Fortune Favors the Bold : A Woman’s Odyssey through a Turbulent Century 9783838271972

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Theodore Modis

Fortune Favors the Bold A Woman’s Odyssey through a Turbulent Century

Cover photo: Theodosia photographed by Giorgos Th. Modis in 1930. The picture won him first prize in a photo contest

Theodore Modis

FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD A Woman’s Odyssey through a Turbulent Century

ibidem-Verlag Stuttgart

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data are available in the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de.

∞ Gedruckt auf alterungsbeständigem, säurefreien Papier Printed on acid-free paper ISBN-13: 978-3-8382-7197-2 © ibidem-Verlag

Stuttgart 2018 Alle Rechte vorbehalten Das Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist ohne Zustimmung des Verlages unzulässig und strafbar. Dies gilt insbesondere für Vervielfältigungen, Übersetzungen, Mikroverfilmungen und elektronische Speicherformen sowie die Einspeicherung und Verarbeitung in elektronischen Systemen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

To the memories of Theodosia, Giorgos, Paraskevi, and Theodoros

The Prefecture of Florina before WWII. Only places mentioned in the text are shown on the map.

The Modis genealogical tree showing only personalities mentioned in the text. The dotted line indicates second marriage. Siblings are not listed chronologically.

Theodosia’s genealogical tree showing only personalities mentioned in the text. The dotted lines indicate second marriages, the intermittent line cousins. Siblings are not listed chronologically.

CONTENTS Instead of a Prologue ............................................................................... 11  Part One.................................................................................................... 17  1 Constantinople 1921 ............................................................................................. 19  2 A Quarantine Camp ............................................................................................ 33  3 Theodoros Modis ................................................................................................... 41  4 Paraskevi .............................................................................................................. 51  5 A Teachers College Academy................................................................................. 59  Part Two ...................................................................................................69  6 Florina 1926–1927 ............................................................................................. 71  7 Heart beneath a Rock ........................................................................................... 83  8 A Two-Sister Show ............................................................................................... 95  9 The Disgrace ....................................................................................................... 107  10 Georgios Papandreou ......................................................................................... 119  11 Further Education 1931–1933 ........................................................................ 125  12 The Engagement ............................................................................................... 139  13 Kleisoura........................................................................................................... 149  14 The Wedding .................................................................................................... 155  15 Giorgos Th. Modis ............................................................................................ 163  16 The House on Captain Modis Street.................................................................. 173  Part Three ............................................................................................... 183  17 The War—Early Years ................................................................................... 185  18 Aglaïa .............................................................................................................. 201  19 The Imprisonment ............................................................................................. 215  20 The Separation.................................................................................................. 229  21 The German Occupation ................................................................................... 239  22 The Liberation of Thessaloniki .......................................................................... 253  23 The Communists in Florina .............................................................................. 265  24 The Years of the Greek Civil War .................................................................... 277 

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25 A Damned Nameday ....................................................................................... 289  Part Four ................................................................................................ 299  26 Boulis ............................................................................................................... 301  27 The Stefanakises ............................................................................................... 317  28 The Early 1950s .............................................................................................. 325  29 Anatolia College ............................................................................................... 335  30 A Promising Writer .......................................................................................... 347  31 Thessaloniki 1958–1962 ................................................................................. 353  Epilogue ................................................................................................. 367  A Note from the Author..........................................................................401  Bibliography .......................................................................................... 403  Acknowledgements ............................................................................... 405  Notes ...................................................................................................... 406 

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INSTEAD OF A PROLOGUE Monastiri’s Great Patriot

At dusk two young men appeared under the trees of Monastiri’s main street called Fardy meaning wide in Greek. They directed themselves to the large hospital building making their way through the thick crowd by pushing people with their elbows. They were two eighteen-year olds with ruddy faces: tall, robust, and with wide shoulders. Sadness in their faces darkened their handsome features. Silently they approached the hospital’s iron gate, forcefully displacing bystanders with their strong arms. The white building behind the gate stood majestic with all its windows lit. Many people were annoyed; the more warm-blooded were ready for a fight. But as soon as they recognized the lads they stood aside and looked at them sympathetically. “Make room,” shouted the burly gatekeeper, letting the lads walk toward the white building. The two men climbed the marble stair steps two at a time, quickly traversed the corridor, and began climbing the stairs to the first floor. At the top a male nurse blocked their way. “Can we see him?” they asked softly. He took a good look at them and without saying anything he made a gesture inviting them to follow him. They went down a corridor and the nurse stopped in front of a door. “Go in,” he said with a soft voice as he quietly opened the righthand flap of the door. The two lads hesitated; they took a quick look inside the ward. A man was lying on the only bed in the room. There were two or three women around him and as many men stood quietly at the corners. They approached the bed, tiptoeing. The man in the bed, covered up to his chin with a white sheet, was handsome but pale, his face contracted by pain. A young woman was sitting on a chair next to him holding his hand in her two hands. Distress was spread all over her beautiful face. No one spoke. Everyone’s gaze was on the man lying there. 11

