friend, François Sicard.
AsImentionedthenameofthepainter,he
immediately became suspicious and, frown-
ing, stared at me.
“Why do you want to know, Mr. Wyatt?
François has been dead for years.”
“Iamawareofthat.AsIamofthefact
that his last painting, which wasn’t destroyed
in the fire, is probably on your property.
Otherwise … it wasn’t me who figured this
out but the son of François: Luc, who was
probably killed just like his daughter, Jen-
nifer. Someone drowned her in cold blood
before my eyes. I couldn’t save her. Some-
body wants to get ahold of the painting at
any price, Mr. Pavlis.”
The old man stared grimly in front of
him for several minutes. Finally, he sighed
and stood up.
“Come inside the house, Mr. Wyatt! Let’s
discuss this matter next to a glass of wine.”
SoIsteppedintothecoolbuilding,where
we sat in the kitchen and my host poured
my glass. The sweet taste of the silky wine
caressed my throat.
“Ihave to tell youbadnews,Mr.Wyatt.
The painting is no longer in my possession.”
“How so?”
“I kept it safe for a long time.François
requested it. You know … he became very
paranoid before his death. He thought some-
one would make an attempt on his life, but
eventually the end came to him through his
own fault. He became like this after creating
that picture.”
“What does the painting depict?”
“The battle of Heracles and the Hydra.
The hero is about to burn out the wound on
a neck of the monster with a torch. Quite an
interesting work, because in the background
you can see the port of the island at night. On
thejettytwoorthreepeoplearestanding.In
thewaterbelow,aboatcanbefound.Inever
understood the essence of the composition.”
“Sounds odd, that’s for sure. Did you sell it?”
“An antique dealer from Nafplio bought it.
A particular man called … Manolis Leventis.
He often visited the island in those days and
became friends with François. A German
guywaswithhim,butIsawhimonlytwice.
Ican’trememberhisname.Hewasdealing
in antiquities too, legally of course.”
“Isee.DoyouthinkMr.Leventisisstill
alive?”
“No. However, his grandson inherited the
business. Petros is his name. At least that’s
whatIheard.Ifyoucheckaphonebook,I’m
sure you will find him.”
“Well … thank you for the help and the
wine!” I stood up to leave, shaking hands
withtheoldman.“Iwishyouallthebest,Mr.
Pavlis!”
“Good luck, Mr. Wyatt! God bless you!”
I leisurely walked back down the path.
Two hours were left until the ship’s depar-
ture,soIdecidedtocallMissTanakis,who
was visiting the fortress at that moment. She
askedtomeetmethere.Iagreedandputmy
steps on pace.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ihadtopushmywaythroughthecrowdof
tourists to reach the meeting place. A short,
windingroadleduptothefortress.Ifound
60 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Miss Tanakis leaning against the fortifica-
tion wall, looking at the gently waving sea
where a hydrofoil passed by, disturbing the
surface of the water.
Anna smiled when she saw me. “Wel-
come!”
“Thanks!”
“Were you be able to arrange what you
came here for?”
“Youcouldsayso.ButIhavetovisitNaf-
plio also.”
“Really?” She pulled up her eyebrows.
“When?”
“As soon as possible. Maybe tomorrow.”
“This is an urgent matter?”
“Probably. Though I would rather stay
in Tolo to enjoy your company, Anna,” I
winked at her.
“You really don’t waste much time, Ron.”
“Life is too short, don’t you think?”
“Surprisingly,weagree.Bytheway…I
could go with you and we wouldn’t lose any-
thing. I planned to go there anyway these
days.MaybeIcanevenhelpyou.”
“You might be right. Now that we cleared
this up, let me invite you to a lunch!”
“Igladlyaccept.”
We set off, heading downwards hand in
hand,whenInoticedabaldman,whoocca-
sionally glanced at us. I pretended that I
hadn’t noticed anything, but from the corner
ofmyeye,Isawhimfollowingus.Underhis
hooked nose was a thin moustache. He wore
a white shirt and canvas pants. I remem-
bered seeing him on the ship. Perhaps the
beardedguyinTolo,whomI’dinterrogated,
hadliedabouthispartner?Itwouldn’tbea
surprise.
We ate at one of the port’s taverns. The
guy also dined three tables away from us.
Since there was still some time until depar-
ture,IaskedAnnatocheckouttheMuseum,
which was at the end of the pier. She happily
agreed and had just bought the ticket, when
Itappedmyforehead.
“Ileftmywalletonthechair.Goahead!
I’llfollowyouinafewminutes.”
“Alright,” she said, then went into the
building.
OfcourseIliedaboutmywallet.Iwanted
tocatchthebaldguy,soIenteredoneofthe
alleys.Ialmostranupthestairs,thenturned
to the right at a blue shuttered window. Sur-
prisingly, the street was empty. The tourists
preferred to gather around the shops in these
minutes. Next to a wall, there stood a mature,
potted ficus and I quickly jumped behind
it, peeping out from behind its leaves. My
chaser was lagging behind but eventually he
showed up.
Seeing the empty alley, he came to a halt
for a minute. He looked around, puzzled,
thenmovedtowardsme.Iwaswaiting,ready
to act. Suddenly a third man appeared from
behind the corner. He was tall, his blond hair
was parted in the middle, some rectangular
sunglassess covered his eyes. His blue shirt
harmonised with the white walls, but the
same could not be said for the silenced pistol
in his hand.
As he heard the steps, the bald man
whirled around and reached toward his
pocket. But he was too late! The bullet
pierced his head. Bone shards and brain
fragments flew in the air. Everything was
covered in blood: the ground, the wall and
even the leaves of the ficus. The sight made
me feel sick to my stomach, unlike the blond-
haired man, who put away his weapon and
looked down at the body for a second. After
aminute,heleftwithoututteringaword.I
could not even spit or swallow in my surprise.
After a brief hesitation, I quickly
searched the pockets of the bald guy, but
didn’t find anything, and left the scene. For-
tunately,I’dbeencarefulenoughnottoget
my fingers covered in blood, too. Reaching
the promenade, I saw no trace of themur-
derer.ItseemedwiserformetojoinAnna
before someone shot me down as well.
612 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
In our remaining hours on the island,
not much happened. When the time came,
we returned to the ship and left Hydra. On
thewaybacktoTolo,Iwashauntedbythe
memory of the murder. The corpses were
uncomfortably multiplying around me, like
mushrooms in the forest.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Night had fallen by the time we returned to
Tolo. Anna said goodbye, then returned to
herhoteltosleep.Iwantedtodothesame,
butfirst Ihadtotakecareofsomething. I
took the phone number, which I got from
the bearded guy in the morning, out of my
pocket.Itwastimetofindoutwhoordered
the killing of Professor Bergman and my
tracking.
Iwasstandingonthepromenadeofthe
harborwhileIcalledthenumberandwaited.
After two rings, someone picked up and a
deep male voice spoke.
“Youarelate!Itoldyoutocallmeatten
o’clock not half an hour later! What’s up?
How much does the private detective know?”
“Enough to see that you are a coward, who
lets someone else carry out his dirty work,”
Ireplied,andnoticedwithsatisfactionthat
the owner of the voice was very much sur-
prised on the other end of the line.
“Mr. Wyatt! How did you get this number?”
“Fromoneofyourgorillas. Ihadtoper-
suade him a little bit, but the boy made a
wise decision eventually. Therefore, he was
able to walk away with only some missing
teeth and a broken nose. Moreover, I ran
into your other assassin on Hydra. Poor guy
is probably still lying in the street with a nice
hole in his head.”
“You don’t make my job easy, Mr. Wyatt.”“I’mgladtohearthat.Bytheway…you
didn’t introduce yourself.”
“It’s enough that I know your name. The rest doesn’t matter. Anyway, you can still
walk away alive if you forget about this case and continue your miserable little life. Oth-erwise, I will step on you like I step on an insect!”
“Howpoetic.Unfortunately,Ihavearepu-
tationtoprotect.Ialwaysbelievedthatthe
truth comes first. Something is telling me
that the painting doesn’t belong to you.”
“I suspected that you wouldn’t retreat, but sooner or later I will get the picture.”
“We will see. You better hurry then, before
yourcompetitorfindsit!”Isaid,tomakehis
nerves dance a bit. My instinct told me that
the blond guy from Hydra was working for
someone else who was also hunting for the
picture. Although this was only a theory.
“I’m not interested in your empty threats. I’m warning you that I know everything about you, thanks to my information net-work! So don’t try to get in my way again if you want to stay alive!” The man hissed.
Itriedtopayattentiontohisaccent,butI
couldn’t identify it.
“You sound very upset. You are afraid of
me, aren’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Watch your back instead from now on!” He said, then ended
theconversation.Iguessedthatthisnumber
wouldn’tstayactiveanymore.Tobesure, I
called it again, but a female automated voice
told me that the number was not available.
LookslikeIwasright.
At least I’d learnedonethingaboutmy
enemy:thatheknewnocompassion.Inmy
soul, I prepared myself to face many dan-
gers. Only one thing spoiled the picture and
reduced my chances: the absence of my gun,
whichI’dleftinLondon.
Ineededatrumpinmyhandtosurvive
the coming days. The only hope for me was
tofindthatdamnpainting.Iglancedatthe
lights dancing on the water’s surface, then
left the harbor.
Over the dark mass of the opposite island,
the bright strip of a shooting star crossed the
62 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
sky, and a second later disappeared into the
night.
CHAPTER NINE
Thenextmorning, I rentedabatteredFiat
and picked up Anna, who was as beautiful
as always. She was wearing a flower pat-
terned, one-piece dress, which only reached
the middle of her thigh. Her white handbag
was hanging under her arm, but somehow,
for a few seconds, my eyes focused more on
hercurvybreasts.Ihadtoholdmyselfback
in order to keep behaving like a gentleman,
thoughIfeltawarmwaveofheat,asifIwere
walking in the desert.
From Anna’s wide smile, it became clear
to me that she had noticed my embarrass-
ment.SoIrathersteppedonthegas.Before
picking up my companion, I’d obtained a
phone book and looked up the address and
number of the antiquities shop. Fortunately,
the owner of the shop picked up the phone so
IcouldintroducemyselftoPetrosLeventis,
and tell him that the Sicard family had tried
tofindthepainting.Iheardalackofinterest
inhisvoiceat first,butwhenImentioned
that some members of the family had paid for
it with their lives, he became interested and
started whispering.
“Meet me at the Palamidi Fortress at three o’clock this afternoon! Come to the Fokionas bastion. I will be in a red shirt, so you can easily recognize me.”
“I’llbethere!”Ipromised,thenendedthe
conversation.
I drove leisurely, as we still had a few
hours until the meeting. The weather was
cloudy, and the sun emerged only sporadi-
cally to involve the surrounding mountains
in a golden glare with its rays. We left many
roadside resorts behind us and eventually
arrived in Nafplio, which was once, for a
short time, the capital of Greece. A city
full of life and palm trees appeared before
my eyes, where a variety of tourists and
locals walked the streets. An army of scoot-
ers circled the parked cars on the roads. We
managed to find a parking lot under the for-
tress, next to the park.
The mass of tall trees provided a cool
shade and a number of nearby taverns and
shops were waiting for travellers.
“What are we going to do until the meet-
ing?” She asked, getting out of the car.
On the way here, her curiosity had awoken,
soafterabriefhesitationI'dsharedwithher
the events of the past days. I thought she
would find the journey with me too risky, but
she became excited instead. Anna explained
this reaction with her love for detective mov-
ies. She undoubtedly enjoyed the situation. Of
course, it wasn’t my intention to put her in
danger,but Ineededahelperaswell.Two
sets of eyes see more than one.
“As polite tourists, we will visit the stores
andwillgotoeatsomething,”Ireplied.
We crossed the road and turned into an
alley, where we found a large number of shops
selling souvenirs. During our walk—through
narrow streets—we arrived at the port. Fish-
ing vessels rocked on the waves with the
white walls of the Bourtzi Fortress, which
was built on a tiny island, in the background.
A ferry had just arrived when we appeared,
and from its belly a horde of passengers and
cars emerged onto the promenade. All this
activity was followed by the gaze of visitors,
sitting on the terraces of taverns and cafete-
rias along the beach.
The wind and the sight of the sea made
us hungry, so we went to a restaurant. Once
we’d finished, we bought an ice-cream and
continued our walk. The ancient mountains
rose above us like unavoidable Titans. We sat
on a bench, watching the seagulls circling
above the water. Meanwhile Anna, at my
request, talked about her family a bit.
Both of her parents—now retired—had
worked as teachers, so it was no wonder that
632 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
she had followed the family tradition. She had
three sisters and twelve cousins, not to men-
tionsuchanumberofnephewsthatIcould
hardly memorize all the incoming data. My
humble family relations were nothing next to
hers.
My mother was a secretary before she met
my father, who worked as a simple waiter.
After their marriage, they put together their
saved money and opened a family business
in the countryside. Ever since, they’ve been
the owners of the Wyatt-inn. Despite their
divorce, they managed to maintain a good
relationship and still work together.
Slowly, the time of the meeting was
approaching, so we headed towards the
Palamidi Fortress. A long staircase made
of slippery and cracked stones led up to the
monument. As we walked up higher and
higher, an amazing view opened out for us.
We could see over the entire city, the orange-
tile-roofed houses, a former Byzantine chapel,
a port and another fortress nearby—the
Acronafpli—plus the parking lot and a beach,
where dozens of people enjoyed the warm
water. However, this panorama had its price.
My legs were shaking because of the
long way up, and even Anna gasped wea-
rily behind me. Sometimes we had to stop
for a short break. Sometimes other hikers
came up or went down as we stopped, leav-
ing us behind on the stairs. Finally, after a
half hour, we reached the entrance, where
we bought tickets along with a brochure, and
went inside the building.
The centuries old stones provided a pleas-
ant shade while the wind whistled between
them. According to the brochure, the Vene-
tian fortress was built between the years
1711 and 1715, then fell into Ottoman hands
beforeitsconstructionwascompleted.Itwas
formed by a complex network of eight towers,
which involved aquifers, ammunition dump
sites, food storage and—among other things—
barracks.
The meeting place was supposed to be
at the Fokionas tower, so we tried to follow
the map and move in that direction. The
fort reminded me of a small maze, but we
managedtofindtheplace.Itwaslocatedto
the south of the Agios Andreas tower. On
its south-eastern point, a gate led to a nar-
row and winding staircase, which ran over
the coastline of Arvanitia. Needless to say,
whenIlookeddownfromthere,thedizzying
depth didn’t do anything good for my fear
ofheights.Fortunately,Ijustglancedatthe
stairs, then went back to the wall, where Pet-
ros Leventis was waiting. He was wearing a
red shirt, as he’d told me on the phone.
He was a tall man with shoulder-length
hair. Dark eyes sat in his face under thick
eyebrows. His handshake was manly and
strong.
“You could have found a more easily
accessiblelocation,”Isaid.
“This is the most neutral place in the city.
Have you been followed?”
“I doubt it, but don’t take my word as
guarantee! Tell me what you know instead.
Do you have the painting?”
“No.ButIknowwhereyoucanfindit.My
grandfather wanted to keep it safe.”
“From whom?”
“From those who caused the death of
François Sicard.”
“FrançoisSicardwaskilled?Ithoughta
cigar caused the fire.”
“My grandfather said that the fire was
set on purpose. They were good friends and
trusted each other. A German antique dealer,
some Heinrich Ganz, visited my grandfa-
ther during those days. According to him,
this German was responsible for the death
of François Sicard. When Ganz saw the
painting, he desperately wanted it. For some
reason, it was very important to him. After
that … Sicard became nervous.”
“Hmm … maybe Ganz threatened the
painter?”
64 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“As far as I know, he did,” nodded
Leventis. “Sicard gave the picture to my
grandfather before he died. My grandfather
was afraid of the German, but also wanted to
bring him to trial. Sadly, there wasn’t enough
evidence to prove his guilt. Since Ganz didn’t
know the location of the painting, he left the
country and went home. But my grandfa-
ther didn’t forget and eagerly continued to
search for evidence, though without much
luck. Then came a heart attack and he died.
His last wish was … that only the Sicard fam-
ily should know about the painting. Since
you’ve made it obvious that they were killed,
I’llrevealitslocationtoyou,Mr.Wyatt.”
Leventis had just finished the sentence
when a blond-haired man—the one from
Hydra, who had shot the bald guy—stepped
out from behind the stairs, which led to the
wall. The silenced pistol was in his hand
again and he pulled the trigger without hesi-
tation.ImovedtopushawayLeventis,butI
was too late. The bullet pierced his stomach,
and he collapsed. Anna screamed while the
killer ran away.
“Staywithhimandcallanambulance!”I
shouted, then started chasing the murderer.
CHAPTER TEN
I almost fell on the slippery stones, but I
somehow managed to keep my balance and,
taking advantage of my momentum, jumped
from the stairs instead. I ran through an
arched gateway, following the labyrinth-like
paths, and soon reached a small square at the
entrance of the fortress. The visitors watched
the event with wide opened eyes, as two
strangers rushed off before them breathlessly.
The blond slipped out of the gate and took
thestairs,whichleddownwards,toescape.I
was running close behind him. For a moment,
Iwasdazzledbythegapingdepthbelowme,
but I didn’t stop. I was getting closer and
closer, which he noticed because he sped up.
Inthenextmoment,whenhereachedthe
third round and whirled, the guy shot at me.
Iimmediatelystoopedandflattenedmyself
against the rocky wall. The bullet passed me
and hit the stones of the staircase. By now
the killer had started to run away again,
makingmeenraged.WhatIhatethemostis
whensomeonethinksI’mthetarget.
I threw myself after him and in a
minute managed to catch up with him. The
unknown man looked back for a second and
blindlyfiredatme,butIignoredthebullets.
WhenIgotcloseenough,Iknockedhimoff
his feet. Both of us hit the floor. Fortunately,
during the fall, his hand was slammed to the
ground, and the weapon fell from his fingers
and slipped down to the parking lot below.
Encouragedbythis, Igrabbedhisshirt
and turned him on his back, then punched
his face with my fist. But my opponent was
an experienced fighter. He spat some blood
and, as if nothing had happened, returned
the blow. The man was a bit larger than me,
so the strike hit me with the power of a loco-
motive, pushing me to the lower stone wall
along the stairs.
The world turned upside down while
black dots jumped in front of my eyes. The
blond stood up and made to leave, but I
couldn’tletthathappen!Ireachedafterhim
andgrabbedhisankle.IwashopingthatI
could make him fall down on the stairs, but
he kept his balance easily. He kicked my face
with the sole of his shoe, almost breaking my
nose, and then walked away. After this, I
hadno strength to followhim, so I layon
the ground and watched his vanishing figure.
Istayedtheremotionlessforseveralmore
minutes until an old couple came and helped
meup.TheywereFrenchas farasIcould
tell,thoughIdidn’tunderstandanyoftheir
words.Inanycase,theykindlyofferedmea
sipofmineralwater,whichIgladlyaccepted.
Istillfeltterrible,butImotionedthatIwas
fine now. They believed me, though they left
652 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
me alone reluctantly as they continued their
journey up to the fortress.
I looked down from the stairs, but the
attackerhadalreadygone.ThenIheardthe
sirenofanambulance.AnnahaddoneasI’d
asked,itseemed.Itwastimeformetoreturn
to thewounded. It tookme awhile to get
backtothem.BythetimeIarrived,Leventis’
head was resting in Anna’s lap, while three
or four tourists stood behind them.
The antique dealer was in bad shape. He
looked pale, and he was breathing briskly
while a pool of blood spread slowly under his
body.
“I must … tell you …” he whispered in
aweakvoice, so I leaned in closer tohim.
“Thalassa street … 23, in Kavala. The attic …
of the old house … under the boards of the
central beam.”
“Why there? Hold on Leventis! Help is
coming,”Itriedtokeephimconscious,but
he slowly stepped into a place where living
people are not allowed to enter.
“Thehouse…belongstomyfamily.It’sfor
rent,” he groaned, then made a faded smile
and closed his eyes.
Petros Leventis left our world forever. No
one said a word. Anna gently laid his head
on the stones, while looking at me with tear-
fuleyes.Ishookmyheadsorrowfully.There
was nothing we could do now. Only the wind
blew between the walls like haunting wraiths
in daylight.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
We left the scene before the ambulance
arrived. We didn’t want the authorities to
ask uncomfortable questions later. The few
tourists around us were foreigners, who
didn’t pay much attention to us because they
were looking at the corpse with horror and
intensely discussing the events, allowing us
to disappear unnoticed. They didn’t see us
talking with the victim anyway.
WesatsilentlyinthecarwhileIdroveback
to Tolo. Anna broke the silence eventually.
“Who was that man?” She asked, and I
wishedIcouldanswer!However,Isharedmy
theory with her.
“Perhaps he is working for that German
antique dealer, Ganz. If he is still alive of
course.”
“Idon’tunderstand.Sowhowerethemen
who killed Professor Bergman?”
“Them? They are working for a mysteri-
ous figure, who is probably also looking for
the picture and has not yet revealed himself.
Three of us are looking for it now, counting
them.”
“This whole thing is like a bad dream,”
said Anna, and I had to agree with her.
“When are we going to Kavala?”
“You shouldn’t come with me. It may
become too dangerous.”
“Maybe you are right, but if you think you
can leave me out after what happened, then
you are wrong!”
“I’m justworried about you. I shouldn’t
have let you join me in Nafplio either.”
“You can’t change it now. A man died … in
myarms,Ron!Icannotactlikenothinghap-
pened.Thismemorywillhauntmeforever.I
want him to pay for it … the one who com-
mitted the murder.”
The anger and determination in her
words convinced me that she wouldn’t listen
tomeanyway.Iwouldn’tbeabletoshakeher
off now.
MaybeIdidn’tevenwishforthattohap-
pen.
***
“So you are leaving us,” inspector Foto-
pouloslookedatme,whenItoldhimthatI
would continue my vacation in Kavala.
“That’s right.”
“I’msorrytohearthat.Well…Iwishyou
all the best!”
66 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“You’re just letting me go like this?”
“Itmustbesurprisingtoyou,butIhave
nothing against you and there is no reason
toarrestyou.ButIwouldliketoasksome-
thing!”
“Go ahead!”
“Have you visited Nafplio today? Imag-
ine,barelyanhourago,Iheardonthenews
about a local resident who was shot in the
Palamidi Fortress!”
“ThisisthefirstIhearofthis.Imetwith
a pretty lady, you know. She was with me
in Nafplio, where we had lunch and walked
around a lot. We wanted to go up to the fort,
but the staircase was closed because a police
officer wasn’t allowing anyone to cross.
Maybe this crime was the reason. Anyway,
we came back, but if you have any problem
with this …”
“Alright, alright! No need to take my
question so seriously!” He waved his hand.
“Enquiry is a bad habit of mine. Occupa-
tional hazard.”
“I’ve noticed. With your permission, I
would like to leave now.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Wyatt!” We shook hands,
andIlefttheoffice.
Ifelthiswatchfulgazeonmybackuntil
the door shut behind me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By noon the next day, we were already in
Kavala. In theearlymorning,wehadgone
from Tolo to Kalamata by taxi, from which
we could easily reach the second largest city
in northern Greece via a cheap flight. Kavala
was founded by settlers in 7 BC under the
name of Neapolis, on the coast of the Kavala
Gulf, opposite the island of Thassos. Thanks
to its trading port and the gold hidden deep
in the mountains of Panagia, it became a sig-
nificanttowninthearea.Later,between1387
and 1912, it came under the authority of the
OttomanEmpire.Itscurrentnamewasgiven
in the 15th century, and it was during this
time that the huge aqueduct was built, which
still stands as a memento of the past.
AsIlearned,tobaccoandmarbleprocess-
ing are the main parts of Kavala’s industry.
All this was related to me by Anna while we
satontheplane,andIlistenedwithinterest.
Ialwayslikedtohearnewinformationabout
theplacesIvisited.
We booked our rooms at the Galaxy Hotel
because of the favourable prices and loca-
tion. ItwasonVenizelosEleftheriou street,
notfarfromtheharbor.WhenIsteppedout
onto the balcony, a magnificent view opened
before my eyes as dozens of ships rocked on
the water along a promenade lined with palm
trees.Inthebackground,snow-whitehouses
and the deepblue sea beat back the sun. I
only regretted that the pleasant atmosphere
of my visit was overshadowed by the earlier
murders.
After we had unpacked and had lunch,
we decided to look for Leventis’ house. Prior
to this, we had looked up the phone number
of the house and Anna had called. A woman
had picked up the phone, who turned out
to be the tenant of the house. Anna man-
aged to convince her that we were working
for the National Gallery in Athens, and that
Mr. Leventis had given us permission to
examine the building, which was the home
of a famous painter in the last century. The
woman was thoroughly surprised but, to our
astonishment, believed the story.
Barely half an hour later, we stepped out
into the vibrant city center, from which we
could catch a taxi. We set out to find the
address, while silently admiring the passing
large squares and cobblestone streets, as well
as the restaurants and storey buildings.
The house was north of the harbor on a
narrow street. Surrounded by a flower gar-
den and old-style houses, the area looked
very atmospheric. The renter of the yellow-
tile-roofed building, Miss Iliana Panayi,
672 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
enthusiastically invited us inside. She was
a short woman whose dark, piled-up hair
accentuated her slender neck and round face,
in which smiling brown eyes sat. She was
probably in her thirties. She wore jeans and
a white blouse.
As a good hostess, she offered us seats,
then went to the kitchen to bring a glass of
something cold to drink. Meanwhile, she
didn’t stop talking and, in a few minutes, we
had learned half her life story. Finally, she
tookabreakandIwasabletospeakabout
the purpose of our visit.
“Miss Panayi, as we told you earlier, we
assume that a painter lived in this house
before it was sold to the Leventis family.
According to a few letters and a diary, it’s
possible that the last picture of the artist was
hidden in the attic of this building.”
“How is this possible?” She asked in disbe-
lief,butIhadanexplanationready.Onthe
wayhere,I’dhadtimetocreateafakestory.
“Mr. Sicard was French and had no chil-
dren. Because of his financial problems, he
had to auction his home. The new owner,
Nicholas Leventis—great-grandfather of Pet-
ros Leventis—renovated the house. During
the work they found a tiny chamber under
the basement where the painting was hidden.
Unfortunately, Mr. Sicard had already died
so he couldn’t take back his rightful property,
which he had simply forgotten because of his
other problems. Eventually, the fate of the pic-
ture depended on Nicholas Leventis’ daughter,
who liked it so much that she hid it in the
unfinished attic. She was afraid that her par-
ents might sell the painting, and never dared
to tell them what had happened. Instead,
thanks to her, everyone thought it was stolen.
We know this from her own diary. Later, she
felt guilty about keeping it a secret from her
father, so she left the picture in the attic.”
Fromthecornerofmyeye,Inoticedthat
Anna gave me an approving glance for my
performance. Imust admit, Iwasproudof
myself because Miss Panayi completely came
undertheinfluenceofthestory.Ialreadyfelt
sorryforherbecauseofthelie,butIhadto
achieve my goal without putting her in danger.
“So … if you don’t mind, we would like to
examine the attic,” smiled Anna.
“Of course. Follow me!” Our host
motioned, and escorted us to a small room,
from which a stairway led upstairs.
Thick dust sat on the attic’s floor, while in
the corners a multitude of spider webs were
suspended. Worn-out pieces of furniture,
newspapers and other odds and ends deco-
ratedtheplace.Itwasobviousthatneither
Petros Leventis, nor the occasional tenants,
paid too much attention to the upper level.
Infact,theatticlookedunfinished.Once,a
black nylon layer had run under the tiles, as a
ceiling, but now it hung down raggedly.
The three of us started to examine the
place, especially around the beams. Between
them, the tiles placed on the frame were vis-
ible.Afteranhourofsearching,Iwastheone
who found the painting! At the intersection of
the eastern wall and the roof frame, a brown
piece of rag peeped out from under the rag-
gednylonlayer.Ifounditstrange,soIlooked
closer.Itwassuspicioustome,soIaskedMiss
Panayi to bring me a knife, which she did.
OnceIgottheknifeinmyhands,Iripped
the layer with a firm motion. The material
of the old nylon tore easily, and beneath it,
a cylindrical shape covered in rags slowly
revealeditself.Ipulleditoutcarefullyand
put it on the floor, then gently unpacked it.
The painting of François Sicard, which had
caused so much trouble already, was finally
inmyhands.IglancedatAnnaandbothof
us started to laugh.
“Wefoundit!”Iwhispered.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The picture was really strange, as the old
Pavlis had told me on the island of Hydra.
68 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
The middle of the painting was dominated
by Heracles, wearing a lion’s skin while rais-
ing a torch and his club to strike down the
dragon-like creature whose head—one of
many—stretched towards the hero from the
left corner of the painting so its body didn’t
appear on the creation. The scaled heads
of the Hydra looked down on the hero with
opened jaws and glowing red eyes. Mean-
while, in the background, modern white
houses stood in the night. Not far from these
waved the water of the harbor, with a boat
on its surface into which three figures were
loading some golden objects.
In addition, the artist hadusedvibrant
colors and deep shadows, so the painting
attractedtheattentionevenmore.AfterI’d
packed it back into the paper roll and the rags,
we said goodbye to Panayi and expressed our
deep gratitude for her cooperation. We even
promised that someone would visit her soon
from the National Gallery, and told her she
might receive some money as a reward.
I saw that the poor women became
excited,butIhopedshewouldforgetabout
thesubjectinafewweeks.BythenIwould
hopefully have put an end to the case!
“Now what?” asked Anna when we
returned to the street. Fortunately, a new red
cabappearedandImotionedtostopit.
“Now we return to the hotel and discuss
therest,”Isaid,andopenedthedoorofthe
red Mercedes for my partner like a true gen-
tlemen.
Suddenly, a dark blue BMW caught my
eyeacross the street.For amoment, I just
staredatthecar.Idon’tknowwhybutsome-
how it seemed threatening. Even more so,
because one lone figure was sitting at the
wheel, his eyes fixed on us. His face was hid-
den in shadow, except for some parts of it,
whichlookedfamiliar.ThenIrealizedwho
Iwaslookingat:thebeardedguyfromthe
beachatTolo!TheoneIinterrogated.Oneof
the killers of Professor Bergman.
The man started his car and stepped
on the gas, while pulling down the window
and reaching out his hand. He was holding
asilencedpistol.Iduckeddownatthelast
moment to avoid the lethal bullets. Anna
screamed as a projectile shattered the rear
window of the taxi and the BMW passed
us, though it didn’t go far. Less than four
meters away the vehicle crossed the road and
stopped, and the man fired at us again.
This time the terrified and shouting taxi
driver ran out of luck as a bullet found its
way intohis chest.Hedied immediately. I
knew that we had to get out of there as soon
aspossible!Withhastymovements,Iopened
the car’s door and dragged out the body
while deadly projectiles flew around me.
ThenIjumpedintotheseat,turnedtheigni-
tion, put the car into gear and stepped on
the gas. The taxi rolled backwards toward
theexitofthestreet.Iturneditnotfarfrom
the exit, but the BMW had drawn danger-
ously close already.
Acatandmousechase started. Idrove
out from the side street with a sharp turn,
while the cars—coming from the left—
crossed the road with squealing brakes and
angry drivers behind their wheels. The sun
was shining brilliantly, but the surrounding
houses provided enough shade to allow me to
seewhereIwasgoing.AndIneededaclear
view, because long lines of cars were parked
on both sides of the road. Meanwhile, the
BMW raced close behind us.
The bearded guy gained on us often, and
we felt it when he pushed the taxi with the
bumper of his vehicle. Sometimes I could
hardly keep the Mercedes on the road
because of the collisions. Anna screamed
almost annoyingly, while trying to encour-
age me to go faster, which I didn’t think
such a good idea in the medium traffic, but
I had no choice.My heartwas beating in
mythroat,especiallywhenIhadtopullthe
wheel to avoid hitting a woman, who just
692 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
wanted to cross the road to get to the other
side of the street. Her terrified face remained
vividly in my memory.
People noticed the chase wherever we
passed. Numerous thoughts flashed through
my head on how we could shake the man, but
nothingclearcametomind.SoIturnedinto
an alley again, while another bullet hit the
car. A small tavern was located in the street,
where just a few guests were eating. They
curiously turned towards us as we passed in
frontof them. I sawthreeChinese tourists
rushing out from the building to take photos.
At least they had a little excitement. For me
it was too much already.
Meanwhile, we drove past a traffic sign
then found ourselves on a wider highway,
which ranacross the city. Suddenly, I spot-
ted the rising fortress over Kavala, which
was built in the Byzantine era against the
barbarian hordes. With its robust shape, the
fortress was prestigiously bathing in the sun-
shine, while looking down on the old town
and the nearby harbor.
We headed straight in that direction,
which wasn’t difficult since the majority of
the roads led to the harbor. Time passed, bul-
lets flew and the tires smoked while a song of
terrified screams reached us. Soon we found
ourselves at the gate of the old city, which
was connected to the modern part of Kavala
by the huge aqueduct. The arched gateway
of the building was approaching fast. The
gray stones created a sharp contrast with the
leaves of the nearby palm trees.
In the next moment, the side window
broke into pieces and I felt some of the
shards injure my face. The BMW drew near
us.Isawthebeardedmanaimingthegunat
me as we reached the passage.
SoIactedquicklyandjerkedthewheel
to the left. The two cars collided with a loud
bang. Our persistent pursuer lost his balance
andthebulletmisseditstarget.Inaddition,
he was gripping the wheel with only one
hand, so he had no chance against the full
weight of the vehicle, and couldn’t keep the
carontheroad.Itwasapleasuretowatch
the BMW hit the massive pedestal of the
aqueduct.Itshoodwascrushedandthefront
right wheel was torn from its place.
Anna and I smiled at each other in
relief, but we didn’t stop to admire the scen-
ery. However, my mood was ruined when
Ilookedintherear-viewmirror.Isawthe
bearded guy coming out of the wreck, then
hejustranaway.Ifeltdisappointedbecause
I’dhopedthatwehadfinallygottenridof
him! Sadly my hopes vanished in the glimpse
of an eye.
But the painting was in my hands, and
that was what mattered.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After leaving the taxi in a quiet alley, we
returned to the hotel to refresh ourselves.
Anna felt tired so she withdrew to her room,
but said she would join me in an hour. I
knew that even if I’dwanted to sleep,my
discursive thoughts wouldn’t allow that to
happen.Instead,Itookthepictureandput
it on the bed.
IwassurethatFrançoisSicardhadleft
sometracesinhisfinalwork.Itcouldn’tbe
a coincidence that after its completion, he
haddied.Istaredatthepaintingforalong
time, until a minor detail caught my eye. As
Ilookedcloser,Iliftedmyeyebrowsbecause
the discovery had fundamentally shaken my
theoryofevents.Idecidedthatitwastime
to call my old friend Barton Campbell in
London.
BartonandIhadfoundedthedetective
agency together. Though he remained a silent
partner, he helped me out with some infor-
mation from time to time.
“Ron! How are you? Chasing the girls on
the beach every day, right?” He laughed after
receiving the call.
70 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“Not exactly. Unfortunately … I’m
involved ina serious caseand Ineedyour
help,Barton,”Ireplied,andbrieflytoldhim
what had happened.
“Can’t say I envyyou,Ron. I thinkyou
should bring the painting to the cops.”
“And get myself in even bigger trouble?
Nowthatit’sinmyhandIhavethetrump
card.Not tomention the fact that I can’t
prove it wasn’t me who killed Professor
Bergman in Tolo. I wouldn’t be happy to
spend the rest of my life in a Greek prison.”
“Maybe you’re right.What can I do for
you then?”
“Get some information about a German
antique dealer called Heinrich Ganz! Try
to pinpoint the year he visited the island of
Hydra. Find out if something else happened
on the island before Sicard’s death. Also, try
to learn in whose possession Sicard’s paint-
ings are found!”
“Okay,I’llcallyouassoonasIhaveany
news!”
Both of us said goodbye and the discus-
sionended. I folded thepictureandput it
back in its case, then hid it under the bed.
Eventually,Isatonthebalconyandbegan
to wonder. Was it possible that I’d found
answers to some of my questions? Hopefully
thiswasthecase,butIhadtowaituntilBar-
ton called back to be certain. The sun slowly
approachedthehorizonasIlistenedtothe
sound of the traffic and the horn of a ship
somewhere in the port.
Two hours later, there was a knock on my
doorandIsawAnnawaitinginthecorridor.
She smiled at me.
“I slept a little longer than I promised.
Sorry!” Anna came closer and our faces
almosttouched.Ifoundherverycharming
in this moment.
She was wearing shorts and a purple
T-shirt, which highlighted her curves. Her
green eyes sparkled like seductive diamonds
andIcouldn’tresistanylonger.Ikissedher
warmly. She returned the gesture. We fell
onto the bed while embracing each other,
and with hasty moves peeled ourselves out
of our clothes. The touch of her silky skin
only stirred my desire, while her wavy hair
fell across her curvy breasts.
We climbed up again and again to the
peaks of pressure for many hours, until we
ran out of energy. Our bodies were bathed in
sweat and heated up. This was eased only by
the wind which penetrated the door of the
balcony.
Bartonhadn’tcalledmebackyet,butI
didn’t mind for the time being. A few min-
uteslater,Iwenttothebathroom,thenpulled
on my shorts and stepped outside on the bal-
cony to breathe in some fresh air. The cool
air gave me chills, but it was good because
Ifeltasfreshaseverbefore.Fromtheroom
belowus, Iheard the soundsof a couple’s
romantic night, which made me smile. Their
balcony door was probably open.
The lamps of Kavala dressed the city in
a cosy robe. The illuminated shape of the
fortress and the shining lights of the harbor
dancing on the surface of the water filled
mewith peace. Then I heard noises from
inside.IlookedintotheroomandsawAnna
fully dressed with the painting in her hands.
That didn’t surprise me, but the sight of the
blond-haired man, standing at the open door,
did. Not to mention the gun he was holding.
IwasstaringatthekillerofPetrosLeventis!
“I’m sorry, Ron!” said Anna, without
looking at me.
I couldn’t say a word in my surprise.
Her treachery totally shocked me with the
power of a striking hammer. The blond man
grinnedwickedly and raised hisweapon. I
didn’t wait for him to shoot. There was no
placetohide,soImadeadesperatemove.I
jumped to the side of the balcony door and
threw myself over the banister while grasp-
ing itwith both hands. I heard the sound
of the bullets coming through the glass and
712 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
glancing off the banister. Then a few seconds
later,Itriedtogetagriponthebalconyitself.
I knew it was a crazy idea, but I had
no choice. I was clinging there, grasping
the bottom of the balcony like an orangu-
tan. The muscles in my arms started to burn
thanks to theunusual strain, then Iheard
voices coming from above.
“No! I’m sure he has fallen down,” said
Anna. “Let’s go and prepare for the meeting
instead!”
“Ambrosia Club, right?” asked the man,
and Anna answered yes. “Okay, we can go,
but first Iwill check to see if he really is
dead.”
The soles of his shoes tapped softly as
he approached. I couldn’twait any longer.
I started swinging my body a little, then
openedmyfingersandbegantofall.Inthe
next moment, thanks to the goddess For-
tuna,Ifoundmyselfonthebalconybeneath
our room,where I successfully hit a table,
which broke into pieces under my weight.
TheairwasknockedoutofmylungsandI
feltalittlepain,butatleastIdidn’tsuffer
any serious injuries.
Afterafewseconds,Istoodupabitdaz-
zledandwalkedintotheroom.Inside, the
couple who had been making love on the bed
stared at me in horror.
“Pardonme!”Isaid,wavingatthem,and
left their room. Stepping out into the hall-
way, I saw the elevator going downstairs,
soIstartedtoruntowardsthe lobby.The
receptionist, an elderly man, was surprised
whenhesawmyhalf-nakedfigure,butIwas
heading for the exit and didn’t pay much
attention to him.
Throughtheglassdoor,InoticedAnna
and the blond man getting into a taxi. By the
timeIstormedout,theyhadalreadyleft.I
watched the vehicle disappear into the night
whileIsanktomyknees.Ifeltdisappointed
and empty because of Anna, who had just
been using me all along.
The anger inside me was about to erupt
likeavolcano.Ihadneverfeltsuchstrong
emotion before.
“The game is not over yet.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Itwastimetoreturntomyroom,butfirstI
asked the receptionist about the location of
theAmbrosiaclub.HetoldmewhereIcould
finditandIthankedhim.Meanwhile,some
guests entered the lobby and looked at me
stunned,butIignoredthemwhilewalking
to the elevator.
Iplayedovertheeventsinmyheadagain
and again, but couldn’t find an explanation
for Anna’s behavior. Unless she had been
playing me since the island of Hydra. After
all, she had been quite pushy when we first
met.Ishouldn’thavetrustedher!However,
I couldn’t afford the luxury of brooding
over the past. I quickly got dressed and
wasabouttoleavetocatchataxi,butasI
returned to the lobby, an unexpected guest
stood in my way.
He was a Greek man wearing a white
shirt and brown jacket, and constantly
smiling eyes sat in his craggy face, which
somehow made him look like a trustworthy
person.Itwasobviousthathewasnothreat
to me.
“Mr. Wyatt?”
“Intheflesh,butwhoareyou?”
“A friend,” he said simply. “We need to
talk!”
“Look…I’minahurryand…”
“Oh…Iunderstand,butIthinkthepaint-
ing of François Sicard is worth wasting a few
minutes of your life on me.”
Istaredathimwithwideopeneyes,but
I couldn’t argue with this statement. We
talkedforfifteenminutes.Afterwards,Ileft
the hotel, feeling more positive about the
cominghours.Isteppedoutintothestreet
and, within a few minutes, had managed
72 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
togetataxi.BartoncalledmewhileItold
the driver where to go, and the informa-
tionIreceivedfromhimansweredmanyof
my questions. The whole picture suddenly
became clear.
Sofar,Iwasjustanotherpuppetinthe
hands of others, thanks to Anna, but now it
wastimetoputanendtothis.Iwashead-
ing to the harbor, and was continuously
surprised by how many people were walking
on the streets. The nightlife of Kavala had
alreadystarted.AfterIleftthetaxi,Ifound
the club, located in a quieter part of the port,
relatively quickly.
Itwascreatedfromanold,smallerware-
house, indicatedbya red flashingpanel. I
walked in the direction of the building
between the parked cars. A pleasantly warm,
though sometimes cool, wind blew in from
the sea, on which the coastal lights of the
city danced playfully, providing a magnifi-
cent spectacle in the night. A low-flying
helicopter drove off in the starry sky.
By the pier, a few boats and a battered
fishing vessel rocked. Soft music and laugh-
ter reached my ears from its deck. A drunk
homeless man lay on a bench a few meters
away, muttering in his sleep.
TheloudmusichitmelikeawallwhenI
enteredthroughthedooroftheclub.Ihad
togetusedtoit,asIcouldn’tevenhearmy
ownthoughts. Itwasa longtimesince I’d
visited such a place. Fortunately, there were
alotofpeopleinside,soImanagedtowalk
to the bar without attracting attention and
ordered a drink, while keeping an eye on my
surroundings. Decorative girls and cool boys
danced in the flashing lights.
The tables were lined up along the walls,
separated by thin-walled boxes, but only a
few people sat on the chairs. Long minutes
passedwithwaitingandIstartedtofearthat
IhadcomeinvainwhenInoticedafamiliar
face in the crowd: the blond-haired man had
appeared, and in his company was Anna.
She held the paper cylinder that contained
the painting, and was wearing the same
clothesaswhenI’dlastseenher.
I quickly turned away to avoid being
noticed, but followed them with my eyes.
They went straight to a table in the corner,
and took a seat. They were not alone. An old
man sat in front of them, wearing a white
suit and a hat. Two large guys stood beside
him. Bodyguards, no doubt. With their grim
faces—both of them were bald but one of
them had a thick beard—they didn’t seem
too dependable.
There was a brief conversation, then the
company got up and moved towards the
exit. I carefully followed them. It wasn’t
easy to fight my way through the crowd, but
Isucceeded.Aftersteppingoutthedoor,I
immediately jumped behind a car and con-
tinued watching from there. The old man
and the others finally stopped at a white
Audi, which was waiting at the edge of the
parking lot under the rustling foliage of the
nearby trees. Something, however, thor-
oughly surprised me.
The blond guy roughly grasped Anna
and took the painting from her. Meanwhile,
Imanagedtogetcloseenoughtoheartheir
conversation. The harbor was quiet … too
quiet.Nobodycameinoroutoftheclub.It
was like the calm before the storm, or at least
that’showIfelt.
“Good job, Miss Tanakis,” the old man
nodded.
“AsifIhadachoice,youbastard!”Anna
stepped forward, but the blond man pulled
her back. “Would you tell your gorilla to let
me go finally?”
“I’mafraidIcan’tdothat! I’msureyou
understand what a difficult situation this is,
so you will have to come with us. You know
too much, madam.”
“Where should we do it, Herr Ganz?”
askedtheblondguy,confirmingwhatIhad
already suspected. The old man was none
732 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
other than the German antique dealer who’d
wanted to get ahold of the painting of Fran-
çois Sicard many years ago: Heinrich Ganz.
“This place is not very suitable because of
the club. Anyone could disturb us. We will
say a final goodbye to Miss Tanakis in the
suburbs,” laughed Ganz in his rasping voice,
and motioned for her to get in the car.
Anna resisted vehemently and tried to
scream, but her captor put his hand on her
mouth.Inhisgrip,shewaslikeadefenceless
flyinaspider’sweb.Ihadtoact!Whileone
of the bodyguards opened the door of the
Auditolettheirbossgetin,Icamearound
thecarIwascrouchedbehind.Mymuscles
tightenedandIwasreadytooverrunthem.
Iknewtheriskandhowsmallmychances
were, but there was no other choice, no mat-
ter how crazy the idea was.
In the next moment, a gunshot thun-
dered and the blond guy’s body twisted, then
he fell to the ground, letting go of Anna, who
leaned against the car in terror. The paint-
ing ended up on the concrete. Heinrich Ganz
and his guards also froze. Seconds later, a
loud voice sounded and two men stepped out
of the shadows.
“Nobody move!”
It was the bearded assassin, who had
shot at us in the afternoon from the BMW.
Next to him was a tall and slim figure, who
also pointed a gun at the others. His face
was covered by glasses and a beard, but
these just didn’t fit him. No doubt he was
wearingadisguise.ButIalreadyknewhis
identity, thanks to the information Barton
had given me.
