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

USD$14.00 ‖ CAD$15.00 ₤10.00 ‖ ₠14.00 ‖ AUS$18.00

“Greece offers you something harder— the discovery of yourself...”

Lawrence Durrell

Woman From Macedonia by Calliope Iconomacou

Copyright © 2013 by Voices of Hellenism Publications

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, includ-ing photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Rights will revert back to the authors after publication. Permission to use individual works should be obtained by contacting the respected authors. For requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

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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


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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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,

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Translation Board Angelos Sakkis, Peter Nanopoulos,

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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 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


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


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 …


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.


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.


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!


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 ...


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.

252 0 1 4 | V O I C E S

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.


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


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.


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.


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.

332 0 1 4 | V O I C E S

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]


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


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


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.

412 0 1 4 | V O I C E S

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


“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


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.”


“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


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


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.


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


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


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?”


“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!”


“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.


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.


“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


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


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.”


“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


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-


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


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


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

FICTION


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.”


“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

FICTION


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


“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


“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


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.


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


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


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,


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.


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


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


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.


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,



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


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


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



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


“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


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



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,



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! �

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


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.


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.”


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).


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.


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.


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-



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.


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. �

1572 0 1 4 | V O I C E S

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,



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



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


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.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


(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

1892 0 1 4 | V O I C E S

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


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.


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.


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.


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


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