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He half-opened his eyes and, seeing the two young men, made an atempt to sit up but fell back on his pillow groaning with pain. “Mr. Theodoros,” said one lad, “we came to see how your wound is.” “How can it be, sonny?” he replied in a weak voice. “The doctors say it is not too serious,” said the other lad. “And if it is serious? So what? Long live the Fatherland!” The first lad came closer to the face of the wounded man and whispered in his ear, “You know, Mr. Theodoros, I’ve taken your blood back. I killed Giofko.” He took his bandaged right hand out of his pocket. The wounded man started at this news. His eyes opened wide. His contracted-by-pain features relaxed. The news calmed his pained face. But he said nothing. He gently pulled his hand from the young woman’s hands, caressed the lad’s wounded hand and held it for a moment. He then pulled his hand back, closed his eyes, covered himself well with the sheet and turned his head toward the wall. The two lads retired with tears in their eyes. They went out in the corridor, silently climbed down the stairs, and walked out into the street. People again stood aside for them to pass. They disappeared into the dim, silent town. That night, thousands of Monastiri inhabitants gathered outside the hospital anxiously waiting to find out about the state of their wounded compatriot. The Greek town of Monastiri, capital of northwestern Macedonia during the Turkish occupation, was distressed that gloomy evening. Something like a nightmare, a menace, a shadow of death spread over the rooftops, tormenting human souls. In the afternoon of that tragic day, chief merchant Theodoros Modis, Monastiri’s prime notable and pride of Hellenism in Western Macedonia, had been shot in his store by three Bulgarian terrorists. The bullet hit his chest, wounding him mortally. While he was now struggling between life and death on his hospital bed, thousands of his compatriots gathered outside the imposing building—also a product of the Greek community that flourished in the north—agonizing over his critical condition and spontaneously alternating curses with anathemas: “Curses on the cowards … Anathema on the murderers …”

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Modis had been sitting at his desk doing accounts that day. Around noon he suddenly heard someone calling him: “Mr. Theodoros, Mr. Theodoros …” Three strangers were standing at the entrance of his store. He got up, “What do you …?” He didn’t get a chance to finish his phrase. One of them pulled out a gun and shot him. Immediately, the three men ran away. He tried to stay upright but didn’t make it. He felt a pain in his chest. People from the nearby stores emerged, frightened, and ran toward him. Voices of despair were heard everywhere, “They hit Modis, they hit Modis.” A crowd gathered in front of the store. At that moment an eighteenyear old man who had heard the shots came running as fast as he could talking to himself, “Why did I listen to him? Why did I listen to him?” He saw the wounded man. There was blood on his chest. He looked right and left at the people who crowded around him with interest and agony. He didn’t talk; he sighed, and with his glance thanked the crowd for its sympathy and compassion. He couldn’t stand the pain. He dropped his head, bit his lips, and walked away off the main road into a side street. He didn’t walk straight and had no specific goal in mind. People followed the stretcher with the wounded man to the hospital where all the doctors of Monastiri were called in to save their great compatriot. The young man walked aimlessly, with his head down, his hands in his coat pockets. “Stefos, where are you going?” He started as if woken up from a dream. The other one came closer. Stefos’s body language told him that something grave had taken place. “Did something happen, Stefos?” “They got him,” he uttered through his clenched teeth and tears appeared in his big blue eyes. The other one jumped. “No! Where, when, how? The cowards …” He dropped his head on his chest with desolation. “Take his blood back … Right now … Is the only way I’ll find peace,” said Stefos and bit his lips in order not to cry. The two friends walked into a cobblestone alley. Stefos recounted the details to his friend.

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“It was a mistake to have listened to him. When we guarded him nothing happened. We stayed away from him for two days and there was a catastrophe.” “We should hit a big one of theirs as big as possible in order for me to feel relieved. And right away! Otherwise I’ll go nuts.” “Giofko, the merchant,” said the other, following a short reflection. “And we hit him with a knife in the open, so they know that Greeks fight bravely,” said a fierce Stefos. “Let’s go to Naoumi to plan it out.” At the end of the alley they entered another little street that led to a small kafenio (coffee shop where only men went). The few customers were all talking about Modis. The sad news had spread like lightning throughout Monastiri. The two young men sat down in a remote corner. “We can wait for him when he comes out of his store.” “But where shall we wait for him? He may go left towards the market or he may go right towards the upper quarters.” “We man both sides,” said Stefos. “I’ll take the direction towards the market and you the upward direction. One of us will be lucky.” “His servants may try to interfere.” “Pakias, if they see a weapon, they’ll chicken out,” said Stefos with confidence. “And then we’ll help each other.” Talking in soft voices, the two lads mapped out the details of their course of action. Night was falling. The little servant pulled down the store’s front shutters and inserted the padlock. The owner locked it with a key on a chain hanging from his belt and the four of them went on their way. Giofko was wearing a blue felt cape over his large brown shirt, tightened around his waist with a red band. On each side he had one of his two tall and beefy servants. The little servant followed behind them like a dog. “I have something to do in the market,” said the boss and they took the downward direction, chatting. A little further, and suddenly a young man popped up in front of them as if he had sprouted from the ground. Giofko stopped, puzzled. His servants stopped too. “Why, you bastard, did you have Modis shot?” asked the young man dryly.