It seemed the time of reckoning had
come.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At this very moment, all those gathered
wanted the painting without sparing a
thought for human life. The board was set
and the puppets prepared to make their
lastmoves.Icouldsitbackcomfortablyand
watchastheyslaughteredeachothersinceI
wasunarmedanyway,butIwasworriedfor
Anna’slife.However,althoughIwasalways
fondofachallenge,fornow,Istillwaited.
“Who the hell are you?” asked Ganz, and
the man in glasses replied with a laugh.
“Mynameisnotimportant,thoughI’m
sure you’ve heard of me. What matters is
thatIwantthepainting.Thatbusybodypri-
vate detective and you, Herr Ganz, almost
ruined my plans, but the game is now over!”
“Look… I’mvery rich.Maybewe could
make a deal …”
“Don’ttireyourself!I’mnotinterestedin
your money. Drop your weapons instead!”
The antique dealer started grinding his
teeth in rage. His bodyguards were forced to
obey the command, so they threw away their
pistols. The weapons landed on the ground,
andoneofthemskiddedunderthecarIwas
crouched behind.
“Miss Tanakis!” The man in glasses
glanced at Anna. “Would you bring the
painting to me please?”
He smiled, but his face reminded me
ofapredator,andInoticedthatAnnafelt
uneasy doing what the man had asked. She
slowly lifted the cylinder and cautiously
started walking towards the two men. Mean-
while,Itriedtoacquirethegununderthe
vehicle without being noticed. After a short
period of stretching, I reached it, and the
touch of the cool handle provided me with
courage.
By now the picture was already in the
hands of the bespectacled man, while his
bearded companion held Anna with one
hand, aiming the gun in the other at the
German.
“Listen!” Ganz tried to talk himself out
of thesituation. “Ihavegoodrelationships
with powerful people. They could help you
sell the painting for a splendid price on the
74 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
black market. Let’s discuss it or leave us and
go! Either way, you win.”
The man in glasses looked quickly at the
bearded assassin standing next to him, then
both of them glanced back at the antique dealer.
“There is a third option.”
“Like what?” asked Ganz desperately. His
bodyguards were staring at the guns, almost
mesmerized.
“Like this,” said the bespectacled man
simply, then pulled the trigger just like his
partner.
The hollow sound of music coming from
the club was completely suppressed by the
banging sounds of the guns, as their muzzle
fire flashed several times while the German
and his gorillas plunged to the ground like
bloody rag dolls. The man in glasses put
away his pistol and made to leave with the
picture.
“Take care of her, but be fast!” He ordered
his companion, who pressed his weapon to
Anna’s temple.
Ijumpedoutfrommycoverandshouted
at them. The bearded assassin, along with his
boss, looked at me stunned.
“Let her go, right now!”
Ipointedthegunatthemandmyglance
met with Anna’s eyes, which shone with
relief.
“Mr. Wyatt! What a surprise, though
maybe not so much. After all, we came here
by following you,” said the man in glasses.
“Don’t be a fool! Do you think you have any
chance?”
“Isaidlethergonow!”Ihissed,andIwas
ready to shoot.
The assassin also tightened his fingers on
the trigger, his eyes throwing sparks of anger
ashelookedatme.Ifeltabeadofsweatdrip
down my forehead. The tension was palpable
in the air. Anna’s life hung in the balance!
The long silence was finally broken by
the cruel words of the man in glasses.
“Kill her!”
Ididn’twaitfortheassassintocarryout
the command, but neither did Anna. She tore
herarm fromhisgraspandpushedhim. I
pulled the trigger and the bullet crossed the
distance between us. The killer’s body jerked
as the projectile penetrated his chest, on
which a slowly spreading red spot appeared
like a bizarre flower. He fell with widely
opened eyes.
Isawhowhisbosstookouthisgunto
send me to the afterlife. My gun-holding arm
swung to prevent this, but it wasn’t neces-
sary. A blinding light flashed and a reflector
fromoneoftheboatshighlightedus.Icould
swearitwasn’ttherebefore.Ithadprobably
been lying on the bottom of the boat hidden
from curious eyes.
Within seconds, dozens of policemen had
surrounded us. They practically invaded the
parking lot and the wharf. Some stood on the
deck of the fishing vessel. Others came from
the hill behind the club and some jumped
out from the boats. Meanwhile, a real crowd
gathered outside the club, as a few people
had come out to smoke and immediately
informed their friends about what was hap-
pening.
The guy in glasses was surprised and
didn’t dare move. Then a man stepped out
from behind the wall of the policemen. He
was wearing a brown jacket and white shirt
and holding a pistol. His strict eyes turned to
the figure standing in front of me.
“As you can see, you are surrounded.
There is no escape from here. Drop the gun
and lie down on the ground! I’m arresting
you in the name of the Greek police.”
The bespectacled man looked at me and
the detective for a long time. Then his fin-
gersopenedandheletgooftheweapon.In
that moment, three policemen rushed at him.
They screwed back his arm and snapped a
handcuffonhiswrist.Ifeltrelieved,while
Anna stepped up to me and put her arms
around my waist.
752 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
“I’m sorry for what I did!” she said. I
looked into those green eyes and kissed her
long and passionately.
“Iwasafraidyoumightnotarriveintime,
Mr.Venizelos,”Iturnedtothedetectiveafter
catching my breath. He was the one who had
visited me at the hotel a few hours ago, when
Iwasabouttocomehere.
“We wouldn’t let anything happen to
you, Mr. Wyatt,” he smiled. “But we had to
secure the location first. After you told me
wherethemeetingwouldbe,Iimmediately
called my colleagues. We arrived here shortly
before you did. Most of us came on the Coast
Guard’s ship, which let us off, then disap-
peared so as not to cause any suspicion. The
others came in cars, which are now left in an
alley. The fact that we remained unnoticed
was pure luck. However, you need to explain
a few things!”
“With pleasure!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DetectiveIliasVenizelosputusinapolice
car and we drove to the Police Station of Kav-
ala, which was located north of the port on
Omonoias street, the longest road of the city.
We ended up in a rather small office, where
wesatdowntomakeareportinwhichIcould
explainafewthings.Iwasreadytoanswer
their questions, while Anna waited tensely
beside me. She didn’t say a word on the way
here and probably didn’t know what to expect,
despitethefactthatIhadkissedhernotlong
ago. Her treachery needed explanation, and
the detective didn’t hesitate to ask for it.
“Before Mr. Wyatt kindly enlightens us
about the case, tell me, Miss Tanakis, why
did you play the painting into the hands of
Heinrich Ganz?”
“I…”Annabeganandlookedatmewith
mistyeyes,thenloweredhergaze.“Ihadno
other choice. After we returned from the
island of Hydra, that blond guy was already
waiting for me in my hotel room in Tolo and
the German was with him. But it wasn’t the
first time we met. They threatened that they
wouldkillmyfatherifIdidn’tinformthem
about Ron’s plans. They knew that Jennifer
Sicard was searching for the painting so they
followed her to Greece. They also knew she
would try to make contact with a private
detective. When she talked to Ron on the
beach … it was easy to figure out that he was
theone.IwasalreadythereinTolobecause
Ganz wanted a women to spy for them.”
“Whyyou?”Iaskedandlookedather.
“Because of my look, they said. Ganz
noticed me in Athens in a cafeteria two days
before my trip to Tolo.”
“How do you know so much, Miss Tana-
kis?” Asked Venizelos, who seemed very
curious, and with good reason.
“They told me, which made me wonder if
they would leave me alive or not.”
“Looks like the German thought about
everything, though I didn’t know about
them yet when all this happened,” I said.
Her testimony revealed why she had been
so pushy when we first met. She’d had no
choice.Ijusthopeditwasn’thardforherto
get closer to me!
“Yes, but you did make contact with the
Sicard girl and it was enough reason for
them to look after you. What happened in
Nafplio, where the blond guy shot down
Petros Leventis, wasmy fault. I told them
wherewewere going. Iwanted to tell you,
butIcouldn’t.Theysaidamanwaswaiting
in Athens just to blow up the nursing home
where my father lives, due to his condition.
There was no reason to doubt their words.
In addition, Ganz showed me a photo of
my father sitting on a bench in the garden
andtalkingwiththeotherpatients.Iwasso
scared!However,Itriedtogivethemaslit-
tleinformationasIcould,thoughIcouldn’t
foolthem.BeforewecametoKavala,Icalled
them again.”
76 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“They ordered you to get the picture from
meafterwefoundit,right?”Iliftedherchin
to let our gaze meet.
“Yes. I’m so sorry, Ron! I thought they
weregoingtokillyoubeforemyeyes,butI
was helpless.”
“Don’t worry about it! You were in a dif-
ficult situation. Do you know anything about
your father?”
“Only that he is not in danger anymore.
Before the meeting at the club, the blond guy
called their accessory in Athens and told
him not to hurt my father, and to leave the
city. Then he allowed me to call the nursing
homeandspeakwithmyfather.ButIneed
toseehim!Ineedtoknowthattheydidn’t
trick me!”
“Well…Ithinkthisrelievesyoufromall
charges, Miss Tanakis,” smiled the detec-
tive.“It’syourturn,Mr.Wyatt!Inthehotel,
you already clarified a few things about the
matter, but there is still something I don’t
understand. Who is the other person who
also wanted the painting, and why?”
“I’lltellyou,ofcourse.Butfirstletmetalk
about the motive behind the actions of Hein-
rich Ganz! He wanted the painting not only
for its value, but because a much more seri-
ous thing stood in the background.”
“Go on!”
“François Sicard was killed by the Ger-
man antique dealer. Shortly after he went to
the island of Hydra in 1991, he heard about
the artist, whose work had already attracted
his attention, so he visited him. But Ganz
was shocked when he saw the latest creation
ofSicard. In fact,HeinrichGanzhad trav-
elled to the island to steal a valuable artifact
from one of the churches.”
“What kind of artifact?”
“A golden cross with a red diamond in
the middle. The theft took place at night. The
treasure was loaded on a boat and taken to a
safe place. Ganz stayed on the island to avoid
any suspicion. However, the old painter was
an eyewitness of the case. Probably he was
wandering near the coast that night, so the
next day he painted what he saw because he
didn’t dare talk about it, as he feared for his
life. With good reason. So, when Ganz vis-
ited him, he recognized the implicit message
in the picture and feared that Sicard would
go to the police. That’s why he wanted the
picture at any price. Sicard became suspi-
cious and didn’t sell it to him. This was his
doom. Ganz set his house on fire to destroy
the evidence and the only witness.”
“How do you know this?” Venizelos shook
his head in disbelief.
“Thanks to my friend in London. He dug
up the newspapers from that time. That’s
whereIheardaboutthestolencross.Butthe
artifactisalsovisibleonthepainting.It’snot
easy to notice it, but it’s there, right under
the gaze of the monster Hydra. One of the
creature’s eyes is focused on it. So it wasn’t
hard to put the pieces together then. However,
Ganz’s calculations were flawed because the
painting was saved and the Sicard family
never stopped looking for answers about the
deathof their relatives. Itwas theGerman
who killed François Sicard and his son, Luc
Sicard,thoughIhavenorealproofofthis.”
“Unbelievable,” sighed Anna. “So many
died because of one man’s greed.”
“Ifonlytherewereone,buttherearetwo
ofthem!”Icorrectedher.“Hereiswhereour
friend, who was working in the background,
comes into it: Patrick Nelson.”
“So that’s his name? Who is he, really?”
“A wealthy owner of a shipping company
in the United States.”
“And you know this from your friend in
London too?”
“You could say that. He gave me a list of
those who bought paintings from Sicard in
the last few years. Five people were on the
list, but only Patrick Nelson had more than a
dozen pictures! He is an enthusiastic collec-
tor of artwork and his name came up several
772 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
times in relation to cases of stolen paintings.
Of course, there was never any proof that
he had anything to do with those. Analysts
believe a Sicard collection could be of price-
less value.”
“I always hated the crazy millionaires,”
said Venizelos, leaning back in his chair.
“Nowonder.IthinkNelsonwasevenmore
dangerous than Ganz. He knew that more
people were looking for the picture and he
tried to clear everyone from his path: the
Sicard girl, Professor Bergman, Ganz and me.”
“Fortunately he didn’t reach his goal! Mr.
WyattandMissTanakis…Ithinkwearefin-
ished. My colleagues in Kavala will take care
of the rest. Thanks for your help! You can
leave now.”
“Onemoreword, detective!” I liftedmy
finger to stop him. “You didn’t tell me in the
hotelwhatIwantedtoknow.Howandwhere
were you informed about the case? You said
you work in Athens.”
“That’s right. Do you remember inspector
Fotopoulos in Tolo?”
“Of course.”
“He called me after you left town. He
worked in Athens before he moved to Tolo.
Wewerepartnersforthreeyears,soItrusted
him,and Iwasavailableanyway. Itwasn’t
hard to follow you in Kavala. We bugged
your suite after both of you left to find the
painting.”
“And I thought the inspector suspected
thatIwastheonewhomurderedProfessor
Bergman,”Ilaughed,andthenshookhands
with the detective. “Thanks for everything!”
“Farewell, Mr. Venizelos!” said Anna,
with her arms around my elbow.
“Take care of yourselves!” Venizelos nod-
ded and left.
Itwastimeforustoleavetoo.
EPILOGUE
We walked hand in hand down the street,
which was closed by the impressive aqueduct,
like a wall at the end of the road. The stones
were shining with gray-blue light thanks to
the nearby street lamps. The area was sur-
prisingly quiet. Only a few cars passed by us
while a soft wind swept through the build-
ings. Stray cats jumped into the shadows as
they heard our footsteps.
“Iwould liketoasksomething,” Ibroke
the silence, then pulled Anna to the wall of
a house. She looked deeply into my eyes, but
her serious face betrayed no emotion.
“IguessIalreadyknowwhatyouwantto
ask.”
“That despite the compelling factors …
wereyourfeelingstowardsmetrue?”Inod-
ded.
“Iknowthatyourtrustinmehasprobably
beenshaken,Ron,butIcantellyouhonestly
thatIwouldhavemetyouevenwithoutGanz.
All that we shared with each other and what
happened between us … was true.”
Icouldn’tstopsmilingafterherwords.I
felt happy and relieved. The spasm that had
clutched my throat was completely gone and
Anna finally let her emotions rise to the sur-
face.Ineversawherasmorecharmingthan
inthatmoment.Ikissedher.Icouldn’tget
enough of the sweet taste of her lips.
A few minutes later, a taxi approached
andIwavedtomakethedrivernoticeus.
“Let’sgobacktothehotel!”Isaidaftermy
mouth became free. “The night is still young,
don’t you think?”
“This time we agree, Mr. Wyatt,” she
laughed and then both of us got inside the
taxi. �
Aναπαράσταση (Representation) by Odysseas Anninos.
792 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
College Life: November, 1941
BYGEORGEKARNEZIS
Professor Stanley Morse turned away
from Homer’s Odyssey and looked out
from his third floor office window in Wie-
boldtHall. It was one of those deep, dark
November afternoons with a chilling wind
tossing snow flurries under a dull grey sky.
The trees clung to their last few leaves. Stu-
dents hurried across campus, their books held
against their chests. Not a day for discuss-
ing Odysseus’s landing on an island awash
in Homer’s wine dark sea. Still, he thought,
maybeIcouldmakesomeconnection.Being
buffeted by that wind off Lake Michigan was
not exactly the same as being storm-tossed
the way Odysseus was by Poseidon, but it
was fun to devise analogies like this. His
students always seemed to appreciate such
sudden connections with their own lives.
He had been teaching this humanities
course for almost two decades. He still loved
teaching it, particularly because the stu-
dents were undergraduates, mainly first and
second year. Many were still a little green,
pretty excited or excitable, and he delighted
in many of their innocent and untutored
responses. Morse was one of the few senior
professors who insisted on teaching such
courses. Many of his colleagues wondered
at his devotion to them. After he became a
full professor, they told him that the junior
staff should pay their dues teaching the nov-
ices so that he could teach more advanced
courses and seminars. After all, wasn’t he
weary of those stacks of stilted prose, those
predictable responses, all those papers that
tooksomuchlongertoreadandcorrect?“I
take your point,” he had said, and gave them
some history, explaining how he’d gotten
into this business because of Mark Baskin,
a respectable senior scholar and teacher who
also seemed to enjoy teaching introductory
courses. Teachers like Baskin, mentors really,
were his early models, like Harkins in his-
tory and Goldsmith in philosophy, who paid
proper attention to their students, reading
and responding to their papers, not merely
grading them.
Once in a while Morse would take out
some of his yellowed papers he had saved
from his own early college years. He would
wince at his juvenile prose and be reminded
again of how forgiving Baskin had been. His
talent for crafting those sharp, critical obser-
vations displayed a master teacher’s tact for
asking appropriate questions, the ones whose
answers would have made the writing bet-
ter. Baskin would routinely exhort Morse
and his classmates “to put more questions
to your work before handing it in. That way,
you would save me, your reader, the trouble
of doing so.” Such advice had sounded so
odd and evasive when he first heard it, but
it had stuck with him, so much so that now,
as Professor Morse, he could hear Baskin’s
voice whenever he counseled his students
about their writing. Yes, Baskin was for him
a Socrates performing midwifery. Just the
other day Morse had told some colleagues,
FICTION
80 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
who again suggested he take a break from
such teaching, that he was still carrying
Baskin’s torch. “Yeah,” someone quipped,
“sometimes the cave is pretty dark.”
The snow came heavier. Yeah, pretty dark
and we’re getting deeper and deeper into it.
He recalled that sentence from Simone Weil:
In the end, a study of modern history leads to the conclusion that the national interest of every State consists in its capacity to make war. How many of those young men he saw
every day would wind up dead or wounded
in the war that was surely coming despite
efforts to stay neutral? How many would
survive,andwhatsortofIthakawouldthey
return to when it was all over? His own son
had been blown to bits just a week before
Ares gobbled his last meal of young men in
the so-called Great War fought to end all
wars. And who pays for it all and who gains?
The old Greeks had it right. Everybody loses.
Agamemnon sacrifices a daughter so the fleet
can sail, but when he returns triumphant,
his wife slaughters him in revenge, and then
she is killed when their son exacts similar
revenge on his own mother. And Achilles is
as dead as Hector.
Morse returned to his book and recalled
the previous class. Then he had noted how
deftly Homer had sounded such solemn notes,
making the pain of war that much more
poignant and present when remembered
amidst the splendid setting of a victorious
King Menelaos of Sparta presiding now
over a joyous wedding feast to celebrate
the double wedding of his son and daughter.
Telemachus, searching for news of his father,
enters the scene as a visitor. He is amazed
at the splendor of it all and whispers to his
companion that surely they find themselves
in a place resembling “the court of Zeus.”
(“Think,” Morse had quipped, to his students’
delight,“ofanIndianafarmboygazingawe-
struck at the Palmer House lobby.”) The King
overhears Telemachus’s praise and responds
immediately with a humble warning: his
world is not the Gods’. And he quickly recalls
the fates of those lost to war, or on the jour-
ney homeward, so that Telemachus and all
those who have ears to hear could under-
stand that he, a Spartan King, would give
much of what he’s gained if only he could
bring those companions back to life.
The class had stayed with him. Through
his careful questioning they were led to
become Homer’s audience listening to how
an innocent youth like Telemachus could be
taught, just as we all needed to be taught,
that “victory” and fame have to be purchased,
andthatpaymentneverceases.Itwasallhe
could do to withhold his personal history: I understand, you see, my son was only twenty when—
Morse heard the knock on his door just
after he had skimmed a few more lines and
come to Menelaos’s question: “What pleasure
canItaketheninallthesepreciousthings...?”
He looked at his watch. Five minutes till class
time.He rose andopened thedoor. Itwas
Michael Drugas, an older student in his class,
sometimes very outspoken, but never exces-
sively so as some overconfident types were.
A young woman, quite attractive, wearing
a black beret, a well-worn long winter coat,
and a white hand-knit woolen scarf, stood a
little behind him. Morse noticed how nicely
her dark wavy hair rested on her shoulders.
She still had her gloves on and seemed a little
frightened, as if she were using her com-
panion as a shield from the cold. Morse was
quick to give her a reassuring smile.
“I’m so sorry tobother you, Professor. I
just wanted to be sure it was OK if my friend
Miss Georgan here,” he bent his head in her
direction, “visited our class today even if
she’s not a student.”
“Mr. Drugas, ah, yes. Of course. Certainly.
Most welcome.”
Michael nodded and said his thank you.
Morse watched him take his companion’s
812 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
arm and lead her toward the classroom
down the hall. Drugas. He would be the
sort of student to refer to “our” instead of
“your” class. Morse liked him for it. Besides,
he was one of those few students who ever
approachedhimabouthispolitics.In1937,
there had been that awful mess, a massacre,
really, during the steel strike on the South-
east Side. The police had gone berserk and
Drugas’s father had been shot and was para-
lyzed on that Decoration Day. Michael told
Morse that he had heard the rousing speech
the professor gave at a rally downtown a
few days later, and that he decided right
then, even while still in high school, that he
wanted to get into the University where—
how had Drugas put it?—“guys like you
were teaching.” Drugas had asked what it
was like for Morse to be on a stage with the
likes of Carl Sandburg, A. Philip Randolph,
and Paul Douglas, who were also at the rally.
Morse described the scene and his feelings
as best he could, and then had warned the
young man that there were a number of his
colleagues who were less sympathetic to
his public activities. He then asked Drugas
about his own interests. “Just learning,”
Drugas said, which was refreshing to ears
used to receiving some sort of set speech in
answer to such a question
Morse returned to his desk, picked up
his Odyssey and a few index cards, put them
in his briefcase, took a last look at the snow
thickening in the dwindling daylight, and
walked to his classroom.
***
“So let me remind you again how impor-
tant it is to listen to Homer and to imagine
a rhapsode speaking and even singing this
story. That meant you had to perform—”
Morse saw Mr. Lentz’s hand shoot up. “Yes?”
Lentz was looking intently at him. “Sir,
you used that word before. Rap—?”
“Rhapsode, yes? Can anyone help us here?
I’mgoneattheendoftheterm,soit’sniceto
rely on your fellow students for wisdom in
my absence.”
Some chuckles from others and a little
embarrassment from Lentz.
“Yes, Miss Malone?”
“The rhapsode was a professional singer
or performer who recited Homer. Think
about the word rhapsody, or ode. There could
be musical accompaniment with a lyre. You
said that later we’d be reading Plato and he
gives rhapsodes a tough time.”
“Good, thank you. And yes, we will be
reading Plato’s Ion where, as you noted Miss
Malone, we get some criticism of these per-
formers and even poetry in general. Does
that help, Mr. Lentz?
“Yes sir, thank you.”
“Thank Miss Malone.”
Some laughter again and he wondered as
he watched Jane Malone blush whether he’d
gone too far. He smiled broadly at both of
them as they exchanged quick glances. No
harm done. Another hand went up. “Yes,
Mr. Goodman?”
“Sir, it’s tough to imagine this being sung
and anyway it’s a translation so it’s even
harder to ...” Morse had heard it all before but
appeared to listen as Goodman elaborated
his complaint about “those long speeches,”
while also taking some pleasure in announc-
ing that their translation was in prose, not
verse. Maybe he hadn’t read the assignment,
or was just bored with it so he had to look
for excuses.
“You raise some good points, Mr. Good-
man. We are not studying the original and
have to rely on the wisdom and devotion
of translators.” He reminded them of the
famous verse translations by Chapman and
Pope, welcomed papers that would compare
them, and then brought up what he thought
was an especially interesting point. “Funny,
isn’t it, how dependent we are on transla-
82 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
tions? Let me see. How many of you read
the Bible in the original Greek or Hebrew?”
Five or six hands went up, some of them
tentatively. “Ok. Fine. Now also think about
the fact that Jesus spoke Aramaic and yet
the Gospels were written in Greek—that is,
the evangelists were translating his words.
Strictly speaking, we don’t have Jesus’s origi-
nal words.”
He paused. It was clear they hadn’t
thought about such matters before, about
how the past was obtained. He looked at
Michael Drugas and noticed he had turned
to his companion with a look that said ‘See,
ItoldyouthisguywaseverythingIsaidhe
was.’ Or so it seemed to Morse. Perhaps, over
the years he had gotten into the habit of over-
interpreting students’ expressions.
“But your second point—the one about the
lengthy speeches—is worth addressing. Does
anyone wish to respond to Mr. Goodman’s
observation? Yes, Mr. Drugas?”
“You reminded us, last week I think,
about the Greeks’ love of rhetoric and how
those who could use—what does Homer say,
‘winged words?’—were honored. Back in
Book One Telemachus gets tough with the
suitors after Athena helps him to speak his
mind.Sure,IagreewithMitch—Mr.Good-
man—about the speeches, but for Homer
they were a sign of character and ability.”
Morse waited for others to respond. He
looked at Mr. Goodman who had turned
in his seat to listen to Drugas. Morse was
tempted to merely praise the insight but
knewheriskedshowingunduefavoritism.It
was one of those moments when he decided
to do something he hadn’t planned on doing,
but he routinely reminded himself that such
openings were what kept him passionate
about teaching.
“Thank you, Mr. Drugas. That’s a point
well made. But let’s play with this topic a bit
more and bring it back to the rhapsode’s role
in all this, keeping in mind Mr. Goodman’s
concerns.DoIhaveanyvolunteers,anybud-
ding orators or rhapsodes in the class willing
toreadaspeechaloud?Ihaveoneinmind
thatmaybeof interest. It’s the firstwords
Odysseus says to Nausikaa when she sees
him in book six. Let’s test out Mr. Drugas’s
point about character and ability, something
the Greeks called arête.”
He gave them the page number and they
took a few moments to turn to it and locate
the speech. There was a time when he was
impatient with such pauses, but he’d come
to understand how each class acquired its
own rhythm or pacing beyond his control.
He waited for volunteers. Morse watched the
bowed heads as they read silently. Still no
takers. He waited a little longer. A few stu-
dents looked up at him. Finally Sean Farrell
slowly raised his hand.
“Well,I’llgiveitatry.I’monthespeech
teambutIdon’tdooralinterp.Idebate.”
“Thank you, Mr. Farrell. We’ll be gentle
with you. We’re a friendly audience.”
“OK, but can I make a point before I
begin?”
Morse nodded.
“Professor Baker, our coach, always urges
the oral interp people to imagine their cir-
cumstances when they perform, so we should
do that.”
“Circumstances?” Morse asked.
“You know, who’s listening, what’s the
speaker’s goal and such.”
“That seems wise, yes,” Morse said, “con-
tinue. That sounds like advice for actors, too.
“Sounds like a sloppy Greek Tarzan. Pretty scary. No wonder the handmaidens scatter!”
832 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
And rhapsodes had to be actors, wouldn’t you
say, given all those lengthy (he nodded to Mr.
Goodman) speeches by different characters?”
“Yes, and obviously this speech is directed
toward Nausikaa, a Princess and he wants
her help. She’s come down to the shore with
her handmaidens to wash clothes.”
Rachel Cohen’s hand went up. Morse
nodded.
“Her wedding clothes,” she said as if she
were correcting someone.
Morse watched as Miss Cohen flipped a
few pages back. He’d give anything for a few
more Rachel Cohens, even if she was the type
who hardly warmed her classmates’ hearts.
The class listened as she read a few lines
describing how Athena, disguised as one of
Nausikaa’s handmaidens, urges her to go to
the shore towashherwedding linens. “It’s
as if Athena is telling her to prepare part of
her trousseau. She says: ‘It’s time for you to marry and you want to have nice clothes for yourself and your wedding company. That’s what gives a girl a good name and pleases her mother and father.’ ”
Morse waited for more responses. He
wasn’t sure where Miss Cohen was going
with this. Miss Fields, always a stickler for
consistency and realism, suggested that it
seemed a little strange that a Princess would
be assigned laundry duties, but Miss Cohen
shrugged and waved her hand dismissively,
insisting that Homer had to find some way
to get her down to the shore to meet Odys-
seus, though she conceded it was a little
“contrived.”
Morse glanced at his watch. Were they
losing focus?
“Thesearesensibleremarks,Ithink.”He
turnedtoMr.Farrell.“Isthiswhatyoumeant
by the circumstances of Odysseus’s speech?
Does Miss Cohen’s detail add anything?”
“Well, I guess, though Iwasn’t thinking
thatfarback.Butyes,Icanseewherewhat
she—Miss Cohen—said would be part of it.”
“Iguessall I’msuggesting,”MissCohen
said, “is that Homer may be playing with the
idea that there’s something possibly roman-
tic about the upcoming encounter between
Odysseus andNausikaa. I mean, given all
this mention of marital things.”
“Well,” Mr. Farrell said, looking down
briefly at his book— “Odysseus isn’t very well
dressed when Nausikaa first lays eyes on him.
He’d sure make a lousy bridegroom. He’s not
dressed for the ball.” Farrell read, with some
exaggerated drama, Homer’s description of
how the wild-haired almost naked Odysseus,
leaves covering his privates, emerges from
the bushes—like a lion stalking prey. “Sounds
like a sloppy Greek Tarzan. Pretty scary. No
wonder the handmaidens scatter!”
Some exuberant laughter. Morse smiled
and Farrell beamed: a standup comic with
the audience clearly won over. As the
class settled down, Morse noticed Michael
Drugas’s companion (he’d forgotten her
name) with her head bowed and reading the
text open between them.
“Thank you, Mr. Farrell. Point is well
made. You’ve set the scene. We’re ready for
your—I mean Odysseus’s—speech now, if
youare.I’donlyremindusofthefactthat
since Homer now has Nausikaa’s handmaids
frightened off stage, as it were, the speech is
directed to Nausikaa alone. Also, at the risk
of pointing out the obvious, Homer notes
that Odysseus’s decision to speak was made
after rejecting the possibility of clasping
Nausikaa’s knees—doubtless a wise decision,
as Mr. Farrell reminds us, given his lack of
proper attire.”
After a bit more laughter Farrell took
Morse’s cue and read:
I kneel before you, my lady. Are you a god or mortal? If you are a god like those who rule broad heaven, you are for me most like Artemis, daughter of Zeus, in form and stature. If you are mortal and one of those who dwell upon the earth, thrice-blessed are
84 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
your father and gracious mother, and thrice blessed are your brothers whose hearts are warmed for you when they see such a youth at the dancing. But most blessed of all in his heart is he who comes laden with gifts to take you home as his bride. Never have my eyes rested on such beauty in man or woman—
Sean Farrell paused, looked up at Pro-
fessor Morse and then turned and glanced
around at his classmates. He sighed, took a
deep breath, and addressed them: “Excuse
me, but what a line! He really knows how to
butterherup.Suchflattery!I—Imean,he’s laying it on pretty think, isn’t he?”
Morse saw Drugas’s raised hand and nod-
ded toward him.
“Well, remember what you said, Sean,
about Odysseus’s poor appearance. He’s got
tomakeupfor looking likeasavageandI
guess you can say he’s dressing himself up in
words.That’swhatImeantaboutcharacter
and ability—”
“And,” Rachel Cohen said, raising her
hand and looking back at Drugas and then
at Morse, “isn’t it interesting how he brings
up marriage?”
“Yes,MissCohen,”Morse said, “I think
you’re on to something there. After all, in the
larger scheme of things, this work is about
a married couple reuniting.” Rachel Cohen
nodded in triumph. The rest of the class
remained attentive. Maybe there was more
going on in this book than they’d thought.
He noticed that Michael Drugas had leaned
slightly toward his companion and that he
smiled at something she whispered to him.
She seemed very animated.
“Well,sofarsogood.Iftherearenomore
comments, please, Mr. Farrell, carry on.”
In Delos once I saw a young palm tree so lovely, sprouting beside Apollo’s altar. I led troops there once on the voyage that has brought me so much trouble, but when I saw that young sapling I stood amazed for a long
time. No other tree like that grew out of the earth. So also am I amazed to see you, yet afraid to clasp your knees.
A slight pause and an audible theatrical
sigh from a young lady in the class. Morse
couldn’t tell whether it was genuine or mock-
ing.Ithad,however,createdafewchuckles
before Farrell continued.
My suffering is deep and I’ve spent twenty days storm-tossed on the wine-dark sea, alone, carried away from the island of Ogygia to have Fate cast me here on shore to suffer more, unless the gods relent, for they’re not done with me yet. Pity me, my lady, no one do I know living in this land. Show me the way to your town and clothe me with a rag, whatever you have will do. And may the gods grant you every desire: a husband, house, and one heart between you. Best of all is when two become one true mind and make a home, becoming husband and wife, a joy to their friends and misery to their enemies.
Morse watched everyone’s head rise when
Mr. Farrell finished, and he immediately
complimented him on his “spirited reading”
before asking if he wanted to say anything
else he found interesting after reading it.
“I think,” he began slowly, “I mean it
seemedtomeI’m—Imean—he’sbeingpretty
clever here, sort of manipulative, um, that
part about having led troops reveals his sta-
tus.He’snotjustsomebum.It’scagey,too,
the way he slips in that bit about the palm
tree at the same time. More flattery, so he
keeps piling it on and still gets in something
about himself too.”
Chad Hansen’s hand went up. “It also
made sense the way he wished her well at the
end and saved his request for help till after
he’s buttered her up. And it certainly worked.
Ilikedhearingitaloud.”
“So,” said Morse, “Mr. Drugas’s point
about the character and capacity of the
speaker, does that make sense, especially
852 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
in light of Mr. Goodman’s concern about
length?” Morse glanced at Drugas and then
at Goodman, and waited. Goodman raised
his hand.
“Yes,I’dsayitshowsushowcunningand
manipulative Odysseus can be. You know,
a soldier whose strategy is to win over an
opponent and get them to do what you want.
Lots of clever moves, sure. Tricky Greek.”
Morse noticed how Drugas’s friend was
leaning forward and listening carefully to
the conversation. She seemed to want to say
something. Rachel Cohen and Laura Win-
ter had their hands up. “Miss Winter, then
Miss Cohen,” Morse said.
“I found that what he said at the end,
about marriage and a good home with one
heart,verymoving.Itwasasortofblessing
that would have made quite an impression
if Iwere inher shoes, and it goesback to
Rachel’s point about the marriage theme,
and your point, sir, about the larger theme
of book.”
“Good. Miss Cohen?”
“Yes, thank you. That was my point too.
After all, the whole Trojan war began with
the break-up of a home and marriage when
they abducted Helen.”
Several students nodded in agreement.
“Ah,” Morse said, “yes, that makes the point
nicely.Iseewhatyoumean.Recallalsohow
the first words we hear from Zeus in the
beginning allude to Clytemnestra’s marital
infidelity and his futile warning delivered by
Hermes to her lover, lest he receive a vengeful
death at the hands of Orestes. Thank you for
reminding us that Homer repeats the mar-
riage bond motif, in all its guises, for better
or worse, for his listeners.”
Miss Cohen looked at him with grati-
tude and Miss Winters seemed pleased as
well. Others offered him understanding nods.
Morse glanced at his watch. Five minutes or
so to go. He usually liked to take this time
to do a little summarizing of what they’d
concluded, but that didn’t always happen.
He was invigorated now. He could feel some
new understanding in the air during a class
like this. Itwouldmakehisday.Whenthe
opposite happened, either because of his own
mistakes, or his students’ lassitude, or a com-
bination of both, the remains of his day could
be marred, a stain to be wiped out, he always
thought, only by a sparkling class next time.
He was about to begin his summary when
Michael Drugas raised his hand.
“Ihopeyoudon’tmind,Professor,butour
visitor has something to say.”
“Certainly,” Morse said. “I’m sorry, I
haven’t introduced you. Miss—?
“Georgan.” Her voice was soft and a little
nervous. “Katherine Georgan.”
“Welcome.MayIsaythatgivenwhatwe’re
discussing, we need to be most hospitable to
strangers—Imean visitors—”Morse imme-
diately regretted his clumsy miscue, this
silly, contrived attempt to make her presence
connect with the class discussion. “Please,
Miss Georgan,” he said, managing a smile he
hoped would make up for the blunder.
She glanced briefly at Michael Drugas
and then spoke. “As you all were talking it
made me think a lot, uh, well, you see—the
situation, the circumstances—as you said,”
she looked at Sean Farrell, “your reading it
thewayyoudid—Ijust,well—”Morsesaw
how aware she was that the class was looking
at her, waiting. She looked at Drugas again.
He nodded his head rapidly and said, “Odys-
seus’s humanity, remember?”
That evening over dinner with his wife,
Morse would try to describe this moment and
whatfollowed.“Itwas,”hesaid,“asifsome-
thing clicked.Oh,my dear, I live for such
moments. You know how it is when a student
is seized by an insight and an almost desper-
ate need to pin it down before it vanishes?”
“Yes, yes,” Katherine said to Drugas, and
thenaddressedMorse.“WhatImeantosay
is that for me Odysseus is really trying to
86 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
establish his humanity here. If I were the
audience and saw him, this creature, sud-
denly jump out from the bush almost naked,
I’dwonderwhetheritwassomewildanimal
or savage. But as Michael said, his speech
giveshimnewclothes,humanclothes.Imean,
he mentions the gods, which tells me he has
a religion, and he knows about families—
about how your father and mother and even
your brother feel when they see their sister
and daughter—how did he put it?” (Michael
handed her the book)—“when they see such a youth at dancing.” You see, he knows about
marriage and celebrations and can speak
about the good fortune of Nausikaa’s lucky
suitor who brings gifts to woo her. Flattery,
yes, but he’s also telling me he knows about
customs, and human feelings and about, um,
yes civilization and the natural beauty of a
young palm tree ... and about what it means
for a man and a woman to unite to create a
home, you know, not just for themselves but
togivejoytoothersaswell.IguesswhatI’m
saying is that in this speech Odysseus wants
to build something in common with someone
he’s never seen before, someone he’s not sure
is human or divine. But he needs her help
and first he’s got to make himself human
... at least that’s how it comes across to me,
especially after Mr. Farrell told me to think
about the whole situation, the circumstances,
youknow.AndwhileIwaslisteningtowhat
others had to say, which was very interesting,
andtoMissCohen’spointaboutmarriage,I
just got this idea, you see ...” she looked again
at Michael and then at how many had turned
around in their seats. Morse was about to
speak but she looked up at him and said, “Oh,
mygoodness.I’msosorry,sir.Ididn’tmean
to go on and on this way. Please—”
“Notatall,MissGeorgan,I’msureIspeak
for the class in welcoming what you’ve said.”
Several students nodded and there were
a few “Yes’s” “Thank you, Mr. Drugas. It
pleases me all the more when students, and
also our guest (Morse congratulated him-
self at finding the right term) help give life
to those otherwise dead words on the page,
which Mr. Farrell brought so well to our ears.
Good work.”
Time had expired. Morse assigned the
reading for next class, thanked them again
for their attention and “their contributions,”
reminded them that their next paper was
due in a week, and watched as they gathered
their books and heavy coats. Later he told
his wife that he had thought for a moment
about asking Mr. Drugas and Miss Georgan
to stay behind, but it was clear they were
both in a bit of a hurry. “Even if it was true
that she gathered up and repeated what oth-
ers had said, she got something that others
hadn’t quite hit upon—it was extraordinary.”
And he went on trying to help his wife share
his own impression that Miss Georgan was
making discoveries as she spoke—just as he
himself did in his best classes during those
moments when he felt words and thoughts
come to him that were, even after so many
classroom years, startlingly new. �
872 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Sunday, Saturday, Sunday
BYAKREVOEEMMANOUILIDES
There was a sameness about Sundays.
The bells of Saint Ludwig’s penetrated
the walls of the porched row houses, and
as less ardent Christians listened to their
steps, the Irish, Italian, andGerman fami-
lies directed themselves toward seven o’clock
mass at the spired church that dominated the
neighborhood. The clock in the church tower
was tall enough to be the timepiece for all
the residents, and when the clocks in vari-
ous kitchens rested their arms and refused to
budge another minute, a mother would call
to her child, “Go to the corner and see what
time Saint Ludwig says.”
For the two little girls who lived in the
corner house, the seventh day was quieter
thantheothersix.Itwastheonlydaytheir
Papa was home, and for as long as they could
remember, Mama had cautioned them that
they must be quiet on that day for their
father worked hard and needed to rest.
During the week, Niko Kontoyannis
walked home from the little restaurant he
owned, always following the same route
over eight treeless city blocks. Occasion-
ally, a passing neighbor or customer would
drive Mr. Nick, as they called him, home,
but since there were fewer affluent people in
the area, most nights he walked. As soon as
the girls heard his footsteps on the wooden
porch and the turning of the door-knob, one
or the other would run to the parlor where
he had seated himself to rest in the neat,
clean, multi-patterned room.
“Kalispera, Baba.” “Good evening, Papa.”
Although Niko spoke English adequately,
the children always addressed their parents
in Greek within the home.
“How are you tonight, my little Katina?
Yourpoorpapaistiredasalways.Itwasdark
whenIleftthismorning,anditisdarkagain.”
He sighed with resignation and exhaustion.
Katina would kneel down and untie the
sticky shoelaces and remove the grease-
stained shoes from her father’s hot, damp
feet.Itwasnotadutysheenjoyed,butitwas
something she and her sister did unquestion-
ingly; it was expected. Angeliki, the older
girl, had a cool glass of water ready, and on
the tray, together with a small glass of ouzo,
were a piece or two of bread, a few black
olives, and a thin slice of white cheese, just
enough to stimulate his appetite for dinner
thatwaswaiting.Itwaspartoftheritualto
treat their father with respect, to make him
comfortable, and to anticipate his wishes.
Sundays, too, had their pattern. The girls,
now eight and eleven, were never able to rise
before their mother. No matter how early,
Maria was waiting down in the kitchen,
mixing, rolling, preparing the special treats
they associated with that day. She was always
neatly dressed, with an embroidered apron
protecting her crisply pressed cotton dress,
her hair shining and combed into a knot at
the nape of her neck. The children had never
seen their mother on the lower floor of the
house any other way. They often glimpsed
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88 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
the neighbor ladies in long robes and wrin-
kled nightgowns furtively coming out to
pick up the milk or the newspaper, but they
understood that that would be unacceptable
on their corner porch.
The girls would eat their breakfast
together, and when they had finished, their
mother would clean off the table and reset it
for her husband. Soon she would go upstairs
and run the water for his bath, and when he
called she would be there to scrub his back,
shampoo his hair, and bring whatever he
might request.
By now, the chimes had called and
recalled the worshipers to three more masses,
the comic pages had been read and scattered,
and the girls dressed and ready.
“Nine, ten, eleven. Sunday school begins
infifteenminutes.”Mariahurriedthem.“It
is going to be a hot day. After dinner, Papa
may take us to the park so come straight
home.”
The Greek Orthodox Church, which Maria
needed and would have preferred for her chil-
dren, was downtown, an hour’s ride on two
trolley cars. On particular saints’ days and
during the pageantry of Holy Week, she and
the girls would make the trip to the Church
of Saint George. Climbing the concavely-
worn stairs, they became enveloped in the
mystic atmosphere and sensuousness of the
old building. The iconography of unknown
artisans glowed from the walls. The heavy
fragrances of incense and smoking beeswax
candles, the Byzantine chants and jingling of
the priest’s brass censer pained Maria with
nostalgia for the familiarity and warmth of
belonging.
A Roman Catholic mass would have
been nearer to the liturgy of Orthodoxy, but
the fear of assimilation and centuries-old
schisms questioning papal infallibility and
the wording of creeds were not easily over-
come.InMaria’sconceptoftheology,they
were deemed a greater threat than the pro-
tests of Luther and Knox. So the girls walked
to the Presbyterian Sunday School at the
far end of the neighborhood. The austere
building and dignified manners of the Scots-
English congregation did not seem unusual
to them. They sang in the junior choir, lis-
tened to New Testament parables, and
participated in all the children’s activities,
except Communion. Their parents had never
attended a service, but they would come to
the girls’ performances in the Christmas
programs and permit them to join the Hal-
loween parties in the church basement.
Niko had finished his eggs, and he ges-
tured for more coffee.
“Maria, do you think it is wise to let the
girls keep going to that American church?
They will forget that they are Greek.”
“Achurch is a church. I have told them
all the Bible stories I remember, over and
over.” She looked away from him. “They
tellme their teacher isanice lady.Since I
cannot take them downtown to our church
every Sunday, isn’t it better for them to be
getting some kind of religious lessons? Eng-
lish or Greek, they’re both saying the same
thing.” Almost as an afterthought she added,
“And those people aren’t tryingto make them
change their faith.”
She poured the coffee into his cup, added
two spoons of sugar and some cream, and
handed it to him. She prepared one for
herself.
Although she would never say it aloud
to him, she thought. Finally you are worry-
ing about them. All you know is hard work,
the business, independence. You are a proud,
honest man and owe nothing to anyone. But
the last time we went to our church together
was when Katina was christened. She was a
yearold.IfIdidnotsendthemtothisplace,
theywouldbelikelittleheathens.IfIdidnot
insist a dozen times a year, they would not
remember that they were baptized Orthodox.
But she drank her coffee and was silent.
892 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
The children brought home picture cards
and their weekly lesson sheets. About them
both was an air of shy excitement.
“Mama, next Saturday is the Sunday
School picnic, and Mrs. Hunt invited us
to go with her family. May we go, please?”
Angeliki looked to Katina for support.
Katina knew when she was needed. “They
will have lots of races and games and prizes,
and we’ll be home early.”
“It does sound nice,” agreed Maria. “I
think so, as long as you promise to behave as
ifIwerewithyou.”
Angeliki smiled with pleasure.
“Mrs. Hunt said you should come too, Mama.
It’safamilypicnic.”
“Really? She invited me?” Maria’s voice
becamedoubtful.“Idon’tknow,Kiki.What
would I say to thoseAmerican ladies?My
English...thelanguage...Idon’tknowhow
to speak their tongue well.”
“Honest, Mama. She said she wanted you
to come so she could meet the mother of the
sisters who were so well behaved and smart.”
Angeliki blushed.
“Now, now, she was just being polite to
you.” Maria was inwardly pleased to hear
her daughters praised, but they ought not to
think of themselves too highly. “What would
Idothereallday?”
“Maybe you can play games with us,
Mama.” Katina giggled at the thought of her
plump mother running a race.
Niko had half listened to the conversation.
“You will not be able to go to that pic-
nic. We will have one of our own on Sunday.
Mama will cook, and we will invite Stathis
and his family and Dimitri and his children
too, and we will have a good time in our way.”
“That will be very nice, Papa, but can’t we
gotoboth?”ItwasasubduedAngelikiwho
asked.