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“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he replied in a loud voice. “You leave me alone now … You hear?” he added raising his voice. “Don’t you shout at me, you son of a bitch,” said Stefos and pulling a knife from his pocket hit him hard at his belly. The Bulgarian stepped back, put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a gun. Stefos’s knife had landed on Giofko’s gun, got bent and cut his palm without hurting Giofko, who now was raising his gun. But Stefos jumped closer and before the other one had a chance to shoot he stabbed him again. “This one is for Modis,” he cried with rage. This time he didn’t miss. The knife struck deep in Giofko’s belly. He crumbled on the cobbled road. His servants were about to attack, but at that moment Pakias arrived, running and wielding a knife in his enormous hand. The servants and the curious passersby dispersed at the sight of the two knives. “Run!” said Pakias to his friend and they ran uphill as fast as they could. They turned on the first side road and finished on Fardy, which led to the Greek hospital. “Now pretend you are ignorant,” Pakias said again and the two of them walked indifferently. They came across a Turkish patrol. “Hide the knife,” whispered Pakias, but it had gotten bent and wouldn’t enter its receptacle. Stefos hurriedly shoved his bloody hand with the knife in the pocket of his coat. The blood soaked his clothes and began dripping outside his pocket. The patrol went by them; the kids rushed to enter the Greek quarters. They knocked on a house door down the street. “Tie something around my hand so it stops bleeding,” said Stefos, “I just stabbed Giofko, the Bulgarian chief merchant.” “Ah! The vermin!” said men and women in the house with one voice, “To vindicate Modis’s blood!” They quickly took care of the wounded hand. “Come and hide now in our hiding place.” “There is no need,” said Stefos. “Nobody recognized us. We’ll go out in the open.” They went out to the neighbor’s yard through a portopoula, a small inconspicuous door permitting the passage between neighboring houses unnoticed. From portopoula to portopoula they emerged one block away.

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“Let’s go change and then to the hospital,” said Stefos, “to see Mr. Theodoros and tell him the news …” “And we know nothing, you understand? No matter what happens, we know nothing …” They agreed where and when to meet again in order to go to the hospital and then separated, each walking to his home at a fast pace. The Turkish patrol directed itself toward the market. They heard voices and ran. There was a man stabbed in the middle of the road. “It was a young man who stabbed him, a big one,” said the servants. “Plus another one, just as big who came to help him.” “Vai! Vai!” said the captain, “they must be the two big guys we saw earlier.” He turned around with two of his men and ran toward the Greek quarters. They walked slowly from house to house. They noticed the blood on the pavement in front of the house where the kids had taken refuge. The Turks knocked on the door. “Where are the two tall kids that came in here?” they asked dryly. The landlord objected, “No tall kids have come to this house.” The Turks searched everywhere but found nothing. They shook their heads, “One can’t make heads or tails of these Giaourides” (derogatory way to refer to Christians). A little later Stefos and Pakias all dressed up walked to the hospital to see the wounded man. Stefos kept his hands in the pockets of his new coat. In a few minutes his wounded hand would receive the caress and the blessing of the great patriot who was lingering between life and death for his country’s sake. Modis passed away on his hospital bed that night. From the moment Stefos whispered in his ear that he had gotten back his blood by killing chief Bulgarian Giofko, he had become peaceful and stopped moaning. After the lads were gone he took the hands of his beautiful modest wife in his hands, already becoming cold by approaching death. He spoke his last words with a soft voice, “I did my duty. Our country, our nation will prevail. When the nation’s survival is at stake, the lives of its fighters aren’t worth much.” She was weeping. “Be brave … Don’t give our enemies that pleasure …” He turned again toward the wall and he was gone.1

PART ONE Growing up in a Turbulent World “… suffering and disappointments and melancholy are there not to vex us or cheapen us or deprive us of our dignity but to mature and transfigure us.” ―HERMANN HESSE Peter Camenzind

1 Constantinople 1921

Night falls early in winter and Aunt Marika was stingy with oil lamps. Theodosia had reading to do for her homework, but there were no more candles. She had used the last one yesterday. She was thirteen, had just entered parthenagogio (girls’ high school), and took her education seriously. Being the oldest among two brothers and two sisters who had lost both their parents, she felt a responsibility that gave her strength. In any case, she was driven by her nature toward studying. She was proud to attend such a good Greek school as the Ioakimio Parthenagogio. But Aunt Marika couldn’t have cared less about her education. In fact, she would have preferred that Theodosia stay home and do housework for the rest of her life. Theodosia put on her coat and boots in preparation for another clandestine outing. She reminded herself to watch out for the iron spikes of the window lattice so that she wouldn’t hurt her leg again while climbing out. An ugly scar on her leg from that wound was still sensitive. It was to remain visible for the rest of her life, testifying to that painful experience. The church of St. Vlacherna was not far away. Serving the large Greek community of Constantinople, it remained open at all times. One of the oldest and most celebrated Greek Orthodox churches— founded in 450 AD—it was home to an icon of the Virgin Mary credited with many miracles over the centuries. When Theodosia entered the church, there was no one in sight. The dim lighting came only from burning candles and oil lanterns hanging from the roof. She crossed herself and then kissed the icon of the Virgin. She said in a soft audible voice, “Holy Mary, please forgive me. I need these candles for my studying,” and took five thin candles from the tray without leaving 19

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any money. She didn’t feel guilty for doing so. She was sure that the Virgin understood and didn’t mind. Theodosia’s life had taken a dramatic downturn in only a few years. Theodosia lived in the Greek part of the city in Xyloporta (Lontza), in a white two-story house hidden among acacias, across the street from St. Dimitrios Church, next to the elementary school. Her father, Apostolos Panagiotidis, had come to Constantinople, from Tyroloi, some 70 kilometers west of Constantinople as a poor young orphan to find work. He had managed well, becoming a butcher, and eventually opened his own shop. Later, he brought his brother Spyros and his young sister Xanthipi to the city. The three siblings lived in the Aivan Sarai neighborhood, not far from Xyloporta. Their father had instructed them to give their mother’s name, Theodosia, who died giving birth to Xanthipi, to the first girl to be born. Apostolos’s first girl was born on May 13, 1908 and was named Theodosia. His wife, Korasia, was from the village of Bogazkoy, a short distance north of the city. She was sixth in line in a family featuring seven daughters and two sons. Her father, Athanasios Kouroukafas— Theodosia’s grandfather—was an exceptional, self-motivated, and selfmade man. He provided well for his family. The villagers used to say in admiration, “Kouroufas’s house door opened and seven dowries came out.” Providing a dowry—indispensable for a girl to get married— amounted to a heavy financial burden at that time. The festivities for each wedding lasted three days, with continuous music, dancing, and feasting. Zoi—Kouroukafas’s wife—used to take her shoes off so that they wouldn’t get worn out by the endless dancing. She sang well and had so much energy that people said she’d never die. But in fact, she died young. Theodosia never met her, but Granddad told her that she looked like Zoi. Kouroukafas had two houses on the village’s central street, one old and one new, facing each other, with a well in the middle of the yard. The old house was where he was born. The new one was where he married and had his nine children. His name, appropriately, meant “willful” in Turkish and he enjoyed the villagers’ widespread respect. There was a limerick-type of saying in the village, kai tou Kouroukafa to aggoni ehei dontia kai dangoni, meaning, “Even Kouroukafas’s grandchild has teeth and bites.” Kouroukafas was tall and imposing. He had acquired hands-on experience and maturity in doing business. When he wanted to hire labor,

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he invited the person for lunch, during which his only interest was how fast the candidate ate. If they took too long to eat, they wouldn’t be good for the job. He traveled extensively abroad—Russia, Bulgaria, France, many other countries—and learned not only many languages but also the tricks of the trade in livestock dealing. Whenever he returned to his village, he always brought with him herds of animals. He became the most important livestock dealer in the region and brought prosperity to the whole village. Everyone loved him. But his favorite person was Korasia, his slender, curly-haired blond daughter with green eyes who so reminded him of his wife, Zoi. His attachment to Korasia was not only because of her looks, however. She was also the most sensible, most reliable, and most trustworthy of all his children. He eventually brought Korasia to the city and got her married to Apostolos, who was handsome, smart, and good natured. The idyllic family in the white house across from St. Dimitrios Church grew rapidly. Their names, like those of most kids from Greek families under the Turkish occupation, had roots in ancient Greece. Following Theodosia, Eythyvoulos (called Voulis for short) was born in 1910, Androniki (called Niki for short) in 1912, and Tilemachos in 1914. The parents were rather religious. The priests and even the bishop would often visit the welcoming white house for coffee and drinks after church on Sunday. The two younger kids went to the school in the neighborhood. The two older kids, Theodosia and Voulis, went to school in the Fanari neighborhood at the heart of Constantinople’s Greek sector. There were no buses. In good weather, the kids walked to school, but in the winter they took the boat, using a carnet of tickets. The boats stopped frequently on the many docks of the Keratios Gulf (Golden Horn); their schools were only three boat stops away. Theodosia went to Ioakimio Parthenagogio, founded by Patriarch Ioakim III in 1882. It was situated across the grounds of the Fanari Greek Orthodox College, known in Greek as Megali tou Genous Scholi (the Great National School), the oldest surviving and most prestigious Greek Orthodox school in Constantinople. Both institutions were on top of a hill, and to access them one had to climb up many stairs. In the winter, when it snowed, Theodosia froze her hands trying to hold on to the iron railing while climbing the stairs. Ioakimio admitted girl students at all levels of education, even forming schoolteachers, an idea already in the back of Theodosia’s mind.