“No. One picnic a week is plenty,” he said
firmly. “You have been to enough of their
Halloween parties and other silly affairs. We
will spend the day with our patriotes, our
own people.”
“But you let us go before. Why is this time
different?”ItwasunlikeAngelikitoprotest,
but she was suddenly angered by the incon-
sistency and injustice of her father’s denial.
“Niko, please let them go, just once more.”
Maria’s wet eyes were hopeful.
A heavy-browed glance from her husband
silencedher,butitdidnotstillAngeliki.In
her frustration she forgot her usual timidity
and discipline. “Why are we always differ-
ent?Ihatebeinganoutsider. Iwanttobe
plainAmericanlikeeverybodyelse.IwishI
weren’twhatIam.”
Both parents looked at her sharply.
Niko’s eyes were pained and shocked by her
release, uncomprehending of her disrespect.
Maria was disturbed by the child’s outburst,
but she was sympathetic, for she knew the
feelings of being alien and wanted to tell
her that she understood, but she could not
be disloyal to her husband or question his
authority as the father.
Calmly, Niko reached for his daughter’s
hand, and she did not draw it away.
“My Angelikoula, we are all outsiders
someplace. You are still too young to know
more than the pain you feel now. Someday
you will realize what it means to be
Greek, and it will mean more to you than
the inconvenience of being different and
the momentary pleasures of picnics and
pageants.”
“Why are we always different? I hate being an outsider. I want to be plain American like everybody else. I wish I weren’t what I am.”
90 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“Iknow,papa,butsometimesitissohard,
and it hurts so much not to—you know—not
to belong.”
Niko sighed, and the sound embodied the
inexpressible melancholy he had smothered
for the two decades of his immigrant life, the
impotence of the stranger.
“Yes,yes,mylittleone,”henodded.“Itis
never easy to be so. We are a little strip of
land that has broken off from the mainland
and floated into foreign waters. We become
a lonely island, but we take our roots with
us and nourish them as best we can in the
soil that clings to them and in the new soil
that we add.”
Maria was resetting the table for the
afternoon meal, and she spoke. “We have
traditions and customs whose beginnings—
who can remember how they begun? Should
we discard them simply because they are
not like our neighbors? Can you imagine
Easter without singing Chirstos Anesti or
without red eggs and Tsourekia? And how
would you like New Year’s Eve without
Vasilopita or Strouna?” She looked at her
daughters.
“That would be awful,” said Katina.
“The American kids only have birthdays,
but we have birthdays and namedays, too,”
added Angeliki. “Katina’s is on November
25th, and mine is on March 25th. Papa’s is
on December 6th, and Mama’s is on August
15th.” She was delighted at her discovery.
“Are we going to have a party, Papa, a
iorti for Mama? Can’t we have that instead
of a picnic?”
“Ihadalmostforgotten,Kiki,”saidMaria.
“We don’t usually celebrate my nameday,
only Papa’s.”
Niko smiled gently at his wife. “This year
we will celebrate your day and add another
tradition to those of our family.”
During the next week, Maria cleaned
the spotless house. She polished the furni-
ture and washed the windows. The linens
were freshened and the china and silver-
ware checked. Toward the end of the week,
she baked sweets: sugar-dusted kourabei-des and sesame-sprinkled koulourakia,
golden pastry flutes filled with custard and
diamond-cut layers of syrupy baklava. She
sang while she worked, minor-toned hymns
glorifying the Virgin for whom she had
been named or melodic folk songs from her
Macedonian village. Niko sampled the wine
that had been aging in basement barrels and
judged it fine enough to serve their guests.
The sounds and smells of another Sunday
mingled in the girls’ waking senses. Ange-
liki counted to eight with Saint Ludwig,
and Katina sniffed garlic-studded lamb and
baking bread. Rain had cancelled the all-but-
forgotten Saturday picnic, but the morning’s
sunlight suggested pleasant weather for their
mother’s feast day.
“Good morning, girls. Get up and dress
and come downstairs. We will have breakfast
all together today.” Maria’s cheerfulness was
contagious, and both girls eagerly did as they
were told.
Their father was wearing his blue suit
and waiting at the table for them. They
kissed their mother and offered the tradi-
tional greeting. “Hronia polla, Mama.” “We
hope you have many more name days,” said
Katina.
“Yes, yes, Mama, many more,” agreed
Angeleiki.
“You look very nice, Papa. Why are you
dressed up so early?” questioned the younger
sister.
“We are all going downtown to the church.
The taxi will be here at ten o’clock, and this
afternoon our friends will come to offer
greetings to your mother.”
The church was crowded, for there were
many who sought the blessings of the Vir-
gin on this, the day of her death, and many
who shared with Maria one or another of the
variations of that name. Niko placed a bill in
912 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
the brass plate and handed both girls candles,
which they lit and placed in the sand-filled
tray in the church narthex. They crossed
themselves and kissed the icon of Saint
George and that of the Mother of Christ.
Their father led the way down the tiled aisle,
and they stood together until the priest sig-
naled that all may be seated.
Niko and Maria smiled contentedly at
each other across the bowed heads of their
daughters. This day would be one of joy and
festiveness, and there would be others as well
to treasure and to savor, moments of senti-
ment and remembrance. But both knew that
their island was drifting further away from
one shore and new roots were sprouting and
reaching toward the fertile soil of the other.
To nurture the tender plants without tearing
them would require the sensitive, delicate
touch of wise husbandry, and they knew so
little of gardens. �
Ο μελισσοκόμος (The Beekeeper) by Odysseas Anninos.
932 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
The Communist Leader’s Wife
BYIRENAKARAFILLY
The rain came early that autumn. It
started suddenly one September after-
noon, pouring down with a spiteful ferocity.
Because of the storm, because her son was
afraid of thunder, the young mother put the
boy to bed later than usual, after she had
trimmed his hair and fed him a snack, and
the rain had slackened, and finally stopped.
They had been using the chamber pot
all evening, but now Ermione threw a wool
shawl around her shoulders and stepped out,
padding towards the privy. The outhouse was
cold and damp as she lowered herself over the
Turkish toilet, her feet on the footrests, her
hands clutching at her bunched-up skirts.
She hurried back with the empty chamber
pot. She put it away and was bolting the door
when she heard the crunch of footsteps out on
the gravel path. There was a rap at the door.
“Nikos!” Ermione darted back to the
entrance, fumbling with the bolt. Nikos
was her husband, the Communist leader
appointed after the Civil War had spread all
the way to Lesbos. “Ni—”
The thickset man who came hurtling out
of the night was not Nikos Antipas but Dim-
itris Stephanides, the local olive mill owner’s
son. He was hissing at her to be quiet.
Ermione sprang back. The intruder had
a flick knife. His eyes darting about, he took
in the large, cluttered kitchen: the basin of
dishes waiting to be washed, the dying fire,
the shadowy corners beyond the range of the
oillamp.Itwasonlyteno’clockbutthestorm
had caused a power outage. A laundry line
was suspended from two long nails, bright-
ened by a child’s drying underwear. On the
table, next to a flower vase, lay a hand mirror,
a comb, a pair of kitchen scissors.
“Where’s your husband?”
Stephanides crossed the room, walking
with a slight limp. He reeked of ouzo, yet was
evidently sober enough to have waited for the
rain to let up before venturing out.
“He’s not here.” Ermione had backed away
as far as the laundry line, intent on Stepha-
nides’ every movement.
“I know he’s not here! Where is he, Iasked!”
Ermione’s facewobbled. “Ihaven’t seen
my husband in months!”
“Oh, go on! He couldn’t stay away from
you this long. Not Nikos.” Stephanides
chuckled. He was a balding man in his mid-
thirties, with a flamboyant moustache and
dark eyes that seemed to be in perpetual
search of some misplaced item. Years ago,
he and Nikos Antipas had been classmates.
“I hear you’re such a good wife too,” the
intruder said, “washing your husband’s feet
andall.Isn’tthatright?”
Ermione raised a shoulder, as if depre-
cating her own wifely devotion. She seemed
about to say something when lightning
filled the windows. She was a beautiful
young woman, with languorous green eyes
and honey-colored hair tumbling over her
shoulders. Her parents had died in Skala
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94 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Sykamnias during the Occupation; her in-
laws did not approve of their son’s choice of
bride any more than they did of his politics.
“I supposeyou’rehoping tocollect the
reward?” She blurted out, as if the idea had
just crossed her mind.
Stephanidesclearedhisnose. “I’mplan-ning to collect it,” he stated, looking at her
with a crooked smile. “Now, for the last time,
where is he?”
“Ihavenoidea!”Ermionetossedout,“But
Iknowyou’llnevercatchhim!”
“You think so? You think he’s too smart
for us, eh?” Stephanides chortled. “Funny
thing is his own father doesn’t think he’s so
smart, does he?” Nikos Antipas’ father was a
staunch Royalist; he’d been heard to laugh in
the kapheneion, hearing of the twenty-five-
million-drachma reward placed on his son’s
head. “He’s not worth so much as a drachma,
that’s what his father said!” Stephanides’ eyes
appraised Ermione, gleaming with irony.
“What d’you say to that?”
“WhatdoIsay?Isayasingleoneofhis
fingernails is worth more than the whole of
you put together—moustache and all!” she
added.
At this, a spark of fury appeared in
Stephanides’ eyes. “You bitch! Who do you
think you are? You who came here with
nothing but the rags on your back! You stu-
pid, arrogant bitch!” Saying this, the intruder
gave Ermione a violent push, watching her
stagger backwards. She managed to regain
her balance, only to trip on her son’s bird-
whistle. She went reeling to the floor, her
slipper flying off her foot.
“A Communist bitch opening her sewer of
a mouth! At me: Dimitris Stephanides!”
Ermione levered herself on her elbow and
sat hunched over her foot. She began to mas-
sage the arch, her face scrunched with pain.
“What’s the matter? Has the lady hurt
herself?” Stephanides tilted forward, mock-
solicitous. He was about to add something
when Ermione raised her eyes. She leant in
and spat straight into the taunting face.
“You!” Stephanides appeared stunned for
a moment, but quickly grew resolute. He put
away the knife. He extracted a handkerchief
from his pocket, then a pair of handcuffs.
He swiped at his cheek with the rumpled
cloth, then stuffed it into Ermione’s mouth.
He grabbed her wrists and bound them with
the handcuffs.
“So, where’s that clever husband of yours
now, eh? Let’s see if we can get him to come
to your rescue!”
Itwasrainingagain,thestormblowing
gusts of water against the dark windowpanes.
Ermione was weeping now, kneeling with
her mouth gagged and her hands shackled,
her eyes wildly sweeping around the room.
Stephanides stood stroking his moustache,
like a military strategist contemplating his
next move.
All at once, as if suddenly inspired,
he lunged towards the kitchen table and
pounced on Ermione’s scissors. With a swift,
brutal gesture, he swept away the child’s
underwear. He cut down the laundry line. He
hastened back to his captive.
She began to jostle from side to side, her
head thumping at her tormentor’s chest, her
whole body resisting as he went about bind-
ing her limbs. Soon, he had her all trussed
up, hunched over in the pool of flickering
light, with the dying embers hissing in the
hearth and the rain spitting on the tiled roof.
There was a rip of lightning, a ferocious roar
of thunder that seemed to shake the house
toitsveryfoundations.Intheabsenceofthe
customary dowry, Nikos and his family lived
in an old rented house, standing all alone on
the way to the harbor.
Seizing a clump of Ermione’s hair,
Stephanides began to hack, the scissors flash-
ing through the golden tresses. He gripped
an ear, letting the thick coils drop around
the defeated body like flowers from a dying
952 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
bush. He chopped on the left and chopped on
the right, on top and on the bottom, in front
and in the back, never so much as glancing at
Ermione’s face until he was done. He seemed
satisfied then. The young wife’s head looked
like the shorn skulls of female prisoners in
wartime newsreels.
Only then did Dimitris Stephanides look
into his victim’s eyes. He lowered himself to
Ermione’s level and poked his face at hers,
his tobacco-stained teeth bared in something
between grin and grimace.
“So! Are you going to tell me now?”
The response to this was a strangled
sound, a vigorous toss of the violated head.
The hair was gone but not so the loathing.
“No?” He snickered. He stood up, let-
ting his hand travel to his belt. There was
a momentary hush. He let go of his buckle,
then began to fumble with his fly buttons.
He undid them slowly, deliberately, ignoring
the muffled sounds coming out of Ermione’s
constricted mouth. His absorption was such
that a moment passed before he registered
that her eyes were fixed not on him, but
somewhere beyond his shoulder.
There was no doubt about it: the child
gave him pause. He stood on the threshold, a
six-year-old boy dressed in a flannel robe, his
bare feet peeping from under the hem, his
eyes huge with terror. As the man’s gaze fell
on the boy, his mother let out a choked sound
and appeared to grow limp, a look of pure
entreaty filling her eyes.
The child was whimpering. He took a
tentative step forward, arms raised in frantic
appeal. “Mama!”
“Stay where you are!” Stephanides barked.
“Don’tbudge,orI’llkillyourmother,under-
stand?” He gave the child an arresting stare,
then shifted his attention back to Ermione.
He appeared, all at once, almost conspira-
torial, as if the two of them shared a secret
beyond the child’s ken. “So, you ready to tell
me now?”
The response this time was a strangled
sound, a slow, defeated nod. Stephanides
leant forward. He yanked the gag out of
Ermione’s mouth, waiting while she strug-
gled with a spluttering cough. Finally, she
stopped. She remained silent.
“Well?”
“He’s somewhere in the hills ... around
Vafios, I think.” The youngmother looked
doomed, her eyes darting towards her son.
The boy’s whimpering had turned into gulp-
ing sobs; a worm of mucus was sliding out of
his nose.
Stephanides ignored him, searching the
mother’s face. He seemed unable to decide
whether she was telling the truth. All at once,
he reached into his trousers and whipped out
his penis. The air in the room grew dense
with menace. For a moment, the intruder
seemed to hesitate; then, squaring his shoul-
ders, began to urinate all over Nikos Antipas’
wife. He aimed the stream at her neck, her
face, her raw scalp, like a gardener bent on
watering every corner of a neglected garden.
Ermione, whose face was blubbered with
tears, now had urine coursing down her
cheeks. She kept her head angled to one side,
her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth twisted
with ferocious disgust.
“So, is there anything else you might
like to tell me?” Stephanides had taken out
his knife and was sliding it across his own
cushioned palm, as if testing its sharpness.
“Where can we find your husband?”
Slowly, Ermione’s eyes blinked open. She
glanced at her son, then at the knife, trem-
bling violently. She looked straight into her
captor’s face and shook her head slowly.
There was, her gesture said, nothing else she
could tell him. She was utterly at his mercy.
For another moment, Stephanides stood star-
ing at her with his dark, restless eyes. The boy
was clutching at his groin, his sobs turned to
hiccups. The man looked fleetingly at a loss,
like an actor groping for forgotten lines
96 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“Look here!” He had picked up the mirror
and was thrusting it at Ermione, whose eyes
werescrewedshut.“Look,Isaid:Iwantyou
to see yourself!”
And at last she did. She glanced at her
own reflection, then raised her gaze, the sea-
green eyes shimmering with accusation.
“Don’t look at me like that! You’re lucky
it’s me or you’d be losing something more
precious than just your whorish hair!”
Stephanides rose and tossed the mirror into
the sizzling hearth. The shattered glass made
a shriek escape the child’s mouth, but the
intruder shot him another look and the shriek
faded into a prolonged whimper.
Stephanides was about to put his knife
away when something seemed to strike him.
Bending forward, he narrowed his eyes and
held the blade to the young mother’s throat.
“If you’re ever tempted to talk, remember
this!” he said, gazing at her creamy neck like
a lover. “Understand?”
Ermione was silent. The child was sob-
bing, a puddle of urine forming at his feet.
“Do you understand?”
Ermione dropped her gaze. She nodded.
Stephanides let out a long, heavy breath.
He snapped the knife shut and slowly
returned it to his pocket, then leant over
and freed Ermione’s wrists. Outside, rain
was falling again, spitting on the tiled roof,
the dying fruit trees. Stephanides hesitated
briefly, but finally turned towards the back
exit. He paused only long enough to pat the
child’s head as he brushed past him, as if to
reassure the boy that all would be well. �
Excerpted from THE CAPTIVE SUN, published in Greek by Psichogios Editions under the title Η ΑΣΥΜΒΙΒΑΣΤΗ ΜΟΥΣΑ and in English by Picador Australia. The Ebook is available from iTunes and www.psichogios.gr. For more information, please visit: www.irenakarafilly.com
972 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Bringing Cheese to a Séance
BYSTEVEPASTIS
Professor Papadakis brought a briefcase
full of papers. He had been researching
séances ever since we decided to do one.
Irene brought a blue velvet tablecloth
that looked quite appropriate and fit my
card table perfectly. This didn’t surprise me,
even though she had never seen my apart-
ment before and had no idea what kind
of table we would be using. Somehow she
always knew the right thing to do, say or
bring.
WefilledthreeofthefourseatsthatIrene
set at the table, and Professor Papadakis
explained proper séance etiquette while
perusing his notes. There was a knock at
thedoor,whichsurprisedme.Itwasalmost
midnightandIdidn’tinviteanyoneelseto
our séance.
Since most of my questions could be
answeredbyopeningthedoor,Igotupand
didjustthat.ItwasmyAuntKoula,andI
was baffled. She rarely visited me, and cer-
tainly never this late.
“Ibroughtcheese,”sheannouncedasshe
took a large Tupperware container out of a
shopping bag.
“Thea Koula, we’re about to hold a
séance,” I explained to her in an effort to
help her understand that her leaving would
be a good thing.
“Did someone say they brought cheese?”
asked Professor Papadakis.
“Yes, my aunt has brought a Tupperware
containerfullofcheese,”Ireplied.
“Well, let her in!” said Professor Papada-
kis.“EverybodyknowsIlovecheese!”
AuntKoulacameinandIintroducedher
toIreneasshefocusedonProfessorPapada-
kis.“Ibroughtcheese,”shesaidtohimasifit
were an opening line. There was something
in the way he smiled at her that seemed to
threaten our séance.
“Thea Koula, we’re about to start a
séance,”Isaid,hopingthatmywordsmight
get our plans back on track.
“What kind of cheese did you bring?”
asked Professor Papadakis.
“Feta and kasseri,” replied Aunt Koula as
she took the lid off the Tupperware.
Theprofessorlookedintrigued.Iwentto
get napkins.
ProfessorPapadakisandIrenewereboth
munchingoncheesewhenIpassedoutthe
napkins.“Canwegetbacktotheséance?”I
asked.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Koula?” asked
theprofessor.ShesatdownnexttohimasI
dimmed the lights.
“They can’t see the cheese,” said Aunt
Koula. “You’d better turn the lights back on.”
“Weneedittobedarkforourséance,”I
responded.
“What is a séance and why does it have to
be dark?” she asked.
“We need to create the right atmosphere
sowecantalkwithpeoplewhohavedied,”I
said, hoping that she might get scared and
leave.
FICTION
98 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“Then you are doing it all wrong,” said
AuntKoula.“Italkwithyourtheoandsome
ofmy old friends all the time and I don’t
have to do it in the dark.”
Ihadnoresponse.Iturnedthelightsback
on, sat down and had some kasseri. Profes-
sor Papadakis whispered something into my
aunt’s ear and theywalked outside. I soon
realized they weren’t coming back. Irene
took the Tupperware and napkins to the
kitchen and returned to fold up the tablecloth.
“Irene,I’vebeenmeaningtoaskyouwhy
youcametonight,”Isaid.“Ididn’tthinkyou
were all that interested in our séance.”
“You’reright,I’mnot,”shereplied.“Ijust
wanted to see if things would work out the
wayIthoughttheywould.”
“Youarealwayssointuitive,”Itoldher.
“And you are always so adorably oblivi-
ous,” she said as she took my hand. �
992 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Η Πριγκίπισσα και εγώ στο χορό
των τρελών - Princess and I at
the Dance of the Crazies
BYVANGELISMANOUVELOS
Σήκωνα την Πριγκίπισσα στον αέρα,
τα μαλλιά της χόρευαν σε έναν
ακατάληπτο ρυθμό, τα γέλια της
επανέφεραννόημασεόλα,στιςανάσες,στις
σκέψεις,στοχτύποτηςκαρδιάςμου.Θύμιζε
ότιέπρεπενασταθώόρθιος,δυνατόςκαι
ναδώσωσεαυτότοκορίτσιό,τιτουείχε
στερήσει η ζωή. Προσωρινά ή μόνιμα.
Μητέρακαιπατέρα.Ημητέρατης έφυγε
γιατηνΑυστραλίακαιοπατέραςτηςκαι
αδερφός μου, έφυγε για τον άλλο κόσμο.
Ταμάτιατηςάλλαζανχίλιαχρώματακαι
χωρούσαν μέσα τους εικόνες αμέτρητες,
ευτυχισμένες(εγώθαφρόντιζαγιααυτό),
πλημμύριζαναπόταφώτατηςΣταδίου,όσα
είχανμείνει,καιτακαθρέφτιζανακόμηπιο
λαμπερά,ακόμηπιοζωηρά,γεμάταελπίδα
ότι θασυνεχίσουν ναχορεύουνστοδικό
τηςρυθμό,στιςδικέςτιςμαγικέςκινήσεις.
ΤηςάρεσετόσοπολύτηςΠριγκίπισσας
η βραδινή κυριακάτικη βόλτα μας, ώστε
όλητηνεβδομάδαμερωτούσεεάνέφτασε
ακόμη η ημέρα της βόλτας, εάν ήρθε η
ώρα να πάμε στο «χορό των τρελών».
Έτσιτοείχεβαφτίσει,έναςθεόςξέρειαπό
πού, και το συνόδευε με το απαραίτητο
τελετουργικό πολλών στριφογυρισμάτων,
φωνών και χτυπημάτων. Ευτυχώς όχι
επάνω μου, αλλά στα παιχνίδια της,
εκσφενδονίζοντας τα στα πιο απίθανα
σημεία του διαμερίσματος. Τρόπος του
λέγειν «απίθανα», γιατί στα σαράντα
τετραγωνικά τουδιαμερίσματος, δεν
χωρούσαν πολλά απίθανα σημεία. Το
είχεαγοράσειοσυγχωρεμένοςοπατέρας
μουσεένααπόταατελείωταμπάρκατου.
Τρία, τέσσερα χρόνια. Ξεχνούσαμε πώς
ήταν. Κάθε φορά που γύριζε γνωρίζαμε
έναν καινούργιο άνθρωπο, κάναμε τις
απαραίτητες συστάσεις. Κάθε φορά
μπερδευόμασταν. Ποιος ακριβώς ήταν;
Μόνο η βαριά κολόνια επιβεβαίωνε ότι
ήταν ο πατέρας μου. Περνούσε λίγο ο
καιρόςκαιτοναποχαιρετούσαμεξανά.
Αν δεν ήταν για τον πατέρα μου
και τα ταξίδια του δεν θα είχα το
διαμέρισμα.Θαέμεναμετηνμητέραμου,
δυο στενά πιο κάτω.Θα είχα αρχίσει τα
ψυχοφάρμακα.Δεννομίζωότιμπορεί να
την αντέξει άνθρωπος περισσότερο από
μισήώρα.Ίσωςναείμαιεγώοπαράξενος,
αλλά κυριολεκτικά δεν νομίζω ότι έχει
παραμείνειάνθρωπος μαζί της, στον ίδιο
χώρο,πάνωαπόέναμισάωρο.Αρχίζειένα
ασταμάτητομοιρολόιγιαταπάντα:γιατον
καιρό,γιαταλεφτά,γιαταφάρμακα,για
τηνΠριγκίπισσα,γιαεμένα.Τώραμετην
κατάστασηόπωςείναι,έχειφτάσεισεάλλα
FICTION
100 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
επίπεδα. Δεν περιμένει κανένα έναυσμα
από τα λεγόμενα του άλλου. Με το που
θαδεικάποιον, ξεκινάει έναπαθιασμένο
λογύδριο,πουθαζήλευανόλοιεκείνοιοι
πολιτικάντηδες του συρμού, που απλώς
χτυπώντας τα δάχτυλά τους θα σβήσουν
όλα τα προβλήματα με μιας. Καπνός τα
προβλήματα. Καπνός και εγώ. Δεν την
αντέχωούτελεπτό.
Η κατάστασή της χειροτέρεψε με τη
δολοφονία του Στέλιου, του αδερφού
μου. Δεν κλείστηκε στον εαυτό της. Δεν
έκλαψε ποτέ μπροστά σε άλλους. Έγινε
επιθετικότερη και απλώς ανυπόφορη.
Στηναρχήτηνδικαιολογούσα,όμωςμετά
κουράστηκαμετηνκαραμέλατουαδερφού
μου. Αστυνομικός. Σε ανταλλαγή πυρών,
σε καταδίωξη στο Πικέρμι. Τέσσερις
σφαίρεςτονβρήκανπισώπλατα.Ούτεεγώ
έκλαψαμπροστάσεάλλους.Όποτεόμως
βρισκόμουν μόνος μου, άκουγα τη φωνή
του,δυνατήκαικαθαρή,ναμουμιλάειαπό
τοπουθενά,πρώταμεκοφτέςκραυγέςκαι
έπειταμεολόκληρααπολογητικάκατεβατά,
για τοπώςακριβώς έπεσε νεκρός, για το
πώςέπρεπεναπροσέχωτηνΠριγκίπισσα,
γιατοπόσομεαγαπούσεκαιτουέλειπα.
Έκλαιγα με λυγμούς. Και σήμερα ακόμη,
δύο χρόνια μετά το συμβάν, η ένταση
εκείνων των ημερών παραμένει ισχυρή.
Συνέρχομαιλίγοότανκαταλαβαίνωότιη
φωνήπουακούωείναιμόνοτηςφαντασίας
μου και ότι δεν τρελάθηκα από το χαμό
του.Τονπρώτοκαιρόβέβαιανοσηλεύτηκα.
Με τάραξαν στις ενέσεις. Έλεγα
ασυναρτησίες,καιόσοπερισσότερεςέλεγα
τόσο περισσότερα γιατροσόφια γέμιζαν
συνταγέςεπίσυνταγών.
ΟΣτέλιος και ηΚλειώπαντρεύτηκαν
τρεις μήνες πριν γεννηθεί η Πριγκίπισσα.
Δηλαδήμόνογιααυτόπαντρεύτηκαν.Για
τηνΠριγκίπισσα.Γιαναπάρειτοπαιδίτα
αυτοκρατορικάτουςονόματα.Σχεδόνδεν
την ήξερε τη γυναίκα του. Φασωθήκανε
έναβραδύστηνπαραλιακή,βρεθήκανενα
πηδιούνταιστοαμάξικαιτουτοσφύριξε
τοπαραμύθιμετοπαιδί.Δικότου;Κανένας
μαςδεντηνπίστεψε.Όχιπωςοαδερφόςμου
ήταντομάνναεξουρανού,αλλάγιατην
Κλειώπαραήτανκαλός.Αστυνομικόςστα
τριάντατουαυτός,τίποταστατριάντατης
εκείνη.Κλισέ ελληνικούκινηματογράφου,
αλλά τύλιγμα σε κάθε περίπτωση. Δεν
ήτανκαιπολύσυνηθισμένοςμεγυναίκεςο
αδερφόςμου,εγώτουλάχιστονδεντονείχα
δειποτέμεγυναίκα,μπορείναήτανκαιη
πρώτη τουφοράμαζί της.Τονκατάφερε
με συνοπτικές διαδικασίες. Έμεναν με
τη μητέραμου, οπότε οι καυγάδες και οι
υστερίες ήταν καθημερινό ρεπερτόριο.
ΜέχριπουγεννήθηκεηΠριγκίπισσακαι
προστέθηκανκαιπολλάκλάματα.
ΜετάτοθάνατοτουΣτέλιου,ηΚλειώ
τα χρειάστηκε με τη μητέρα μου. Στα
χαρακώματα συνεχώς. Ερχόταν συνέχεια
σπίτιμουμετηνΠριγκίπισσαγιαναξεφύγει.
ΕρχότανόμωςκαιχωρίςτηνΠριγκίπισσα
γιαναξεδώσει.Στηναρχήείχατύψειςγια
τοναδερφόμου,στησυνέχειαόμωςέγινε
ρουτίνα. Βιολογική ανάγκη. Εγώ ήμουν
άνεργοςπερίπουέναχρόνο,εκείνηέτσικι
αλλιώςδενδούλευε, είχαμεάπλετοχρόνο
και οι δυο μας. Οι ώρες του παιδικού
σταθμούγιατηνΠριγκίπισσα,ήτανοιδικές
μας μεταμεσονύχτιες, οι δικές μας άκρως
ακατάλληλεςδιαανηλίκους.Μέχριπουμας
έπιασεσταπράσαημητέραμου.Δενήταν
πωςείχεκαταλάβεικάτι,απλώςήρθεστο
διαμέρισμά μου για να καθαρίσει.Με το
πουάνοιξετηνεξώπορτατουσπιτιούμας
πέτυχε στο καλύτερο. Κυριολεκτικά στο
καλύτερο,αφούαισθανόμουνότιθαήτανη
πρώτηφοράπουηΚλειώθατελείωνεμαζί
μου.Πρώτηφορά.Τουλάχιστονμαζίμου.
Φυσικά δεν ξαναγύρισε στο σπίτι της
μητέραςμου.Πήγαμεμαζίμιαφορά,όταν
η μητέρα μου απουσίαζε, και πήραμε τα
πράγματάτης.Ζόρικαπολύστασαράντα
τετραγωνικά και η Κλειώ δεν μπορούσε
νααντέξειούτεμιαημέρα.Κανόνιζεαπό
1012 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
καιρό με κάποιους συγγενείς που είχε
στηνΑυστραλίαγιαναφύγει,καιτελικά
το έκανε. Μου άφησε προσωρινά την
Πριγκίπισσα μέχρι ναπροσαρμοστεί στη
Μελβούρνη, να βρει σπίτι και δουλειά.
Θα επέστρεφε να την πάρει. Μόνο αυτό
δεν χρειαζόμουν. Εγώ μόνος με ένα
πεντάχρονο.Αξιολάτρευτα για μισήώρα
το πολύ, κουραστικά για ένα απόγευμα,
αλλάκαλύτερανατασκοτώσειςανείναι
γιαπερισσότερο.Τελικάδεντηνσκότωσα
την Πριγκίπισσα, όμως μας πήρε αρκετό
χρόνομέχριναβρούμερυθμόμεταξύμας.
Το βασικότερο ήταν ότι ήμουν
άφραγκος. Για τιμωρία, η μητέρα μου
είχε σταματήσει τη χρηματοδότηση.
Σαράνταχρονώνκαιβρέθηκαναμοιράζω
καταλόγουςγιαντελίβεριτιςώρεςπουήταν
στοσταθμόηΠριγκίπισσα.Αστείαλεφτά.
Υπήρχανμέρεςπουδενέτρωγατίποτα,για
νατηςπάρωψωμίκαιαβγάναφάει.Δεν
κράτησεγιαπολύητιμωρία.Μαςμάζεψε
κοντάτης.Πήγατρέχονταςχωρίςδεύτερη
σκέψη. Πώς έφτασα σε αυτό το σημείο;
Να μην έχω να πάρω της Πριγκίπισσας
λίγοψωμί;Ναζητιανεύωστουςφούρνους;
Ήθελανατινάξωταμυαλάμουστοναέρα.
Αργότερα έμαθα ότι η μητέρα μου μας
δέχτηκε μόλις έμαθε ότι ζητούσα τζάμπα
φαγητόσεμαγειρείακαισούπερμάρκετ.
Έλεγα στον εαυτό μου πως είναι και
αυτό μια πώληση. Όπως όταν πουλούσα
ασφάλειεςήπαπούτσια.Σιχαινόμουναυτό
που έκανα αλλά το κατάπινα. Δεν είχα
καιάλληεπιλογή.ΟΣτέλιοςτακατάφερε
καιπήγεστηνΑστυνομία,εγώμετοζόρι
τελείωσατοΛύκειο.Γιαταεπόμεναείκοσι
χρόνιαπουλούσαπρώταασφάλειες,μετά
παπούτσιακαιπροσφάτωςζητιανιά.Όσο
καιανπροσπαθούσαναπείσωτονεαυτό
μου ότι είναι και αυτό μια πώληση σαν
τις άλλες, δεν μπορούσα. Γιατί δεν ήταν.
Από τηνημέραπουμπήκασε εκείνο τον
φούρνο στην Κυψέλη και ζήτησα λίγο
ψωμί, τράβηξα μια κόκκινη γραμμή με
τηνυπόλοιπηζωήμου.Διέγραψαόλεςτις
προηγούμενες αναμνήσεις μου. Δεν ήταν
πλέον δικές μου. Ήταν κάποιου άλλου.
Ήτανσανναέχωσατοκεφάλιμουπίσω
από την αυλαία μιας παράστασης, που
κανονικά πρωταγωνιστούσα εγώ, αλλά
στη θέση μου ήταν κάποιος άλλος, που
ζούσε και αγαπούσε, ότι έζησα και
αγάπησαεγώ.Εγώήμουνκοκαλωμένος,με
τοδεξίμουχέρισεθέσηεπαιτείας.
Δεν υπάρχει δουλειά ούτε για αστείο.
Φίλοιλένεναπροσπαθήσουμενακάνουμε
κάτιδικόμας.Ακόμημεγαλύτεροαστείο.
Φθηνήδικαιολογία:αφούείναιαδύνατο
καλύτερα να το αφήσουμε. Από τη
μία προσπαθώ να πείσω τον εαυτό μου
να μην απελπίζεται, από την άλλη δεν
βλέπω προοπτική στο να κάνω κάτι.Με
τημητέραμουκαιτηνΠριγκίπισσαζούμε
σαν οικογένεια. Νευρωτικό αντρόγυνο
με υπερκινητικό παιδί. Έχω πειστεί
ότι το μέλλον μου θα είναι μίζερο και
απογοητευτικό.
Έχω όμως τις κυριακάτικες βόλτες με
τηνΠριγκίπισσαστηΣταδίου.Τηνκρατάω
από το χέρι, εκείνη δεν σταματά να με
ρωτάγιαταπάντα.Τηνκυνηγάωέξωαπό
τηνπαλιάΒουλή, γελάωμε τηψυχήμου,
και πιστεύωπως η ζωή είναιωραία.Την
κοιτάζωσταμάτιακαιτοεπιβεβαιώνεικαι
εκείνη.Στοδικόμαςχορότωντρελώνδεν
χωρούνυποσχέσεις.Χωράμόνοζωή.Ζωή
ανυποχώρητη.
102 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
I’d lift Princess in the air, her hair dancing
in an incomprehensible rhythm, her
laughter restoring meaning to everything, to
breaths of air, to thought, to the beating of
myheart. She’d remindme I had to stand
up straight, strong, and give that girl every-
thing life had deprived her of. Temporarily
or permanently. Both mother and father. Her
mother had departed for Australia and her
father, my brother, had departed for the
other world. Her eyes would change a thou-
sand colors, while containing inside them
countlessimages,happyones(I’dseetothat).
They brimmed of the bright lights of Stadiou
Street, the ones still left there, and mirrored
them even brighter, full of the hope they’d
keep on dancing in her own rhythm, her own
magical motion.
Princess loved our Sunday evening stroll
so much, she’d keep asking me all week if
the day for the stroll had come yet, if the
time had come to go to the “dance of the cra-
zies”. That’s what she called it, God knows
why, and she followed up with the necessary
ritual of multiple gyrations, strange noises
and knockings. Luckily not against my per-
son, but in her playacting, sending them
flying toward the most improbable corners
oftheapartment.“Improbable”isamanner
of speaking, because an apartment of forty
square feet, doesn’t allow for many improb-
able corners. My late father, god rest his
soul, had bought it after one of his endless
stints at sea. Three, four years. We kept on
forgetting what he looked like. We’d get con-
fused every single time. Who was he exactly?
Only the heavy scent of the cologne would
confirm his being my father. Some time
would pass and then we would say goodbye
to him again.
If itweren’t formy father andhis voy-
ages,Iwouldn’thavetheapartment.Iwould
be living with my mother, two short blocks
downthestreet.Iwouldhavestartedusing
drugs. I doubt anyone could stand her for
more than half an hour. It might be me
who’s the peculiar one, but strictly speak-
ing,Idon’tthinkthatthere’sapersonable
to stay with her, or anywhere in her vicinity,
for more than half an hour. She starts on an
interminable lament about everything: about
the weather, about money, about medicines,
about Princess, about me. Now, with the
situation as it is, she has reached new lev-
els. She needs no priming, nothing like the
words another person might provide. As
soon as anyone comes into her sights, she
plunges into a passionate tirade, one that all
the trendy politicos might envy, those who
just by snapping their fingers will make all
our problems disappear. Problems? Poof, up
insmoke.Myselfalso,poof,upinsmoke.I
can’t stand her, not for a minute.
Her condition became much worse after
the death of Stelios, my brother. She didn’t
retreat into herself. She never cried in front
of others. She became more confrontational
andsimplyinsufferable.Inthebeginning,I
triedtomakeexcusesforher,butlaterIgot
tired with the fairy tale story of my brother.
Apoliceman.Inanexchangeoffire,during
hot pursuit near Pikermi. He got four bullets
intheback.Ididn’tcryinfrontofotherpeo-
pleeither.ButwheneverIhappenedtobeall
bymyself,Iwouldhearhisvoice,loudand
clear, speaking to me out of nowhere, first
in short screams and then in a long apolo-
getic harangue, about how he died, how
I have to take care of Princess, howmuch
he lovedmeandhowhemissedme.I’dbe
crying my heart out. Even today, two whole
years after the event, the intensity of those
daysremainsundiminished.Icansomehow
pullmyselftogether,whenIrealizethatthe
voiceIhearisonlyinmyimaginationand
thatIhaven’tgonecrazybyhisloss.Inthe
beginningofcourseIhadtobehospitalized.
Iwasspeakingnonsense,andthemoreIdid
the more the cures increased, prescriptions
upon prescriptions.
1032 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Stelios and Clio got married three
months before Princess was born. That is,
they got married just for the purpose. For
Princess. So that the child could inherit their
imperial names. He almost didn’t know his
wife at all. They fell into the groove some
night on the Coastline Road; they ended up
making it in the car and later she dropped on
him the story about the child. Was it his? No
one of us believed her. Not that my brother
was manna from heaven, but he was way too
good for Clio. He, a thirty-something career
policeman; she a thirty-something nothing.
A Greek cinema cliché, but he had definitely
been duped. My brother wasn’t that much
usedtobeingaroundwomen.Iforonehad
never seen him with a woman; it’s possible it
had been his first time with her. She got the
best of him with summary procedures. They
lived with my mother, therefore the quarrels
and the hysterics were everyday occurrences.
Until Princess was born, and then a good
deal of weeping was added to the repertory.
After Stelio’s death, Clio felt cornered
by my mother. In constant warfare. She
kept coming to my place with Princess, just
to get away. She would also come without
Princess, though, to unwind. In the begin-
ningIfeltguiltyformybrother,butlaterit
becameroutine.Abiologicalneed.Iwasout
of work for about a year, she was not work-
ing anyway, both of us had plenty of time on
our hands. The hours of day care for Prin-
cess had become our own night time, ours
of course a strictly x-rated version. Until my
mothercaughtusintheact.Itwasn’tthat
she had suspected anything, she just showed
up at the apartment to do the cleaning. As
soon as she opened the front door she caught
usinthebestpart.Literallythebest,forI
was feeling that this time Clio was about to
finishatthesametimeasIwas.Forthefirst
time. At least with me.
Naturally she never went back to my
mother’s house. We went back only once
together, when mother was out, to collect
her belongings. Things were very tight in
the forty square feet and Clio couldn’t stand
it even for a day. She’d been setting up her
departure for some time with some relatives
she had in Australia, and she finally did
it. She left Princess with me, temporarily,
until she had the time to settle down in Mel-
bourne, to find a house and a job. She would
come back and collect her. That was the one
thingIdidn’tneed.Tobe left inchargeof
a five-year-old. They’re adorable for half an
hour tops, tiresome for an afternoon, but it’s
better if you just kill’em if it’s going to be
forlongerthanthat.IntheendIdidn’tkill
Princess, but it took a long time for us two
to hit our stride.
What’smoretothepointIwaspenniless.
As a punishment, my mother had stopped
fundingme.FortyyearsoldandI’d found
myself distributing menus for take-out
joints during the hours that Princess was in
daycare.Ridiculouspay.ThereweredaysI
hadnothingtoeat,sothatIcouldbuysome
bread and eggs for her. The punishment
didn’t last long. She finally put us up at her
place.Iwentbackrunningwithoutasecond
thought.HowdidIevercometothat?Tobe
unable to buy a little bread for Princess! To
be begging around the bakeries! I felt like
blowingupmybrains.LaterI learnedthat
my mother deigned to put us up when she
foundoutIwasbeggingforfoodatdiners
and super markets.
Iwouldtellmyselfthatthistooisaform
ofsales.LikewhenIwassellinginsurance
or shoes. Iwas disgustedwithwhat Iwas
doingbutIjustswallowedit.Ihadnoother
choice. Stelios had been able to start a career
in thePolice force, I’d beenbarely able to
finish high school. During the next twenty
years,Ifirstsoldinsurance,thenshoesand
mostrecentlyItookupbegging.Nomatter
howhardItriedtoconvincemyselfthatthis
alsowasaformofsaleslikealltheothers,I
104 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
couldn’t.Becauseitwasn’t.ThedayIwent
in that bakery in Kypseli and begged for a
littlebread,onthatdayIdrewaredlineover
therestofmylife.Ierasedallmyprevious
memories. They were no longer mine. They
belongedtosomeoneelse.ItwasasifIhad
stuck my head behind the curtain of a theat-
ricalperformance,inwhichIwassupposed
to be the star, but where someone else was
playing my part, one who was living and lov-
ingallthatIhadlivedandloved.Ihadbeen
frozen, with my right hand in the position
of begging.
There’s no work not even as a joke. Some
friends say let’s try and do something by
ourselves. An even bigger joke. A cheap
excuse: if it’s impossible, better let’s forget
aboutit.OntheonehandItrytoconvince
myselfnottodespair,andontheotherIsee
no prospects on doing anything. With my
mother and Princess we live now like a fam-
ily.Aneuroticcouplewithahyperchild.I’m
convinced that my future is going to be mis-
erable and disappointing.
Still,IhavetheSundaystrollswithPrin-
cessonStadiouStreet.Iholdherbythehand;
she never stops asking me about everything.
I chase her outside the old Parliament,we
havelotsoflaughs,andIbelievethatlifeis
beautiful.I lookintohereyesandshealso
confirmsit.Inourowndanceofthecrazies
there is no room for promises. There’s only
room for life. An uncompromised life. �
Published in To Vima
1052 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Courtship
BYHARRYMARKPETRAKIS
I have this memory of first seeing Diana
Perparos, the girl who would become
my wife, in the second or third grade of our
churchparochialschool.Inmyrecollection,
she appeared skinny and a little awkward.
WhatIrecalledmostvividlywereherlarge,
sparkling and intense dark eyes.
A period of years passed from that time
until we met again in our teens. One Sun-
day while attending church, I saw Diana
again,andIwasastonishedathowthegirl
Irememberedhadbloomed.Shewasabout
my age—sixteen or seventeen then, with a
flawless complexion adorned by her great
black eyes. Those were unchanged. What was
different was the disappearance of any skin-
niness or awkwardness, her figure filled out
into an alluring slenderness. Her raven-black
hair was also longer, tumbling from her tem-
ples across her shoulders.
The season must have been summer
because she wore a light print dress, high
heels and a broad brimmed straw hat that
framed her lovely face.
The only faint marring of her beauty
were the braces she wore on her upper teeth,
braces not evident unless she laughed. As if
she were conscious of them, when she did
smile or laugh, her hand fluttered to her face
in a self-conscious effort at concealment.
I cannot remember the words we
exchanged at that initial meeting. Since
we both lived in neighborhoods east of the
church,sheinHydeParkandIinWoodlawn,
we rode the trolley east together. She
ascended the trolley steps before me, her
dresshikingupwellaboveherknees.Iwas
treated to the sight of her slender, shapely
legs in silk stockings and, pressing against
the light shimmering fabric of her dress, the
contours of her stunning buttocks.
In a story written many years later, I
described one of my female character’s
buttocks as “contrapuntal” beauties. I first
thought of the word that Sunday with
Diana.IconfessthattothisdayI’mnotsure
whether the word can sustain any coherent
application to the female anatomy, but the
true meaning of the word is less important
than the mellifluent way it captures my first
impression.
We began to date, sharing casual eve-
nings at the Reader’s Drug Store on 60th
Street near the Midway and the University
of Chicago, where we lingered over cherry
cokes. We also patronized Fluky’s on 63rd
Street to while away the time while eating
theirsavoryhotdogs.Inbetweendates,we
conducted lengthy phone conversations, last-
ing 45 minutes to an hour. For the life of me,
Icannotrecallwhatwespokeaboutduring
those calls. Since I had five siblings inmy
family, each one with their own social calen-
dartobefulfilled,Iwasheatedlyberatedfor
“hogging the phone!”
Diana had graduated from Hyde Park
High school and had moved on to study
secretarial skills at McCormack College
FICTION
106 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
in Chicago. She would have wished to have
gone to a regular liberal arts college to con-
tinue her education, but her father, John
Perparos, had his shoe repair/cleaners
totally destroyed in a fire, with the loss of all
his stored clothing and racks of shoes. His
insurance agent assured him that he would
be well within his rights to repay his custom-
ers a small percentage of their claims, but
John Perparos insisted on repaying what his
customers told him were the full cost of their
lost garments.
“These good and loyal people brought
me their business!” he said fervently. “They
trustedme! Iwon't let themdownnowby
cheating them on the price of their clothing!”
The result of his effort to be fair was that
after all the claims were satisfied, his busi-
ness hung at the edge of bankruptcy.
Diana’s older sister, Maria, who was
as lovely as Diana and had more than one
suitor, was working as a manager in an
upscale restaurant on South Shore Drive.
Feeling her family’s financial needs
required precedence over her own desire to
attend school, Diana found work as a host-
ess/cashier at a restaurant in South Shore
called the Wilshire.
To my dismay, when she entered the
workplace she also came to the attention of
othermenwhofoundheraslovelyasIdid.
Iwasoutragedwhensheconfidedtomethe
disgraceful attempt of the restaurant book-
keeper, a married man in his sixties, to steal
a kiss! While that lout was easily repulsed,
for the first time in our two-year relation-
ship, I found myself confronted by rival
suitors.