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Her brother Voulis, less skilled with letters, went to the Maraslio Elementary School, not far from the patriarchate. However, he never went beyond the fifth grade of elementary school. In the middle of the fifth grade, he got so upset at his teacher who “corrected” him for mispronouncing the French word jardin that he dropped out of school for good. His father tried to recycle him into a chanter at the Greek Church because Voulis was good at singing. That is how Voulis learned the many ecclesiastical chants that he often sang at home later in his life. Theodosia was happy at school. The kids studied history, mythology, songs, and dances, all in Greek. They would even make up their own little poems, humorous or ironic: Mud, dogs, coolies These three entities Are Constantinople’s Principal amenities

Life went on happily for a while at the white house amidst the acacias, with the small garden in the back and its damson tree. The festive part of the day was father’s return home in the evening. The kids would listen for his footsteps in the distance on the cobbled road and would jump at the front door to welcome him with joyful shouts and embraces. Uncle Spyros liked Theodosia. He endearingly called her Mosquito. One time, when he went back to Tyroloi, he took six-year-old Theodosia with him to show her his village and its small, round lake. It was a fun trip, her first time on a train. “You’ve got a baby sea here,” she remarked at the sight of the lake. Summers were particularly memorable for the children. Granddad brought everybody to beautiful Bogazkoy for the entire summer vacation. He loaded all the children on his carriage drawn by two horses. He put blankets down and spread a tent over a frame made of bamboo to make shade. The trip took more than two hours and the children played and sang all the way. The village was built at the foot of the hill on top of which was the little church of St. Paraskevi. A big river traversed the village with rows of cherry trees on its banks. The youngsters played in that beautiful setting, dipping their feet in the river. They went up to St. Paraskevi just to see the spectacular view from above. Theodosia had a long hair braid down to her waist attached by a wide-ribbon bow. She loved to sing. Manos, a little older than her, son of a priest, also came to Bogazkoy

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for the summer. He had a guitar and tried to accompany her. He had a child’s crush on her. On top of it all, Granddad spoiled the kids with treats, such as hard sugar candy in the form of small tetrahedrons called akide. Summer vacations always seemed too short. Aunt Xanthipi was pretty, and was being trained to become a seamstress. In her early twenties, she had fallen in love with a man who had left to study in Europe and was dragging his feet about returning. This situation annoyed many people but mostly her brother Spyros, who was in his late thirties. According to tradition, he was not allowed to marry before his sister got married. In addition Spyros had a disability. Due to a hunting accident his head leaned to one side, his left hand wouldn’t grasp well, and there was a limp to his gait. These impediments, coupled with his growing age, would make it difficult for him to find a wife. Pressure was exerted on Xanthipi to give up on her romantic scholar who was procrastinating in Europe giving no signs of life, but she resisted. Eventually, though, the pressure and the passage of time convinced Xanthipi to abandon hope that her absent love would return, and, at an advanced age—over thirty!—she reluctantly married Stratos, a flour merchant from Bogazkoy (Granddad was again instrumental in finding a good husband for Xanthipi). Soon afterward there was an arranged marriage between Spyros and Marika, who was too old to have children. Life between Greeks and Turks in Constantinople went along a well-established bitter-sweet modus vivendi, resulting from centuries of relatively peaceful coexistence. Apostolos had a Turkish neighbor who was his friend. One night Turkish burglars wanted to break into Apostolos’s home. While they were trying to force his front door Apostolos cried for help toward his friend’s house. The neighbor came out, quickly understood what was happening, and shouted threats at the burglars in Turkish. The burglars fled, realizing that this was not simply a Greek home but that there were Turks involved. On other occasions, however, Apostolos wasn’t as fortunate. More than once he was mugged on the streets by the so-called gettes (muggers). They took his watch, his wedding ring, his money, etc. Such muggings were not indiscriminant; they were aimed mainly at Christians. Voulis used to play on the street with other kids, Greek and Turkish alike. Whenever there was a fight between kids, the policeman or other Turkish mediator would ask for the kids’ names and then proceed to punish the kid with a Greek name, irrespective of who was right or wrong.