IhadgrownbiggerandoldersinceIfirst
sawDiana.Idon'tthinkitboastfultosay
I had apleasant temperament and a good
senseofhumor.However,Ifelttheseweren't
enough to compensate for the lamentable
disparity in my features. Because I was
forced to look at myself in the mirror each
morningandevening,Iwasdailyreminded
ofmyshortcomings.Atthetime,Istillhad
a head of bushy dark hair. Below the hair,
my eyes were small and deep-set, my nose
oversized with a hawkish curve, my lips thin.
The most disappointing part of my anatomy
remained my large and unshapely ears, one
a half inch longer than the other, giving my
head a lopsided appearance. In addition,
both ears had lobes so large they might have
provided another pair of ears for a more
conventionalhead.Ifoundscantconsolation
in that Abraham Lincoln and Buddha had
similarlyoversized ears.When I compared
my appearance to that of Diana's loveliness,
we seemed an incongruous couple.
IwouldtraveltotheWilshire restaurant
in the late afternoon, waiting for Diana to
finishworksowemightridethebusorIC
trainhometogether.Ononeofthosevisits,I
met her principal admirer, whose first name
Icannotremember,butwhoselastnamewas
‘Thorman.’Themarauderwas taller than I
was by at least two inches, blond-haired,
flawless-eared, with a smile Diana described
as‘nice’butwhichIwaspositivehadaser-
pentine allure.
DesperatetofindaplayingfieldonwhichI
couldcompete,Idrewuponthefertilityof
myimaginationtokeepDianaentranced.I
described ordinary daily experiences to her
with dramatic flourishes. A visit to a grocery
becameanodysseyinwhichIranintovari-
ous colorful characters. My tales about them
produced the desired appreciation and laugh-
ter from Diana.
When enhancing my experiences
became insufficient, I invented imaginary
encounters with friends and neighborhood
characters.Ialsosharedwithhermyexcite-
ment about books I had read. I gave her
Martin Eden by Jack London and The Gates of Aulis by Gladys Schmitt, two books that
had an enormous influence on me.
1072 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Iconfessnowtoanevenmoreluridexample
of my creativity. Having admired the flash-
ing swordplay in adventure films starring
TyronePowerandRobertTaylor,Ihadbegun
taking fencing lessons at Hermanson’s Fenc-
ingAcademyinWoodlawn.Ibegansharing
withDianastoriesofthepeopleImetand
fenced with at the Academy. The year was
1940, Europe was engaged in a war that
most Americans were anticipating the
United States would join. One of the fencing
students at the Academy was a youth of Ger-
man extraction whose first name was Helmut.
Ihadaminoraltercationwithhim,andin
relatingtheexperiencetoDiana,Iaddeda
fewfrills.HergenuineconcernthatImight
get into more serious trouble with Helmut
nourished my propensity to storytelling.
Anxious to provoke further evidence of
hersolicitudetowardsme,Iinventedmore
serious disputes occurring between Helmut
and me. He had shoved me in the locker
roomandIshovedhimback.Wehadfenced
in a duel against one another and after a
heated, violent contest, settled on a draw.
Ifoundmyselftrappedinmyownexag-
geratedstorytelling.Inordertoheightenthe
drama, I had to keep inventingmore and
more colorful details. One night, in despera-
tiontokeepthesuspensemounting,I told
DianathatHelmutandIhadaviolentcon-
frontation. We resolved to fight a duel with
our foils stripped of their rubber tips. That
lethal confrontation meant that I might
incur a mortal injury.
The effect uponDianawas all I could
havehoped. I toldher theduelwasset for
the following evening at midnight after the
Academy had closed and the fencing acad-
emy was deserted. With tears in her eyes, she
pleaded with me to refuse to fight the quar-
relsome German. I kept insisting that, for
honor’s sake, the duel had to be fought.
The evening preceding the contest we
spent together, Diana was tearful and solici-
tous, and more loving than she had ever been.
Ibaskedintheglowofherconcernand,as
wepartedthatnight,IpledgedI’dphoneher
first thing in the morning.
Before retiring that night, I walked in
front of the closed fencing academy, seeking
toabsorbsomeofitsambianceasIcontrived
a way to resolve the imaginary duel. The
outcomeIpreferredwastoclaimIhadslain
the villainous Helmut. But that would have
requiredexplaininghowIhaddisposedof
thebody.NorwasIcertainwhetherornot
Diana would wish to continue dating a killer.
Idecidedonalessluridoutcome.
Isleptfitfullythatnightandroseatdawn
to use our family bathroom before my sib-
lingsrose.WiththebandageandtapeIhad
purchased,Iaffixedasizeablepieceofgauze
tomychest.Istainedtheedgeoftheband-
age with a little iodine to represent blood.
WhenIphonedDiana,herapprehensive
voice answered almost at once. She told me
she hadn’t slept all night. Even as I felt a
twingeofremorseatmyfabrication,Itold
her that an exhausted Helmut had conceded
defeat.But inachievingmyvictory, Ihad
sustained a minor wound.
Diana insisted I come see her at once.
I traveled to Hyde Park and to her apart-
ment where she greeted me at the door. She
insistedonseeingthewoundandIremoved
my shirt to show her the bloodstained band-
age. The moment was a glorious one in
whichIbaskedinthewarmthofhersolici-
tude and her tears.
Several years earlier, not long after we had
firstbegundating,IhadtriedtokissDiana.
With what seemed genuine regret she stopped
me, saying she feared her braces would be an
obstruction.
I hadnowayof knowingwhether that
would prove true or not but for the following
few years while we dated, fearful of embar-
rassing her if the braces proved an obstacle,
108 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Imadenoeffort tokissheragain.Wedid
hold hands, sometimes shyly caressing one
another's fingers.
Then at the beginning of our fourth year
of dating, soon after the episode of the duel,
sitting on a bench under the shadow of the
Museumof Science and Industry one sum-
mer evening, our faces close together, we
kissed. The sweetness of that long-delayed
kiss deserves a poem and not a mere sentence.
When the kiss ended, we stared at one another
with the delight of children who had discov-
ered unimpeded access to a jar of cookies.
Beginning that night and each time after
that we were together, we petted fervently,
going beyond kisses to caresses, my hands
freely poaching under her skirt. Both of us
were apparently eager to make up for the
years of intimacy we had missed.
That added intimacy brought us still
closer together, into a kind of physical and
emotional bonding that we accepted would
someday bind us in marriage.
Inthemeantime,withtheoutbreakofwarin
Europe, and the relentless advance of the
Nazis across France, my feelings about war
had changed. The emotional influence on me
of the book and film, All Quiet on the West-ern Front with its condemnation of any war
had been replaced by a fear and revulsion of
Hitler and his Nazi armies. These emotions
were further sharpened when the armies
of Italy invadedGreece. Instead of swiftly
defeating that small country, the Fascists
were driven back into the Albanian moun-
tains. Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister
of England, said of the valorous Greeks, “We
no longer will say Greeks fight like heroes,
but rather that heroes fight like Greeks.”
For a while, my Greek heritage gained
me a certain enhanced persona in the envi-
rons of our neighborhood.
By early 1942, following the attack at
Pearl Harbor, and America’s entrance into
the war, newspapers printed stories of the
fall of France and of the valiant struggle
the English people were waging against the
Nazis. London was being bombed and our
English-speaking allies huddled every night
in bomb shelters. My own view of the war
matched the evolving mood of the country.
All these events spurred my patriotism and
sharpened my desire to play my part in that
epic struggle.
InmyownSouthSideneighborhood,one
of my closest friends, Jack Murray, had just
been drafted into service. Two other friends
had just been discharged because of war-
incurred injuries, Hance Taylor from the
Army and Chuck LaMotte from the Marine
Corps. Chuck had been among the Marines
who landed on the island of Tarawa, and
his recounting of that bloody landing and
the fighting that followed spurred my out-
rageandadmirationforoursoldiers.Iwas
ready and eager to join and do my part as
my buddies had done. When my classifica-
tionbecame1A,Iawaitedmyinductioninto
service with enthusiasm.
All the war films so popular then, with
their star-crossed lovers playing out their
human dramas against the backdrop of
world conflict seethed in my head and heart.
My evenings with Diana were shadowed by
the prospect of my eventual departure to
playmypartinthegreatconflict.Iconfess
“We spent our time together in pensive silence, each of us poignantly understanding that we had become those star-crossed lovers destined to be separated by war.”
1092 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Iplayedthepartofthewarriorsoontobe
separated from his beloved with high and
poignant drama.
That day came during the summer of
1943,whenIreceivedanoticetoappearfor
my induction into the military. In those
final dayswe spent together,Diana and I
shared a series of emotional rehearsals for
our ultimate separation. She was solicitous
and loving, each of our nightly farewells ten-
der and tearful. Her other admirer, Thorman,
despite the splendor of his naval uniform,
hadbeenbanishedbackstagewhile I occu-
pied the proscenium of the theater.
Diana's small but fierce-spirited mother,
from the beginning of our relationship justi-
fiably suspicious of me as a suitable suitor for
her daughter, even appeared to relent. Once
ortwiceasshebademegoodbye,Inoticed
a tear in the indomitable little woman's eye.
My only knowledge of war had come
through books. I was most fascinated by
ancient battles, which pitted warriors against
oneanotherinsinglecombat.Ihadreadand
reread the Iliad, swept up by the spectacle of
ships sailing to battle on storm-tossed seas.
After the landing, the onslaught of mighty
armies, the heroism of champions clashing
in single combat. Some part of me must have
known that none of these reveries had any-
thing to do with modern warfare, but my
romantic temperament fused them into a
pageant of heroics.
The night before my induction, Diana
and I walked in the balmy summer night.
By this time, we had spoken all the words of
farewell and love we could muster. We spent
our time together in pensive silence, each of
us poignantly understanding that we had
become those star-crossed lovers destined
to be separated by war. Our final farewell
in the stairwell outside her apartment was
lingering and tender. Even as I felt some
apprehension at what the war might bring
for us, I could not help savoring the tears
that stained her lovely face. I envisioned
myself as Robert Taylor or Tyrone Power bid-
ding his beloved farewell.
The following morning, my family and
Iengagedinaseriesofendearingfarewells.
Naka, my mother, and my sisters all wept.
One of my brothers, Manuel, was already in
service while my oldest brother, Dan, had
been granted a work deferment. My younger
sister, Irene, was flying in the Civil Air
Patrol. My mother had two gold stars in our
apartment window and that morning added
a third star for her youngest son. Finally,
my father gave me communion and all our
familysharedaprayer.Ilefttheapartment
building warmed by their love and their tears.
I joined a group of about a hundred
youths my age at a local American Legion
hall for a breakfast hosted by veterans of an
earlier war. We listened with frequent bursts
of applause as several speakers expressed the
gratitude our country felt toward us for our
valorous response in its time of need.
Following breakfast, we were trans-
ported by busses to the induction center
where we began a series of medical tests,
every part of our bodies probed and meas-
ured,screenedandassessed.WhileIwasn't
a great athlete, I hadheldmyown in run-
ning and wrestling contests. A regimen of
weightlifting had also enlarged and strength-
enedmymuscles.Inlookingaroundatthe
otherinductees,Iwasgratefultoappearto
be among the strongest.
The screening process moved at a steady
pace, until at the end of a long day, we lined
up for final approval. I reached the desk
staffed by a corporal who took a draftee's
medical papers and motioned him right or
left.WhenIreachedthedeskIgreetedthe
soldier with a broad smile intimating we
would soon be comrades. He stamped my
papers and handed them back. I looked
down and saw a large and glaring “Rejected-
4F” at the top of the first page.
110 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Iwasstunned!Mysecondreactionwas
that there had to have been some error in
the processing, some misstep on the part
of one of the many doctors and technicians
whohadexaminedus.Ireturnedtothedesk
with my query. The corporal referred me to
anotherofficewhereImetagrizzledArmy
sergeant who reexamined my papers.
Tothisday,Idon’taccuratelyrecallany
precise diagnosis for my rejection. The ser-
geant himself had no explanation except that
in some way, it related to one of the examin-
ing doctors finding scar tissue on my lungs
lingering from my childhood tuberculosis.
Imademypleatothesergeant,assuring
himthatforyearsIhadn’tanyproblemwith
strenuous exercise. My legs and arms were
strong, my breathing good. He seemed sym-
pathetic to my appeal
“You really want to get into the army?” he
asked gravely.
“Yes,yesIdo!”Isaidearnestly,andthen,
with blustering bravado added, “But not into
adeskjob!Iwanttoserveinacombatunit!”
The sergeant led me down a corridor to
the office of a lieutenant who, the sergeant
told me, had the authority to countermand
the rejected classification.
The WAC at the desk told us the lieuten-
ant was at lunch but was due back shortly.
The sergeant and I sat and waited. From
time to time, the sergeant looked at his watch.
After about a half hour, the WAC apologized,
telling us the lieutenant was usually very
prompt in returning from lunch, but that
day, for some reason, he was late.
The sergeant told me he had to return to
his duties and couldn’t wait any longer. He
suggestedIcallbackinafewdaysandhe'd
see whether he could arrange for me to see
the lieutenant.
Ilefttheinductioncenterthatdaystillstrug-
gling to accept the trauma of rejection. I
delayed returning home until later in the
evening, struggling for a way to tell my par-
ents and siblings, my neighborhood friends,
allhonorableveteransofthewar,thatIhad
been rejected. Above all, remembering our
poignant farewells, star-crossed lovers fac-
ingahazardousfuturewithfortitude,Iwas
mortally ashamed of having to carry that
message of rejection to Diana.
WhenIfinallywenthome,Iboughtsome
timewith still another lie that I had been
asked to return to the induction center in
about a week for some special assignment.
Ineverreturnedtotheinductioncenterto
find the sergeant and to try to see the lieuten-
ant.Ifearedmychancesofbeingreclassified
wereslimandIwouldhavetoundergobeing
rejected and humiliated a second time.
Forthefollowingfewdays,Istruggledwith
a potential course of action. By the end of
theweek,bornofmydesperation,Idevised
themostexpansivelieIhadeverconcocted.
IinformedmyfamilyandDianathatI
had been chosen to be among a select group
studying at a special school for the Diplo-
matic Service. Our ultimate assignment
would be to serve in the occupied countries
after the war ended. Because of my knowl-
edge of Greek, my probable assignment, I
told my family, would be to my parent's
homeland of Greece. Needless to say, my
family was not only impressed but also
pleasedthatI'dhavethechanceforthefirst
time to visit Greece.
What aided me in this deception was
the secrecy that wartime required. When-
everIwasaskedaquestionIhaddifficulty
answering,Iwasabletoinvoke,“Ican'tsay
anything.Youknow…security.”Iinformed
everyone that Ihadbeensworn to secrecy,
notevenabletotellmyfamilywhereIwould
be taking my training.
Forseveralweeks,Istruggledtoformu-
late my plans, which everyone was waiting
anxiously to hear. My family, my friends
1112 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
and Diana asked the question everyday. I
could not delay any longer but had to make
the decision to leave.
IdecidedthetownIwouldusetoconceal
myselfwasUrbana,Illinois,siteoftheUni-
versityofIllinois.Ihadspentalmostayear
there with my brother and knew the campus
and the town. Since many residents rented
singleroomstostudents,IknewIcouldfind
an inexpensive room in some private home.
Meanwhile,sinceIwouldnotbeableto
writedirectly fromUrbana. I foundacon-
tact who could help me, a young woman
living in Urbana named Marjorie Hissong,
whomIhadmetafewyearsearlierwhileI
lived inUrbana. I got in touchwithMar-
jorie,tellingherthesamefalsehood,thatI
was being assigned to high-level classes for
the government at the University, but that
Iwasforbiddentocommunicatedirectlyto
my home. The generous-hearted Marjorie
agreed to be the transfer point for my letters
home and, in turn, to pass on to me those
letters written to me from Diana and my
family.
WhenIleftChicagoforUrbana,thefare-
wells were all any prospective warrior could
hopefor.WhereverIwent,Ibecamethefocal
point of attention, a young man chosen for
some highly secret and important service to
our country.
ThenightofthelastdinnerIspentwith
Diana's family had her mother and sister
embracing me tightly and crying unabash-
edly. As for the farewell between Diana and
myself, never had lovers parted with so ten-
der and gratifying an outpouring of emotion.
With my ability to reconstruct and enhance
thecoreofanexperience,Iactuallybegan
tobelievethatIwasdepartingforsomemys-
terious and immensely important realm of
service to my country.
My farewells with Red, Jack, Chuck and
Hance, my cronies at the liquor store, were
just as heartfelt. My shoulder was slapped
and my hand shaken numerous times.
Chuck and Hance, brave, wounded veterans,
warned me that whatever the assignment,
never to volunteer out of false bravado.
I had purchased my train ticket for
Urbana and told my family and friends that
it was forbidden for anyone to come to the
station to see me off.
InUrbana,Itookuprentalresidencein
the commodious home of a gracious family
named VanDoren. I had a spacious attic
room with bay windows looking out across
the campus. The Van Dorens made me feel
part of their family, allowing me to share
mealsattheirtable.Inmyroom,Isetupmy
writing table, determined to begin working
on some poems and stories.
I’m no longer sure how many weeks I
spent in Urbana living that charade, writing
lettersalmostdailythatIgavetoMarjorie
Hissong, which she in turn sent on to Diana,
my family and friends. They in turn mailed
their letters for me to her.
Inthebeginning,Marjoriewasmyonly
friend in Urbana and it was she who began
to take note of my misery. The deception
wasbeginningtowearthin.ImissedDiana,
missed my friends and family. The absurdity
ofwhatIwasdoingbegantodawnonme.
ThehoursIspenteachdayreading,walking,
trying to write, passed slowly and tediously.
I began to consider seriously whether I
should abandon the whole deception. Yet the
immensity of my lie and the consequences
that would ensue when everyone found out
whatIhaddoneoverwhelmedme.Ididnot
have the courage to make that decision.
Then an opportunity presented itself
wherebyImightindirectlyendthemasquer-
ade.Iranintoafamilyfriendwhoworked
as a dining car steward and whose mother
was in the same Red Cross volunteer group
backinChicagoasmymother.Icouldhave
easily sworn him to secrecy, as well, because
ifIdidn't,Iknewhe'dtellhismotherwho
112 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
wouldunquestionablytellmymother.Ithink
bythattimeIwantedtobeexposed.
Lessthanaweeklater,Ihadaletterfrom
Diana sent through Marjorie Hissong tell-
ing me my residence in Urbana had been
revealed. Everyone was sorely confused.
ThatsamenightIphonedDiana.Weagreed
thatshewouldtravelbytraintoUrbana.I
promisedherIwouldexplaineverythingto
her then.
Two days later, she arrived in Urbana
with Naka as a chaperone. We all had dinner
with the Van Dorens, and afterwards, Diana
andIaloneintheVanDorenlivingroom,I
confidedtohermydeception.Iwasgrateful
when she showed understanding and sym-
pathy with the intensity of feelings that had
driven me to the enormous lie.
In thatmoment,bothofus in tears, I
asked Diana to marry me. I'm not sure
why I asked that momentous question at
that instant. Perhaps, it was an effort to
pile drama on drama or an effort in some
way to make amends. Whatever the motiva-
tion,Iwasdelightedandgratefulwhenshe
accepted. We resolved to marry the following
year.
IleftUrbanaandreturnedhome,telling
allmyfriendsthatthespecialunittowhichI
had been assigned had been disbanded.
The war in Europe ended in June of
1945. On the 30th of September that same
year,DianaandIweremarriedbymyfather
in my father's church. By wedding standards
befitting the somber times, we had a small
wedding with only thirty to forty people in
attendance. The wedding that was to imme-
diately follow our own united a bride and
groom from two prominent and wealthy
Chicago families. As our marriage cer-
emony ended, the church began to fill with
people attending the large wedding. We
started our wedding ceremony with a hand-
ful of people and finished with a church
packed in every pew.
Our wedding reception was in an ante-
room of the church, a table set simply with
Greek pastries baked by both our mothers.
Diana changed from her wedding dress
afterwards, and our best man and his wife
drove us to the Palmer House downtown.
Although the war had ended, hotel space
was still at a premium. However, through
the efforts of a Palmer House hotel security
officerIhadmetintheliquorstorewhereI
worked, we were able to get a room for the
weekend.
Inthemiddleofthenight,myfriendRed
called, urged by our mutual friends, he said,
to ask if everythingwas going all right? I
told him to reassure my friends that all the
requirements of a wedding night were being
met. The lame conversation ended.
InthinkingbackthroughtheyearswhenI
courted Diana, I find the memories domi-
natedbytheimmensityofmylies.Itrynow
to reconstruct my motivations. What amazes
me is the ease with which I slipped from
realityintofalsehood.IalsoconfessIcannot
honestly recall feeling any remorse after the
lieswereexposed.ThefactthatIwasableto
conceive and follow through on the lies gave
them, in my eyes, some moral justification.
Ijustifiedthosefalsehoodsbelievingthat
a more beneficent result could be produced
bymy lying.Asayouth, Ihadperformed
in a number of theGreek tragedies. I had
played Orestes and the Kings Oedipus and
Creon.The roles Iperformed inmydecep-
tions seemed extensions into plays of my
own.Inaddition,IrationalizedthatIspared
my family and friends the distress of learn-
ingIhadbeenrejectedforservice.Theynot
only felt better for me, but also felt better
themselves.
St. Augustine wrote that God gave
humans speech so that they could make
their thoughts known to each other. There-
fore, using speech to deceive people was a
1132 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
sin because it was the opposite of what God
intended.
But St. Augustine also believed that
some lies could be pardoned, those which did
not harm anyone and which benefited others.
Thomas Aquinas felt that while all lies
were wrong, there was also a hierarchy of
falsehoods and those at the bottom could be
forgiven. He distinguished between “mali-
cious” lies and “helpful” lies.
How many times have we spoken falsely,
“Youlookwonderful…”or“I'mhappytohear
fromyou…”or “I'msorry Ican'tmake it,
I'mbusythatnight.”
I tried to rationalizemy deceptions by
recognizing that all of society is rampant
with lying, “This product will get your wash
99% clean,” “This car has only 20,000 miles
onit,”“I'msorry,he'sinameeting.”
Yet when all justifications and excuses
have been submitted, a lie remains a lie and
a society in which lying is acceptable behav-
ior would be a society in which nothing
wouldbebelieved.Asimplephrase,“Ilove
you,” would be suspect.
At this advanced stage in my life, review-
ing the decades since my prevaricating
adolescence,forthemostpartIcan'trecall
tellinganyliesofthemagnitudeofthoseI
told in my youth. There is one exception, an
infamous lie that looms over my head like
theswordofDamocles.Iwillwriteofthat
lie in the chapter on my mother.
As for the lies committed during my
efforts towooDiana, I cannot in all hon-
esty feel any remorse. If I hadn't lied, I
wonderwhethersheandIwouldhavemar-
ried to have our sons and to live almost
seven decades together. The lie about fenc-
ing and other mythical adventures kept her
enchanted and our destinies linked. And
when my great diplomatic service deception
was revealed and she traveled to Urbana to
join me, in the emotional turmoil of the rev-
elationandourreunion,Iaskedhertomarry
me, and she accepted.
Without those lies, would the imposing
blond Viking, Thorman, be calling her his
wife now? �
Ο θίασος (The Troupe) by Odysseas Anninos.
1152 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
The Way Things Are
BYWILLMANUS
“Police?Iwanttoreportacrime.Mycar
has been stolen.”
“Why are you calling us?”
“What do you mean? You're the—”
The voice at the other end of the phone
wasblunt,matter-of-fact.“Ifyouwanttoget
your car back, put an ad in the paper, giving
yourphonenumber.It'syouronlyhope.”
That was it, end of conversation.
So he took the policeman's advice, paid
for a classified ad in Athens' largest daily.
Afewdayslaterthephonerang.Itwas
the car thief, also sounding blunt and mat-
ter-of-fact. He named the price he wanted, to
be paid in cash, of course.
“What's the condition of the car?” he
asked.
“What kind of question is that?” Now the
tone of voice changed and became edgier,
angrier."Idobusinessinacorrectway.The
carwillbeexactlyasIfoundit—evenbetter,
because it was quite filthy inside. You ought
to take better care of a fine vehicle like that.”
The thief was waiting for him, late at
night, at the designated meeting place, out-
side the Panathanaikos football stadium. He
was a nondescript fellow, small, sallow, in
his 40s or 50s, wearing shabby clothing: the
kind of man you usually ignored in life. He
said his name was Kostas, and he pointed to
the car proudly.
“See?It'sjustasItoldyouitwas.Ieven
had it washed on my way here.”
Kostas counted the money and nod-
ded his thanks. Then he handed over a set
ofduplicatecarkeysandsaid,“It'sbeena
pleasure dealing with you.”
Afewweekslaterthephonerang.Itwas
Kostas. “Everything all right? No problems
with the car?”
“The car was exactly as you said it would
be.”
“Good,I'mgladtohearyouhavenocom-
plaints,becauseIhaveafavortoaskofyou.”
“A favor?” He heard his voice becoming
tight.
“Yes.WoulditbeallrightifIgaveyour
name as a reference?”
Kostas explained that the latest man
whose car he had "borrowed" was a very mis-
trustful fellow.
“He doesn't believe that he won't be
harmed when we meet to complete the deal.
HethinksIwilltakehismoneyandhithim
over the head, without giving the car back.
Can you reassure him, tell him that I do
business in an honorable way?”
For a moment, he was tempted to lash
into Kostas, call him an ugly name, slam the
phone down on him. But just as quickly he
regained his equilibrium and heard himself
saying,withnaryahintofsarcasm,“I'llbe
happy to speak to him, Kostas. Tell the gen-
tleman to call me.” �
FICTION
1172 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
About My Mother
BYIRENESARDANIS
I resisted being Greek, hated it in fact, or
anything like my dowdy, pudgy immi-
grant mother who could not read or write
EnglishorGreek.Maybethat’swhyIturned
out to be an over-achiever and went on to get
a Ph.D. in Psychology.
She would talk to herself, walking around
the house wailing, “Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Elei-
son,” God save me, God save me. She wore
those old, right-off-the-boat, drab dresses,
grey, down to her ankles. Then for no appar-
ent reason, she’d start crying, and head for
her bedroom where, quite honestly, that is
theplace I rememberedshe stayedatmost
of the time.
She rarely left the house, except to go
down to the front steps of the Bronx tenement
we lived in. She would sit there and talk with
some other Greek women from the neighbor-
hood.Iwantedtoshakeher,changeherinto
an American mother, like my other friends
had.IcanadmitIalsofeltsorryforher.My
mother always seemed a bit crazy, but after
my father left, she became even more so. She
would go into uncontrollable rages for no
reason and lash out at me. To survive her
unpredictablemoods,Iavoidedheratallcosts.
Whenever my mother spoke to me in
Greek,Iwouldbedefiant.“Don’tspeakto
meinGreek,”I’dsaytoher.“I’manAmeri-
can.” She was determined to maintain a
Greek household, being super religious with
icons of Christ on the cross, she knelt to pray
every night at an altar in her bedroom.
Againstallresistance,Iwasforcedtogo
toGreek schoolwhere I learned grammar,
Greek religion and history. I hated every
moment of it.Years later,when Iwent to
Greece and met my relatives in her village,
IwasgratefulthatIcouldspeaktothemin
their native language.
I did not want to be Greek. All my
friends hadmotherswho spoke English. I
envied them and wished my mother spoke
English too. My fantasy was that if she could
only speak my language, all my problems in
communicationwithherwoulddisappear.I
wanted to belong, to be just like all my nor-
malgirlfriends.Intruth,Iwasashamedof
my immigrant mother.
At age 15, those hormones were raging
inside,andIwasboycrazy. Ihadacrush
on all the Puerto Rican and Cuban guys in
ourBronxneighborhood.EveryweekIhad
a new boyfriend.
I met Alberto at the library. He told
me he was a senior in High School and was
planning to go to Columbia University to
study Microbiology. His family was from
Cuba and he had that bronze tanned skin,
tall, black thick hair just below his neck, and
a great smile. He was the most intelligent
guyI’devermet.MostoftheboyfriendsI’d
had before were interested in their appear-
ance, sports, especially baseball games and
the New York Yankees. Alberto was inter-
ested in many other things, like music (he
played guitar). He introduced me to Fla-
CREATIVE NON-FICTION
118 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
menco dance, and took me to see a Jose
Greco concert. He took me to see Broadway
plays. He opened my eyes to a cultural world
Iwasnotawareexistedoutsideourstreet.
He also had a part time job at a local deli.
Every date was an adventure. He opened a
whole new world for me, one that was far
away from the tenements of Trinity Avenue
in the Bronx.
And he was interested in me. He always
had a book under his arm and encouraged
me to read more, and plan for college some-
day. We had no books in my home, except
the Greek Bible, so his gifts of poetry, music
and art, all whetted my appetite to expand
my small, narrow mind. There wasn’t any-
thingIfeltwecouldn’tdiscussoranalyze.I
was in love.
We talked about my mother, the prob-
lems I had getting out of the house, her
explosive rages. He didn’t get it. “She’s from
the old country,” he’d say. “Don’t worry so
much.I’llbepoliteandshe’llseeI’manice
guy, not like other ones.” No, he didn’t get it.
It happened aswewerewalking home
from the library one evening. I turned
around and saw my mother following me a
halfblockaway.Iquicklygrabbedhishands
andsaid,“Run.It’smymother.She’sfollow-
ing us.” He dropped me off quickly at the
stoop of my apartment, and ran across the
street to avoid a confrontation with her. She
intercepted him and grabbed his arm. “You
no talk my daughter no more,” she said
sharply, “I call police,” she threatened. I
could have died of embarrassment watching
her shake her fist at him.
By this time, the neighbors had opened
their windows, some watching the Greek
drama as they walked by us. This was a poor
neighborhood.Inthosedays,the50's,most
of the people could not afford a television.
The entertainment was a good street fight,
and that night, my mother was the star of
the show.
Years later as an adult, I tookmy first
triptoEurope.Ihadnointentionofgoing
to Greece, but at the very last moment, I
decided to visit my mother’s village on the
island ofMytelene.When I arrived at the
Athens airport, everyone around me was
speaking Greek, the priests with their black
robes down to their shoes, the “yia-yias,”
the mothers with their children, the men,
everyone surrounding me with the Greek
languageI’dheardfromchildhood.
Itwas as though a thunderbolt hitme.
AllthetimeandeffortIputintofightingmy
culture collapsed in a brief few moments as
Istoodthere.
Igroanedandutteredtonooneinpar-
ticular,“Holyshit.IreallyamGreek.”
When I finally arrived at my mother’s
smallvillage,Irealizedwithanothershock
to my system, that she never really left
her childhood home. Here I was at this
charming sea-side village with friendly
people, small, cozy, white stucco homes,
colorful doors in bright blues, greens, and
everything one could need within walking
distance—the bakery, church, produce store,
the tavernas, cafes—everything. How could
anyone leave a close loving community like
that? And go to New York? The Bronx? To
marry (it was an arranged marriage) a man
she’d never met?
My mother may have physically taken
herself to New York, but emotionally she
brought the whole village with her. She
raised me exactly as she was raised. Her vil-
lage was like an extended family to her. Now
Icouldacceptherreluctancetoassimilateto
American values and a foreign culture she
could not identify with.
Because of all my childhood resentments,
it was difficult to give my mother credit for
anything. Abandoned by my irresponsible
(read in alcoholic, gambler, womanizer),
father, she lived on a shoestring, making
ends meet with very little money.
1192 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Itbecamecleartomethatherstrictway
of raising me was her way of preserving my
reputation, keeping it pure so some “good
Greek boy” might marry me in the future.
Ithurtlikehellbeingraisedthatway,butI
now know she really meant well. She knew
no other way.
Many years later, I can admit having
more appreciation for her ability to cre-
ate something out of nothing, like making
soups and stews. Despite her depression, she
still came into the kitchen and cooked.
Icanstillrememberheropeningtherefrig-
erator and softly singing some Rebetik bluesy
song from her youth—as she started chopping
the onions, garlic, zucchinis, eggplant, toma-
toes, potatoes, olive oil, adding the oregano in
the iron skillet, and humming away, talking
to herself, as she put a hearty soup or lamb
stewtogether.Itwasthosemoments,sitting
with my elbows on the chipped white porce-
lain table, watching her put a meal together,
thatIfeltclosesttomymother.
Asachild,Iremembermyfatherputting
on the Victrola, (a wind-up record player)
and putting on some “Rebetika”—Greek
blues.
Rebetik music came out of the 20's when
the Turks took over Greece. It was called
“Kleftiko”—or hidden music, underground
music, with men, drinking ouzo, playing an
instrument called an oud, someone singing
a sad song—all in dark basements, late in
the night, forbidden to be played in daylight
in outside cafes. This was the kind of Greek
blues that comes out of deep sorrow, frustra-
tion, loss and despair.
My father would belt down a couple of
glasses of ouzo (a potent 90 percent proof
alcohol drink), light up a cigarette, place
it in his mouth with one hand, and with
the other holding a glass of ouzo, he would
move around the room, as though in some
kind of trance—snapping his fingers, leap-
ing like a wild animal, slapping his feet, with
the music taking him to some other state of
consciousness.
ThisRebetikmusicIgrewuphearingwas
down-and-dirty Greek blues. Usually, there
is an oud, a big-bellied stringed instrument,
in the music, and when played the sound of
that oud, sweet Jesus, just reaches down into
yourrock-bottominsides.Itmakesastrong
man dance his sorrow, get drunk, fall down
and weep, as the vocalist laments that “my
woman left me for another man, that rotten
bitch,butIstillloveherandwantherback
inmyarms”.Itisthekindofblueswehear
after the bar closes and someone gets up and
sings their sad story of misery and despair.
Now I think of her as I start many
unplanned meals the same way my mother
did.What’sinthefridge?Iaskmyself.And
slowlyIstarttakingthingsoutatrandom,
almost allowing her spirit, and all the Greek
village women before her, to give me crea-
tive inspiration to concoct some savory dish
from a few vegetables and memories.
Αγάπες στην άνοιξη (Love in Spring) by Odysseas Anninos.
120 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Music is as much a part of preparing the
dishformeasthedishitself.IfIamprepar-
ingaMexicanchili,thenIplayLatinsalsa
music. But if it is a Greek pastitsio, a layered
pasta dish of onions, chopped meat covered
with a bechamel sauce, then it is definitely
some Greek bouzouki (a stringed instru-
ment)kindofmusicthatIplay.
With no one watching, I dance freely
around the kitchen, snapping my fingers
high in the air like my father, and those
crazy Greeks breaking plates I’ve seen at
Athensnightclubs.And if Iamquiet,and
listen, I canalmostpictureher inourold
kitchen, hear my mother humming one of
those Rebetik songs from her village.
IammorelikemypeasantGreekmother
thanIeverimagined.
My mother is long gone now. Each Greek
Easter,whereverIhappentobe,Iseekout
a Greek Orthodox Church. That holiday was
the holiest of holy for my mother, as it is
for most Greeks. She would fast for weeks
before the Easter service. Afterwards, there
was much celebration with food—the roasted
lamb, rosemary potatoes, salads with feta
cheese to go with it, and baklava for dessert.
I light a candle in her memory at the
church, and silently thank her for all the gifts
she has given me.
Insteadofrebelling,Inowembracemy
cultural heritage. I am proud to say I am
Greek.
Thanks, Mom. �
1212 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Return to Symi
BYRICHARDCLARK
Ithadbeensome28yearssinceIhadlast
visited Symi, and my memory of that trip
had made me determined to return. Some-
times it takes courage to revisit a place after
so long, especially when it has engraved
such a perfect picture in the mind’s eye. On
that last visit, we had been lucky enough
to visit the island on our own terms. We
had sailed there aboard a beautiful clas-
sic carvel-built Bermudan sloop owned by
some friends who lived aboard in Mandraki
harbor. This time there was no such luxury;
we had to seek passage aboard one of the
many tourist boats that now sailed from
that same harbor. An easy task you’d have
thought, and so did we. We strolled along
the bustling quay, passing the fishing boats,
bareboat charter hires and polished gin pal-
aces to the moorings where a mish-mash of
craft lay at rest, stern on to the sea wall, in
serene contrast to their crews touting for
business from passing trade.
We stopped astern of one such boat, a
sturdy“καϊκι”withplanked,caulkeddecks
and varnished topsides and the ubiquitous
white hull with blue trimmings. Its crew
hosed down the decks and carried crates of
Coke and beer aboard to the rhythm of Lady
GaGa playing through the wheelhouse sound
system. A man sitting at a folding table,
under an umbrella advertising Alpha beer,
stopped flicking his worry beads to assure
us his was the best boat, at the best price for
Symi the next day, just as we wanted.
The price was good, and lower than
expected, but in our experience, that was not
unusual in these cash-strapped times. The
next day was a Sunday, yet our new friend
was insistent that we arrive at the jetty no
laterthan8:00a.m.andaskforhim,andhim
alone, “Only ask for Michalis” he regaled us.
“And don’t be late,” he insisted with an unu-
sualemphasisonpunctuality.Iassuredhim
we’d be there, and he wrote us out a receipt
asIpartedwiththecash.
At the time, we were staying in Lindos
and thought an hour for the journey to Rho-
des Town the next day would be plenty of
time,anditwouldhavebeen,hadIlearned
to master the alarm on my cell. We were left
with a mad dash through the breaking dawn
avoiding early starters weaving their way to
work on bikes. We had no problem parking
at that time and arrived on the quay with
minutes to spare. Michalis had not materi-
alized, so we sat down on a bench to wait.
Time ticked on, and for someone who had
been so insistent that we were punctual,
Michalis was a little tardy.
After waiting twenty minutes, the cabin
door on the caique moored next to us
opened. Yawning, a crewmember emerged
on deck, putting a cup of coffee down on the
cockpit table and stretching. He appeared
to have the demeanour of a man who was
going nowhere soon, so I asked himwhat
timewewereleavingforSymi.IthinkIknew
theanswerbeforehereplied.ItwasSunday,
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122 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
and his boat was not going anywhere today.
I askedwhichboatwas goingandhe said
he didn’t know, and what’s more had never
heard of Michalis who had been selling tick-
ets for the trip beside his boat.
At that moment, a screeching of tyres
announced the arrival of said Michalis. He
leapedoutof themostdecrepit, tinycar I
had ever seen and started berating me for
talking to the man on the boat. The fact he
was half an hour late and that no boat was
going to our island destination seemed to
escape him.
“You must come with me,” he said, bun-
dling us into the back seat through the
driver’s door, the only one apparently that
opened. He let the clutch out and the car
jumped forward—and stalled. He turned the
key and we caught the last deathly gasp of
a dying battery. “This has never happened
before,”heshouted,althoughIwassurprised
the car had not been consigned to the scrap
heap some decades ago. He jumped out onto
the quay and summoned the crewmember
from the caique, along with a couple of pass-
ing pedestrians, and inveigled them to push.
Michalis released the clutch with aplomb, for
a novice, and the car spluttered into life.
As if afraid to take his foot off the gas,
he ploughed through red lights as we sped
south along the coast road. “Today we go
from the big ship harbor,” he informed us
as we left picturesque Mandraki where our
car was parked behind, travelling past the
ancient city walls on our right to the more
industrial setting of the town’s outskirts.
We turned through some gates onto a
dusty path in a boatyard where cruisers,
yachts, fishing boats and other sundry craft
stood beached on trailers, blocked up or
propped in various stages of disrepair await-
ing the attentions of the boatyard staff.
Through another set of gates, we entered
an empty car park beside a quay to which
was moored a lone, workmanlike, if a little
lacklustre, vessel, Proteus. We were depos-
ited with undue haste some yards from the
craft, which puffed and panted as it idled
on its isolated mooring. “This is your boat,”
shouted Michalis, as he sped off leaving us
bemused.Ihadabadfeelingaboutthis.The
day was not shaping up to be a sun-kissed
voyage on a small traditional craft to revisit
the island of our dreams. Undeterred, I
approached the stern of the boat where crew
in white uniforms sat on bollards smoking.
Itdidn’ttakelongtorealizethatProteus
was a car ferry. Such workhorses plied their
way between the islands, carrying people,
vehicles, food and other cargo, which was the
lifebloodofthesmallercommunities.Iprof-
fered my tatty receipt to one of the crew, who
smiledknowinglyandtoldmeIhadtogoto
a small kiosk on the other side of the quay
toexchangeitfortickets.IdidasIwastold
and traipsed across to the kiosk, which was
closed. A notice declared it would open at
10o’clock.ReturningtotheshipIaskedwhat
time they set sail and was told 11 o’clock.
They left dock later as it was a Sunday.
Proteus was well named after an ancient
god of the oceans, who Homer described as
“The Old Man of the Sea.” Our ship was cer-
tainly old, with rusty tears dropping from
eyes beneath which hung two hefty anchors.
But the boat revealed itself to be truly pro-
tean, and our voyage turned out to be all the
better for being that of the everyday Greek
who visited Symi.
One of the crew took pity on us. He
invited us to sit on board until the ticket
booth opened, and put out seats for us at the
small impromptu café they had set out to
the side of the car deck. Here, among boxes
of tomatoes, crates of water and shrink-
wrapped toilet rolls, their urn bubbled away
and we were given coffee and a plate of sweet
white grapes to sustain us. At 10 o’clock one
of our new friends insisted on going to col-
lect our tickets, and on his return, we were
1232 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
ushered upstairs to the saloon of the ship,
with its comfortable chairs and tables, a bar
selling drinks and snacks and multiple TV
sets all tuned in to an animated post-elec-
tion debate.
As the time ticked on towards 11 o’clock,
the room started to fill up. A party of chil-
dren with teachers on a day trip to the
Monastery of the Archangel Michael at Pan-
ormitis Bay; an elderly couple with a minute
Chihuahua, its head poking out of a Burb-
erry handbag; workers on a pilgrimage with
men looking uncomfortable in Sunday suits,
their wives in large patterned floral frocks;
an eccentric, chanting lists of English foot-
ball teams as he searched bins for discarded
food before being given a meal by the gal-
ley staff; a cross section of Greek life was
aboard and we were the only foreigners.
The thudding of the engines grew louder,
and the deck floor began to vibrate as the
lines were cast off and we headed out to
sea. As soon as we edged out of the har-
bor mouth, the swell took hold of the vessel,
rhythmically pitching and twisting us as we
progressed towards the northern cape of
the island, before steering a northwesterly
course leaving Rhodes behind.
Proteus felt at home in this significant
swell but, as the cloud came lower and the
sky darkened bringing with it more than a
hintofabreeze,Ibegantobethankfulwe
were aboard this Trojan vessel. As the coast
of Turkey loomed ahead, the wind abated
and the rain began to fall almost vertically
from the sky.
Our approach to Panormitis was in
sharp contrast to that which we had made
all those years ago by yacht. The unrelent-
ing rainfall made the bay look smaller as we
inched towards the jetty beneath the monas-
tery. Crewmen shouted instructions at each
other to make themselves heard over the
reverse thrust of the ship’s engines and the
excited chatter of the schoolchildren.
Hawsers were heaved ashore and secured
around hefty bollards as the ship’s ramp was
lowered and we and the other passengers
poured ashore. The monastery still retained
an undoubted air of grandeur, but with the
rain dripping down its walls and polishing
the chessboard marble stones of the court-
yard, it held us in a melancholy thrall.
Water dripped off the leaves of the potted
chrysanthemums, off the brims of hats and
hoods and down the backs of shirts. Una-
bated, the children ran hither and thither
between the buildings, while the devout
leafed through their guidebooks whisper-
ing to each other. We struggled to relive the
memory of our first visit, inwardly disap-
pointed that the weather did not allow this
magnificent spot to give off its best.
If the rain had presented us with a
clammy, uncomfortable feeling, and lacklus-
ter picture for the eyes, it was compensated
for by the aroma the soaking had released
from the hills behind the monastery. Wild
arugula, sage, thyme and celery made their
presence felt as the rain subsided and the
ground began to steam in the watery sun-
light. The smell of herbs aroused the taste
buds and we had to be strong to resist sit-
ting down to eat, which we intended to do in
Symi Town, our next port of call.
As Proteus edged out of the bay, leaving
the small village behind, the sun began to
dry us out and projected a beautiful rainbow
arching from the sea over the monastery
to the mountainside beyond. Making short
work of burning off the mist and cloud, the
sun reestablished its dominance almost as
sharply as it had previously been under-
mined. We settled down hugging the shore
bound for Symi Town. Buffeting a slight
swell we eased our way to the southern tip
of the coastline before skirting around the
small island of Sesklia, its stark landscape
inhabited only by seabirds, including pink-
footed shearwaters. At times, seals languish
124 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
here, but today they were hiding. This is part
of the coast that made Symi famous and was
the source of much of its wealth in the past.
The steep shelving rocks, which dive into
the sea, were the ideal place for sponges to
grow and the local population were second
to none in their skill and bravery in harvest-
ing these natural wonders. Since the time of
Homer, their renown had been widespread
in the eastern Mediterranean and, apart
from the direct riches diving for sponges
brought to the island, it also endowed the
people with a unique bargaining power,
which they used to good effect when threat-
ened by the expanding territorial ambitions
of the Ottoman Empire in the 16th Century.
The pragmatic islanders sent representa-
tives to the sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent.
They proffered gifts of their best sponges
and promises that, if allowed to trade freely
in both sponges and in the fast and sturdy
ships their craftsmen constructed, they
could be of great use to the Turks—Sulei-
man assented. They enjoyed such privileges
until1830when,aftertheislandersjoined
the struggle for Greek independence, their
rights were curtailed. Prior to this, the Symi-
ots enjoyed freedoms unknown in the rest
of occupied Greece. For the price of some
nominal taxation and a yearly gift of the
most extravagant sponges to the Harem of
the Sultan’s palace in Istanbul, the island-
ers were allowed to carry on trading much as
normal. And trade they did. So much is obvi-
ous by the wealth exhibited in the wonderful
architecture on display as we enter the pro-
tective arms of the natural harbor of Symi
Town itself on the northeastern coast.
The withdrawal of certain privileges by
the Turks following the Symiots ill-fated
alliancewithotherGreeksinthe1821revo-
lution was the beginning of the end for the
wealthy sponge merchants and shipwrights.