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But then came the war and things changed decisively for the worse. One Sunday morning—on August 2, 1914—the bells of St. Dimitrios Church across the street from Theodosia’s house did not ring. Bells not ringing when they were supposed to was just as worrisome a sign as bells ringing when they were not supposed to. Everyone in the neighborhood ran out in the streets to find out what had happened. Turkey had declared a general mobilization in preparation for the Great War (World War I). This was bad news for all young men, particularly the Christians. Before they knew it, Theodosia’s father was kissing everyone goodbye and promising to return home safely. From that day onward fear and isolation reigned every night. People stayed indoors after dusk and the street lanterns were not lit. The pehtsis (night watchman) did not make his customary rounds, stopping in front of their door to loudly count the hours by pounding his rattan on the flagstone-paved sidewalk. The only activity was from the occasional fire fighters, running barefoot and shouting yangin var, meaning “there is fire”. Korasia had to go open her husband’s store early every morning, because if the store remained closed the Turks would confiscate it. Schools were closed and the four kids were left alone, staying home with the help of their Aunt Xanthipi. Those were dark days. They all stayed home with their doors locked. The children went to bed even before dusk. As time went by, things got worse. The Turks began knocking at the doors of Christian homes asking for money and food. If they did not get it, they threatened death. Uncle Spyros’s disability meant that he was not drafted. He decided to take everyone into his home. Aunt Xanthipi helped pack the children’s clothes and they moved. The white house became deserted. At Uncle Spyros’s home there were now several people and the kids opened up, talking and playing again. This was a new lifestyle for them, which nevertheless became progressively harsher as the weeks and months went by. Their mother kept working, trying to make ends meet. But the daily commute by boat to the commercial part of the city where the store was, the fatigue, and above all the epidemic took their toll. One morning, following a night with high fever, she could not go to the store. The doctor was called and he diagnosed eruptive typhus. She was urgently taken to the hospital of infectious diseases, not to the hospital where Greeks generally went. In the absence of antibiotics the mortality rate from eruptive typhus was quite high, particularly for people with a nervous nature like

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Korasia’s. Theodosia went to inquire about her mother at the hospital but the guard at the gate, who didn’t speak Greek, refused to let the eight-year-old in. Like most Greek kids in Constantinople she spoke practically no Turkish. She asked for her mother by her name. “Korasia Panagiotidou! Korasia Kouroukafas!” she kept shouting both names not knowing whether her mother had been checked in with her maiden name or not. All she got for response was something that sounded like an order, tumba la bassa. She didn’t know what that meant or even what language it was in. But it soon became clear to her that her mother had died in the hospital. She was twenty-nine. Wailing and lamentation resounded for days in Uncle Spyros’s home but also in Bogazkoy. Over a one-month period, Notable Thanas Tsorbatzis—as they called Athanasios Kouroukafas in the village—lost a total of four children to the eruptive-typhus epidemic: three daughters and one son, including his favorite daughter Korasia. A state of permanent mourning spread throughout the family. People did not talk in the house. There was just a continuous sound of dreary crying. Theodosia’s father Apostolos was in the war and did not find out that his wife had died until a month later. He was eventually given a few-days’ leave to attend his wife’s forty-day memorial service. He found out that his children, aged 2 to 8, had been distributed among aunts and uncles. Theodosia and Voulis were with Uncle Spyros and Aunt Marika while Niki and Tilemachos were at the village with Granddad and Aunt Xanthipi, who had no children of her own yet. She was a joyful, loving person and offered all her love and youth to the kids, who felt as if they had a family again. Tilemachos called ‘Mom’. In the years that followed, Xanthipi had three successive pregnancies at Bogazkoy. In each case the baby died within days of birth. In each case Theodosia, even though she was only a child, was asked to baptize the baby before it died. All she had to do was to hold the baby while the priest quickly performed the sacrament so that the baby did not die without being baptized. But later, in Greece, Xanthipi had two more children, Giorgos and Barbara, who lived. Apostolos came back when the war ended in 1918 to reconstitute his family. He needed someone at home to look after the kids while he managed the store. He rushed into another marriage, again with the help of the family patriarch, Granddad Kouroukafas, who found Kleanthi for Apostolos, a pretty young woman from a good family in Bogazkoy.

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But in addition to good looks Kleanthi had demands. Four children were too many for her and residence in the area close to the store—the house at Xyloporta had been given up after Korasia’s death—was not suitable for her because it was a Turkish neighborhood. So Apostolos had to find a new residence in the chic Galatas neighborhood where the new couple moved with only two children, Voulis and Niki. Theodosia remained with Uncle Spyros and Aunt Marika, and Tilemachos with Aunt Xanthipi in Bogazkoy. The new home at Galatas had a panoramic view of the bay. Whenever Kleanthi’s little nephew, Spyros Arvanitakis, visited them he’d exclaim, “Aunt Kleanthi, I love sitting on your balcony watching the boats in the sea!” The new wife Kleanthi had no malice, but housework and looking after two young children were not her strong points, not to mention her tendency to spend money beyond the family’s means. Things deteriorated rapidly. The children were not being looked after correctly and the house finances crumbled. Within two years Apostolos had become demoralized and desperate. One morning they found him hanging from a rope in his own store. He left behind him four orphans and many debts. Kleanthi could not cope with the situation; she dropped Niki and Voulis at Aunt Marika’s and went back to her village. Because of the debts the Turkish authorities proceeded with a property seizure, which in this case did not mean much more than butcherstore equipment and tools. But for that to take place the closest family members needed to be present. When the bailiff with his team arrived at the store they saw the four children, ages 7 to 13, lined up in front of the counter. “Who are they?” he inquired. “They are the deceased’s closest relatives, his children. Their mother died five years ago,” was the answer. He took a second look at the drawn faces of the children, then turned around and said, “There will be no property seizure here today,” and walked away. Theodosia was marked by her father’s death even more so than by her mother’s despite the fact that she had hardly lived with him during the last seven years. She suppressed that suicide in her mind. She avoided the subject with her younger brothers and sister, and never talked about it to anyone else. Niki pleaded with Granddad to go to the village with him because Aunt Marika “beats me too often,” she complained. So only Voulis and Theodosia remained at Aunt Marika’s. It was understood that the boy