Much of the skill and bravery involved in
diving for sponges was superseded with the
invention of diving suits. Prior to this, the
fishermen used to dive naked, being aided
to the seabed by a skandalopetra. As the
“petra” in the name might suggest, this was
a specially shaped stone weighing around
30 lbs, which was perforated to reduce water
resistance. The stone would be tied to the
diver with twine and by a rope to a boat
on the surface. Holding on to the rock, the
fisherman would quickly descend to as deep
as 100 feet below the surface where, for up
to four minutes, he would harvest sponges
before cutting himself free from the stone
and returning to the surface. The crew of
the boat then hauled up his skandalope-tra. The danger and skill involved made the
sponges an expensive luxury, but the advent
of more sophisticated sub aqua equipment
meant that sponges rapidly became over
fished and fishermen had to go deeper and
deeper to find them. This in turn hastened
the end of the trade. Many divers died due to
their ignorance of the effect of water pres-
sure on the human body and the resultant
bends inflicted by resurfacing too quickly.
Honey, sand and terracotta pastel shades
unveil themselves through the rain-rinsed
skies as this gem of a town reveals itself,
stepping backwards up the steep hills and
making an amphitheatre around the long,
narrow harbor. The buildings are mostly
“The climb up the kali strata is steep and every step moves us further back in time. Small pathways feeling their ways between lime-washed and pastel colored homes, blue doors open and matching shutters closed in the afternoon sun.”
1252 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
neo-classical, built in the 18th and early
19th Centuries, the heyday of Symi’s trad-
ing, when their access to the vast Ottoman
markets made merchants rich beyond imagi-
nation. The town’s beauty is a legacy of a life
no longer sustainable, and today the small
local community survives mostly from the
earnings from tourism.
Disembarking, our spirits lifted by the
sunshine, it didn’t take long to find a suit-
able taverna where plenty of Greeks were
sitting down to tuck into their family Sun-
day lunch. I settled down to breaddipped
in oil and vinegar with a black olive paste.
This was followed by grilled mackerel, its
tiger stripes burnished with lemon juice and
crackling sea salt, served with a ramekin of
mustard sauce glistening with the freshness
of golden eggs, vinegar, mustard and butter
and heavily scented with sage and thyme.
The white wine was chilled to within an inch
of its life. Served in a copper jug, echoing the
steely edge of the wine itself, it cut through
the oiliness of my fish as though every indi-
vidual grape used in its making had been
grownjustforthatmoment.Itwouldhave
been easy to idle away the remaining couple
of hours just sitting there in that water-
front taverna, maybe eating an ice cream or
indulging in another carafe of wine. But the
narrow streets that led away from the harbor
were beckoning and overcame any more syb-
aritic intentions we may have held. We paid
our bill, and reluctantly brought ourselves
up to ambling pace and headed away from
the quayside.
The town is split into two areas. The low
lying port, Yialos, and the old town of Horio
that looks down on it from the hills to the
south. Just away from the bustling south-
west corner of the harbor side is a flight of
about 400 steps. These connect the low-lying
commercial center of Yialos with the older
settlement of Horio, and replaced the older
kataraktis footpath, which runs up to the
ancient acropolis. This was the preferred
way up the hillside until the kali strata steps
were laid in the 19th Century.
The houses that line the route are impos-
ing. Some have seen better days, their flakey
exteriors disguising their past grandeur.
They stand testament to the halcyon days
when the island’s wealth from sponges, ship-
building and wine production supported a
lifestyle that was the envy of other islands in
the Dodecanese. But the town’s history can
be traced back much further.
The island is said to have been named
after Syme who, according to the 2nd-
century AD rhetorician Athenaeus, was the
daughterofIalyssostheKingofRhodesand
Dotis. The sea god, Glaucus, a fisherman
who, if Ovid is to be believed, achieved deity
by eating a magical herb, abducted the poor
girl. He brought her to the deserted island,
which then took her name. Glaucus himself
was imbued with many of the skills that the
island later became famous for, being one of
the shipwrights who built Jason’s ship, the
Argo. As a god, he swam in the waters sur-
rounding the island, ensuring safe passage
for sailors and rescuing fishermen in distress.
Homer wrote that three ships sailed from
Symi to join the Greek fleet at Troy and
the island’s king Nereus, who commanded
these ships, perished in the campaign. The
subsequent history of the island is inextri-
cably linked to Rhodes itself, Symi being a
satellite held by the comings and goings of
the powers on the larger island. The Dori-
ans, followed by the Romans, held sway here
before the island became part of the Byzan-
tine Empire.
The climb up the kali strata is steep and
every step moves us further back in time.
Small pathways feeling their ways between
lime-washed and pastel colored homes, blue
doors open and matching shutters closed in
the afternoon sun. The Knights of St John
built a castle on the top of the acropolis on
126 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
the site of a Byzantine citadel, which had
also taken advantage of this site with its
magnificent views of the harbor.
The medieval fortress remained intact
until the last century, when it was used as
a munitions dump by the occupying Ger-
man forces during the Second World War.
When they realized the game was up, the
retreating troops blew up their stash pile,
destroying most of the castle, surrounding
homes and the Church of the Assumption
that was enclosed within the walls of the for-
tress. The remnants of the castle walls are all
that is left, but a new church has risen on the
hill to replace that destroyed by the Germans.
Each Sunday as its bells ring, one of those
that tolls serves as a reminder of those dark
days, as it is forged from the nose of a mas-
sive German bomb.
Back on the north side of the harbor
front, where Proteus was readying herself
for departure, is a place that serves as a
reminder of those times. What is now the
Hotel Les Katarinettes was formerly the
Kampsopoulou Mansion where, on the
8thofMay1945, theGermansmade their
formal surrender of the Dodecanese to the
Allies. Nearby is a war memorial hewn out
of themountainside. Its inscription reads:
“On this day freedom whispered to me. ‘You
twelve islands, no longer be downhearted’.”
Sailing out through the headlands of the
bay, we stood on deck enjoying the breeze
created by the ship making its way south
again. As evening draws in the island will
turn back in on itself, its population of little
more than 2,000 reclaiming their tranquil-
lity. We watched from the stern deck as Symi
fell slowly under the shadow of the Turkish
coast, and we headed back to Rhodes. A
chilled sweet Samos Muscat wine from our
cool bag made the perfect accompaniment
to a pile of Loukoumades coated in honey
and dusted lightly with cinnamon to see us
through until dinner time. �
Excerpted from RHODES – A NOTEBOOK by Richard Clark
1272 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Journey to a New Reality
BYDENAKOUREMETIS
As the Greek Line’s Queen Anna Maria
chugged over the Atlantic, shimmied
through the Straits of Gibraltar, and paused
for a breath in Lisbon, my time became filled
with exploring the vessel as well as adjusting
to what might lie ahead. My two cabin mates
were as anxious to reach their destinations as
Iwas,butinthemeantime,wemanagedto
learn a bit about one another’s root-bound
cultures.
My knowledge of Jewish customs was
limited to having seen Fiddler on the Roof repeatedly—one of the fewmovies I could
relate to in assessing my own sheltered life.
IsympathizedwithTevye’sthreedaughters
and how, like me, they yearned for their
independence, yet loved their father for his
hardwork and nurturing protectiveness. I
could relate to how ethnic culture, social life,
and religion could all be intertwined, since
Greeks in the U.S. congregate similarly. Even
the story’s music, with its Middle Eastern-
soundingminorkeys,feltfamiliartome.I
was delighted, then, to learn more about eve-
rything Jewish.
Newly-married Rachel was from Brook-
lyn, the daughter of a Lubovich rabbi but
perhaps a bit of a rebel. At the time, Lubo-
vichers were a fairly new Hasidic movement
in Orthodox Judaism, but shared the tradi-
tion in which women cover their heads—if
not with a scarf, then by cutting their hair
short and donning a wig. Rachel had long,
blond tresses that fell into a perfect loose
flipattheends.Ihadnoideathehairwas
not her own when we first met, so when she
removed her mane on the first night of our
voyage it was difficult for me to mask my
surprise. Underneath was a hairnet smash-
ing down closely cropped stubble. She also
wore mini-skirts, a bit incongruent with
other traditions of Orthodox Jewish mod-
esty.Itwasneverexplainedtomewhatwas
permitted of married women in her sect of
Judaism, and which parts of her appearance
constituted her own personal acts of non-
conformity. Her father was a rabbi, so she
may have changed elements of her clothing
the moment he was out of sight.
A chain-smoker, Rachel spent countless
hours in her top bunk anxiously puffing
and wringing her hands over the prospect
of her wedding gifts being destroyed in the
ship’s hold as the vessel swayed and lunged
throughthewaves.“Oi...Icanjustpicture
all my new sets of dishes broken by the time
we get to Haifa,” she lamented in a heavy
Brooklyn accent as she waved her cigarette.
She would explain kosher dietary laws (sep-
arate sets of dishes for dairy, poultry, etc.)
and many other customs of her faith to me.
She even invited me to an Oneg Shabbat cel-
ebration, a pre-Sabbath gathering, where we
line-danced in the opposite direction of the
Greek tradition, sang Hebrew songs, and ate
Kosher food.
My other cabin mate, Cheryl, was from
Michigan. Cheryl was more laid-back and
CREATIVE NON-FICTION
128 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
closer to my age. A reform Jew, she did
not observe dress codes or other personal
appearance restrictions, and she proceeded
to participate in all the on-board youth-
oriented activities. Cheryl seemed to make
friends easily, as if she were preparing to
stay in touch with them once she arrived in
Israel. I admiredher gregarious spirit.We
attended a talent show together where, as
fate would have it, one of the acts was from
Fiddler on the Roof. Two teenagers sang the
husband-and-wife number “Do you love me?”
The girl had a heavy scarf tied around her
head while the boy sported an old top hat,
spectacles, suspenders, dangling sideburns,
and a prayer shawl. They both had incred-
ibly talented voices and the crowd raved with
approval. Having been such an aficionado of
thatparticularmusical,Inaturallyknewall
the lyrics.
OneboringafternoonIsolitarilyroamed
the ship, trying to figure out where a few
interesting-looking hallways led. I soon
found myself in a deserted lounge where a
grandpianosatunattended.Inthedimlight,
Imademywaytoitandsatdown.Ibegan
playing and felt as if it had happened on a
secret place. For a moment, it seemed to
me then that everyone else on the ship was
heldcaptive,andonlyIhadbeenliberated
asIsatatthefamiliarinstrument.During
my high school years, Imanaged to learn
parts of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, and
now began coursing its syncopated phras-
ing in amateur fashion—never at the speed
intended by the composer, who was no doubt
turningover inhisgrave.Still, I loved the
sometimes seemingly dissonant, jazzy sound
of this masterpiece, no matter how haltingly
Iplayedit.
Thoughts of home began filling my head.
My mind wandered to a vision of my laven-
der room at home with its San Francisco
posters.IknewwitheachdayIwasgetting
farther and farther away from the laughter
and security Imayhave taken forgranted.
Iwouldmissmypretend-torch-singing ses-
sionswithmybrotherJohn,asIheldupthe
imaginary microphone, belting out songs as
heaccompaniedmeonthepiano. I’dmiss
Aris’s infectious laughter and hearty appe-
tite. I’dmissmymother’s voice and sweet
naïveté as she covered the dinner table with
hertrademarkmeals.I’devenmissthesound
of my father’s voice in front of the TV set on
a Sunday afternoon, when he would com-
plain loudly about how a St. Louis Cardinal
missed a perfectly good pitch.
My private performance ended, and my
mind riveted back on the present. Never hav-
inglearnedtheentirescore,Iexhaustedmy
memory and sat at the keys, hesitating. A
burst of applause rang out from a far door-
way, where seven or eight Jewish kids had
evidently stood transfixed. I got up, red-
faced and shaking, shocked that anyone had
heard my flawed efforts. Admittedly, my
insides were smiling.
When all else fails, stay in one place
BythetimetheshippulledintoPiraeus,I
was beside myself with excitement. But
despite how much my parents prepared me
formyarrival inPiraeus, Iwas trulywor-
ried.IthadbeenfiveyearssinceI’dbeento
Greece,andIwasnotatallcertainIcould
remember the faces of the relatives I had
complained about having to visit when I
was younger. On the flip side, how would
they recognize me? The last time they saw
me I was short, awkward, had braces on
my teeth, and an unruly, wavy head of hair.
Now, teeth-straightened, long-haired, and
eighteen, I liked to think I had metamor-
phosed since then, like a butterfly emerging
fromacocoon.Iimaginedthatmyrelatives
would have to query every girl around my
age that waited on the dock in order to find
the right one.
1292 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
The Queen Anna Maria carefully
slipped into the girdle of docks at the indus-
trial port of Piraeus, a city near Athens that
wasn’tparticularlypostcard-perfect.Itwas
here in Piraeus that the famous prostitute
character, played by Melina Mercouri in the
movie Never on Sunday, strutted her stuff.
Inthestory,shetriestofigureoutthemean-
ing of life, trying hard to give up her life of
debauchery.Intheend,sherealizesthatit
isn’t as much fun to be a “good girl,” and
gleefully returns to her adoring public.
After what seemed like hours of Greek
customs and over-the-top bureaucracy, I
claimed my behemoth suitcases, flopped
my guitar over my shoulder, and searched
the throngs of people greeting passengers as
they disembarked, all the while attempting
not to look terrified.
Icouldn’trecognizeasingleface.Ifinally
plopped down on one of my bags and waited,
thinking I might look exotic through my
Foster Grants. The dock began to empty of
passengersandluggageandthereIsat,shift-
ing my crossed legs every fifteen minutes or
so. My attempts to appear intriguing began
toexhaustme.Afterawhile,Iimaginedan
aerial view of myself like a scene from a movie,
left all alone like an immigrant waif in the
middleofabigcityharbor.Ihadnoideahow
touseaGreektelephone,nordidIhaveany
Greekcurrency,soIhadnochoicebuttohope
Iwouldbediscoveredbeforeitturneddark.
“Dee-nah? Dee-nah too Men-DOO?” a
man’s slightly whiny, singsong voice called
out—presumably for me. Greek names can be
made feminine or masculine as well as pos-
sessivewiththechangeofasyllable,butIhad
never heard the altered version of my own.
ThenIrecognizedhisface.
“Uncle Stathi?” I said. But I said it in
Greek: “Theo Stathi?”
Greece by Odysseas Anninos
130 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
“Neh, neh, peh-THEE moo.” (Yes, yes,
my child.) Greeks call even older adults “my
child” as a sign of affection. Affection is eve-rywhere in Greece.
Among Greeks, any adult you’re related
to becomes your Thea or Theo. This shows
respect for an elder, even though you may
or may not feel close to them. No, it doesn’t
make sense. (“But it’s a tradition! And how
did this traditionget started?Vell, I’ll tell
you...Idunno.”)Itoccurstomenowthatmy
parents made us do all sorts of things as chil-
dren we never really questioned—like kissing
icons and doing the sign of the cross before
dinner. But the worst one was being forced
to accept sloppy cheek-kisses from everyone
considered family (anyone who was Greek)—
even the crustiest, most un-kissable people.
Inreality,Greek-Americankidshavedozens
of Theas and Theos, but only a handful of
true aunts and uncles. We also learned how
to lightly kiss them back on each cheek, and
had this kissing thing down by the time we
reached adulthood.
Stathi, married to my father’s first
cousin, Vasiliki, began laboriously trying
to fit my gargantuan luggage into his tiny
European car. He kept testing my ability to
comprehend his nasal comments and ques-
tions, but soon realized it was a lost cause.
My few memorized phrases in Greek, such
as, “pass the meat and the cheese,” did not
have reason to come up in the conversation,
andIbecameincreasinglyfrustrated.What
he could not fit in the trunk occupied the
back seat, looking like fat passengers. None-
theless, he chattered away in Greek as an
unfiltered cigarette bobbed and dangled pre-
cariously from his mouth.
Idesperatelyfeatheredthetinypagesof
my Greek-English dictionary to find single
wordsIcouldusetoconveyanswerstoques-
tions I thought I understood. By the time
I came upwith something to say, he had
moved on to another topic.
As we drove away from the port, Theo
Stathi continued to talk, gesture, and puff.
Soon the sights and smells of Athens went
flooding by as we neared his apartment
building. Imagesandaromas frommypre-
vious family visit to Greece consumed my
senses. Iwas to staywith relatives for ten
days until my dormitory was able to receive
students, and judging by my ability to com-
municate it was going to be a very long ten
days.Still,Iwashere ... in Athens ... by myself.
Athenian Apartment Dwelling 101
Theo Stathi and Thea Vasiliki had two chil-
dren: Marina, about five years my junior,
and Elias, a five-year-old. They lived in a
modest collection of rooms with marble
floors, an efficient kitchen, and a small bath.
By Athenian standards, they lived fairly well.
Stathi was in the imports/exports business,
and Vasiliki took care of things at home.
They were warm, animated, welcoming, and
extremely curious about me.
My mother had armed me with gifts for
myhosts,courtesyofAvonhavingcalled.I
offered a wrapped package of fragrant mois-
turizer for TheaVasiliki, and manly cologne
forTheoStathi.Vasilikiwasdelighted,butI
managed to infer from Stathi’s reaction that
real men did not need anything to mask their
natural aroma, making my token gift rather
dismissible. Remembering the aromas of
many unwashed armpits from the crowded
Athens buses in 1965, I couldn’t begin to
fathom the idea that Athenian women found
pleasure in men’s natural scents, however.
Vasiliki asked easy and thoughtful
questions about the family, while Stathi’s
questions seemed more curious.
“DEE-nah. PEZ mou,” he said in the
nasal voice many Greeks seem to use. “Kap-NEE-zees tsi-GAH-ro?” (Tell me, do you
smoke cigarettes?) He gestured to convey
his question, feigning having a cigarette in
1312 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
his hand, adding a verbal singsong at the end
of the query.
Skeptical, I couldn’t figure out where
he was going with this. “AW-hee,” (No,) Iresponded. Had he seen me break out a pack
of Marlboros?
“DEE-nah. For-AHS tah MEE-nee-skirts?” (Do you wear mini-skirts?) What
was this all about?
Intime,however,IamsuremyPollyanna
ways proved to be quite uninteresting. Still,
he strolled up and down the long balcony out-
side my room, puffing on his tsigaro, no doubt
thinking up other curiosities to pose to me.
Evenings with Stathi and Vasiliki were
spent pleasantly, taking long walks or din-
ing out with friends or other family members
until long after most Americans would be
snug in bed. We visited with Theos Vasilis,
my father’s uncle, several times over the
next week. He took great pride in speaking
katharevousa (formal or academic, literally
“cleaned up” Greek, as compared with eve-
ryday conversational Greek)—the language
of Greek newspapers with heavy words that
contained three prefixes and as many suf-
fixes. Somewhere in the middle of each long
word, the root that unlocked the meaning of
itwashidden.AllIcouldthinkaboutasI
smiled and nodded and stumbled over non-
grammatically correct Greek was how many
days remained until the dorm opened.
Accustomed to showering each day, I
was deemed a wasteful Americaneetha. My
hygiene habits forced my hosts to turn on
the bathroom hot water more frequently
thanusual,andIwasgiveninstructionsto
give them plenty of notice so the hot water
devicehadtimetorevup.Iwasalsounac-
customed to “siesta time,” lovingly called
tahapoh-yevma, from around 1:00–5:00 p.m.,
when the whole of Athens would close their
businesses, vacate their offices, and either go
home to nap or go to the beach in the mid-
afternoon, causing a massive twice-daily
commute that created an ungodly smog in
downtown Athens. It was no wonder the
Parthenon was deteriorating at a record rate.
I spent those hours readingmagazines I’d
brought from home or writing in my journal.
The time crawled by.
Since Greeks routinely spend more
evenings outside their homes than inside,
lounging furniture is scarce, making one
think that they place little value on comfort
in their own homes. Hard-bottomed sofas
and chairs sparsely populate their apart-
ments, and drapery and area rugs are rotated,
gathered up, and repositioned by season.
They also tend to remove their shoes upon
entering a house or apartment, shuffling
aroundinslippersontheirmarblefloors.I
thought about our wall-to-wall carpeting
athome—somethingIwastoseelittleofin
Greece, or the rest of Europe, for that matter.
Greek television in the 1970s was limited.
Programming took place during evenings only,
and Vasiliki looked forward to the variety
shows with an excitement that was infectious.
Sometimes five or six male and female Greek
torch singers would perform in succession.
Vasiliki would rave of their talent and tell me
gossip about them gleaned from local enter-
tainment tabloids. She was quite surprised
their faces and names were entirely unfamiliar
to me, assuming that if they were so famous in
Greece, they must be famous everywhere.
Then I nearly burst a Greek bubble. I
explained in broken Greek (with the help
of my dictionary) that the singers with
no microphones on this huge sound stage
weren’t really singing live. They were merely
mouthing the words.
VasilikilookedatmeasifIwereinsane.
“OH-hee! EH-kah-nehs LAH-thos, reh peh-THEE moo. THEN ee-nehsoh-STOH.” (No,
my child, you’ve made a mistake. That’s not
correct.)
Irealizedatthatpointthatmyrelatives
could not get their heads around the idea
132 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
that modern-day recording equipment lent
ahandinsuchcases.Intheirminds,every-
thing they saw on the screen was happening
live, despite some obviously bad lip-syncing.
They simply attributed the delay of mouths
towordstoaweaktelevisionsignal.Itsome-
how reminded me of my grandparents back
inMuncie, Indiana who thought the com-
mercials that accompanied movies on TV
were a part of the story, and that Big Time Wrestling was just another act on The Ed Sullivan Show.
What compounded my confusion regard-
ingthelittleGreekIunderstoodwasthefact
thatI learneda flawedversionof itnearly
allmy life.Asa child, I heardmymother
usewordsforthingsthatIacceptedatface
value, as most children do. An ashtray was
a tah-SAH-kee—a dustpan was a fah-RAH-see—and a little trash was skoo-PEE-thee.Itsounded something like this:
“Dena, will you go get the broom and the
fah-RAH-see to clean up the skoo-PEE-thee from when the tah-SAH-kee fell on the
floor?”
These and words like them were included
in everyday speech surrounded by English
words, so as child, my interpretation was
seamless. To an outsider, however, they must
have wondered from what planet we had
been deposited on Earth.
Itemsofclothinghadtheirownnamesas
well.Iwasorderedtoputonmypah-POO-chah (shoes) and KAHL-tsehs (socks), bring
my fah-NEH-lah (sweater) if it got cold and
Iwassentonmyway.
It’snowonderImixedupthewordskah-PEH-loh (hat) and koh-PELL-ah (girl) in
front of Theo Stathi, turning red-faced after
saying, “Meenkah-THEE-sees ah-PAH-noh teen kopella,” (in an attempt to say, “Don’t
sit on top of the hat,” but coming out, “Don’t
sit on top of the girl.”).
Just as amusing were Greek-influenced
American words stuck in the middle of sen-
tences that usually included an extra syllable
tacked on the end. This was a habit origi-
nated by Greek immigrants assimilating into
American culture. A cake became a KEH-kee, a car was a KAH-roh, and a carpet was
a car-PEH-toh.
Tothisveryday,IfallbackontheseAmer-
ican corruptions of the Greek language. Still,
my favorite moment in the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding came when the Greek immi-
grant mother had a tough time understanding
what a Bundt cake was. Another Greek took
one look at it and remarked, “EE-neh KEH-kee, moh-REE”(It’sacake,youidiot).
My stay with my father’s cousin’s family
ended with a Sunday picnic in the Penteli
MountainsnearAthens.TheyinsistedIplay
my guitar under the olive trees and sing what
Greek songs I had managed to learn pho-
netically from a few Greek record albums
I hadbackhome.My little cousinMarina
spoke just enough English to do some rudi-
mentary translations, and told me what the
lyricsmeant.LittledidIknowwhatpassion-
atephrases I hadbeen crooning. Inone, I
sang of a man who was reclining, cigarette
in hand, after having made passionate love
to his woman. The scene had been put into
lyrical words that implied meaning to those
who spoke the language fluently, but totally
escaped my limited interpretation.
The next day, Stathi deposited me in
front of the main gate of the campus of
Pierce College, high on a hill overlooking
the Athenian suburb of Aghia Paraskevi
(“St. Friday”). He made me promise to stay
in touch and then sped off, leaving me gaz-
ing up at my home-to-be. �
Excerpted from the eBook CLIMBING ST. FRIDAY, a coming-of-age memoir chronicling a year in the author's life spent at the American College during the military occupation of Greece.
1332 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
In a Tragic Split Second
The Story of Sue and Her Siblings
BYMARYPRUITT
I grew up in a small town with thirty-five
Greek families. Some of these families
were from Greece; others, like my own, had
one parent from Greece and the other a
Greek-American. Most of the families owned
restaurants scattered throughout the valley.
Even though it would be years before
a Greek church would be established, the
community was very close. Most were mem-
bers of the AHEPA family. The Daughters
of Penelope chapter eventually purchased
a small Methodist church, hired a retired
Greek priest from New Jersey and estab-
lished a Greek Orthodox community. Prior
to that, my family was one of the few who
attended the Syrian Orthodox Church,
which was only three blocks from our house.
The Syrian priest lived on our street. So it
was no surprise that when the retired Greek
priest and his wife moved to our community,
they lived in an apartment in our home.
Even before there was a Greek church,
Greek traditions were observed. For exam-
ple, my family hosted an open house on New
Year’s because my brother’s name was Basil.
We celebrated both my dad’s (in May) and
mynameday(inAugust)aswell.Ilovedhav-
ing two “birthdays” a year: receiving gifts on
mynamedayandthedayIarrivedonearth.
Itaughtmynon-Greekhusbandtocontinue
that tradition for many years. Growing up
Greek was mostly fun: dancing, traditional-
music and family house parties. And of
course, not so much fun was Greek school on
Saturdays. My teacher was a teenager from
one of the other Greek families. Her parents
were both from Greece and maybe Peggy had
beenborn there too. Itwas not theGreek
school teacher but a slightly older Greek girl
who haunted my dreams.
I cannot remember which sister was
named Sue. But their story was a tragic one.
The younger one was my sister’s age, and
they were both in junior high. The older
sister was in high school. She was beautiful—
tall, thin, with a perfect face, glistening eyes
and soft flowing hair. She bordered on our
town image of a Greek goddess. Her father
was very strict, but her mother allowed her
to go to school events behind his back. The
family lived in an apartment above their res-
taurant, which was a coffee shop open for
breakfast and lunch. Rumor had it that one
night the daughter was meeting a boyfriend
to go to a game. She and her mother, holding
her very young brother, were in the restau-
rant waiting for the daughter’s date.
Suddenly the father appeared with a gun,
shouting that he suspected the daughter was
going out behind his back. He was going to
kill her. The gun went off. The mother with
the young baby in her arms stepped in front
CREATIVE NON-FICTION
134 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
of her daughter. The single bullet that killed
the mother did not harm the baby but devas-
tated the teenage daughter. The father went
to prison for life. The members of the Greek
community helped run the restaurant until
it could be sold and the proceeds went to the
children. The older sister managed to gradu-
ate from high school and find a job. She
moved with her sister and baby brother to
anapartmentnearwheresheworked.Itwas
far from the Greek community. She became
the mother and father to her two siblings.
She soon married, maybe to her high school
boyfriend, and put everyone through college.
We didn’t see much of them as no one had a
car. Occasionally, my sister would see Sue
at non-Greek events and report how they
hugged and said they missed seeing each
other.WhenIwasinhighschool,Ireadin
the paper and saw that their father lost his
parole appeal because the children testified
thattheystillfearedfortheirlives.Iamsure
he must be dead and forgotten by now, but
Isuspectthemotherwhosacrificedherlife
for her daughter is not. Nor in my mind is
the daughter who saved herself and her sib-
lings from further harm. �
1352 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
An Extraordinary Man and Friend
Yanni Posnakoff
BYSTEPHANIEQUINN
Let me tell you now about this extraordi-
nary man and friend, and how our lives
intertwined.
Itwas1986,abriskautumneveningin
NewYorkCity.AllIknewforsurewasthat
it was time for me to take my gifts, and be
ofserviceusingmusicforworldpeace.Ihad
workshop ideas, which had come to me in
dreams, dreams that also included instruc-
tions on who to contact each day. Each new
person led me to another, and another and
thequestbecameclear.IwasgoingtoIsrael.
Why? Jerusalem was the logical place to test
this new modality, using music and tones to
bring people in conflict to deep understand-
ing of each other. My friends arranged many
‘rehearsals’ and invited the public to each one.
They were held on Sunday evenings, and
publicizedas‘SongCircles.’AfterIfinished
a Song Circles demonstration at a church in
NewYorkCity,Iattendedaparty.WhileI
waschattingwithIsraeliartistCarmelaTal
Baron,InoticedamandressedasaBalinese
dancer. His tunic top and loose pants were
white, and wrapped around his hips was a
brilliant turquoise and violet long wrap, with
sparkling tassels, and woven with glittery
threads. He made his way through the crowd,
with his arms circling and turning himself
around like a peacock, and landing in front
of me. His face was radiant and his eyes spar-
kling. We were introduced, and he told me
Ilookedlikeayoungversionofhisfavorite
actress, Jane Fonda, and immediately started
courting me. Carmela whispered in my ear in
a voice that sounded almost like a warning,
“His name is Yanni Posnakoff.”
Yanni waited until the crowd dissipated,
andasIwasaboutto leave,heinvitedme
for Greek coffee at the Symposium Greek
Restaurant, which was next door to the
Hungarian Pastry Shop. Both of these
landmarks are legendary for Greek warmth
and hospitality and the sort of place one
would find intellectuals, visionaries, and
artists who would linger over Greek coffee,
and talk into the wee hours of the morning.
YannicreatedtheSymposiumin1968and
then in 1975 he partnered with a Hungar-
ian and started the Hungarian Pastry Shop.
Across the street was and is the Cathedral of
St. John the Divine, at Broadway and 111th
Street. As we entered the restaurant, every-
whereIlooked,onthewalls,hangingfrom
the ceilings, painted on light fixtures, above
doorways, were paintings and sculptures of
angels. The faces were amazingly expressive;
Iwasstruckwiththevitalityandstrength
oftheseimages.Ifeltmyselfbecomingone
with each angelwhen I allowed their eyes
topenetratemysoul. Inthebackground,I
heard Yanni. He was born in Thessaloniki,
CREATIVE NON-FICTION
136 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Greece, and moved to Serres, the only child
of a family of Russian ancestry. At age 13,
he lost his mother, and at age 14, he lost his
father, and he was all alone to figure out his
life. Since the age of four, he'd been draw-
ing angels, and believed if he prayed, angels
would help him.
“Angels come in all shapes, sizes, and
colors, and I used to see them as a child.
EvennowIseetheminsomepeople.”hesaid.
“Yanni,Iloveyourpaintings,andIhope
you’ve been published. Have you?”
“Have you ever seen the books, Children's Letters to God?It’sabest-sellerwhichhasbeen translated into seven languages. Or
have you seen, Ask Your Angels or Chil-dren’s Letters To Santa Claus?Ihavemany
drawings and collected quotes from children
and filled the books with their sweet words.”
“Yes, I sawthematRizzoli’s,youknow,
on57thStreet,nearCarnegieHall.Ididn’t
read them.”
“Ithinkyouwouldenjoythem.Didyou
ever want to perform in Carnegie Hall?”
“Ialreadydid,afewyearsago.”
Panagiotis Binioris, Yanni’s business
partner, came to our table and told Yanni
someone was here to see him in the other
room,andaskedifIwouldlikeapastry.He
sat down.
Iinquired,“IjustmetYanni,couldyou
tell me more about him?”
Panagiotis casually replied with his-
genuine Greek accent, “He’s a goot man,
and graduated from dee Advanced School
of Marine Engineers, and he’s been in the
America since 1954 when he won a Full-
bright Scholarship and grant from dee Doris
Duke Foundation and dee beeg Greek ship
owner, Marcos Nomikos. Ah yes, he also
was a student to the U of C, Berkeley for
two years, and theeen grabbed a scholarship
toMIT,wherehegraduatedin1958…asa
naval architect.”
Iwas confused. This descriptionmade
no sense to me. “Are we talking about this
manIjustmet,YanniPosnakoff,theangel
maker?”
“Yes ma’am,” and he quickly departed.
Yanni returned, and sat down.
Angel Card by Yanni Posnakoff.
1372 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Idemandedanexplanation.
“Panagiotis just told me you went to
MIT? To Berkeley?Amarine engineer?A
naval architect? Where did you come from,
another planet?”
“Well maybe. Compared to New York, it
feelslikeanotherplanet.Yousee,Ijustflew
into JFK from Bali.”
That night my dreams were filled with
angelsandchoirmusic.Iawoketothephone
ringing and it was Yanni, inviting me to sup-
per, as he had some people who wanted to
meetmeaboutmyupcomingtriptoIsrael.
We had long discussions about my project to
gotoIsrael.Suddenly,Yanniwasspeakingas
though he were telling me a sacred secret. He
oncemetanIndianmaninSoHo,whoread
his palm, and told him he would have three
important loves in his life that he would never
marry. One of them would be his ‘spiritual
wife.’Itoldhim,“Ifonlyyouwere15,oreven
10yearsyounger,Iwouldmarryyoutomor-
row!” He accepted it. We were both sad, and
we pushed forward and continued working
together on the Jerusalem project.
Yanniwasmosthelpful tomeas Ipre-
pared to go to Jerusalem with my workshops
and help bridge emotional gaps between the
Jews and Palestinians. He had an infinite
amountofenergy,andIdon’tknowwhen
heslept.HedesignedtheflyersIwouldpost,
authored good wording for the invitations,
complete with an angel playing the violin on
each one!
His mind and heart were always so open.
ItrustedhimwiththemysteriousdreamsI
had every night. He helped me understand
the content of them by sharing with me the
spiritual and psychological teachings he
studied. One of the teachers he most admired
was George Ivanovich Gurdjieff, Γεώργιος
Γεωργιάδης,bornintheRussianEmpirein
1866toaGreekfatherandArmenianmother.
YanniandIhadmanydiscussionsaboutthe
varioussituationsImightencounterinIsrael,
andhowImightfacethemprayerfullyand
withrightthinking,howImightbea“peace-
ful warrior” in Jerusalem, and so forth.
Every time I visited his properties, I
noticed on the street many homeless people
begging, since their locations were across
from the largest cathedral in the world.
Whenever Yanni saw them, he handed them
a broom, and suggested they walk up and
down the street, cleaning up the sidewalks in
front of the stores and apartment buildings.
He sometimes moved out of his apartment,
so homeless people could stay for a while
in the winter time. He always fed them, and
gave them a little money, if they were willing
to use the broom. Always ahead of his time,
today there are several movements in New
York City, to provide money and housing to
the homeless by putting them in programs
to keep the sidewalks clean. The Doe Fund
createdthe86thStreetcleanupproject,for
example. The more l learned about Yanni,
the more I understood what a powerful
impact he had on American Culture, spir-
ituality, and of course, the intellectual scene
in New York City.
In 2010, hewas on a film festival tour
with Cybela Clare, director of the movie he
stars in, entitled Bird’s Eye View. We were
able to meet briefly in New York City, where
IwasappointedtoperforminCarnegieHall.
AssoonasIsawhim,Iburstintotearsofjoy.
After several decades in America, he
returnedtoGreece.IremainedinAmerica
and every Valentine ’s Day, Yanni would
call me up on the phone and propose to
me. I adored these calls because theykept
myhopealivethatonedayIwouldmarry
someone closer to my own age who would
offermethehappiness Ienjoyedwithhim.
One day, Imet anotherman fromGreece.
Because my Greek friend Yanni was so good
withmeIgavethisGreekmanachance.We
arenowmarried.IfyougotoGreece,please
stop and visit Yanni Posnakoff! �
138 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
1392 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
On Being Greek in America
Identities
BY DAN GEORGAKAS
Upon arrival in the United States of
America, Greek emigrants immedi-
ately become Greeks in America or American
Greeks. How long that identity remains in
place is a matter of individual psychology.
More often than not, the American Greek,
consciously or unconsciously, continues
to prioritize Greek culture, only accepting
whatever American cultural demands are
deemed necessary for an acceptable lifestyle.
Again, more often than not, this American
Greek identity slowly morphs into a Greek
American identity in which American rather
than Greek culture becomes prioritized. Less
common are those American Greeks who
immediately seek to aggressively embrace
assimilation, which means discarding Greek
culture and Greek identity as quickly and
completely as possible. A fourth option, and
easily the most complex, is that of identify-
ing as simultaneously Greek and American,
a dynamic relationship between the two
cultures without fixed cultural ratios, bound-
aries, or priorities.
Grammatically speaking, the aggressive
assimilation view makes American a noun;
the American Greek view makes Greek a
noun and American an adjective; the Greek
American view makes American a noun and
Greek an adjective; and the Greek and Amer-
ican view makes both Greek and American
nouns. Although one or another of these
identities may dominate any given period
or place, all are always present and all are
constantly evolving to meet changing social
realities. Each time period also contains sig-
nificant variables. The two most important
are differences between recently arrived
immigrants and established immigrants and
the differences between the American-born
and their immigrant forbearers. The four
categories just outlined are not necessarily
consciously evoked by even the majority of
the Greeks in America, but, as will be dem-
onstrated, they are the identities evident in
community and individual behavior. These
differences regarding ethnic self-identity are
more than historical categorizations; they
profoundly shape the nature and fate of the
Greeks of America.
The Assimilationists
Community publications and Greek Ameri-
canists rarely deal at length with the
aggressive assimilationists for the obvious
reason that by definition, the assimilation-
ists have left the community. Consequently,
if one’s focus is on Greeks in America, the
assimilationists no longer exist. Nonetheless,
we certainly want to know how numerous
these aggressive assimilationists may be. Do
ACADEMIA & SCHOLARSHIP
140 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
they come from a particular region? Are
their numbers significantly greater or lesser
in any given time period? Are they more or
less numerous than their counterparts in
other immigrant groups? This is an area that
might be of more scholarly interest to stu-
dents of the global Greek diaspora than to
scholars more involved with emigrants who
sought to retain their Greek identity to one
or another degree.
Aggressive assimilation primarily per-
tains to the immigrant generation. The
American-born Greeks who opt for Ameri-
can culture are simply embracing the culture
intowhich theyarebornandschooled. In
that sense, they are best thought of as pas-
sive rather than aggressive assimilationists.
That said, there are a considerable number
of the American-born who consciously
reject Greek culture with some vehemence,
rather than simply seeing it as irrelevant.
The most dramatic choices to reject Greek
culture are often found in accounts written
by Greek women rebelling against tradi-
tional households.1
Onemightimaginethatinthepre-1880
period, when there were so few Greeks in
America that the number of aggressive
assimilationists would be high. This is not
thecase.Inmanycases,beingdistinctively
Greek during a period when Classic Greek
culture was revered was advantageous.
Thepre-1880periodwasalsoatimewhen
a small number of elite families remained
decidedly Greeks in America with mean-
ingful family and financial networks tied to
Alexandria, Smyrna, and Constantinople as
well as Greece proper.2
The exact opposite of the aggressive
assimilationists are the rejectionists, those
1 A collection of such experiences is found in Constance Callinicos, American Aphrodite: Becoming Female in Greek America (NY: Pella Publishing, 1990).2 Accounts of such connections are featured in Michael Contopoulos, The Greek Community of New York City: Early Years to 1910 (New Rochelle, NY: Aristide D. Zaratzas, 1992). Includes an informative foreword by Constantine G.Hatzidimitriou.
emigrants who opt to return to their home-
land rather than stay in America. Their
motives can be any combination of dis-
satisfaction with American culture and
longing for the homeland culture. These
may be thought of as failed or disillusioned
birds of passage. Also not to be overlooked
is that some may, in fact, have simply filled
their objective of earning enough money
to finance a better life in Greece.3 Making
a count of such persons is difficult. Due to
the way records were kept, the same person,
going back and forth, might be counted more
than once. There is the additional problem
that many emigrants who considered them-
selves to be Greek carried passports from
various Black Sea and Eastern Mediter-
ranean governments. U.S. Department of
Labor statistics indicate 198,000 persons
self-identified as Greek departed from the
U.S.intheperiod1908-1931.4Immigration
statistics in that same time period referring
only to immigrants from Greece proper
show some 400,000 immigrants. Thus, the
number of returnees could be as low as 25%
or as high as 50%. Even the lower number
would make the return rate of Greeks among
the highest of European emigrants.
The American Greeks
IncontrasttothepositivereceptionGreeks
had enjoyed in post-revolutionary America,
the time known as the Greek Fever, the
Greeks of the massive migration between
1880-1924weretreatedwithsuspicionand
hostility. As Greek communities formed,
strategies for dealing with this hostility
merged with ideas of how best to survive as
a Greek community in America. One option
was to remain American Greeks, Greeks
who happened to reside in America. This
3 A pioneering study of returnees was written by Theodore Saloutos, They Remember America (Berkeley: University of California, Press, 1956).4 Cited by Saloutos, They Remember America, p.31.
1412 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
view in its various nuances dominated the
early period of mass migration and for dec-
ades afterwards. Considerable evidence for
this sense of identity is found by examining
the Greek press, Greek Orthodox Church
culture, Greek cultural organizations, and
Greek intellectual life in America.
The two major Greek-language dailies,
Atlantis (1894-1973) and Ethnikos Kyrix
(National Herald, 1915-present), published
articles regarding life in America, but their
major focus was on events in the homeland.
Rather than reporting on the Republican
and Democratic parties, Atlantis was a
voice for Greek monarchists and Ethnikos Kyrix a voice for Greek republicans. Even
the left wing press was written almost
exclusively in Greek, which isolated its
pages from American-born Greeks who
had not mastered their parent’s language.
Dozens of other newspapers functioned
during this period, almost all pretty much
following in the mode of Atlantis and
Ethnikos Kyrix.
The Greek Orthodox Church in America
was another citadel of the American Greek
orientation in the first forty years of the
twentieth century. One of its primary
thrusts was stern disapproval of marriage
with non-Greeks. Nor was the Church
particularly welcoming to converts. Its
principle social outreach was to promote
and support Greek language schools. Federal
agencies would note with some alarm that
when priests spoke of the motherland and
the mother tongue, they meant Greece and
Greek, not the United States and English.5
That view apparently was shared by some
ten thousand Greek men in America who
returned to Greece to fight in the Balkan
Wars. Many fewer volunteered for service
5 Constantine Yavis, Report on the Greek-American Community, Department of Justice, April 21, 1944. Reprinted in Journal of the Hellenic DiasporaV.XIV,No.1&2(Spring-Summer1987),p.114containsalistofattitudesaboutidentitypromoted by the Greek Orthodox Church.
in theAmericanmilitary inWorldWar I.
This American Greek identity was not
ideologically defined. During the Spanish
Civil War, Greek volunteers from America
usually fought in brigades with other Greeks
rather than with the American volunteers
mainly concentrated in the Abraham
Lincoln Brigade.6
The Greek American Progressive Asso-
ciation (GAPA), founded in 1923, used
Greek as its organizational language and
was launched as a rival to the American Hel-
lenic Educational Progressive Association
(AHEPA) whose organizational language
was English. GAPA’s major priority was
to support Greek language schools and
generally promote Greek language culture.
ThroughtoWorldWarII,GAPAremained
a viable organization that was sometimes
stronger in specific geographic regions than
the more successful AHEPA. The lodges of
themuchsmallerleftistInternationalWork-
ers Order, an ideological rival of GAPA and
AHEPA, was also organized on an ethnic
rather than a class basis.
The clearest artistic expression of Ameri-
can Greek identity was in music. The very
popular nightclubs that sprang up in New
York City in the 1920s were built around
individual singers such as Marika Papagika.
Her repertoire and that of other singers were
not limited to Greek, but included songs
or passages sung in Turkish, Ladino, and
Armenian. The predominantly male audi-
ences for the cafés were not just Greeks but
immigrants from various parts of the Near
East and the Balkans, making the ambiance
of these cafés multicultural. The nightclubs
would remain viable through to World
War II, and remnants of thatworldwould
hang on until the 1970s.7
6 Stefanos Tsirmakis, Lefteris Tsirmakis, No Pasaran (Athens: SlynchorniEpochi,1987).7 Steve Frangos, “Marika Papagika and the Transformations in Modern Greek Music” in Spyros D. Orfanos (ed.), Reading Greek America (NY: Pella Publishing, 2002), pp. 223-2439.
142 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
The major writer in the American Greek
tradition was Theano Papazoglou-Marga-
ris. Although active in theater and politics,
she became famed for her short stories and
columns in Ethnikos Kyrix. Her work won
international recognition in the Greek-
language world and her To Chroniko tou Halsted Street (The Chronicle of Halsted
Street) won the 1963 Greek state prize for
literature, making her the first writer living
outside of Greece to be so honored. Another
writer who made an international impact
was Maria Economidou, who wrote The Greeks in America as I Saw Them (1916).
Unlike contemporary American muckrak-
ing journalists, Economidou’s expose was
not aimed at swaying American public opin-
ion, but at mobilizing the Greek elites and
the Greek government.
Taking a different road was Demetra
Vaka Brown, who authored fifteen books,
most of which were written in English.8
Vaka Brown became the Greek writer best
known to the general American public, but
her focus was life in the Ottoman Empire,
not life in the United States. One of her most
widely read books, Haremlik, for example,
has as its subtitle: Some Pages from the Life of Turkish Women.9
Nicos Calas, a literary figure of interna-
tional renown, lived in the United States for
many years, but continued to write his surre-
alist poetry in Greek. Less well-known poets
such as George Coutoumanos and Takis
Tzortzis also published in Greek. Regina
Pagoulatou carried on this tradition of pub-
lishing in Greek to the end of the twentieth
century. Many of her chapbooks, however,
appeared in bilingual formats, and her Exile,
8YiorgosKalogerasdiscussestheauthorshipissueinhisintro-duction to a new edition of Demetra Vaka Brown, Haremlik: Some Pages from the Life of Turkish Women (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2004).9 A consideration of Brown’s sense of identity and how she was perceived by the American public is found in Eleftheria Arapoglou, “Vaka Brown: The Historicized Geography/Geographic History of an Immigrant,” Journal of Modern Hellenism,N.21/22(Winter2004-2005),pp.82-103.
A Chronicle, 1948-1958, an account of her
years in a post-Greek civil war concentra-
tion camp, appeared in English.10
Greek language theater was largely con-
fined to semi-professional companies that
performed irregularly and often collapsed
after a few years. The only known profes-
sional company to perform regularly was
the Lemos Theater, founded by Adamantios
Lemos in Athens in 1944. The troupe gave
its first American performance in 1956,
and for the next ten years used New York
City as a base as it traveled a circuit from
Chicago to Boston. Although it mainly
played in church auditoriums, small play-
houses, college venues, and ethic centers,
the Lemos Theater also staged plays at New
York’sCarnegieHall,theFashionInstitute
of Technology, the Barbizon Plaza Theater,
and the Broadway Theater on 42nd Street.
The theater collapsed in 1967 with the
advent of the junta in Greece and has had
no successor. 11
The most extreme form of the American
Greek identity involved Greeks who vaguely
imagined they could emulate the Greeks of
Egypt, who had retained cultural autonomy
for nearly two hundred years. Egyptian
Greeks lived in Greek neighborhoods, were
educated in Greek language schools, and
enjoyed a measure of self-government.
Many Egyptian Greeks never learned to
speak much Arabic and their contact with
Egyptians was often limited to matters
10 Regina Pagoulatou, Exile: A Chronicle – 1948-1950 (New York: Pella Publishing Company, 1999) with a translation by Theony Condos. Pella published most of Pagoulatou’s poetry books as well. Characteristic of these bilingual editions was Regina Pagoulatou, The Angels (New York; Pella Publishing Company,1988).TranslationbyApostolosAthanasakiswithcollages by Yanni Posnakoff.11 For a history of the theater see Athena G. Dallas, “First First Legitimate Greek Theater in America published in the Twentieth Anniversary catalog of the Lemos Greek Repertory Theater, 1944-194 published by the Lemos Theater. This booklet contains some fifty pages of information about the theater and will be deposited in the U of Michigan archives in the near future. Since the demise of the Lemos Theater, there have been a number of short-lived efforts to the present Greek plays in translation, and in the Astoria section of Queens, New York, they have been semi-professional companies in the post-junta era who perform in Greek.
1432 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
of commerce. This situation was possible
largely due to the colonial status of Egypt.
Similar autonomy in America would have
been far more difficult, if not impossible.
Nor would it have been much easier to be
part of a cosmopolitan multi-ethnic culture
such as that which thrived in Smyrna.
With the passing of the years, keeping
Greek as the basic identity with American
as a modifier became increasingly difficult,
particularly as the majority of the commu-
nity became American born. Nonetheless,
even in the twenty-first century, there would
be isolated neighborhoods or individuals
who remained American Greeks. Poetry,
fiction, and memoirs written by Greeks
in America invariably speak of a relative
or neighborhood elder who had lived in
America for decades and had never learned
to communicate in English or function out-
side of ethnic society. Whether scorned or
admired, such persons are always cited as
exceptions to the dominant culture of the
Greek community.
The Greek Americans
Given that American society offers no viable
means of success except through assimilation
of one kind or another, the transformation of
American Greek identity to Greek American
identity was all but inevitable. That trend
grew stronger with the end of mass immi-
gration in 1924, was strengthened by the
courtship and protection of the foreign-born
by the New Deal of the 1940s, and was domi-
nantbythepost-WorldWarIIera.Capping
this process was the education of American-
born Greeks in the public school system and
anoutmarriageratethatrosetoatleast80%.
Emblematic of the organizational shift
in national identity was the steady growth
of AHEPA, which was launched in 1922 pri-
marily in response to harassment of Greeks
by racist organizations such as the Ku Klux
Klan. One of AHEPA’s goals was to facili-
tate Greek entry into mainstream America,
which meant familiarizing Greeks with
the laws and culture of the United States.
Another priority of AHEPA, from its incep-
tion, was to identify the Greeks in America
as heirs of the Classic Age of Greece rather
than as Ottomanized quasi-Europeans
or even as descendants of the Byzantine
Empire. Although challenged throughout
the 1920s and 1930s by GAPA and other
groups, AHEPA grew steadily in member-
ship and influence. By the end of the 1950s,
AHEPA was the premier secular organi-
zation of the community, a position it has
retained to the present time.
A measure of how Greek identity had
waned even in the first fifty years of mass
immigration is that in 1907, when the total
number of immigrants from Greece proper
in the preceding two decades totalled a
bit over 180,000, the Pan-Hellenic Union,
the largest lay organization of its day, had
a membership of 20,000 in 150 chapters.
More than thirty years later, in 1939, when
the total number of immigrants from Greece
proper was approximately 426,900, AHEPA
had 25,000 active members in 365 chapters.12
12 James Nestor, “The Greek Church in America” (Evanston, IL: PhD Dissertation, 1940) published in Paul G. Manolis,The History of the Greek Church of America: In Acts and Documents (Berkeley, CA: Ambelos Press/Livani Publishing, 2003),V.III,pp.2353.
“Given that American society offers no viable means of success except through assimilation of one kind or another, the trans-formation of American Greek identity to Greek American identity was all but inevitable.”
144 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
At the conclusion of World War II,
AHEPA politically identified with the
aims ofAmerican foreign policy. In prac-
tical terms, this meant taking a strong
anti-Communist position during the civil
war in Greece. This included support for the
military interventionist policies of Harry
Truman during the war and the Marshall
Plan afterwards. During the 1950s, AHEPA
did not question the harassment of Greek
American leftists during the McCarthy era,
and it remained relatively silent about the
murderous conditions in the concentration
camps the monarchists in Greece oper-
ated following the civil war. Later, AHEPA
would give de facto support to the junta of
1967-1974 during its earliest days, when
the dictatorship enjoyed open support by
American politicians such as Vice-President
Spiro Agnew. This is not to suggest that
AHEPA was an ideologically conservative
organization in all its efforts, but sim-
ply that in regard to foreign affairs, from
the 1940s-1960s, it was an uncritical sup-
porter of American policy in the Eastern
Mediterranean.
AHEPA became more politically agile
in foreign policy matters following the
Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974, which
was set off by the attempted coup against
Archbishop Makarios by Greek junta lead-
ers in Athens. AHEPA now often criticized
American policies regarding Cyprus. It
also challenged America’s tepid support
of Greece in the FYROM (Former Yugo-
slavian Republic of Macedonia) name
controversy, America’s ardent support of
Turkey, and American positions regarding
other problems in the Eastern Mediterra-
nean.Inallcases,however,AHEPAacted
as an American organization wishing to
correct errors in American foreign policy
and not as an American megaphone for
policies dictated by Athens or Nicosia.
AHEPA publishes the voting records of
American politicians on Greek and Cypriot
issues, but it does not publish rankings or
positions of politicians in Greece. AHEPA
often works closely with the American
Hellenic Institute, whose mandate is to
influence American foreign policy by lobby-
ing politicians in Washington and educating
shapers of policy such as scholars, Congres-
sional aides, and journalists.
Speaking at the Clergy-Laity Conference
of 2008, Archbishop Demetrios, present
primate of the Greek Orthodox Church
in America, declared the Church was no
longer an immigrant institution. With that
statement he signaled that a strictly Greek-
cultured Church was a thing of the past. The
Church now sponsored proselytizing cam-
paigns in Africa, fostered Hellenization of
non-Greek spouses, and welcomed converts,
including clergy. The Archbishop’s state-
ment was not an abrupt change of heart, but
a result of an evolution in Church thinking
that had been developing for some forty
years.ArchbishopAthenagoras(1941-1948),
ArchbishopMicheal(1949-1958),andArch-
bishopIakovos(1959-1996)hadallworked
to Americanize the Church. The most obvi-
ous change was to accept the given that
outmarriage was unavoidable, it was wiser
to see the non-Greek spouse was an addition
to the Church rather than seeing the Greek
spouse as a loss. As the twentieth century
ended, it was not uncommon for Hellenized
spouses to hold prominent Church offices
and for converted clergy to be in charge of
a parish.
Through to end of the 1930s, Greek
Orthodox priests in America were still
exclusively imported from Greece and Greek-
speaking diaspora communities. The Church
recognized that many of these priests did not
have a comfortable relationship with their
parishioners.Italsorecognizedthataviable
Church in the United States must produce
its own priests. These concerns were laid out
1452 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
in a statement in 1934 regarding the found-
ing of a seminary in America.13 Change
came slowly and minimally. The first class
of fourteen American-trained priests would
not graduate until 1939. The lack of clergy,
particularly American-born clergy, has
remained a constant concern. In the first
decades of the twenty-first century, there
were not enough priests, even with con-
verts, to regularly service the Church’s five
hundred parishes. Moreover, numerous
parishioners complained that their priests
often either did not speak Greek or did not
speak Greek fluently.14
Individual parishes often sponsored
activities such as organized athletics, youth
clubs, retiree groups, and cultural socie-
ties in a manner more like Protestant and
Catholic parishes in the United States rather
than Orthodox parishes in Greece or Cyprus.
American prelates never attend partisan
gatherings in Greece but are often guests at
the Republican and Democratic presidential
conventions. The Church also became active
in ecumenical organizations such as the
World Council of Churches and the National
Council of Christians and Jews. Archbishop
Iakovoswasparticularlyvisibleinsuchout-
reach efforts and was featured on the cover
of Life when he marched with Dr. Martin
Luther King, Jr. in Selma, Alabama. In
addition to reaching out to non-Orthodox
Christians,Iakovossoughttofindameans
to coordinate all Orthodox entities in the
United States, and raised the possibility
of moving the Ecumenical Patriarchate to
Washington, D.C.
Although Ethnikos Kyrix continues to
publish daily in Greek, its publisher read-
ily acknowledges that most American-born
13 A full discussion of this issue is found in James Nestor, The Greek Church in America, pp. 2342-2351.14 The Future of the Greek Language and Culture in the United States: Survival in the Diaspora, a report from the Archbishop’s Commission on Greek language and Hellenic Culture deliver to Archbishop Spyridon, Primate of the Greek Orthodox Church in America, May 27, 1999, published by the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America, p.1.
Greeks are illiterate in Greek. Seeking to
meet their needs, Ethnikos Kyrix launched an
English-language weekly titled the National Herald in 1986.TheNational Herald and
other weeklies continued to report on events
in Greece, but the majority of their pages
weregiventonewsofGreekAmerica.Inthe
1970s, Ethnikos Kyrix also published Greek Accent, a slick-paper popular monthly. After
that journal’s demise, its cultural space was
filled by the still-publishing independent
Odyssey. Populist journals of various kinds
continued to appear throughout the first
decades of the twenty-first century. These
include Greek Circle, Ethos, and the Greek American Review. The predecessor of these
English-language publications was Athene: American Magazine of Hellenic Thought (1940-1967) which offered a blend of history,
literature, and social commentary.
A landmark intellectual event of the
later twentieth century was the creation in
1974 of the Modern Greek Studies Associa-
tion (MGSA), an organization primarily of
North American-based scholars who took
modern Greece as their scholarly focus.
Although research by the MGSA was mainly
on modern Greece and the modern diaspora,
the organizational language was English as
was the language of its biannual symposi-
ums and its major publication, the Journal of Modern Greek Studies. English is also
the language of the other academic Greek-
oriented journals that continue to publish:
the Journal of the Hellenic Diaspora, the
Journal of Modern Hellenism, and the
Charioteer. American publication of books
in Greek has virtually ceased with the excep-
tion of instructional texts, dictionaries, and
some poetry collections. The later often have
facing-page English translations. The last
major academic work in the United States
published in Greek was Ellines tis Amerikis: 1528-1948 written by Bobi Malaforis.15
15(NewYork:IsaacGoldmanprinter,1948).
146 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Artistic expression by Greeks of the
United Sates became overwhelmingly rooted
in American culture in the final five dec-
ades of the twentieth century. Numerous
Greeks became associated with the best in
American art; Elia Kazan and Maria Callas
immediately come tomind. In the literary
world, Harry Mark Petrakis wrote passion-
ately about Greeks in America. Some of
his novels became best-sellers, some of his
stories were adapted for television, and one
of his novels became the basis for a Holly-
wood film. Similar success was enjoyed by
Nick Gage with his Eleni, which became an
international best-seller and was adapted for
film. Olga Broumas won the Yale Younger
Poets Award (1977), the first non-native
speaker to be so honored, and Jeffrey Eugen-
ides won a Pulitzer Prize for his Middlesex
(2002). George Pelecanos emerged as one of
the nation’s top mystery writers, and Helen
Papanikolas became known for her sharply
edged fiction. At a popular entertainment
level, Telly Savalas became a television icon
with his creation of Kojak, a highly sophis-
ticated and appealing Greek police detective
in charge of an important police unit in New
York City. John Aniston became a fixture on
daytime soap opera, and his daughter Jen-
nifer Aniston starred in one of television’s
most successful night-time comedies. John
Cassavetes and Gregory Markopoulos would
be idolized by the avant-garde film world
while My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002),
written by and starring Nia Vardalos with
Rita Wilson, another Greek American,
as producer, would become the highest
grossing, low-budget Hollywood film in
American film history. The list could go on
for pages. What is unassailable is that Greeks
in America interested in the arts did not aim
their work at Greek Americans but at the
general public. They most certainly were not
American Greeks, and many were less Greek
Americans than Americans of Greek descent.
The impact of the Second Wave of mass
immigration (1965-1980) on the trend to
Greek American identity has not been sys-
tematically studied, but that impact appears
to have been fleeting. Unlike the immigrants
of the Great Migration, the Second Wave
immigrants, who numbered approximately
200,000, tended to have a much better for-
mal education than their predecessors and
came from urban culture. They also often
had the help of relatives already resident in
the United States, and the United States,
rather than regarding them as undesirables,
as had been the case at the turn of the cen-
tury, now considered Greeks to be model
immigrants.
Financial well-being came far more
quickly for the Second Wave immigrants
than it had for Greek immigrants in ear-
lier periods. The annual listing of the fifty
wealthiest Greeks in America, published by
the National Herald, for example, shows
that 20% of that group are Second Wave
immigrants and another 5% are post-World
WarIIimmigrants.16 At the cultural level, a
highly disproportionate percent of the fac-
ulty in the Modern Greek Studies programs
are Second Wave immigrants. Second wave
immigrants have also been successful at
the Main Street level of commerce. On the
Atlantic coast, many of them became pro-
prietors of pizzerias and donut shops. Their
advent also marked the entry of the gyro as
a new staple in America’s fast food menu.
Another strong indicator of success is that
the U.S. Census of 2000 indicated that the
Greek community in America as a category
was one of the most affluent and highly
educated ethnic communities in the United
States, and that it was decidedly more like
than unlike other Americans.17
16 Special supplement of the National Herald (March 2, 2013) has biographies of these individuals and their net worth.17 Anna Karparthakis, Dan Georgakas, “Demythologizing Greek American Families,” Journal of the Hellenic Diaspora V.36,N.1&2(doubleissue2010),pp.45-61.
1472 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Second wave immigration, of course,
brought new energy into ethnic organiza-
tions and increased the use of the Greek
language in America. One example of lan-
guage revival was the creation of Proini (Morning, 1976-1990), a new Greek lan-
guage daily published by a Second Wave
immigrant from Cyprus. The new paper
took a center-left editorial stance while
Ethnikos Kyrix, following the demise of
Atlantis,becamemorecenter-right.In1986,
Proini also began to publish the GreekAmer-ican, an English-language weekly whose
very title had no space or hyphen between
the two capitalized national identities. The
GreekAmerican received considerable sup-
port for its non-traditional way of looking
at Greece and Greek America. Among the
topics it addressed were Greek Jews, Vlachs,
homosexuality, feminism, and other sub-
jects not covered by other newspapers.
The new wave of Greek speakers some-
times created rifts in Greek Orthodox
parishes. The American-born had increas-
ingly been asking for more English or
English-only in Church services, and many
advocated a union of some kind with other
Orthodox bodies in America. The newcom-
ers were strongly inclined to want to retain
the Church as they had known it in Greece or
Cyprus. They wanted more, not less, Greek,
and felt closer union with other Orthodox
groups would likely result in a dilution of
their Greekness. In New York, the largest
Greek center, the tensions slowly abated, but
in Chicago and elsewhere, the tensions per-
sisted for a considerable period of time. The
New York pattern generally has proved to be
more common than that in Chicago.
A startling example of the language
rift occurred when a Chicago public school
proposed including Greek in its bilingual
curriculum. The established Greek Ameri-
cans vigorously opposed the proposal
on the grounds that it would hamper the
Americanization of the Second Wave Greek
immigrant children and would stigmatize
Greeks as having the same cultural assimi-
lation problems as the children of recently
arrived Spanish-language immigrants. In
contrast, the Second Wave parents sup-
ported the program as a means of retaining
Greek sensibility for their children while
simultaneously helping them adjust to a new
culture. The Second Wave immigrants did
not necessarily identify as American Greeks,
but the established community clearly pri-
oritized rapid Americanization for them,
even though the proposed program would
have strengthened the Greek identity of their
children.18
Some thirty years later, the views of
most Greek Americans on this topic had
altered. Having realized that Greek was
a dying language in America, most Greek
Americans had become advocates for charter
public schools with Greek language com-
ponents, the study-in-Greece programs of
various durations, and other initiatives that
would cultivate a sense of Greekness and
develop Greek language skills in their chil-
dren. Americanization had been a de facto
priority in pre-WorldWar II, but keeping
Greek culture alive increasingly became the
top priority as the century came to an end.
Greek and American
The most problematic and less common iden-
tity of Greeks in America involves persons
who considered themselves bicultural or
transnational Greeks. Bicultural identity in
the United States as an acceptable, much less
a desirable self-image is a relatively recent
cultural phenomenon. The traditional Amer-
ican view has been that the United States
should have a monolingual common cul-
ture to which immigrants had to assimilate
18Discussed by Charles Moskos in The Greek Americans (NewBrunswick,NJ:TransactionPress,1989revisededition),pp.83-84.
148 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
as quickly as possible. At its crudest level,
this led to the infamous melting pot meta-
phor and chronic hostility to non-Europeans
and non-Christians. A considerable body of
literature has examined how the concept of
“whiteness” played into what was and was not
acceptable in mainstream culture. Yiorgos
Anagnostou has made an extensive study of
how this analysis might apply to Greeks in
America.19 Nevertheless, in the wake of the
civil rights movement, the changing global
economic order, and mass immigration from
Spanish-speaking nations, the traditional
American cultural givens had significantly
weakened by the onset of the twenty-first
century. Being Greek and American could
conceivably have a place in an America com-
fortable with biculturalism.
Also affecting Greek identity in Amer-
ica were cultural changes in Greece. For the
first time since the founding of the modern
state, Greece had become a destination
for immigrants. As of the second decade
of the new century, immigrants made up
more than 10% of the total population.
Many of the immigrants only used Greece
as an entry point to Europe, but a con-
siderable number, particularly those from
neighboring Balkan states, considered their
relocation as permanent and educated
their children in the Greek public school
system. Thus, an Albanian immigrant can
becometheparentofaculturalGreek.Ina
related phenomenon, many young Greeks
have gone to study, work, live, and marry
in other EU nations. They are still citizens
of Greece and identify themselves as Hel-
lenes. Whether they eventually return to
Greece or not, whether they outmarry or
not, and how their children will culturally
indentify is unknown. A related develop-
ment is that the skepticism of homeland
Greeks regarding the degree of Greekness
19 Yiorgos Anagnostou, Contours of White Ethnicity: Popular Ethnography and the Making of Usable Pasts in Greek America (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2009).
of those in the diaspora has waned to some
degree. An American-born Greek has
been elected Prime Minister and another
American-born has been elected mayor
of Athens, electoral outcomes that would
have been as impossible in the Greece of
the 1950s as an African American being
elected president of the United States. This
complex of new social realities suggest that
to be Greek in the twenty-first century will
likely have much less to do with genetics
and geography than culture in the broad-
est sense
The most common expression of Greek
bicultural identity in the United States
has been the attempt to combine the most
attractive features of Greek culture with
the most attractive features of American
culture. In actuality, however, such an
embrace often means finding some Greek
root for an American practice. A number
of writers have advanced a more complex
view. An example of such thinking is Dean
Kostos’ introduction to his anthology fea-
turing the work of more than fifty Greek
American poets:
Although it may no longer be fashion-able to use it, I am interested in the hyphen that traditionally linked Greek and American because of its value as a metaphor—a bridge between two worlds, two identities. Do we traverse this hyphen leading us to divide our time like Peresphone, between two worlds? Are we Greeks in America and Americans in Greece? Instead of the either/or, perhaps another option exists, the hybrid identity ... we have partaken of both cultures, and have grown roots in both terrains. These roots have entwined with the words we write.20
20 Dean Kostos, (ed.), Pomergrante Seeds: An Anthology of Greek-American Poetry (Boston:SomersetHallPress,2008),pp.17-18.
1492 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Entwined cultural roots are a feature of
many of the poems in the anthology Kostos
edited. A similar view was voiced by Yiorgos
Anagnostou in his review of The Journey: The Greek American Dream, a documentary
filmbyMaria Iliou, “theGreekAmerican
journey toward inhabiting two worlds—the
dream of inhabiting the hyphen—ultimately
inspires awe and wonder.”21 Biculturalism
may also be defined as bypassing or negat-
ing the spaces between the two cultures
and embracing each as a totality. The goal
is not balance but a symbiotic dynamic.
Thus, which culture is dominant in any
given moment or how this cultural coexist-
ence functions in daily life remains highly
individualistic, as does the relative weight of
each culture.
Bicultural identity is often evident in
academics and intellectuals whose work
directly involves Hellenic issues. Scholars
in Modern Greek Studies programs may use
English when teaching, at professional gath-
erings, and in journals, but their scholarship
requires an intimate relationship with Greek
language sources and venues. That a consid-
erable percentage of Modern Greek Studies
scholars in America were reared and edu-
cated in Greece makes them intimate with
both cultures on a very personal and funda-
mental level.
Not all American artists with Greek her-
itage identify with Hellenic culture or have
Greek language skills, but bicultural artists
are not rare. Elia Kazan, for one, is a figure
at once almost quintessentially American
yet with a fundamental Greek sensibility he
called the Anatolian smile. Maria Callas is
another example of a meshing of Ameri-
can and Greek culture, even if the Greek
aspects are mainly evident in her personal
life rather than in her art. A less ambigu-
ous example of a bicultural artist is dancer/
21 Yiorgos Anagnoustou, “The Journey: The Greek American Dream,” a film review in the Journal Of Modern Greek Studies Volume 27, N. 2 (October 2009), p. 455.
choreographer Athan Karras, who became
famed internationally for his mastery of tra-
ditional Greek folk dance. Karras danced in
Broadway musicals, directed an important
dance studio for Hollywood stars in Los
Angeles, established various dance societies,
and trained dancers at American universi-
ties, but he was also a star dancer in Dora
Stratou’s legendary National Dance Ensem-
ble, which championed Greek folk dancing
in Greece itself. Karras also assisted Stratou
in locating authentic regional costumes and
steps. Filmmaker Valerie Kontakos is not as
famed as Kazan, Callas, and Karras but she
is indicative of a later generation of Ameri-
cans at home with both Greek and American
culture. Her first film was in English made
in the United States about Greek American
visual artists. Her second film about baseball
in Greece has a soundtrack mainly in Greek,
but has obvious interest to Americans. She
continues to work with the same sensibility.
The point here is not to establish a roll call of
artists who might be classified as bicultural,
but to indicate the kind of activities such
artists undertake.22
Another pathway to biculturalism
involves individuals and families who retain
close ties to their native region in Greece or
Cyprus. Greeks are famed for their tendency
to form topika somateia (societies based
on regional and even civic origin). Many of
them are informal but the plethora of such
organizations indicates a desire of many
22 One could also speak of a related phenomenon in Greece. Maria Iliou’s feature film Alexandria has Greek dialogue. Her documentary The Journey: The Greek American Dream is a study of Greek Americans that is primarily in English although debuted in Greece at the Benaki Museum. Her second documentary Smyrna: The Destruction of a Cosmopolitan City was made with Greek funding and had a massive release in popular cinemas but is primarily in English. Alexander Kitroeff, a Greek American, was the historical consultant for both films. Other films of this kind would include Buzz, a film made for Greek national television by Spiro Taravaris about A.I.Bezzerides,afamousHollywoodscriptwriterofArmenianand Greek heritage. Most of the film is in English and Greek Americans served as consultants. Whether this will develop into one of the trends of Greek cinema or is just an anomaly remains to be seen.
150 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Greeks in America to retain an intimate
contact with Greece. Maintaining such ties
with the homeland is more common with
Second Wave immigants and their imme-
diate offspring than in earlier cohorts of
immigrants and their children. Not only is
the Greek origin more recent, but new elec-
tronic technology makes maintaining family
ties far easier than at any time in the past.
The new technology, in fact, is a signifi-
cant factor in making the bicultural option
viable. Greeks can work with Greeks any-
where in the world on joint projects with an
ease and at a cost unimaginable even twenty
yearsago.Inpreviouseras,individualswho
did not live in areas with a large Greek pop-
ulation did not have ready access to current
Greek newspapers, films, radio, television, or
cultural events. Today, even high-level Greek
language instruction tapes are easily acces-
sibleontheInternetandcomputerprograms.
In sum, the advent of the Internet allows
individuals to be as Greek as they wish to be,
whatever their geographic location, whether
their focus is in business, art, family affairs,
or politics. Contact with Greeks anywhere
on the planet is only a fingertip away.
The potential number of Greeks in
America who might be considered bicultural
is not large. Of that group, the vast major-
ity are Second Wave immigrants and their
children. In that sense, an immigrantwho
begins as an American Greek can refuse the
evolution to Greek American by opting for
some form of biculturalism. Depending on
the emotional and cultural environment in
which they were reared, second generation
Greeks whose parents are both Greek might
also find biculturalism appealing, particu-
larly if they have experienced trips to Greece
or Cyprus at a formative time in their life
and/or have studied modern Greek culture
in a university. Second generation Greeks
of mixed ethnic parentage and subsequent
generations of multi-ethnic heritage are
not precluded from identifying as Greek
and American, but the cultural probability
is much lower. Such a choice on their part
would have to be deliberate, a conscious
choice among many alternatives, including
biculturalism that does not have a Greek
component.
Australia, Canada, and other nations
offer governmental support for bicultur-
alism that is largely lacking in the United
States. Consequently, any building of
bicultural institutions has to be a pro-
ject of the Greek community. Although a
number of Greek organizations have ener-
getically sponsored study abroad programs
in Greece, these efforts have involved very
little follow up and often simply result in
deepening symbolic identity rather than
changing its nature. Enormous amounts of
time, energy, and funding have gone into
efforts to maintain the Greek language in
America, but these efforts have failed to
produce many Greek-speakers in the third
and fourth generations. Unless that pattern
alters, the bicultural option is doomed to
involve only a tiny fragment of the commu-
nity. One can be a phil-Hellene or a Greek
American without direct access to Greek
language sources, but one cannot be bicul-
tural via translation.
Twenty-first Century Prospects
What the course, pace, and nature of bicul-
tural identity in America might be in the
future is unknowable. Even if bicultural-
ism becomes one of the American norms, it
would seem that it has come a few decades
too late for the Greek community. Most of
the foreign-born are deceased or aging; and
their offspring are showing the same assimi-
lation patterns as previous Greek immigrant
generations. Even if an unexpected Third
Wave of mass immigration should take place,
there is little reason to believe its sense of
1512 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
identity would take a course significantly
different than that of the Second Wave. The
Greek community presently lacks a cultural
base for biculturalism, and there are no well-
funded projects designed to create such a
cultural infrastructure.
The pattern of other European immi-
grant groups in America is that once mass
immigration ebbs, successive outmarriage
marginalizes and then eliminates the home-
land culture. The advantages of becoming
mainstream Americans are so overwhelm-
ing that passive assimilation becomes the
fate of both those who seek it and those
who do not. Greek Americans are quick to
proclaim that they are proud to be Greek,
but there is dwindling support for ethnic
organizations, presses, and cultural projects.
Despite well-attended ethnic parades, lavish
banquets, award ceremonies, and Orthodox
festivals, being Greek in America is increas-
ingly a symbolic rather than an existential
identity. �
Cold Fire by Annamarie Buonocore.
1532 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
The Reunification of the
Parthenon Marbles
BYFOTIJEAN-PIERREFOTIUANDLAZARLARRYODZAK
Fornineyears,447to438BC,Hellenic
craftsmen constructed the Parthenon—
an architectural and artistic masterpiece—on
a hill called Acropolis, visible from all parts
ofAthens.Itwasbuiltonthesiteofanolder
temple that had been destroyed by the invad-
ing Persians. The Athenians completed the
structure during the time of Pericles to cel-
ebrate the victory of Athenian democracy.
They then dedicated this magnificent edifice
as a temple to the goddess Athena.
The Parthenon was a great work of art,
aswellasanengineeringmarvel.ItsDoric
pillars supported marble beams to which
metopes (sculpted marble panels) were
attached high on its four upper-level walls.
The frieze was a series of brilliant sculptures,
depicting various periods of Greek history.
Itwascarvedintoexistingmarblewalls,and
represented the finest examples of classical
art. During its 2,500 years of existence, this
architectural and artful treasure saw glory
as well as danger. The building has been
damaged from time to time, following occu-
pation by numerous armies including the
OttomansaswellastheVenetians.In1687,
Italian General Francesco Morosini bom-
barded the Acropolis, which at the time was
being used as a weapons armory by the Otto-
man troops. One of the shells landed in the
Parthenon and did extensive damage, blow-
ing off the roof and destroying everything
inside. The frieze however, remained largely
intact. The greatest losses and destruction
to the sculptures occurred over a five-year
period,1801-1806,whenduringtheTurkish
rule, the British Ambassador to the Otto-
man government sawed off a large number
of the sculpted metopes and nearly half the
frieze and transported them to England.
In1799,ThomasBruce,the7thEarlof
Elgin, was appointed British Ambassador to
Constantinople, then the seat of government
of the Ottoman Empire. At that time, elite
British society, cognizant in arts, knew that
classical Greek antiquities were the highest
expression of art in the history of civiliza-
tion.Initially,LordElginintendedtobring
back drawings and molds of the Parthenon
marbles, to decorate his ancestral country
home.Inaddition,copiesoftheParthenon
sculptures, when brought back to England,
would inspire the people and raise their
interest in art and culture. As the British
Government refused to finance this endeavor,
Lord Elgin decided to carry out the work at
his own expense.
On July 6, 1801, Lord Elgin allegedly
received permission, called a firman, from
the vizier, the relevant Turkish authority.
The firman supposedly allowed a crew of
workmen to enter the Acropolis, erect scaf-
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154 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
folding at the Parthenon, draw, copy, and
make molds as they wanted, and be free to
take away anything of interest. At this time,
Lord Elgin’s intentions changed—instead
of copying the sculptures, his workmen
hacked, sawed and carted away 56 panels of
the frieze (of the original 115 panels). They
removed numerous metopes and huge pedi-
mental figures, as well as parts of columns
and other pieces. Lord Elgin claimed that
the firman, obtained from the Turks, had
given him the authority to do so.
Doubt has been cast on both the legit-
imacy and the existence of the firman.
Moreover, there was the following excerpt
takenfromLordElgin’scorrespondence:“It
was not a part of my original plan to take
with me anything else but molds …” And in
another letter, he wrote: “… the Turkish gov-
ernment absolutely denied that the persons
who have sold these marbles to me had any
right to dispose of them.” These statements
confirm that even if the firman was issued
as claimed, it could not have sanctioned the
wholesale removal of sculpted marble panels
from the Parthenon or the damages caused
by the seizure. Sawing off the sculpted pieces
of marble from the metopes and the frieze
caused irreparable destruction to the marble
masonry and the magnificent cornice work.
Nevertheless, in 1816, the House of
Commons Select Committee held that the
sculptures had been properly acquired and
recommended a purchase price of 35,000
English pounds, less than half the expen-
ditures claimed by Lord Elgin. The British
Parliament debated the issue of ownership
before finally deciding to purchase the
sculptures, and the transfer of title was
completed. In time, the British Museum
displayed the Parthenon sculptures with the
care and dignity they deserved. On arrival
to themuseum in 1817, themarble pieces
were housed in a prefabricated gallery until
1832,whenapermanent ‘Elgin Room' was
constructed. The collection remained there
until the Duveen Gallery was built. This gal-
lery was funded by Lord Duveen, and was
specially designed by architect John Russell
Pope to house the Parthenon marbles. Nearly
completed in 1938, the buildingwas dam-
aged during World War II, repaired, and
finally received the marbles, opening in 1962.
InJune1998,partsoftheGallerywerecom-
pletely refurbished and now include a video
display, using computer graphics to explain
the positioning of the removed sculptures on
the Parthenon itself.
The issue of ownership of the Parthenon
sculptures has vexed politicians, museum
curators, and the public for many decades.
On the one hand, one would think as a mat-
ter of course that the superb sculptures,
carved in classical Athens by Greek art-
ists and an integral part of the Parthenon,
the most preeminent building of Greece,
belong to the Greek nation as part of its
rich cultural heritage. The marble sculptures
originated in classical Greece—they were
the work of genius that imbued ancient Hel-
lenes. They formed an architectural beauty
that represented freedom and democracy, as
well as the best in politics, philosophy, arts,
and science—the zenith of human concepts.
The world undoubtedly understood the
importance of these irreplaceable histori-
cal treasures, which belong to the country
where they originated. Justifiably so, they
should and must be repatriated to Greece.
On the other hand, as a matter of clear
historical record, the Parthenon sculp-
tures have been in possession of the British
Museumsince1816,undertheauthorityof
the House of Commons. Legal advice avail-
able to the British government held that as
far as international law was concerned, a
challenge to Britain’s title to the Parthenon
marbles would not succeed. The return of the
marbles, then, remained essentially a political
matter to be resolved between the British and
1552 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Greek governments. There are salient argu-
ments that the marbles should be repatriated
on moral, aesthetic, and technical grounds.
An increasing number of distinguished citi-
zens, as well as professional organizations,
have taken a position sympathetic to Greece.
One such strong supporter of repa-
triation is the British Committee for the
Reunification of the Parthenon Marbles
(BCRPM), headed by former British Mem-
ber of Parliament, EddieO’Hara. In 2012
he stated, “The Olympics are a four-year
reminder to the world of all we owe to
Greece … We must remind the people in Lon-
don and throughout the world, that there’s
one debt to Greece that will never be paid
until those sculptures in the British museum
are returned.” Another influential supporter
is the well-known author, Christopher Hitch-
ens [author of The Parthenon Marbles,2008].Persuasively working on reunification was
also the Melina Mercouri Foundation, which
continued the work started by Ms. Mercouri
inthe1980swhenshewastheGreekMinis-
ter of Culture and raised the subject of the
marbles’ repatriation. Her contemporary,
the Australian Minister of Arts, Heritage,
and Environment, Barry Cohen, agreed with
Melinawhenshesaid,“IhopethatIwillsee
theMarblesbackinAthensbeforeIdie:but
iftheycomebacklater,Iwillbereborn.”
Lately, the discussion has advanced from
resolving the legal question of which nation
has ownership of a specific item of cultural
heritage to the recognition that some items
represent the cultural heritage of our whole
civilization,ofourcommonworld.Instead
of arguing about ownership, one must then
ask how best to preserve, maintain, and dis-
play such items of common cultural heritage.
Accepting that the Parthenon marbles are
such a cultural heritage of the whole civi-
lized world, the British Museum maintained
that the Greeks have really no way to pre-
serve and display the marbles.
However, by 2007, the new Acropolis
Museum was completed. This $200 million,
226,000 square foot facility was built at the
very base of the Acropolis, and is specifi-
cally suited for the display of artifacts from
the site, including the Parthenon marbles.
There was now an ideal opportunity to
restate the case for the reunification of the
marbles: not only could they now be next to
the temple itself, but they could also be seen
in the Attic light in the impressive space
especially reserved for them by the archi-
tect, Bernard Tschumi. Now that Athens
had a world class, state-of-the-art museum
in which to house the marbles, there was no
longer any justification for assuming that
London is the best place to preserve them
and have the people of all nations enjoy them
only there.
Working on the political side, the Aus-
tralian Hellenic Council called on the
Parliament of the Commonwealth of Aus-
tralia to adopt a resolution supporting the
restitution of the Parthenon marbles to
the new Acropolis Museum. Similarly, the
policy of the BCRPM states that the cam-
paign for the reunification of the sculptures
of the Parthenon should emphasize cultural
and ethical arguments and not encompass
anylitigationoverproprietaryrights.Infact,
George Papandreou, former Prime Minister,
Greek Minister of Culture, and the man in
charge of the Parliamentary Committee for
Culture and Education (1989-1993), has
also put aside the question of proprietorship
and instead invited colleagues at the Brit-
ish Museum to join Greek efforts to reunite
the sculptures in one place: in the Acropo-
lisMuseum.Inreturn,hepledgedthatthe
Greek government would make sure that the
Duveen Galleries would always host Greek
antiquities on loan for any exhibitions, and
that Greece would be prepared to send rare
and even newly discovered antiquities at the
Galleries request.
156 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Although the Parthenon marbles are
considered part of the civilized world’s her-
itage, the widely held opinion remains—that
these works of art should be maintained and
displayed in their place of origin, in Athens
where they were created 2,500 years ago.
Numerous organizations and individuals
throughout the world continue pressing for
the return of the Parthenon marbles to their
rightful home in Athens. The most recent
suchcampaignwastheInternationalCollo-
quy on the Reunification of the Parthenon
Marbles, held in London, England in June
of 2012. The Colloquy was jointly presented
by the British, American, and Australian
committees for reunification of the Parthe-
non marbles and drew supporters from all
corners of the globe. Held at the London
Hellenic Center, the event was aimed to pro-
mote open dialogue about repatriation of the
Parthenon marbles and timed to coincide
with the third year anniversary of the open-
ing of the new Acropolis Museum and the
occasion of the 2012 London Olympics.
Members of the American Hellenic
Educational and Progressive Association
(AHEPA), with thousands of members in
chapters throughout the United States, Can-
ada, Europe, and Australia, strongly believe
that public support and pressure by many
groups and individuals on the relevant Brit-
ish institutions and the British Parliament
remain pivotal in changing attitudes for the
return of the Parthenon marbles. AHEPA
will continue to work on aligning the political,
moral, legal, and artistic perspectives so that
justice may prevail; so that the Parthenon
sculptures may be returned to their original
location, in their Hellenic homeland. �
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Embracing the Humanities and
the Arts
A Cultural Renaissance in Greek America?
BYYIORGOSANAGNOSTOU
How does one best understand Greek
America? From what angle does one
capture its complexity? One way to approach
Greek America is to illuminate its simulta-
neous constancy and change: The longevity
but also adaptability of its institutions; the
retention of a hyphenated identity more
than a century since the era of mass Greek
immigration; the struggle to slow the tide
of language loss; the interest to understand
how the next generation connects with their
Greek and American affiliations; the effort
to preserve the past.
There is, of course, an alternative, even
if neglected, line of inquiry: to chart new
developments, and ponder on their signifi-
cance. They could serve as milestones, in
other words, to contemplate future direc-
tions for a community.
A single, yet powerful, development
makes this kind of exploration worthwhile.
A considerable sector of the Greek-Ameri-
can “next generation” (second, third, and
beyond) embraces the humanities, the arts,
and the social sciences, to produce fascinat-
ingaccountsaboutidentityandhistory. If
the immigrant generation, understandably,
adopted by and large a pragmatic view on
education as a means for mobility, the off-
spring, many entrenched in the middle class,
turntocreativepursuits.Itisofinterestto
chart this landscape and imagine its future
potential as a way of celebrating this anni-
versary.
Greek American studies presents itself
as a promising point of departure for this
discussion. The increasing output of schol-
arly work on Greek America has prompted
the initiative to compile this corpus and
make it available to the public. The result is
a web resource, The Greek American Stud-
ies Resource Portal. If you are interested
in learning about the experience of Greek-
American youth visiting or settling in Greece,
Greek immigrant women, or the history of
Greek Orthodox liturgical music in the U.S.,
the Portal helps you locate informed analy-
sis about all aspects of the Greek-American
experience. Established under the umbrella
of the Modern Greek Studies Association, it
is available at mgsa.org/Resources/port.html.
The Portal does not merely feature
scholarly work. It includes all kinds of
Greek-American writings and performances
producedoutside the academy. Itmakes a
point to list the latest work by comedians,
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158 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
novelists, amateur historians, filmmakers,
bloggers, artists, documentary makers, and
autobiographers, among others. For those
who appreciate Greek America’s letters,
enjoy its popular culture, or wish to start
exploring this terrain, the Portal is an ideal
resource for navigation. The site is updated
twice annually.
Iwishtodrawattentiontoaparticular
development that stands out in the midst of
thisvibrantscene.Inwhatcouldbeseenasa
promising literary trajectory, a new genera-
tion of authors writes about Greek America
or Greece, earning great acclaim both in the
United States and Greece. An early exam-
ple of this trend is George Pelecanos’s highly
praised crime fiction. Jeffrey Eugenides’s
Middlesex is a Pulitzer Prize winning novel.
TryfonTolideswontheprestigious1998Yale
Younger Poets prize. Most recently, Natalie
Bakopoulos’s The Green Shore enjoys criti-
cal attention in both sides of the Atlantic. A
new anthology of Greek-American poetry
is now available (searchworks.stanford.edu/
view/7516863),andayoungGreekCalifor-
nian has launched the Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, a web literary venue (www.
voicesofhellenism.org). Universities now
hold readings of Greek-American Poetry.
We are witnessing an explosion of literary
andscholarlyinterestinGreekAmerica.Is
this a lasting phenomenon, a cultural renais-
sance of sorts with some enduring power? Or
is it merely the climax of fleeting fireworks
to only dissipate once they dazzle us? His-
tory teaches against predictions. Who would
have expected during the era of 100 percent
Americanism, in the 1920s, that ethnic fes-
tivals would be the mainstay of American
society in the 1990s and beyond? The lon-
gevity of cultural and artistic achievements
depends not only on the energy and com-
mitment of the individuals who make them
happen but on a variety of factors, including
supporting audiences and institutions. The
future does not just happen, we have a say-
ing in steering the direction of its happening.
It is the fragility of this process that
makes the following question urgent: What is
the place of Greek-American arts and letters
in our lives? There is no way to tell without
discussing these issues with Greek Ameri-
cans themselves; without eliciting their point
of view. But one thing is for certain. The vis-
ibility of arts and the letters leaves its stamp
in national culture, adding yet another layer
in the ways we imagine our future as Greek
Americans.
The arts and scholarship are arduous
endeavors, laborious pursuits that require
perseverance and long-term commitment.
In supporting them, a reader extends one
of the most precious gifts that the commu-
nity of artists and scholars longs for: An
audience that participates in the unfolding
conversation of what it means to be a Greek
American in the twenty-first century. �
1592 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Strange Prisoners
A Philosophical Comparison
BYCHRISTINESALBOUDIS
The fundamental concerns and principles
of our Hellenic ancestors continue to
play a significant role in the way we inter-
pret reality today. In a series of academic
group discussion held in New York City in
theFallof2012,mystudentsandIdrewsev-
eral comparisons between Plato’s “Allegory
of theCave” (Republic,BookVII)and the
use of popular forms of social media like
Facebook,LinkedIn,Twitter,etc.Thegoalof
the discussion was to determine whether we
base our understanding of the world on what
we come to know through direct empirical
experience or whether we rely too much on
the information fed to us by the myriad of
online venues, which are regulated by media/
marketing specialists.
The comparison was offered in response
to mixed feedback about an article we found
in Cosmopolitan Magazine, “Is Facebook
Bumming You Out?” (Knolls, 09/01/09).
The central question posed was whether the
material posted on Facebook represented
an accurate portrayal of the person’s life
or if it was merely an illusion—possibly
an idealized reality they wish to convey to
others—and how the information posted
affected the viewer. Many of the students
provided specific examples: The friend who
tells all his unemployed/struggling viewers
about his global travels and posts pictures
and a narrative of every bistro or piazza he’s
visited, no matter how gritty or insignifi-
cant it might be in reality. The friend who
informs all her single friends about her latest
trip to the Bahamas with her wonderful new
boyfriend, complaining about how hot and
boring it is in all the sand and sun and how
she wishes she was back home with them ...
ThepictureI’mpaintingisn’tveryflattering
for the authors of these pieces, but it’s the
viewer’s perception, not the author’s intent,
that we’re really trying to investigate.
The group agreed that while viewers will
generally be happy for their friends, there
was a little spark of envy, most likely related
to the fact that the story being told is exactly
the opposite of the viewer’s immediate expe-
rience (e.g., the viewer who reads about the
Bahamas’ vacation while he’s huddled in a
cold apartment trying to get over a cold).
Tohelpillustratemypoint,Icreatethe
fictional example of being a “typical” New
York Facebook viewer at 5 a.m. on a chilly
Mondaymorning.IfthebestthingIcanpost
on Facebook is the status of the early-morn-
ingFrappe Ipickedup inAstoria—which
didn’t make it down the block to the local
N without spilling on my good shoes—I
will either choose to post something with
anupbeatyetsarcastic toneto itor Iwill
refrain from posting since I presume no
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160 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
one will care about the status of my now
Frappe-scented footwear. In themeantime,
I get a prompt onmy smartphone froma
friend who is taking a moment from her
warm vacation paradise to complain that
her cruise ship is too warm and she had to
stay in the jacuzzi all morning; she’s posted
a picture of herself looking like a movie star
...NowI’mrememberingthataFrappehas
waytoomanycaloriesandIneedtogetto
the gym, lose the stubborn five pounds that
snuckuponmeinthewintermonths,I’m
wishing it wasn’t so cold out, that it wasn’t
aworkday, etc.While I amhappy formy
friend, I am now self-conscious about my
own postable status. I may start checking
other friends’ statuses to see if anyone else
is available to commiserate with my current
status (spilt coffee, ruined shoes, crowded
subway, and the magical odor that assails
the senses at the Times Square station). What
I, as the viewer, don’t see on Facebook is
what this (fictional) friend of mine has con-
cealed about her actual life status: the fact
that her luggage was placed on the wrong
cruise liner, that her marriage is breaking
up, which is why she’s on the cruise to begin
with, that she used the last of her life savings
to buy the ticket ... The unrecorded reality
of this friend’s doubts and anxieties don’t
usuallymakeittothepage.AllIseeisthe
illusion that she has posted on her wall—the
tan, happy couple smiling on the sunny deck,
pictures taken at each port, a story about
dinner with the captain ...
Ineachof thesecases,what theviewer
sees and responds to are the illusory forms
posted on the author’s cyber wall, which is
very similar to the shadows projected on
the wall in Plato’s famous Cave Allegory
(Republic VII, 514A-521C). There are so
many examples of the viewer who is fixed
in the world of illusions rather than reality:
The friend who can sit for hours, eyes and
mind transfixed to the screen of his beloved
iPad, his smartphone hovering a mere cen-
timeter away to enable a Wi-Fi connection.