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would help at Uncle Spyros’s grocery store and the girl … well she could be of help in the house. Uncle Spyros was nice to Theodosia but Aunt Marika was harsh with her. She made her do much housework. Every morning before leaving for school, Theodosia had to make sure that all the galoshes and the glasses of the petrol lamps were shining clean. Also, the copper knob at the end of the stairs’ handrail should be shinning. The girl was not even being nourished adequately, despite the fact that Granddad paid Aunt Marika eleven Turkish lire every month for the kids’ keep. Theodosia often blunted her hunger with lebleblia (roasted chick peas sold in the streets as condiments), stragalia in Greek. They were fun to eat on the boat whenever crossing the Keratios Gulf, but she also ate them in the mornings instead of breakfast while going to school. As a consequence she often had outbursts of adenopathy. She quickly became more and more independent even though she was only a young teenager. It was clear to her that she could count only on herself. It wasn’t just the sudden misfortunes that had fallen upon her family. There was uncertainty everywhere. The Great War had subsided on the international scene, but Turkey had remained entangled in warfare, particularly with Greece. The Ottoman Empire was rapidly disintegrating. The Balkan countries had managed to get rid of Turkish rule and the Greeks were advancing against the Turks on two fronts: eastern Thrace and Smyrna in Asia Minor. The Turks became hostile and aggressive against all minorities within their territory and particularly against the Greeks. One morning the joyful bells of St. Vlacherna woke up everyone very early. Uncle Spyros’s house was built next to the southern entrance of St. Vlacherna Church by the dock. The transportation boats with the big white wheel on their side that ran along Keratios Gulf stopped there. At the sound of the bells all Greeks came out onto the streets. The rejoicing rumors were that a great allied army with many ships had arrived in Constantinople and that the Greek army had reached the Patriarchy. A crowd debarked from the transportation boat and headed uphill toward St. Vlacherna Church, chanting the sacred Akathist Hymn. They were thanking the Virgin Mary for the realization of the four-century-old dream of liberation from the Turks. Little did they know that the rumors consisted mostly of exaggerations. The Greek army had indeed reached the outskirts of Constantinople, but the foreign powers occupying the city never allowed it to get into

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the city. On the other hand, the advances of the Greek army in Asia Minor toward Ankara led to a final defeat, followed by what has remained in Greek history as the Great Catastrophe: a Turkish retaliation and relentless persecution of all Greeks in Turkish territory. A massive, disorderly exodus of Greeks toward Greece began and was largely completed in a haphazard way by the time a population exchange became official with the signing of the Peace Treaty VI of Lausanne in January of 1923. The treaty exempted Greek residents of Constantinople, considered as établis, meaning they did not have to leave the country. When Granddad visited the house of Aunt Marika bringing food supplies and fabric (Aunt Marika was also a seamstress), Theodosia found the opportunity to talk to him about how unhappy she was there, how she had hurt her leg so badly trying to climb out the window and had been taken to the hospital. Granddad was particularly sensitive to what his beloved daughter’s daughter had to say. He used to call her Korasi, which was a cross between her mother’s name Korasia and the Greek word for girl, koritsi. He decided to take her with him to Bogazkoy. It would be better for everyone. In any case, life at the village remained relatively calm compared with life in the city in those days. But at the same time he instructed Aunt Marika to make dresses, jackets, and aprons for the girls. He also bought shoes and other articles the kids needed. He said that they should be preparing for the day when they would leave for Greece. He himself did not qualify as établis and so he had to go. He intended to take the girls, Theodosia and Niki, with him. Voulis could stay in Constantinople helping Uncle Spyros at the grocery store, and Tilemachos would stay at the village with Aunt Xanthipi, who had practically adopted him. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

The Ottoman Empire had its zenith during the 16th century. Its territorial expansion extended up to Vienna, a city the Turks put under siege more than once. But their failure to conquer Vienna marked the beginning of their decline, which continued at a slow, steady rate during the following centuries due to mismanagement and obsolete arms and warfare tactics. The Ottomans gradually fell behind the Europeans in military technology, with the Empire’s forceful expansion becoming stifled by growing religious and intellectual conservatism. For example, an artillery school was established in 1734 to teach Western-style artillery methods,