This is his intellectual and social habitat.
Every task and interaction is a silent trans-
action, with only one question to pose to the
live person: Where is the Wi-Fi connection?
Even I have shifted from collecting print
copies of assignments to having assignments
posted on the virtual (Blackboard/WebCT)
classroom to cut down on the number of
thingsthestudentsandIneedtocarry.In
one instance, we even worked with a vir-
tual tour of a field-trip venue due to poor
weather conditions ... Was the online experi-
ence equal to what the live experience would
havebeen?Iwouldarguethatitwasn’t,but
it certainly proved to be a useful and con-
venient option. The empirical experience
of communicating and processing informa-
tion always feels as though it has changed so
drastically—shifting with the never-ending
creation of new systems and technology—
and yet ... it relates to ancient questions
about the nature and value of truth, reality,
and perception.
For those who are not familiar with the
Allegory, Plato’s philosophical narrator,
Socrates, describes a cave in which several
prisoners are chained down to one place
since childhood, deprived from any access
to the outside world, only able to face a wall
upon which shadows of real objects are
cast, “like the screen which marionette play-
ers have in front of them, over which they
show the puppets” (514A-516B). This col-
lection of “strange prisoners,” as Gloucon
calls them (514A-516B), builds a common
pool of knowledge and communication
based on the World of Forms to which they
are exposed—to the reality they are offered
(514A-516B). Only the prisoner who is
liberated of his shackles and forced to face
the light, discovering the deception of the
World of Forms, going out to face the real
world alone, understands the true value of
1612 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
the deceptive illusions that his peers had
referred to as knowledge.
After experiencing a time of pain and
confusion, the liberated prisoner is able to
distinguish between the mere shadows of an
object and the object itself, in reality. While
he is initially only able to experience reality
indirectly (their shadows or reflections), as
his eyes grow accustomed to real light, he
is able to perceive things more clearly, to
behold objects directly and gain empirical
knowledge of the world around him. He is
even able to look at the sun itself rather than
at its mere reflection (516B-517B). He is
naturally attracted to reality in all its dimen-
sions. The implication here is that when given
the choice, a philosophical observer will be
naturally drawn to truth (reality) and be dis-
satisfiedwithreflectionsoftruth.Inorderto
develop or even recognize such a desire, how-
ever, the viewer would have to be exposed to
both and given the option to choose.
Consider, for a moment, that we engage
in this very process on a daily basis. We
behold, assess, and communicate online,
actively choosing whether to embrace the
information we are offered on screen or the
reality that is actually in front of us. The dif-
ference is that we feel as though we control
our decisions since we possess the wall (in
our case, the iPad, the Laptop, the smart-
phone, etc.). We are, at once, the puppeteers
and the prisoners of this strange and illusory
world, detached from empirical perception
of those with whom we communicate.
Consider also how many “friends” or
“connections” we have whom we have judged
and accepted but never met in person. Also
observe how quickly we cluster people into
categoriesonourFacebookorLinkedIncon-
tacts lists. How often do we ignore a vendor
down the street in exchange for the vendor
we can book online? What is the basis of our
assessment? How often do we misjudge real-
ity because we embrace illusion? How do
we test and determine the accuracy of our
assumptions? Are we brave enough to engage
the empirical world when the modern-day
world of forms—and all the toys affiliated
withit—issoseductivelypragmatic?Inorder
to overcome the temptation of online reality
the individual viewer must be strong enough
to break free of the shackles of social media
in general—an issue that precedes the advent
of online platforms such as Facebook.
Today online platforms are available for
everything from maps to common purchases,
from job hunting to making major invest-
ments, from planning dream vacations to
finding and planning a date—with social
media directing our path based on who/what
we have chosen to “like,” “friend,” or “follow”.
Things that are completely foreign to us are
presented in their most attractive, most
simplistic, least critical forms—as points of
sale to attract the viewer and encourage an
investment (of time, energy, resources, etc.).
The gimmick tends to work, especially in
today’srushedcosmopolitansociety.Itonly
takes seconds to complete a virtual tour or
view a profile, and accept or reject a person
or service. If we pass judgment on some-
thing in what we consider to be a quick and
efficient manner, based on what we consider
our knack for assessing reality, we develop
a sense of pride—as do the prisoners in the
cave—and we scold or mock those who take
longer to contemplate and research a thing
before casting their judgments (516B-519C).
Similarly, when we turn to Facebook to
view one another’s profiles, we engage in the
observation and processing of the “attrac-
tive” version of the person whose page we’re
viewing.
"The language used to describe the sun
was particularly interesting to our discus-
sion group because of the way in which the
sun is personified in the translation used:
According to Socrates, the freed prisoner
“will be able to see the sun, and not mere
162 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
reflections of him in the water, but he will
see him in his own proper place, and not in
another; and he will contemplate him as he
is” (516B-517B). What is the value of see-
ing a person or object in reality rather than
simply beholding the illusion presented in
taking it at face value?
For the most part, pages tend to be
upbeat. Even negative “blooper” stories are
told with a positive spin, usually to gain a
few “likes” from commiserating viewers
and, perhaps, to make the page look a little
more realistic. The inclusion of such stories
is meant, perhaps, to imply that the author
offers his audience a full disclosure of his life,
but the philosopher knows that the only way
to come to an accurate understanding of the
author is to step away from the wall and get
to know the real person, not the reflection.
The group discussion falters at this point,
as we do tend to rely on what we see/read
online in our daily decision-making process.
Research, friendships, and purchases initi-
ated through this online venue are all based
on a hit-or-miss assessment process. How
often do we allow ourselves to pass “from
divine contemplations to the evil state of
man” (517C-519C)?
My group proceeded to ask what the
value of the shadow was—how strongly we
can rely on connections made online—and
who is qualified to determine the value of
either the reality or the illusion ... In our
daily virtual tours, we friend, connect, like,
follow, Tweet/re-Tweet, reply, delete, etc.
information that is seemingly intriguing or
valuable, but who is qualified to sort through
the collective data to decide what is truly
valuable to people? One student commented
on the computerized systems that are cur-
rently available to provide assistance in this
process, but it was determined that this
was a sort of Catch 22 ... using automated
data-mining to assess the value of informa-
tion floating around in cyberspace. Further
reading and research was suggested to inves-
tigate possible means of objective assessment.
In the end, we concluded that there is
a hidden meaning to the allegory—a testi-
mony to human resilience, for regardless of
whether we are bound to the cave or allowed
the luxury of exploring reality directly, we
are able to survive and make something of
ourselves; we are able to build upon what
we think we know, even if our knowledge is
imperfect or our perception is flawed.
As far as the role and place of the phi-
losopher, whose awareness and sensibility to
this so-called reality surpasses—and coun-
termands—what his peers claim to know ...
We might say that the philosopher’s duty is
to strive to be a responsible mentor to those
dwelling in a state of incomplete knowledge.
His initial inability to blend in and function
within the mainstream community after
his empirical ventures makes him seem fee-
ble in the eyes of his peers. Not only is he
presenting information that seems untrue
or irrelevant to them, he has missed several
cycles of the vernacular and social cues that
they have developed amongst themselves in
his absence. He is literally out of the loop,
and tagged as a sort of oddity to be pitied,
rejected as a fool and ultimately despised
by those with lesser experience, who feel
empowered as members of a hierarchical
community, rewarded within the limited
scope of their common knowledge, without
reference to the reality to which the philoso-
pher clings (517C-521C).
Intheend,weponderedwhetherpeople
are more likely to desire the illusion of those
things and persons we encounter online—
looking at the reflections of the sun rather
than at the sun itself—or whether we will
ultimately desire the reality above all. Will
the philosopher still be obligated to transi-
tion from his beloved reality to the baser
world of illusions simply to perform his per-
ceived responsibility to his community?
1632 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Inbothinstances,itseemsthatthephi-
losopher’s destiny is to cross between both
worlds, to understand each “reality” as much
as possible, and to act as a mediator for
those who are willing to accept guidance in
transitioning from one reality to the other to
acquire what we might finally consider true
knowledge. �
Suggested Reading
Boyd, Danah. “Is Facebook Destroying theAmerican College Experience?” LinkedIn(03/01/13). www.linkedin.com/today/post/article/20130301160528-79695780-is-facebook-destroying-the-american-college-experience (Retr. 03/01/13).
Chang, Emily. “Do you care if Facebook is hiding posts?”LinkedIn(03/05/13).www.linkedin.com/today/post/article/20130305195227-69683898-are-you-having-a-facebook-identity-crisis (Retr. 03/05/13).
Hartwig, Elisha. “6 Things to Do Before You Delete Your Facebook Account.” Mashable (03/01/13). mashable.com/2013/03/01/delete-your-facebook-account (Retr. 03/01/13).
Knoll,Jessica.“IsFacebookBummingYouOut?”Cosmopolitan 251. 3 (Sep 2011) library.villanova.edu/Find/Summon/Record?id=FETCH-proquest_dll_24566892011(Retr.05/16/13).
Plato.“TheAllegoryoftheCave”Republic,BkVII(516A-521C):classics.mit.edu/Plato/republic.8.vii.html (Retr. 05/16/13).
Salboudis, Christine. “Reality and Illusion.”Philosophy & Literature. Lecture and GroupDiscussion. NYC, 09/07/12-05/21/13.
164 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
About the Kalamata Earthquake
Photo Essay
BYELEFTHERIALIALIOS
I arrived in Greece as a Fulbright Scholar in Photographyfortheyear1986-87onTues-
day,September9,1986.Thatweek,Saturday,September13,1986,at20:23localtime,a6.2earthquake on the Richter scale hit the town of Kalamata in Messinia, Peloponnesos, Greece. 70% of the city was destroyed, 10,000 were immediately homeless, 25-30 people died, doz-ens were missing, and hundreds were injured. A city of 45,000 was covered with concrete destruction. Many families stayed with their belongings, and with what was left of their home. Most of the city lived in tents with their families. There was no question whether Ishould go to Kalamata when the catastrophe hit. Ihadtomeetthepeople,heartheirstories,taketheir photographs, and try to get further help from other resources, such as Greek-American organizations who could assist their families.
After seeing the damage and talking to the people, the same story came up in conversa-tion again and again. Money was coming in, but going into the pockets of city politicians instead of the people. Corruption and theft becamewidelyknownbythepeople.WhenIheardthis,IcalledmyUncleTedMezinis,inSan Francisco. He knew the right people to contact and get help to the people themselves, without the possibility of theft because of 3rd or 4th hand distribution systems. And help he did. Iwas there long enough to see specificpeople and communities get blankets, food, and clothes in areas that were being ignored.
With a Canon F-1, around 50-55 rolls of Kodachrome 64-35 mm daylight slide film were taken. Because of my undergraduate degreeinpsychologyandsociology,Itrulyfeltthis was my calling, and that God had placed me in Greece at a moment where my actions
could indeed bring about visible change. Where photography would be used as a tool for immediate action, as well as documentation of a historical moment.
Nothing was ever moved or arranged to be photographed. People were not placed in situations. I found them as they were. Sto-riesweretoldbyeveryoneImetandaskedtophotograph. One of the most memorable was an old woman who lived near the village of Eleochori (Old Woman with the Prophetic Story). Her house was entirely destroyed and she was living in a small tent in front of it. As I approached her, she cameup running, tell-ing me the story of how the Panayia saved the entire village of Eleochori. A village that was completely leveled. Because most of the village was in the center open square for the dedica-tion of a Panayia icon, only three people died. Otherwise, hundreds of families would have lost their lives.
Families that lost children were inconsol-able, and had to be left alone. Women and men were cooking outside, washing, socializing, trying to laugh, trying to achieve normality for their children and families. Mostly every-one wanted to be heard, to be helped. An aura of survival surrounded me at 33, one that is still with me at 60.
These experiences are embedded in my skin. They are described in simple sections: the people, the churches, the landscape, the destruction, the hope.
This work is dedicated to my Godmother, Panayiota Georvassilis (1930-2013), who was born in Kalamata.
Numbers are approximate. From the UN Department of Humanitarian Affairs. September 15, 1986.
1652 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Καταυλισμός Sept.13.1986 Ǒ Camp Sept.13.1986
Στεναχωρημένη με δίκαιο Ǒ Upset with Law
166 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Εκκλησία 'ενα Ǒ The First Church
Εκκλησία δύο Ǒ The Second Church
1672 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Δύο Δωμάτια στο βουνό Ǒ Two Rooms on the Mountain
Κρεβάτι και κουζίνα Ǒ Bed and Kitchen
168 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Φωτογραφία γάμου Ǒ Wedding Photo
1692 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Φωτογραφία στο τοίχο Ǒ Photo on Wall
Γάμοι και οικογένεια Ǒ Weddings and Family
170 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Η Γιαγιά με την ιστορία της Ǒ Old Woman with the Prophetic Story
Το σαλόνι των παιδιών Ǒ The Living Area with the Children
1712 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Γυναίκες με τη γάτα τους Ǒ Women with their Cat
Οικογένεια στην κουζίνα τους Ǒ Family in their Kitchen
1732 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Biography of Pythagoras Caravellas
(1890 – 1934)
BY JOHN B. VLAHOS
PythagorasCaravellaswasbornin1890
in Greece, on the small island of Samos,
off the coast of Asia Minor. He was the son
of a tobacco and cotton merchant and the
youngest of four children.
At the age of 16, he completed his pre-
university education at the gymnasium in
Karlovassi. His schoolmasters, impressed with
the young man’s curiosity and studious incli-
nations, recommended him for further study
at one of the Greek teaching-monasteries.
For many centuries, the monasteries
had been the centers of learning in Greece.
During the 400 years that Greece was subju-
gated to Turkey, the education of its people
had been in the hands of the priests and the
monks. It was traditional, therefore, that
male students of exceptional promise were
placed under special tutelage of learned
monks.
The young Pythagoras was cloistered in
the mountain monastery for a year, applying
himself diligently to the assigned subjects:
religion, science, and the humanities. Per-
haps it was the humility with which the
monks had imparted their wisdom to the
young scholars that influenced Pythagoras
to cherish learning. This inspiration was to
follow him always.
While Pythagoras was studying under
the tutelage of the monks, the Metropolitan
of Corfu, Alexander, paid a visit to the mon-
astery. The hierarchy of the Greek Orthodox
Faith has always taken a personal interest
in the education and development of their
youth. Alexander was no exception. A man
of deep perception, he was to become, some
20 years later, the first American Archbishop
of the Greek Orthodox Church. Although his
visits to the monasteries caused the students
some trepidation, they were also looked for-
ward to with great expectancy. Whenever
time would allow them to be away from their
studies, the young men were found eagerly
awaiting their meeting with His Eminence.
A few requested and were granted private
audiences. But in private or in groups, the
topics that generated the most interest were
the students’ personal aspirations, the pres-
ervation of the ethnic culture and traditions
of Greece, and the growth and spiritual
strength of the Greek Orthodox Religion.
During one of his private conversations
with the Metropolitan (whom he had known
since childhood, through the religious affili-
ations of his family), Pythagoras expressed
his secret hope to continue his education in
the United States and perhaps establish his
permanent home there. Expecting a small
admonishment or to be dissuaded from his
ambition, Pythagoras was pleased to receive
instead approval and encouragement.
BIOGRAPHY
174 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
Not yet certain of which career he would
pursue, the student and the Metropolitan
discussed several. His Eminence expressed
his deep concern for the many Greeks then
in America and the many more who would
be joining them. He was distressed by the
lack of Greek Orthodox Churches necessary
to perpetuate the faith and the language in
a distant land and to stimulate appreciation
of the Hellenic culture, traditions, and ideals.
The full impact of this meeting was
not to emerge for 12 years, but its immedi-
ate result was that Pythagoras entered the
Seminary in Karlovassi to study for the
priesthood. After a year, he was uncertain
as to the wisdom of his action and decided
to enroll in the University of Athens. During
the next four years, he earned his degree and
received his teaching credentials. He also
found time to tutor a few students, work for
a tobacconist, and take additional courses
in English. He even managed to make occa-
sional visits to his family in distant Samos,
in the town of Karlovassi.
In1911,hedefinitelydecidedtogotothe
United States. He went to Middleboro, Mas-
sachusetts, where a small colony of Greeks
had settled, to live with his two brothers,
Nicholas and Theodore, who had immigrated
there two years before. The two brothers were
proprietors of a successful restaurant left to
them by Nicholas’ godfather. They made
a place for their younger brother, Pythago-
ras, but were soon convinced that he was
not interested in the business world. They
encouraged him to enter Harvard University
and offered to help him financially.
Before leaving Greece, Pythagoras had
already resolved to become a physician.
Realizing how many long years of study lay
ahead, he preferred not to accept his broth-
ers’ generous offer. He considered ways in
which he would attend school, allow suffi-
cient time for studies, and still manage to
earn an income adequate for his tuition and
living expenses. He decided to rely chiefly on
his knowledge of small business accounting
for his earnings and soon had a number of
shopkeepers and restaurant owners as his
clients. During the summer months, he also
gave private lessons, teaching the American-
born children of Greek immigrants their
mother tongue.
The perpetuation of the Greek language
had become a prime concern of the Ortho-
dox priests and the community leaders, since
it was felt that unless the children learned
Greek, the church would lose them. Thus,
through his language teaching, as well as
in other ways, Pythagoras participated in
Greek Church and community affairs.
He graduated from Harvard University
with a degree in medicine in June of 1917.
Shortly thereafter, he became engaged to
Evangeline Constantine, the sister of a
Greek friend, John Constantine. She and her
brother and younger sister, Julia, lived at
home with their widowed father, the tailor
and civic leader, Hareleos Constantine.
Portrait of Pythagoras Caravellas (1920s) Greek Historical Society of the San Francisco Bay Area
1752 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
Greek families encouraged their children
to associate with others of the Greek herit-
age in an attempt to ensure their marriages
within the Greek community. They felt,
understandably, that unions based on a com-
mon religion and language, and on common
customs and traditions, would be lasting
andhappyones.Itwascustomaryforthese
marriages to be arranged by intermediaries
in behalf of the parents, but the marriage in
November 1917 of Pythagoras and Evange-
line was a romantic exception.
Pythagoras’ work as hospital intern
offered some degree of fulfillment, but he
was restless. He was much disturbed by the
world war, which had engulfed Europe. More
and more he turned to the church, seeing it
as the major institution for the salvation of
humankind. The burgeoning Greek Ortho-
dox Church, he felt, would one day become a
great spiritual force in America.
Recalling his year at the monastery
and his communication with Archbishop
Alexander, Pythagoras sent a letter to the
Metropolitan, asking for his guidance. The
sincere simplicity of the Archbishop’s reply
and his words of encouragement to enter
the church convinced Pythagoras to give up
medicine and complete his studies for the
priesthood.
Through further correspondence with
the Metropolitan, Pythagoras learned of the
need for Greek priests in the western part
of the United States. As the waves of Greek
immigrants moved westward across the new
continent, they were dependent upon a small
group of itinerant Greek priests for infre-
quent church services and the administering
of the religious rites. More Greeks lived and
worked in the western states than the num-
ber of churches would suggest. Meanwhile,
the Russian Orthodox Church was extend-
ing the scope of its activities in the United
States, organizing churches wherever pos-
sible, with the ultimate objective of uniting
members of the Orthodox Faith, regardless
of nationality or race, under the jurisdiction
of the Russian Church. They were success-
ful, for example, in San Francisco where the
Greeks often had to rely on Russian clergy.
In1922,Pythagoras,hiswife,anddaugh-
ter Melissa arrived in San Francisco. Once
more the question of earning a livelihood
and attending school was of immediate con-
cern. Through letters of introduction and
recommendation, Pythagoras became an
assistant professor of Greek at the Univer-
sity of California and attended the Pacific
School of Religion. He supplemented his
income by writing for a Greek newspaper
and The Christian Science Monitor. Soon Pythagoras and Evangeline became
an integral part of the developing Greek com-
munity. Their resourcefulness and command
of English attracted the older families. They
were often called upon to act as witnesses
or interpreters when legal or immigration
problems affected members of the colony.
Evangeline encouraged the wives to attend
night classes and assisted them in organizing
weekly meetings at each other’s homes. Com-
munity interests were broadened and a base
of operations was established for the many
newcomers arriving from Greece.
The more affluent Greeks were enthusi-
astic about the qualifications of the young
couple and gave their whole-hearted support
for the erection of a church, which would
have Pythagoras as its priest.
After his graduation from the Pacific
School of Religion in 1927, Pythagoras was
ordained into the priesthood of the Greek
Orthodox Religion by the Patriarch of Con-
stantinople, Metaxakis, and Archbishop
Alexander, both of whom were visiting San
Francisco at the time. The colorful ceremony
was held in the new, small white Church of
St. Sophia.
The presence of these eminent prelates
in San Francisco created much interest and
176 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
helped to establish the young Church of
St. Sophia as a unified and integrated com-
munity.
Historical events had brought a special
challenge, and also a period of considerable
emotional strain for Greek Orthodox priests.
Since the advent of the Russian Revolution,
the organizational expansion of the Russian
Orthodox Church in America had ended. But
the royalist-liberal controversy in Greece
became a serious divisive factor for Greek
immigrants in America. Partisanship in
the political war between the forces of King
Constantine and Premier EleftheriosVenize-
los, which had its beginnings in 1916, was to
shake the church communities of both Greece
and the United States to their foundation.
The reaction in the United States was
violent, and reorganization required a degree
of cooperation almost impossible to obtain.
Nevertheless, Father Pythagoras managed
to steer his congregation away from the
repercussions of the bitter political battles
in Greece and toward the establishment of a
Greek-American community whose growth
would be a blending of the cultural heritage
of Greece and the democratic principles of
its adopted country, America.
Since coming to San Francisco, Father
Pythagoras’ family had increased by two
daughters, Helen and Joan. After his ordina-
tion, Father Pythagoras budgeted his family
very severely. Occasionally, his small salary
was supplemented by farmers’ gifts of pro-
duce, fruit, and fowl. His parish was a poor
one, and living became even more difficult
during the depression, when many mem-
bers of his congregation were on the edge
of poverty. He administered to their needs
unfailingly, with words of encouragement
and guidance. He taught their children Greek
after their regular school hours. He would
officiate at services during his frequent vis-
its to the farming districts. He found time to
program social activities for the community
in observation of national and religious holi-
days. He made his rounds at the hospitals,
giving communion to the sick, the injured,
and the dying. He conducted services every
Sunday, every holy day—and in the Greek
Church, this alone imposes a rigorous and
demanding schedule.
In1931,thephysicalstrainhadtakenits
toll. Father Pythagoras was ill with tubercu-
losis. He was a patient for three years at the
California Sanatorium in Belmont. During
this enforced rest and confinement, he con-
tinued to read avidly and began work for his
degree as a Doctor of Divinity. He looked
forward to returning to his church and his
congregation.
After three years, the doctors told him
he was cured and that he could soon be
going home. But on December 6, 1934, he
suffered a heart attack that was fatal. The
Greeks throughout the nation mourned for
him, and his body lay in state in the Church
of St. Sophia for seven days to afford all of
his congregation and his many friends the
sad privilege of a final farewell. �
1772 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
A Coffee Date with the Soul
BYANNAMARIEBUONOCORE
Anyone who has ever thought about the
big questions in life concerning rela-
tionships, sex, family, and the almighty
social image is in desperate need of a cof-
fee date. We are not talking about a coffee
break at a local Starbucks, but rather a cof-
fee date with the subconscious, the soul, the
inner being!
In Coffee with the Subconscious,
B. Rozakis demonstrates this truly creative
form of introspection that is as relaxing and
enjoyable as a date at a local coffee shop. At
first thought, this book may prompt one
to think of his or her last coffee date. The
occasion likely involved another person—a
coworker, colleague, family member, part-
ner, neighbor, or friend. Perhaps, some
interesting questions came up during that
time, but how many people truly think about
these big questions and take the coffee date
deep within themselves to the subconscious
where they are faced to think about them-
selves, others, and these big answers?
InCoffee with the Subconscious, Roza-
kis writes about a number of historical and
fictional characters who directly face these
questions. The slideshow analogy works well
since the narratives come diced into small
chapters and fragments.
Because of the book’s fragmentary nature,
Rozakis’ book suffers from an identity crisis.
The work sits on the border between prose
and poetry. Some of the short chapters could
even be described as flash fiction. There are
also some interesting elements of autobi-
ography as the author openly discusses her
personal journey. The truth is that the book
is all of the above. The book has the flowing
story line of prose yet the rhythmical and
thought-provoking lines of poetry. A very
short story is told in each fragmented chap-
ter, making it similar to flash fiction.
Each of these chapters builds its effects
cumulatively, and each chapter jumps right
to the next in perfect poetic rhythm. As a
result of this building, unfolding, and lyri-
cal arrangement, readers are unable to set
this small book down. Reading this book is
much like driving along a picturesque road,
not knowing the beautiful treasures that will
appear with each gentle bank turn. The book
can be opened at random and entered with
passion, and in this respect as well as in oth-
ers, can be claimed by poetry.
Even with divided and fragmented chap-
ters, a unified narrative with a single and
solid voice manages to emerge. Although the
characters’ personalities differ significantly,
they all pose similar questions on similar life
issues and seek the counsel of a graphologist.
BOOK REVIEW
Coffee with the Subconscious B. Rozakis Self-Published by B. Rozakis www.bettyrozakis.com 172 pages; paperback $14.95
178 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
One may be wondering what graphology is.
Coffee with the Subconscious brings forth
this new and emerging study that unites arts,
humanities, and sciences.
As discussed in the book, graphology
has its skeptics and critics. One could find it
rather shocking and amazing that something
as simple and overlooked as handwriting
could determine personality and attitude, and
as a result, success in relationships and even
performance on the job. The up-and-coming
narrative that presents the new and fascinat-
ing subject can be divided into three parts, or
as the author calls them, “three cups”:
1. Know yourself and understand why
you make the decisions you make. The
personalities of ancient Greeks are dis-
cussed. Who was Socrates and why did
he choose death over life? This part of
the narrative will prompt one to think
about his or her own life and beginthe
interesting process of introspection.
2. Know your relationships. Now it is
time to look beyond the self and think
about the connections with others.
3. Know your solution. The book will
definitely not leave you hanging. The
author often mentions that people do
not like to hear what their handwrit-
ing reveals. The third cup will help one
make decisions as to where to go next
with the newfound knowledge that
resulted from this introspection. The
book is a gentle three-step process that
never leaves readers in a dull moment.
As mentioned above, the author writes
with a distinctive and unique voice, bringing
interest and intrigue to the subject of graphol-
ogy, which is based on psychology, intuitive
thinking, and science. The subject and those
who study it also critically examine history,
and the author successfully states her per-
spectives on history that make sense to a
modern-day reading audience. She is also able
to integrate this knowledge of history with
her Greek-American cultural background.
Throughout the narrative, she mentions clas-
sical Greek philosophers such as Socrates and
Plato. Her words are vivid, as readers will
picture images of picturesque and scenic
Greece. She also makes references to dynam-
ics and characteristics that can often be
found in Greek-American Diaspora families
that become heavily fixated on the American
Dream and the image that encapsulates.
“In the agora at the foot of the Parthenon ... Socrates lingered, approached, and questioned the aspiring young men of Classical Greece. Did Socrates impose himself on these ambitious young men that Plato wrote about? These aspiring, impressionable young menknown as Sophists?”
The short paragraph, that could also be
thought of as a stanza when poetry gets its
way, poses a thought-provoking question that
stimulates the mind beyond everyday, shallow
thinking. The next pages examine the life of
this instrumental Greek figure in a way that
is unexpected and controversial. The author
expresses her perspective on the Socratic
method that is strongly supported with well-
researched arguments based on historical
facts. She delves into the personal life of this
historical figure that truly prompts read-
erstothink.Inalaterchapter,shetakesthe
works of Mark Twain and Flannery O’Connor
to a personal level, and she admits that this
once made her fellow book club attendees
somewhat uncomfortable. The author has an
authentic voice and a bold spirit that brings
intuitive and introspective thinking together
with scientific and historical data to create
an interesting narrative. Personal stories also
make this book a must read.
1792 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
“It was a bit more complicated. It was Molly’s character. She was stuck. Her individual life force was emotion-ally stuck in her inner turmoil.”
Inthischapter,theauthortellsastory
of a woman whose handwriting she exam-
ined. Like all of the other stories in the
book, it is a fictional story that can trace
its roots back to an actual experience in the
author’s journey of studying and practicing
graphology. The character’s fictitious name
is Molly Forthright. The name is suitable
because of Molly’s forthcoming personality
and willingness to share her thoughts with
the graphologist. Going back to the part
about Socrates, the author does the same
thing with Molly and seeks to examine her
past relationships to gain insight into her
behavior.
Inthepracticeofgraphology,thegraph-
ologist examines a person’s handwriting in
wet ink. The handwriting sample cannot
be photocopied, scanned, or turned into
the graphologist via electronic means. The
examinee is also asked to turn in four draw-
ings of a tree. The graphologist is then able
to evaluate the samples based on pressure
points and sharpness in the letters. He or
she will then determine the Hippocratic
Temperament of the handwriting: melan-
cholic, bilious, sanguine, or phlegmatic.
Some examinees are classified into one type
while others are a combination of types. This
is the core character of the individual.
The melancholics often doubt themselves
and can become far too occupied with dry,
abstract speculation. The bilious is a more
positive fighting spirit. The phlegmatic lack
introspection. Last but not least, the san-
guine have an outlandish and unescapable
confidence.Itisalmostasiftheyarehungry
for blood. The examiner discusses the quali-
ties and sub-categories of each type.
The book is easy to read and concise to
understand. It is geared toward an adult
audience as it mentions topics of sex and
suicide, but could also be interesting for the
teenage audience to gain a jumpstart on
life. The author fearlessly writes about her
experiences with her family and her quest to
become a graphologist after years of intro-
spection and self-discovery. Her openness
creates a sense of ease for those uncom-
fortable discussing topics of sexuality and
relationships. Her word usage, vocabulary,
and writing structure are excellent, and her
content is educational and entertaining. The
Greek-American experience also comes by
like a gentle sea breeze.
When I first started reading this book,
Iwasskeptical. Ididnotbelievehandwrit-
ing revealed one’s personality traits. The
author gently proved me wrong by inspiring
me with anecdotes of her personal journey
that were combined with well-researched
historical and scientific facts as well as her
exceptional knowledge of psychology. This
unique book makes references to popular
works of film and literature, helping the
audience relate to each critical point. This
self-published work is a must-read for those
asking big questions and looking for some
humorous yet thought-provoking answers.
Itisalsorecommendedforanybodylooking
for an enjoyable coffee break with a soul that
deserves to speak out fearlessly and poeti-
cally every once in a while. �
“Reading this book is much like driving along a picturesque road, not knowing the beautiful treasures that will appear with each gentle bank turn.”
1812 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
M a n o l i ... !
A dialogue
BYGIORGOSNEOPHYTOU TRANSLATEDBYANDREASNICOLA
(Maria, a woman of about 60, dressed in black and more tired and frightened than old. She enters hurriedly and frightened, carrying some carrier bags full of shopping, which she places on the table in the kitchen of an old house, a table with three chairs. On the table, a brown dress, spread out. Next to it is a bas-ket for sewing and an old jeweler’s box.)
Manoli ... puss, puss, puss Manoli ...
Manoli! Manoli where are you? Where are
you hiding? Manoli ... Manoli ... Manoli ... Ah!
Thereyouare.Whydon’tyouanswerwhenI
callyou?I’ve lostmyvoice.Iamscared.A
thousand thoughts have gone through my
mind, you old cat. That boy living opposite is
going around shooting with his air gun.
There he is, Manoli, do you see him?
There. There on the left, behind the tree ...
You with the air gun. Stop using that gun!
Iamgoingtocallthepolice.Don’thide,I
can see you. God, help you if you hit a cat.
Do you hear me? He is going, Manoli, he is
frightened. Look, here my wretched, don’t go
out because it means nothing to him to fire
one at you. Our courtyard, Manolitsi, has
seensuchthingsbefore.Listentome,Iam
telling you.
When Igoout Iamgoing tocloseyou
in, Manoli, there is no other solution, until
weseewhathappens.Itbreaksmyheartto
leave you alone, but someone must go for
shopping, otherwise both of us will die of
starvation in this house.
Takeiteasy...Stopbehavinglikethis.Is
it the smell from the carrier bag ...? Don’t
climb on the table ... I’ve told you a thou-
sandtimes.Idon’twantyoutoclimbonthe
table. Get down, back to your place. Take it
easy,Itoldyou.Sitdownletmeopenthem
first. You behave as if you hadn’t eaten for
threedays,yougreedypuss.It’sonly10:30.
Alright,keepquiet,I'llgiveyoualittlebit.
Just a little taste. I hopeyoudon’t start a
newfashion,eh!Iwillnotfeedyoueverytwo
hours;it’snogoodforyou.It’smincemeat.I
said take it easy. Here is a small piece. That’s
all. No more till one o’clock when we have
lunch, Manoli you will eat at one o’ clock.
Look what Mr. Andreas gave me today for
you.Twoporkhearts!It’sapresent!Ididn’t
pay for them. Don’t make faces, Manoli.
Whatdidyouwantmetodo,refusethem?I’ll
tell him, Manolis is an aristocrat and doesn’t
eat hearts because they are tough. Don’t you
worry;I’llcookthemforyoutilltheyaresoft.
AndwhenIcutthemintosmallpieces,you
won’t have to chew them ... my Manoli you
are old, you can’t even chew. Both of us are
getting old. The dentist has advised me to
CULTURE
182 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
havefalseteeth.Iamnotgoingtotakehis
advice,whatamIgoingtodowiththefalse
teeth?WhatIeatI’lleatwithoutteeth.How
muchtimedoIhave?
Do you know that cats live between
ten and fifteen years? If you think about
it, Manoli, you with your eleven years
must equal my own age. They even say that
somecatslivetobetwenty.Inotherwords,
Manoli, if we assume that you too will live
to be twenty, now you have reached half way.
If you were human you would be ... How
old would you be? Nearly thirty-five? Like
Manos!
No, no this is not for you. Why do you
lickyourself?Haven’tyouhadenough?Itis
forme,Iwillboilitwithsomepotatoesand
carrots.Iboughtcelery...thedress,Manoli.
We will place it on the chair ... to keep it
clean ... away from the meat.
Ifyoulike,ManoliIwillgiveyousome
ofmineforlunch.Itdoesn’tmatter;youcan
eatthemincemeattonight.Itistoomuchfor
me.Ialwaysleavesomethingintheplateno
matterhowmuchIservemyself.Howmuch
can a tiny soul like me eat? Try it. You will
likeit.WhenImashthepotatoandthecar-
rots in the meat broth, it will be very tasty.
Try something different every now and
then. You must be fed up with mince meat
all the time. Try eating vegetables sometime.
The body needs vitamins. Where do you get
yours? In themincemeat?That’swhyyou
are so fat ... You are overweight. Your feet
can’tcarryyou.Iamsureitisduetolackof
vitamins. As if that wasn’t enough, you are
shut in here all day. This immobility is bad
for you.
Manoli,onedayI’lltakeyouwithmeto
the market. You will go out, move a little, get
ridofyournumbness.ButhowamIgoingto
carryyou?Ifyouwereadog,itwouldbeeasy.
IwouldpassastraparoundyourneckandI
would pull you along. But can you imagine a
catonalead?No,itcannotbedone.IfItake
youinmyarms...itwouldbedangerous.If
someone pushes us, you will go wild. You are
not used to crowds. You will jump amongst
the cars and who will catch you then? No,
that won’t do.
Do you know what I am thinking,
Manoli?I’lltakeyouinManos’pram;Istill
haveit.Ididn’tgiveitaway.Ikeptitforthe
secondchild,Ithought.Aftermyhusband’s
death,Ididn’thavethehearttogiveitaway.
You see, in those days, it was expensive. We
wanted it to las ... he wanted lots of children.
But, Manoli, things turned out to be dif-
ferent. You don’t know these things. Even
Manos kept pestering me for a small brother.
But, how? Can it be done without a husband?
Why don’t you remarry? My mother kept
asking. She thought it was easy!
Ishouldbelucky,withsomebodyelse’s
child, the bride grooms were queuing for me.
AndthenwhatguaranteesdidIhavethatthe
oneIwastomarrywouldwantmyManos?
Would he love him? Manoli, these are diffi-
cultthings...Idon’tknow.That’sthewayI
usedtothink.That’showIdecided.Howdo
Iknow?
Manoli, he’s back again. There he is! Hey
you, have you started the hunting again?
StopusingthatgunorI'lltellyourparents,
naughty boy. Mrs. Loukia, Mrs. Loukia, con-
trol your son. He is continuously shooting at
the cat. He will kill us all. Mrs. Loukia, Mrs.
Loukia ... he’s gone.
Manoli, that’s how they were standing
behind the trees. Hiding, with guns in their
hands.I’llgotothepolicestation.Iwilltell
themtohavepity.Idon’twantthemtotell
me afterwards that they don’t have the evi-
dence. Evidence, evidence, what evidence
do you want? Must they kill in front of your
eyestogetyourevidence?Iamtellingyou.
Here they were holding me, motionless with
thegunpointedatme.Iheardhimcoming,
Itriedtocallhimbuttheyhitme.Iheard
thegunshotsandIpassedout.WhenIcame
1832 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
around,Ifoundhiminthecourtyarddead.
Theyhadgone.ButIheardthegunshots.I
heard them!
Come, now, Manoli, calm down, he’s
gone. Calm down. Come and drink some
milk, it will calm you down. At lunchtime
I’llletyougointhecourtyard.We’llbothsit
in the sun. But first let me finish the cooking.
Oneday I’ll take you for awalk. It’s a
promise.Iamsureitisn’tanygoodforyou
to be kept locked up in here ... but you see for
yourself what is happening out there. Do you
thinkIenjoygoingout?Whydowebother,
the world has changed, Manoli, it’s not like
in the old days.
Come to think of it, it’s a good idea.
I’llplaceyouinthepramandI’llpushyou
along. Iwillalsoput theshoppingbaskets
next to you, that way it saves me to carry
them.TomorrowIwillcheckitoutandclean
it.Thewheelsmightneedabitofoiling.I’ve
had so many years taken away. Thirty-six.
We bought it soon after Manos was born.
It’salaughingmatter,Manoli.Imagine
what they will be saying when they see us.
You sitting in the pram and me pushing it!
MyGod, such laughter! I hope it all ends
well! They will be looking with their mouths
open. I am sure theywill think I've gone
round the bend. But what do they know?
Itwillbefun,Manoli.I’lldoit.Aslongas
you don’t get frightened and jump out of the
pram.That’swhatIamafraidof.Thepeople
willbesayingthings...asifIcare.Anyway,
whateverIdo,theythinkofmeasmad.
Eh,Manoli,theyarestupid.Allright,I
admit, they have given me their madness, but
thedeafness,wheredidIcatchit?Andthey
talkasifIcannothearthem.YesterdayIwas
passing outside the school, Eleni was stand-
ing in her front door, you know, the one
living opposite, together with her next door
neighbor, Joanna. How are you Mrs. Maria,
how are you getting on, are you well, we don’t
seeyou...andemptytalk.AssoonasIleft,
Ionlymadeastepawayfromthem,Manoli
... and theystarted. Ipity thepoorwoman,
since her son’s death ... she hasn’t been her-
self. Her nerves have been affected. And the
other one, it’s the war Mrs. Eleni, that’s what
thewarbrings.WhatcanIsaytothem?I’ll
turn round and tell them—it’s your mind,
which is affected. You don’t understand a
thing.HowmanytimesdoIhavetotellyou?
MYSONWASNOTKILLEDATWAR.HE
NEVER WENT TO WAR. Manoli, you were
just born then, and you don’t remember all
thesethings,butIremember,Manoli.Idon’t
forget.No,Idon’t forget.Yourmindissuf-
fering. You closed your eyes and suffered an
amnesia attack.
Forget it, Mrs. ... forget it. We had a war,
an invasion! We cannot do anything about
it. We haven’t got the evidence. Which war
... which invasion ... are you talking about?
All these things happened before. All these
thingswhichIsaw ... is thisnotevidence?
Has the war done away with them?
So many people were killed during the
war. Accept that yours was lost during
the invasion. All these things which hap-
pened before are so confusing and unclear.
Whoknows the score? IKNOWthe score.
Ihaven’t lost theaccount.Theydriveyou
mad and try to confuse you! Tell me, Manoli,
is this not maddening? Tell me, Manoli. Eh,
Manolianswerme.Ionlyhaveyoutotalk
to, these days. Who else listens to me? I
can’tkeepquiet.It’slikeburyinghimfora
second time.
It is a shame,Manoli, thatyoucannot
saysomething...sothatIdon’ttalkallthe
time. But, what can you say? You didn’t
have to go through these situations. Tell me,
Manoli, you cats, do you have any problems?
I am sure you only care about your love
affairs. When you were young, you were out
all night. In themorning, you camehome
covered in blood with scratches all over. The
female cats are more difficult to say yes than
184 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
us,thewomen,Manoli.Ithinkso.Ididnot
say the yes easily to mine. He used to write
songs to cajole me. “Maria, marry me, Maria,
thereisnobetterbachelorthanme.”Imade
himsufferalotbeforeIsaid,yes.But...you
knowIlovedhim.
My Manos was seventeen years of age
when he fell in love for the first time. He used
to stand in front of the mirrors for hours,
trying to get his hair to look just right. Yes,
just like you when you lick yourself, he was
continuously using that comb. What do I
say? But, not to want to go for higher stud-
ies ... because of her ... well that is too much!
Irebelled.
Iwill stay andwork, he said, andhelp
you make it easier for me. Excuses and more
excuses. Nobody pulls wool over my eyes.
The real reason was her. He didn’t want to
leaveherbehind.HaveIeversaidtohimthat
hewasaburden?WhotoldhimthatIwas
tired?AsfarasIamconcernedhewasmy
life. To work, bring him up and help him to
study .... That’s life. And when he graduates,
yes...thenhecanwork...andIcanretire.I'll
be proud of him and admire him. Fancy that,
wanting to marry at twenty ... and what kind
ofwork?Manoli, Iwasunyieldingonthat
issue...andIwasright!Ionlygaveinonthe
question of studies. You don’t want to be a
doctor, my precious one? That’s fine by me,
go and study architecture which you like.
But study you will, end of story. And he did.
Ihavenoideaifthingscouldhavebeen
different, had I send him to study. What
couldIdo?Keephimlockedupallday,likea
prisoner?DidIbringhimuptobeanadult
and have him tight to my dresses? This is
fate, Manoli. You could also say that if he
had stayed here, he could have got married
and had his own family, he could have been
more cautious. Maybe ... his wife could have
stopped him.
DoyouthinkIsaidanylesstohim?Here,
IstoodinfrontofthisdoorandIbeggedhim.
Don’t go, son. These things are not for us.
What can you do on your own? Keep quiet
stay out of trouble. Manolis, he became very
angry. He said it's my fault he is the way he
is...whydoIwanttochangehim,now?
WhatdidIteachhim?AllIdid...was...
I...struggledallmylifeforhimandmyself.
WhendidIfindtimetoteachhimaboutjun-
tasanddemocracies?TheonlythingItold
him was to tell the difference between good
andbad.Isitnotthedutyofeverymother
to do that? To know the difference between
justandunjust?Iwantedhimtobeawhole
man. Poor me, when did I speak to him
about coups and such like?
They are murderers, mother, he said to
me.IfIstayonewayoranother,theywill
kill me. An hour after he had gone, they
rushed in here like dogs ... They kept going
away, coming back, going away and com-
ing back until they caught him. That’s how
it happened, Manoli, you were not around.
Don’t tell me that’s life and that’s how it is!
No, that’s not how it is, Manoli! You give
birth to them, you bring them up, you edu-
cate them, you marry them, they have their
own children, and then you close your eyes
content. Now that is life, Manoli. When they
kill them and you are left all alone that is
mockery, Manoli. That means that life has
cheated on you.
Theother’smotherunderstandsme.Ifeel
it, and she is afraid of me. When our roads
cross, she avoids me. She bends her head
downwards, pretending to be looking else-
where. But she understands my pain. She
sees the injustice, Manoli ... that’s why she
isafraid.SometimesIhavethefeelingthat
shehatesme.Whydoyouhateme,Mrs.?It
is not my fault if your son grew up to be a
murderer. It isnotmy fault ifyour son is
free to wander around, unpunished to this
day. What do you want of me? To go away?
To get lost? To disappear, so that you don’t
seeme?Noooo!As longas I live,youand
1852 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
yoursonwillbeseeingme.AslongasIlive,
everyday I will pass outside your house. I
will pass outside your son’s shop, stand in
front of the shop window, so that he can see
me and feel ashamed ... himself and yourself
andalltheothers.Iwillshoutloudenough
for everybody to hear me, to wake them up.
Wakeup,wakeup,theyarecomingback.I
can see themcomingback. I can see it in
his eyes, Manoli. When he comes out of his
shop’s door and he looks at me, Manoli. He
laughs mockingly, Manoli. And I blush. I
blush,feelembarrassedandIleave.Manoli,
I leave,hastily,embarrassedasifIamthe
murderer, and he is the victim.
Manoli, don’t climb on the chair. Manoli,
be careful, you will dirty my dress. Look out,
you will tear it. Now, look what you’ve done.
You pulled the thread on my dress. Your
paws destroy everything they touch. Every-
where you step, you leave stains behind. Why
are you looking at me like that? Luckily the
threadisnotcut.Iwillpullitcarefullyand
it will go back to its place. Where is the nee-
dle? Sit down and don’t you dare move. Of all
the chairs you chose that one to sit on. Where
aremyglasses?Yes,Iamangry.Whatwould
have happened if the dress was torn? Manoli,
youarenotevenallowedtomakeitdirty.If
thetrialstartssuddenly,whatdoItellthem?
I amnotattendingbecause thedress is at
the cleaners? Or do you want me to go in
black? Don’t even think about it. There, it
looks almost done. It hasn’t exactly gone
backtoitsplace.Ithasbecomemisshapen.I
will pass it through to the inside and it will
notshow.It’sgoodqualitymaterial...from
abroad. Eleven years old and it looks brand
new. Not even its color has faded.
I will wear it on your wedding, I told
him, when he brought it for me as a present
together with his graduation diploma. He
became angry!
For my wedding day I will buy you
anotherone.Youwillwearitnow.Iamfed
up looking at you in black all the time. Take
them off for goodness sake! Your whole life is
spent in black, for whom do you wear them?
Itisnotright,myson,itisnotright.It
will be strange for me to stop wearing them
sosuddenly.Igotusedtothem.Andthen
what will the people say?
Which people, mother? Why should you
favorthepeoplemorethanme?Ihaven’tgot
used to them. Iamfedupwith them.You
willwearitonSundayandgotochurchandI
want you to wear the golden broach to match
it.ItoldhimIamkeepingthatoneformy
daughter-in-law.
Your daughter-in-law has no need of
goldenbroaches.Youwillwear it. I’ll give
you till the middle of August, when it’s your
namedayaswell;otherwise Iwill start to
wear black, a tie and a black band around
my arm.
MyGod,Ifeellikelaughing.Hewantsto
start wearing mourning clothes twenty years
after thedeathofhis father. I amsurehe
would have done it. When he got an idea into
his head, he was capable of seeing it through.
Before the 15th of August, came the 15th of
July, Manoli, and the dress was never worn.
Atthefuneral,theyneverletmewearit.I
explainedtothem,IcriedandIbeggedthem.
Nothing. The neighbors brought a doctor
and he convinced me. Why was it not right?
They even gave me an injection. I wasn’t
myself. Ididn’tpleasehim,notevenathis
funeral.ItwasnoneoftheirbusinesswhatI
wore.DoyouthinkIwasgoingtowearitfor
them?That’showmysonwantedme!Itwas
his last wish. Didn’t he ask me not to wear
black?But Iwillwear itwhen I go to the
court,Manoli.Whenthecasecomesup,Iwill
wearmybrowndresswiththegoldbroach.I
willnotwearblack.Iwillbuyabrownpairof
shoesandamatchinghandbag.Manoli,I’ll
buy them from his shop. When they call me
formyevidenceatthecourt,Manoli,Iwill
gotohisshoeshop.Iwillopenthedoorand
186 Φ Ω Ν Έ Σ | V O L U M E I , N U M B E R I Ι
enter inside. He will freeze. He will lose his
speech.I’lltakeyouwithme,Manoli,soyou
can see for yourself. He never expects me to
daretocrosshisshop’sdoor.Iwillnotflinch
though.IwillgoinsideandI’lltellhim,I’d
like a pair of shoes and a handbag in brown,
sizethirty-nine.Closed.Classicstyle,I’lltell
him. Traditional.
He will bring them, Manoli and he will
bend in front of me, to help me to try them,
andIwilltellhim,Manoli,slowly,emphasiz-
ingmywordsandwithmeaning,Iwilltell
him,Ineedthemtogotothecourt.Tomor-
rowis thecase. Iwillgiveevidencetothe
court.Itisthecourtcaseformyson’smur-
der. His head will be bent forward, Manoli,
in front of my feet and he will not dare raise
his head to look at me. No, Manoli, this time
he will not dare to look at me or to laugh at
me,not even to talk tome. Iwill be look-
ing at the back of his neck, bent as it will
be, frightened. His neck will be sweating,
Manoli,andhewillbelisteningtome.Ihad
asontoo,Iwilltellhim.Ifhewerealive,he
would be your age. But they murdered him
thatmorning,I’lltellhim.Youmustremem-
ber too. That morning when the country was
full of murderers! They murdered him in my
own courtyard.
Tomorrowisthecourtcase,I’lltellhim.
TheywillbeprosecutedandIwillbeawit-
ness. Myself. Because I saw them. I saw
them. They pushed me into the corner when
I attacked them. Their leader hitmewith
thebuttofhisgun,andhe sworeatme. I
remember, I’ll tellhim,tohis face. Iknow
his identity. He was tall, dark and with a
beard.Justlikeyou.Exactlylikeyou,I’lltell
him. And he will perspire, Manoli, his nape
will perspire. His hands will be trembling.
He will be trembling, Manoli, because he will
know.ButIwillnotbefrightened,Manoli,I
willtellhim.TomorrowIwilltellhimthat
themurdererswillbepunished.AndthenI
will getup, Iwillpayhim, Iwill take the
shoesandthehandbagandIwillleave.
(She starts to take her clothes off and to wear the new dress.)
ThenextdayIwillgetdressed,justlike
Iamdoingnow,Manoli,likeIdoeveryday.
Iwilladornmyself.Iwilltaketheblackoff.
I will throw them away. I will wash and
combmyhair,likeIusedtointheolddays
whenIusedtogototheairporttowelcome
Mano.Iwillwearthebrowndressandthe
broach. Where is the broach? And the neck-
lace,Manoli?Iwillalsowearthisone.Iwill
take the handbag with me and wear the new
shoes,andthat’showIwillgo,Manoli.Lady!
Not like a miserable old woman dressed in
black.No tearson thatday,Manoli.No, I
will enter the court room with my head high
andmyshoulderssquare. Iwillkeepthem
square,Manoli.Myback is hurting, but I
will put upwith it. I don’twantpity that
day.Idon’twanttheblackclothestoinflu-
encetheirdecision.No,Iwillmoveforward,
IwillstandinfrontandIwilltalktothem.
Upright and proud, Manoli, like the lawyers
do. Without a tremor in my voice. Like this!
Iamnotaskingyoutofeelsorryforme,
yourhonors.Iamnotaskingforanybodyto
feelsorryforme.Iamaskingformyson’sfair
justice.Sothathisdeathwillhavemeaning.I
amnotaskingforrevenge,yourhonors.Iam
only asking for the punishment of my son’s
murderers.ItistheirpunishmentIamseeking,
yourhonors.ItisjusticeIamasking.Sothat
things are put ... in their right place. So that ...
Idon’tlower...I...don’tlowermyeyeswhen
Iseethem,sothateverybodyknowswhatis
right and what is wrong, so that they don’t ...
come back your honors ... So that ... they don’t
... comebackagain.That’s ...howIwill tell
them, Manoli ... So that they don’t come back
...That’showIwilltellthem,Manoli.That’s
howIwilltellthemonthatday.�
1872 0 1 4 | V O I C E S
From the Shores of the Aegean to
the Edge of the Pacific
BYILIASCHRISSOCHOIDIS
(a thick-accented voice, calm, and slow-paced “the voice of a man suffering from heart disease”)
Good evening. Can I hope someone here
remembers this man? (pause)His face perhaps? (pause)What about the eyes, those big dark spheres
that sucked in all failure and glory America
could ever offer an immigrant? (pause)
(with disappointment)Ithoughtso.Well,Idiedmanyyearsago,a
destroyed man who had been framed by his
enemies, punched by the public, and robbed of
hiswealthintheCrash.It’sfunnyhowtheend
meetsthebeginning.Istartedanobody.Don’t
evenknowwhereandwhenIwasborn.Father
said it was an island off the Greek shores. Who
can tell? Greece has so many of them. But sure,
IwasGreek.Ineverstayedanywhereforlong.
Cairo, Panama, San Francisco, Dawson City,
Seattle, LA. Always restless, always after a
new start, a better life. (pause)
(animated)AndIwasGreekbecauseofthesea.Onlythe
sea can make you dream of the absolute,
can lead you to the sky if you follow her to
theendofthehorizon.Oh,Ilovethesea,I
learnedfromthesea.Ifyousurviveherups
and downs, her murderous storms and shift-
ing currents, you are fit to conquer anything.
(proudly)ThatIdid.Ibuiltmyownshipsontheland;
theywerecalledtheaters.AndlikeNoah,I
filledthemwiththewondersoftheworld.I
sparednoeffort,noexpense.Itraveledevery-
where to find them and bring them to my
palaces. Opera singers, rope dancers, edu-
cated rats and learned monkeys, scientists,
actorsyounameit.SoIbuiltmyempire,the
greatest theater circuit west of Mississippi.
AndthatIdidallbymyself,likeatrueGreek.
(pause)
(melancholically)But time was running fast back in the twen-
ties. The flickering pictures in the dark
became more animated, more serious, more
real. People started paying attention to these
illusions and neglected my flesh-and-blood
performers. (pause)I triedhard to keepvaudeville alive, but I
could also see the end approaching. And then
came in the greedy wolves from Wall Street
ready to devour anything in LA.
(in a nasty tone)Icouldnameoneofthemifyouweren’tso
fond of his son Jack Kennedy.
CULTURE
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(increasingly irritated)They wanted it all, here and there. “Give us
your price, Pa or get outta business!” They
thought they cornered me, the sons of bitches,
butI’mthesonofUlysses!Isplitmyassets
and sold them separately so these dogs could
goonfightingwitheachother,andIcould
rebuild my empire.
And then (pause)(despondently)then everything collapsed. The Greek who
introduced the best entertainment to the West
Coast, who made Los Angeles a theatrical
Mecca had to pay for his success, his inde-
pendence, his integrity. Using the ludicrous
accusations of a silly young dancer, all my
enemies joined hands to destroy my business
andstainmyreputation.LikePrometheus,I
wasshackledandincarcerated.I’dbuiltthem
palaces;theyhousedmeinSanQuentin.It
took two years to get a retrial and clear my
name. Too late. My health was shattered, my
theaters gone, and my assets evaporated in
the Great Depression. When death came, in
1936,Iwasready.(pause)
(philosophically)TheysaidIwouldbeforgotten.Littledidthey
know of us Greeks. We belong in time, we
survive time. We are the people of memory.
Alive or dead, victorious or slaughtered, we
stand a lighthouse at the crossroads of history.
AndtheysaidIwouldneverreturnback.
(animated)ButhereIam,tonight,risingfromthemist
of obscurity to claim what is rightfully mine.
And you know it’s mine because a Greek puts
hisnamewherehisact is. IamAlexander
Pantages and you are aboard the flagship of
my empire. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome
to my home, the one and only Hollywood
Pantages! �
ALEXANDER PANTAGES
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COVER ARTIST
Alexis, aka Constantin Alexiades, was born in Piraeus. He is an architect and painter.
Alexis attended the First High School of Piraeus and graduated from the First High School of Athens (Plaka). His first painting teachers were the painters Gavrielides, Kokkinos and Joseph Chatzipavlis (his uncle, a painter and set designer). He next studied economics at the University of Athens (gradu-ated). A trip to Paris in 1973 awakened his old passions for architecture and painting. So, in 1974, he movedtoParisandbeganhisstudiesatE.N.S.B.A.(EcoleNationaleSuperieureDesBeauxArts).In1979, he received his diploma in Architecture (Architecte D.P.L.G.). While studying architecture he also attended workshops in “Arts Plastiques” (painting, sculpture) with teachers such as Carrade, March-andour, Corbato and Dalla Valee.
During his time as a student (1974-1979), he was also professionally engaged in painting (mainly water-colour paintings and pastel portraits), working at the Place du Tertre. His watercolour paintings and portraits from this period already belong to private collections across the world. He has travelled for business to Europe and America (London, Munich, Stuttgart, Ulm, Basel, Aachen, Cologne, Oslo, Chicago), which has helped him to expand his knowledge and experiences. He worked for many years (1982-1995)asaseniorexecutiveinlargeengineeringconstructioncompanies.In1995and1996heworked as an architect consultant on various projects, including establishing an Art Centre in a large municipality of Attica, Greece.
UponhisreturntoAthens,herekindledhisrelationshipwithart,andespeciallypainting.Inpaintinghe seeks new techniques and materials through an inevitably personal style, but he avoids—as much as possible—the “standardization” of expression (means–materials–mold–color). He believes that labeling art with conventional terms (–isms) is useless because the role of art in shaping the civilized man is broader and more meaningful. He respects and admires many painters from the past such as Nicolas de Stael, Paul Cezanne, Yannis Moralis, and Yannis Tsarouchis.
His work has appeared in the following galleries and shops of art in Attica, Greece: N. Rodopoulos (Gallery“Syllogi”)–Glyfada,G.&S.Kapsioti–Piraeus,A.Sazaklis(“Zygos”)–Maroussi–Pefki,F.&B.Katsikas(“Aigokeros”)–Heliopolis,S.Kavallieratou(“Oltos’)–P.FaliroandT.Kostopoulos–A. Glyfada.
Today, after an absence of several years, mainly due to his employment as an architect, he devotes him-self to painting again. With new tools provided by digital technology, Alexis focuses again on his favorite themes (mostly Greek landscapes) directly on the screen of the PC. He works mainly through his imagination or memory of the splendid landscapes of his beloved country, using a variety of digital painting software.
Artist’s Statement
“Every piece of my paintings is an original and unique work of art.
My paintings are digitally painted by me using a variety of digital design and painting software and they are unique and not a reproduction or alteration of somebody else’s work.
Iworkmainlythroughmyimagination(abstractexpressionism)ormemoryofthesplendidlandscapesofmybelovedcountry(landscapes–seascapesofimpressionistorexpressioniststyle)orsometimesIretouch digitally some of my old drawings, paintings and portraits.
For more information, please visit:
www.alexcoart.com www.facebook.com/alexidis.constantin
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CONTRIBUTORS
Katie Aliferis is a writer from San Francisco, California. Her poetry has been pub-lished in 9 Muses News, Voices of Hellenism Project: Voices (Volume I, Number I) and Velvet Revolution Reading Series. When not writing, Katie can be found reading, traveling, sipping wine, savoring artisan cheese and enjoying time with her friends and family. Follow Katie on Twitter: @KatieA_SF and visit her website: KatieAliferis.com.
Despoina Anagnostakis was born and raised on Samos, a beautiful island in the north Aegean Sea. There, right by the royal blue Aegean water, she spent a happy childhoodandteenageyears.At18,shemovedtotheU.S.,toAstoria,NewYork(aGreekcommunityinthe80s),reunitingwithherfamily,whohadearlierimmigratedthere for a better life. She holds a BA from Queens College in Linguistics, and an MA from Columbia University in TESOL (Teaching English to Students of Other Languages).ShewasanadjunctinstructorattheNewYorkInstituteofTechnology,and has been teaching English at colleges and state High Schools in Greece for about 25 years. She has been an examiner for K.P.G (State certificate for English) at all proficiency levels. She loves writing poetry, a creative engagement for self expression during the past four years. She deeply values the works of O. Elytis, G. Ritsos and K. Demoula.
Yiorgos Anagnostou is an Associate Professor in the Modern Greek Program at the Ohio State University (mgsa.org/faculty/anagnost.html). He is the author of Con-tours of White Ethnicity: Popular Ethnography and the Making of Usable Pasts in Greek America (Ohio University Press, 2009; www.ohioswallow.com/book/contours+of+white+ethnicity), and the book of poetry, Διασπορικές Διαδρομές (Απόπειρα, 2012; apopeirates.blogspot.com/2012/04/blog-post_20.html). Hemaintains the following blogs: immigrations-ethnicities-racial.blogspot.com, and diasporic-skopia.blogspot.com.
Odysseas Anninos was born in 1951 in Athens. He studied piano and advanced music theory at the National Conservatory of Athens and took painting classes at the School of Fine Arts with Professor Dimitri Hitiris. He later studied at a private schoolwhereheearnedhisdegreein1972asadesigner.In1974,hepresentedthefirstprojectsinhisgalleryinHeliopolisAttikis.In1980,hecreatedAnninoDesign,a decoration and design office, which still exists and specializes in the areas of hous-ing, food, and medical care center decoration. During the period of 2000 to 2004, he was the president of the Pan-Hellenic Association of Decorators (P.E.D) two times. HeisamemberoftheBureauofEuropeanDesignersAssociationandtheInterna-tionalFederationofInteriorArchitects/Designers.Duringthesameperiod,hewasamemberoftheselectioncommitteeforthecertificationofqualificationsofpublicIEK(education).Between2002and2003,hetaughtinteriordesignatIEKXYNI(Greekpublic schools). He has held solo painting exhibitions in Athens, Corinth, and Patras aswellasmanygroupexhibitionsthroughoutGreece.InJuneof2012,hepresentedat multiplex “Athinais,” his latest artistic creation titled, “Beekeeper of Angels” with works inspired by the films of Theodoros Angelopoulos. Having the acceptance of the Angelopoulos family, namely his daughter, Helen, the projects will be presented through educational programs in selected schools across Greece. The exhibition will certainly continue to other municipalities throughout Europe.
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Jonathan Beale’s work has appeared in Decanto, Voices of Israel in English, Pen-wood Review, Miracle Ezine, The Screech Owl, Danse Macabre, Danse Macabre du Jour, Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Poetic Diversity, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, and The English Chicago Review. His work has been commended in Decanto and Cafe Writers competitions in 2012. He writes about music, art, architecture, history, nature, science, cities, and the human condition. He currently works in mental health in South West London. He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London; he is currently working on a volume of poems to be pub-lished in 2013. He is from Middlesex England.
Annamarie Buonocore is the publisher and founding editor of Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, Φωνες, a nonprofit community literary and cultural journal with a Hellenic ethos that serves the global Hellenic community. She is also the publisher of a California wine magazine called California Vine Times, an associate editor for In Flight USA, and is in the process of writing a novel. She enjoys reading, writing, painting, and advocating for Greek Americans and those affected by the current crisis in Greece through various cultural and grassroots organizations. She can be reached at [email protected].
Ilias Chrissochoidis is a scholar, author, composer and pianist. He received a Ph.D. in MusicfromStanfordUniversity,wherehehasbeenteachingsince2005.In2010-11,he was appointed Kluge Fellow at the Library of Congress and a Fellow of the Ameri-can Council of Learned Societies. A leading expert on Handel and the Greek composer Nikos Astrinidis, he has received over 30 grants and fellowships from world-class universities and research centers, professional societies, private foundations, and the Greek state, and has published more than 50 research articles and essays. He is the author of the novella “On the Trails of the American Dream” and the composer of characterpieces, including thecollection“Hellenotropia.” In2012,he launchedacampaign to commemorate the 120th anniversary of Spyros P. Skouras’ birth and recently he edited Skouras’ memoirs and two documentary collections from his papers at Stanford. Please visit www.stanford.edu/~ichriss
Richard Clark is a writer and journalist, and is the author of three books about Greece. All three are available in paperback or in eBook format from Amazon and other major retailers. The Greek Islands – A Notebook, tinyurl.com/cv3j4jm; Crete – A Notebook, tinyurl.com/6vbdn3a; Rhodes – A Notebook, tinyurl.com/lw5abtk. You may find him on Facebook: www.facebook.com/richardclarkbooks.
Brendan Constantine is a poet based in Hollywood. His work has appeared in FIELD, Ploughshares, Rattle, ZYZZYVA, the Los Angeles Review and other jour-nals. His most recent books are Birthday Girl With Possum (2011 Write Bloody Publishing) and Calamity Joe (2012 Red Hen Press). He teaches poetry at the Wind-ward School and iws an adjunct professor at Antioch University Los Angeles. He also conducts workshops for hospitals, foster homes, and with the Alzhheimer’s Poetry Project.
Akrevoe Kondopria Emmanouilides’s work (poetry, short stories, articles) has appearedinvariousGreek-Americanpublications.Inheryouth,sheworkedasthesecretaryontheENIACprojectattheUniversityofPennsylvaniaandontheElec-tronicComputer Project at the Institute forAdvancedStudy in Princeton.BothmachineswereinstrumentalintheBirthoftheInformationAge.Shewasmarriedtothe late George Emmanouilidies and lives in a suburb of Los Angeles.
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Kimberly Cates Escamilla’s poems and essays have appeared in The Red Wheelbarrow, The Huffington Post, 5AM, and other journals. She has taught college-level writing and literature in the San Francisco Bay Area for 19 years and is the directorofTheInternationalPoetryLibraryofSanFrancisco.Shelivesonthecoastin El Granada, CA with her husband Michael and sons Harrison and Lazlo.
Fotis FotiuwasborninIstanbul(Constantinople),Turkey,andasayouthexperi-enced both wonderful and terrible times in that great city. With part of his family, he immigrated first to Belgium and, in 1962, to the United States. Foti soon joined the US Army and served as a medical specialist at Fort Sam Houston, Texas. After an honorable discharge, Foti attended Hudson Valley Community College in Troy, New York, and graduated with an AAS degree in X-Ray Technology. Following a stint at St. Peters and Child’s Hospital of Albany, New York, Foti completed his Bach-elor’s degree in Business Administration at Siena College in Loudonville, New York. To enhance his professional development, he pursued a Master’s Degree in Public Administration at State University of Albany. During his career as the Administra-tive Director of the Department of Radiology for Bassett Healthcare network, based in Cooperstown, New York, Foti completed several Continuing Medical Education (CME) programs, including one of Cornell University, sponsored by The Johnson Graduate School of Management. Foti and his wife Theresa, both now retired, have made their home in North Carolina. He is passionate in his volunteer work with The American Hellenic Educational Progressive Association (AHEPA) and with the Greek American Community in Raleigh; he enjoys researching and writing short stories and historical events. He loves music and finds time to play his guitar; he also eagerly maintains his knowledge of foreign languages, which he has learned and cultivated throughout his travels and while living in Europe.
Dan Georgakas is best known for his writing about Greek America and Greek film. He is also an active poet. Two of his poetry collections are And All Living Things Their Children, poems inspired by Native American culture, and Three Red Stars, poems related to political events. Poems with specific Greek themes were first pub-lished in the legendary Athene and The Coffeehouse. Most recently, his poems have been anthologized in Pomegranate Seeds, a selection of Greek American poetry edited by Dean Kostos.
Katherine Hastings is the author of Nighthawks (Spuyten Duyvil, 2014) and Cloud Fire (Spuyten Duyvil, 2012), as well as the chapbook Updraft (Finishing Line Press, 2010). Executive director of the non-profit WordTemple, Hastings hosts WordTemple on NPR affiliate KRCB FM, curates the WordTemple Poetry Series and WordTemple Arts&LecturesinSonomaCounty,CA,andpublishestheinvitationonlySmall Change chapbook series of WordTemple Press. Her poems have been published widely in journals and anthologies, including The Book of Forms — A Handbook of Poetics (Lewis Turco, ed., 2013); Comstock Review; Parthenon West Review and many others.
Calliope Iconomacou is a professional freelance artist from Athens, Greece. She comes from an artistic family, and graduated from Vacalo College Athens Design in 1980andAthensSuperiorSchoolofFineArtsin1986.Shehasdisplayedherartworkin a number of personal exhibitions in various galleries in Europe including: Gallery Pinelo/Istanbul,HouseofArtStavrakasPatmos,GalleryLolaNikolaou,AgathiGal-lery, Epohes Gallery, Museum of Minoritten of Graz in Austria, House of Cyprus, the Kydonieos Foundation Gallery, and the Challiot Gallery in Paris. She has also partici-pated in various group exhibitions, including one at the BP Oil Gallery in Brussels
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and another at the Goulandris Museum on the Greek island of Andros. Some of her other projects include illustrating comic books for the Olympic Truce Center and having her artwork installed in Athens metro stations. Her current project involves a series of portraits featuring women of the Greek Diaspora that tell stories of strength, beauty, and wisdom. The painting on our inside cover features a painting from this series. Her paintings are based on her personal experiences of growing up in a family with certain members who left their homeland of Greece for other lands in America and Australia. She uses her skills as a professional artist to convey the emotions many families can relate to concerning the Greek Diaspora. Most recently, her work was featuredatanexhibitioninMoscow,Russia.Inadditiontopainting,Callioperunsacoffee shop in Athens called BarOMetro with her family. They specialize in specialty coffee and various musical events. Calliope lives in a state-of-the-art modern house overlooking the Aegean in Marathon, Athens, Greece with her husband, two children, two cats, and two dogs.
Nick Johnson is a Greek American born in San Francisco, California. Nick has also lived in the Peloponnese, Elias, town of Gastouni, Greece, where he built a house and worked as a cabinetmaker. Currently, Nick lives in Pacifica, California. He is mar-ried, and has a daughter and four grandchildren. Nick has worked as a realtor since 2004 with Coldwell Banker in San Francisco, California, where he is honored as a top producer in the President’s Circle and has retained the position of number one agent since 2010. He is an accomplished agent in the sale and purchase of residential and commercial properties. Nick attends Holy Trinity Orthodox Church where he is a member of the parish council and serves as a chanter. Nick has written poetry for many years, and his first short story was published last year in Voices of Hellenism. This year he has submitted some of his poetry and hopes the readers enjoy it. You can findNickonthesocialmediasitesofFacebook,LinkedIn,andTwitter,or visit his website: www.NickKnowsRealEstate.com
Paul J. Kachoris, M.D. is a triple board certified child, adolescent, and adult psy-chiatrist in the “original” practice of psychiatry; treating the whole person with both psychotherapy for the psyche and with psychotropic medications for the brain as needed. Dr. Kachoris has been in continuous clinical psychiatric practice for forty years. During his professional career, he has had multiple clinical, educational, aca-demic and administrative positions in inpatient and outpatient psychiatric settings. Presently he is devoting himself to his outpatient psychiatric practice and pursuing his many interests in poetry, the humanities, neuroscience, man’s studies and leading men’s retreats.
Irena Karafilly is an award-winning writer, journalist, and aphorist whose prose and poetry have been published in several countries. She is the author of five books, including The Captive Sun, a historical novel set on Lesvos, published in English by Picador Australia and in Greek by Psichogios Editions (titled Η ασυμβίβαστη μούσα).FormoreaboutIrena,pleasevisitherwebsiteatwww.irenakarafilly.com.
George T. Karnezis, born and raised on Chicago’s South Side, now lives with his wife Kristine in Portland, Oregon. He attended Miami University (O.), the University of Chicago,andtheUniversityofIowa.Heisasemi-retiredteacherwhohastaughtmainly at the college level, and is currently an adjunct professor in Portland Sate Uni-versity’s English Department where he teaches courses in classical rhetorical theory and also contributes to the development of the University’s Hellenic Studies Program. This is his second published fiction, which is part of a novel in progress, Places and Moments, focusing on the lives of Greek-American characters.
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Achillea Katsorosis37yearsoldandwasborninIoannina.HehasstudiedClassical Philology in Ethnikon Kapodistriakon Panepistimion in Athens. Trackers of Winds is his first poetry collection. “Caldera’s Happiness” is his first poem in English, and it is appearing for the first time in Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, Φωνἑς.
Akos Kirschis28yearsoldandlivesinHungary.Heworksinafactorythatcreateselectronicparts forcarengines. Inhis free time,heenjoystravelling, surfingtheInternet,watchingmovies,listeningtomusic,andwritingnovels.TwoofhisbookshavebeenpublishedinHungary.In2001,thenovel,A halál ékköve (Jewel of Death)was published and in 2012, A Zeusz rejtély (The Zeus Mystery) made its debut. Since 2012, when his second novel was released, he decided to focus on creating detective stories,thrillers,andadventurestoriesthattakeplaceinGreece.Ifhecan,heusuallytravels to Greece every summer to spend a few weeks to feel the atmosphere of old myths, the incredible beauty of the landscapes, and the rich culture. This helps him gain new ideas, and he plans to continue this habit in the future.
Kathryn Koromilas is a Master of Philosophy candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Adelaide, Australia. She is writing a philosophical novel about love and betrayal and an exegesis on the creative potential of fiction as experimental philoso-phy. She is especially interested in the ethics of a novelist writing stories about her characters. Her first novel, Palimpsest, was published in 2010. For more, please visit about.me/KathrynKoromilas, and www.palimpsest-anovel.com
Dena Kouremetis, a professional freelance writer since the late ‘90s, occasionally breaks free from writing for everyone else and hones her skills telling stories about her adventures in life —especially those flavored by her Greek-American background. She is a professional blogger for Forbes.com, an author, co-author or expert consultant for five books, and speaks professionally to business groups about the importance of apolishedonlinepresence.Sheinvitesyoutovisitherwebsiteatcommunic8or.com.
Belica Antonia Kubareli (1958) studied theaterand translation inGreecewhileworkingininternationaladvertisingagenciesanddoingradioshows.Inherthirties,she moved to the UK, got a Master in sociology and a Ph.D. (Bradford-Reading) in social criminology and published the first of her 6 novels. She was writing, teaching andtranslatingincessantly(80books)untilherfiftieswhenshedidanotherM.A.increative writing at Lancaster. She writes in Greek and English and was voted the Poet of April in the English project ‘Neo-Artists’ 2013. Her work has been awarded in Greece. After 24 years abroad, she is now back home, teaching creative writing and writing poems and her seventh novel.
Eleftheria Lialios has a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology from Wayne State University and aMasterofFineArts fromSchoolof theArt InstituteofChicago.Shehasreceived a number of prestigious grants and fellowships for her artistic endeavors, includingtheIllinoisArtsCouncilFellowshipinPhotographyin2009;CityofChi-cago, Department of Cultural Affairs 2005; Arts Midwest 1990, Kodak Near-East 1987,andFulbrightScholarFullYearResearchGrant1986,justtonameafew.Shehas also been selected for several one-person exhibitions including the Cloud Walker Exhibition at Zhou B. Center in November of 2008 andMid-Career Retrospec-tiveChicagoCulturalCenter2005,Chicago,Illinois,againjusttonameacouple.Group exhibitions include “Outside America” at the Woman Made Gallery in Chi-cago, Illinoisin 2011; “Greek Photographs of the 20th Century”, 2004; Thessaloniki Museum of Photography, Greece; and “Day Without Art” at the Chicago Historical
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Society in 1992. Her films have been shown at the Collectif Jeune Cinema, La Clef, 2012, Paris, France; Gene Siskel Film Center, 2001, Chicago; and “The Future of Pro-cess and Experience”, Museum of Cinema, 2002, Thessaloniki, Greece. Her work has also been selected for various performances and publications throughout the United States and the world. She has taught at various art schools and institutions of higher learning,includingheralmamater,SchooloftheArtInstituteofChicago,whereshewasafirst-yearstudentcoordinator.ShecurrentlylivesinChicago,Illinois,whereshe continues her various art, photography, and writing projects.
Nick Mamatas is the author of several novels, including Move Under Ground, Under My Roof (a modern-dress version of The Acharnians by Aristophanes), and Love is the Law. His short fiction has appeared in many venues, ranging from New Haven Review to Asimov’s Science Fiction, and Best American Mystery Stories to Brutarian Quarterly. Except for some senryu and radical broadsides, “Landmark (After Hitch-cock)”ishisfirstpublishedpoem.AnativeNewYorkerfromtheIkarianenclaveofPort Jefferson, Nick now lives in Berkeley, California.
Vangelis Manouvelos was born in Piraeus, Greece in 1979. He currently works as a Risk Analyst at Citi, Greece. Before that, Vangelis worked in various positions, including a relationship manager in investment and commercial banking and as a merchant acquiring officer. Vangelis holds a PhD in European Policy and Economy from Panteion University of Athens (Scholar of the Greek State Scholarships Founda-tion), and three Masters Degrees, in Banking, Economic and Business Strategy, and European Administration and Policy, from the Hellenic Open University, University ofPiraeusandPanteionUniversity,respectively.HisBachelorDegreeisinInterna-tional and European Studies. He speaks Greek, English and French. Vangelis has published short stories in Greek literary magazines (Pandora, Intellectum) and has beendistinguishedinrelativecontests.“PrincessandI”wonashortstorycontestheldby the Greek newspaper To Vima on the economic crisis.
Willard Manus is a journalist, novelist and playwright who lived for many years in the village of Lindos, Rhodes, an experience he drew on in his memoir of the Greek islands, This Way to Paradise, Dancing on the Tables. Greece also serves as the back-ground for his young adult novel, A Dog Called Leka, and his most recent novel Love Under Aegean Skies (Amazon e-book). He is the publisher of the online cultural magazine, lively-arts.com. His wife Mavis is a columnist for the Greek-American newspaper, The Hellenic Journal.
Thanasis Maskaleris is the Kazantzakis Chair Research Professor emeritus of clas-sics, comparative literature, and creative writing, and the director emeritus of the Center for Modern Greek Studies at San Francisco State University. A well-known poet as well as a translator, he is the author of Kostis Palamas and the co-translator of Russia by Nikos Kazantzakis. Born in Greece, Maskaleris maintains homes there and in California.
Sharon McNeil studied Art and Theatre at Lewis and Clark College in Portland Oregon, where she spent five months in Greece studying the language and culture in Athens and on the remote island of Nisyros in the Dodecanese. This experience filled her with a love and deep connection to the country of her maternal grandparents, whichcontinuestopermeateherwork.In2010,shereturnedNisyrostocapturewitha paintbrush the beauty of this mysterious island. This work will be exhibited in June 2014inPortlandOregonattheHellenic-AmericanCulturalCenter&MuseumofOregon and SW Washington. More of Ms McNeil’s work can be seen at sharonmcneil.com and at sharonmcneil.artistwebsites.com. Ms. McNeil lives in Savannah Georgia, where she teaches at the Savannah College of Art and Design.
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Peter McNeill is primarily a landscape and figurative artist. Relying on oil paint and various drawing media, he is interested in the effects of light, shadow, and more abstract inspirations in the observable world. He lives and works in Walnut Creek, California and holds a Bachelor of Science Degree in Design from UC Davis.
Dr. Peter Nanopoulos teaches business, technology and communication at universi-ties in Silicon Valley and in Greece. He also teaches Modern Greek and New Testament Greek at Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church in San Jose, and he has served as the Director of Greek Education and Culture of the Metropolis of San Francisco.HeisthefounderofLexisInternational,acompanythatofferscertifiedEnglish <> Greek translation, document processing, and technology localization ser-vices designed to meet personal, legal, and business communication needs of Greek Americans.
Giorgos Neophytou was born in Nicosia, Cyprus. He studied Veterinary Sciences at the Karl Marx University in Leipzig where he also did postgraduate studies. He worked for 30 years at the Department of Veterinary Services in Cyprus reaching the position of the Chief Veterinary Officer. He retired 2007. He has worked in theater in1984andhasbeenamemberofvariousartsorganizations.Hehaswrittenseveralaward-winning plays that have been translated into many languages. He has also written for television in Greece. His works can be found throughout Cyprus and other countries.
Larry Odzak was born in Anchorage, Alaska, to first generation immigrant parents of Serbian and Greek origin. Christened “Lazar”—in Greek “Lazaros”—he soon became
“Larry”. After a number of years in the construction industry, he returned to school, at the University of Florida (UF), and in time completed his degree, majoring in U.S. History, with a minor in History of the Balkans. Larry’s studies concentrated on 19th and 20th century American History, and his doctoral dissertation dealt with American immigration and ethnicity. After completing his studies at UF, Dr. Odzak moved to Durham, NC. and continued his teaching, research, and writing history. Dr. Odzak’s published book, “Demetrios Is Now Jimmy:” Greek Immigrants in the Southern United States, 1895-1965 is based on his doctoral dissertation and received positive peer reviews.Inaddition,Dr.OdzakhaswrittenanumberofarticlesandessaysrelatedtoAmerican and Balkan history
Sotirios Pastakas was born in Larissa, Greece in 1954 and works as a psychiatrist in Athens. He has published twelve volumes of poetry in Greek, as well as transla-tions into Greek of Sandro Penna, Vittorio Sereni Unberto Saba, Alfonso Gatto andmanymoreItalianpoets.Forthepasttwentyyears,hehasbeenamemberofthe Society of Greek Writers, and one of 47 founding members of the World Poetry AcademymandatedbyUNESCO.HehasparticipatedintheInternationalPoetryFestival inSarajevo (2006and2011), inSanFrancisco (2007), in Izmir (2012)andmanyothers.HislastparticipationinKalamle-l-ShababInternationalPoetryFestival was in Cairo on 3-7 November 2013. His poems are thoroughly contempo-rary and provocative as expressions of the lonely rage of Modern Greek sensibility. Pastakas’ articles on poetry and prose appear widely in magazines and newspapers. He is the founder of www.poiein.gr, an international website for poets, poems and poetry (...perhaps), in 2001, and the experimental thraca-magazine.blogspot.com in 2013.
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Steve Pastis has written for the Valley Voice, Greek Accent, Custom Boat & Engine, Baseball Cards,Circus, Rock Fever, Mensa Bulletin, Kings County Farm Bureau Update, South Valley Networking, The Pop Art Times, Parenting Magazine, Car-toonist and Comic Artist, and Cool and Strange Music. His short stories have been published in Signs of Life and Gargoyle.In1979,hefoundedThe Hellenic Calendar, the longest running Greek-American newspaper in Southern California. He is cur-rently an editor with the Valley Voice.
Harry Mark Petrakis has written 25 books that include novels, short stories and essays. He has twice been nominated for the National Book Award in Fiction. The excerpt “Courtship” will appear in a new memoir, Song of my Life, which will be published by the University of South Carolina Press in the Spring of 2014.
Andrea Potos is the author of four poetry collections, including We Lit the Lamps Ourselves (Salmon Poetry) and Yaya’s Cloth(IrisPress),bothofwhichwonOutstand-ing Achievement Awards in Poetry from the Wisconsin Library Association. Her poems appear widely in journals, magazines and anthologies, in print and online. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin with her family. They are planning a return trip to Greece very soon.
Mary Pruitt holds a BS in Math and MS in Electrical Engineering (EE/CS). She worked in the computer industry for 34 years, starting as a programmer, manual writer, and field analyst then evolving to director of graphics hardware and software.She spent 14 years at Xerox Corporation, and then moved to San Antonio Texas to Datapoint Corporation before returning to TRW in Southern California for 10 years.AfterretiringfromtheIndustry,shelecturedattheUniversityofSouthernCalifornia(USC)for10yearsintheInformationTechnologydepartment.Growingup in the computer business was fun and enriching. As a volunteer, she chaired the Salvation Army Advisory Board in Redondo Beach, CA; was a docent at the Music Center in Los Angeles (president from 2007-2009) and volunteered in the library and information desk at Little Company of Mary Hospital for 10 years. She is a member of the Daughters of Penelope, holding many offices in her chapter, has been Lieutenant Governor of the district, chair of the national budget committee and was the Web Master for District 20’s website. Mary currently volunteers in the Education Division of the Music Center of Los Angeles and at St. Katherine Greek Orthodox Church in Sunday school and Greek school. Working with young people brings a smile to her heart. Mary has traveled the world, visiting every continent and many countries. Her love of travel supplements her love for learning. Mary is married to Tom Pruitt and lives in Manhattan Beach, CA.
Stephanie Quinn has a list of professional credits that spans many pages. She is a free-lance soloist, an ensemble leader and maintains Quinn Music Studio.As a con-servatory trained (Eastman School of Music) teacher she is in demand as a private instructor, and a member of Music Teachers National Association and Suzuki Asso-ciation of the Americas. Her experiences in the Middle East, combined with recording her compositions in the King Chamber of Egypt’s Great Pyramid, inspired her 17 minute orchestral and ballet composition entitled “Saqqara’s Story – Peace Dance of the Ages”. Ms. Quinn’s deepest longing is to see it produced on stage, as it offers hope and expresses humanity’s longing to progress in the evolution from living in instinctual fear to living in harmony and balance with others. Ms. Quinn has been writing her memoires, a group of vignettes, consisting of over 200 pages so far. For more, please visit www.StephanieQuinn.com
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Angelos Sakkis was born in 1946 in Pireus, Greece. He studied design at the Athens TechnologicalInstitute.HeworkedforatimeasanassistanttothepainterSpyrosVassiliou, and collected the material for Fota kai Skies (Lights and Shadows), a volume on Vassiliou’s work, published in Athens in 1969. He immigrated to the U.S.in1970.HeholdsaBFAfromtheSanFranciscoArtInstitute.Hisartworkhasbeen shown in group and one-man shows and is in collections in Greece and the U. S. His poetry has appeared in the Ambush Review and Try Magazine. He has been translating with John Sakkis, the work of poet/multimedia artist Demosthenes Agra-fiotis. Their translation of “Maribor” was published by Post Apollo Press in 2010 and received the 2011 Northern California Book Award for Poetry in Translation. Their translation of “Chinese Notebook” was published by Ugly Duckling Press in 2011, and “Now 1/3” and “the poem” by Blaze Vox in 2012. His translation of “When Snow Fell on the Lemon Tree Blossoms” by Leonidas Petrakis was published by Pella in 2012. His poetry collections Memory-of and Fictional Character were published by Zarax Books in 2012. He lives in Oakland, California.
Christine Salboudis lives in New York, where she recently established her own professional development mentoring initiative, Philo4Thought, having served as an instructor, mentor and administrator in several higher education institutions since 1996 after completing studies in Philosophy and in Literature at Columbia University. When she is not teaching, grant writing, or tending to her mentoring and administrative responsibilities, Christine actively contributes to several philan-thropic and cultural organizations with family and friends. She also loves learning and sharing new information on philosophy, art, music and literature. For additional information about Christine’s interests, please visit Philo4Thought: philoforthought.wordpress.com.
Irene Vasiliki Sardanis has a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology from the California School of Professional Psychology. She was born in New York, and both of her parents camefromGreece.Irenehasbeenwritingpersonalessaysforthepastseveralyears.She has been published in The Psychotherapy Networker, The Sun Magazine, local senior anthologies, and The Daily Planet. During the week, she volunteers at a local Senior Center where she sings jazz standards. She has been married for 25 years to her extraordinary husband and lives in Oakland, California.
Phyllis “Kiki” Sembos was born in Hell’s Kitchen during the Great Depression to Greek American parents. The neighborhood and the neighbors, including the old Madison Square Garden, fired her imagination and provided a colorful childhood filled with a cast of unforgettable characters. She started writing at the age of fifteen and has been prolific ever since. Her careers have spanned many areas including seamstress, bookkeeper, cook, artist, wife, mother and writer. Having traveled and lived in Europe, she currently resides with her husband and cat in suburban New Jersey, where writing, painting, gardening and grandchildren take up most of her time. Currently, her articles are featured in a weekly column in the Greek American newspaper, The National Herald.
Lee Slominsky has published two collections of poems about the life of Pythagoras, Pythagoras in Love (Orchises Press, 2007) and Logician of the Wind, (Orchises Press, 2012). Lee’s poems have appeared in Atlanta Review, California Quarterly, The Carolina Quarterly, Measure, The New York Times, North Dakota Quarterly, Poetry Daily, and Valparaiso Poetry Review, and his work has received seven Push-cart nominations. Lee has read his poetry on Katherine Hastings’ (KRCB, Santa Rosa CA) and Jack Foley’s (KPFA, Berkeley CA) radio programs. He is a financial manager as well as a poetry teacher (his New York City workshop is called “Walking with the Sonnet”).
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Anastasia Soundiadi is a teacher-translator born in South Africa, living and working in Greece. She is a graduate of English Literature from the American College of Greece and has an M.A. in Comparative Literature and Literary Translation from the University of Essex, UK. Anastasia has extensive experience teaching English, writing and literature. Her love for poetry inspired her to translate a number of poems as well as short stories and plays in both English and Greek. She has also narrated various documentaries and cultural events for television and radio. She enjoys theater and film, drawing, music, sports, photography, yoga and travelling. Throughout her professional career, Ms. Soundiadi has shown ardent devotion to her students and writes with an intensity of spirit and love.
Marika Symenidou has a Bachelor of Arts in Education from the University of Patras, a post graduate diploma in psychology from the University of Surrey, and a MastersofArtsinChildDevelopmentfromtheUniversityofLondon,InstituteEdu-cation. She has been working for the Ministry of Education and Religious Education since 2004 and before that, held various positions in special education and rehabilita-tion. She speaks Greek, English, and French and has attended various seminars on education throughout Greece and Europe. She is a founding member of the National Association of Teachers, Parents and Friends of People With High Learning Skills and a member of the British Psychological Association. She has published a poetry collection as well as a collection of short stories. She currently lives in Athens with her husband and two children.
John Basil VlahoswasborninSanFrancisco,Californiain1935.Inadditiontobeing a lawyer, a steward of the church, and a scholar, he enjoys the study of Hellenic art, history, literature, and archaeology—from ancient times through Byzantine and Modern Greek eras. He earned his B.A. and teacher’s credential at the University of San Francisco, then continued his education at USF’s Law School, earning his J.D. in 1969. John was a member of the Cathedral of the Annunciation, San Francisco, for18years.Heheldthepositionsofpresidentoftheparishcouncilandchairmanofthefoodfestival.In1994,hemovedandbecameamemberofSaintNicholasChurch,San Jose. He was a member of the Archdiocesan Council for several years as well as a Member of the Diocesan Council for 15 years, and served as legal counselor for the diocese for 20 years. He has been a Member of the Board of Directors of St. Nicholas Ranch for the last 20 years and spent one year as its president. He studied Homeric Greek at Stanford University and is author of the article, “Homer’s Odyssey: The Case for Early Recognition”. He has done substantial research on the history of Greeks in San Francisco and has edited several biographies of prominent Greek immigrants. He actively sings in the St. Nicholas Church choir and lives in Cupertino with his family.
Stavroula Zervoulakou is currently an MBA graduate student at the University of La Verne in Los Angeles. Originally from Greece, she graduated from University of Piraeus at the top of her class. She is currently a student worker in the business department at the University of La Verne and has held various accounting jobs in the US and Greece. She is fluent in Greek, English, and German and has many talents including music and poetry. She recently published a book of Greek poetry titled, StarringtheLife,whichherpoem,“Moires”isexcerptedfrom.Inhersparetime,sheenjoys swimming and other water sports.
Friends of Nikos KazantzakisSAN FRANCISCO BAY AREA CHAPTER
On October 26, 2013, the 56th anniversary of Kazantzakis’ death, a group of friends, responding to the call of Professor Thanasis Maskaleris, met at the home of Angelos and Anna Sakkis in Oakland to launch the San Francisco Bay Area Chapter of The Friends of Nikos Kazantzakis.
Professor Maskaleris, in a brief presentation, gave an account of the history and goals of the inter-national organization, now having branches in more than 130 countries. The group then proceeded to vote/establish the Chapter and its officers—then discussed/planned future meetings/activities. The first meeting, on a date to be announced, will be devoted to a discussion of Report to Greco.
THE FOUNDING MEMBERS, PRESENT AT THE MEETING, WERE:
Andrew BanisAnnamarie BuoncoreElena DadiTatiana DrakakiJanine EconomidesNicholas EconomidesDr. Alexandros KokkinidisEftychiaKokkinidisGeorge KonstantopoulosCatherine Kanakis-Koplos (secretary) Katerina KotronakisNikos KyrpidesThanasis Maskaleris (elected president)Nico NicolaidesNickolas PanopoulosAlex PapalexopoulosAngelos Sakkis (elected vice-president)Anna Sakkis
“The work of Kazantzakis is a unique gateway to the riches of Hellenism, the culture of Crete and of the humanistic spirit.”
Thanasis Maskaleris
Woman From Macedonia by Calliope Iconomacou
Copyright © 2013 by Voices of Hellenism Publications
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“Greece offers you something harder— the discovery of yourself...”
Lawrence Durrell