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but the Islamic clergy successfully objected on religious grounds. Soon states under Turkish occupation began staging effective revolutions. The great powers had traditionally been on the side of Greece as a means of containing the Ottoman Empire. In 1821, the Greeks declared war on the Sultan once again. This time their revolution succeeded and created the Modern Greek state. It began in the Peloponnese and during the following one hundred years expanded northward liberating Thessaly, Epirus, Macedonia, and Western Thrace. On the other hand, the Christian population of the Ottoman Empire, thanks to higher educational levels, pulled ahead of the Muslim majority, leading to much resentment on the part of the latter. In 1911, of the 654 wholesale companies in Constantinople, ethnic Greeks owned 528. The Ottoman Empire lost the Balkan Wars (1912–13) and with it its Balkan territories except Eastern Thrace. The Ottomans entered World War I on the side of the Central Powers (Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Bulgaria). Greece was neutral in the beginning because Greece’s King Constantine was the brother-inlaw of Kaiser Wilhelm II, then emperor of Germany. But after King Constantine abdicated from the throne in June 1917, Greece officially declared war against the Central Powers and raised ten divisions for the Allied effort, alongside the Royal Hellenic Navy. The war ended officially when the Allied Powers defeated the Central Powers and the Ottoman Empire in 1918. The occupation of Constantinople by British, French, and Italian forces, and the subsequent partitioning of the Ottoman Empire, followed. Under the terms of the Treaty of Sèvres, signed on August 10, 1920, spelled out the partitioning of the Ottoman Empire stipulating among other things that the Greeks were to keep Eastern Thrace, practically reaching the outskirts of Constantinople, and a large area in Asia Minor around Izmir, the cosmopolitan city rivaling Constantinople in importance. But the Greeks were not to enter Constantinople under Allied occupation at the time. The Greeks complied, not daring to go against the will of the powers. It is not clear what would have happened had the Greeks advanced to the city because the Allied forces consisted mainly of boats in the harbor without a significant number of troops. On the Turkish side revolutionaries rebelled against the partitioning of the Ottoman Empire by the Allies. The establishment of an alliance of Turkish revolutionaries during the partitioning of the Ottoman Empire resulted in the declaration of the Republic of Turkey and the abolition of the Ottoman Sultanate. The whole process is attributed to Mustafa Kemal, an army officer, reformist statesman, and the first President of

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Turkey. Born in Thessaloniki he later got the surname, Atatürk (meaning “Father of the Turks”). After the Allied forces occupied Constantinople, Ankara became the new capital of Turkey. The nationalists announced the formation of a government in Ankara, which appointed Mustafa Kemal as the commander in chief. By June 1921, the Greek army in Anatolia had advanced to the River Sakarya (Sangarios in Greek), less than 100 km west of Ankara. The advance of the Greek Army faced fierce resistance, which culminated in a 21-day battle (23 August–13 September 1921). The sound of cannons could be heard as far as Ankara. The fierce battle exhausted the two sides to such an extent that they were both ready to withdraw, but the Greeks withdrew first. That was the furthest in Anatolia the Greeks advanced. The Greek defeat can be partly attributed to a lack of Allied support (the British hated King Constantine for his pro-German policies during WWI.) By contrast, the Kemalist Turks enjoyed Soviet support. The Turks also received significant military assistance from Italy and France, who sided with the Kemalist against Greece, which was generally seen as a British ally. The Italians used their base in Antalya to arm and train Turkish troops to assist the Kemalists against the Greeks. However, the main reason for the Greek defeat was poor strategic and operational planning. Although the Greek army was not lacking in men, courage, or enthusiasm, it was lacking in nearly everything else. The poor Greek economy could not sustain long-term mobilization, and had been stretched beyond its limits. Very soon, the Greek army exceeded the limits of its logistic structure and had no way of retaining such a large territory under constant attacks by regular and irregular Turkish troops fighting in their homeland. In March 1922 the Allies proposed an armistice, but Kemal, feeling that he now had the strategic advantage, declined any settlement while the Greeks remained in Anatolia and intensified his efforts to reorganize the Turkish military. A final offensive against the Greeks was launched on August 26. The defeat of the Greeks at the Battle of Dumlupinar near Afyon on August 30, 1922 opened the road to a disorderly retreat of the Greek army and a rapid advance of the Turkish army to Smyrna, where they burned and pillaged the Greek and Armenian quarters. Following the fall of Smyrna to Turkish hands, atrocities and a massacre of a significant part of the Christian population took place. The Greeks were literally pushed into the sea. They sought refuge in Greek

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and Allied ships, which were passively witnessing the catastrophe taking place on shore. The revenge of the Turks was not limited to the area of Smyrna. The entire land under Turkish rule saw persecution of the Greeks and other minorities. Greeks fled the country seeking refuge in Greece. A convention concerning the exchange of Greek and Turkish populations— Lausanne Peace Treaty VI—was signed in Lausanne on January 30, 1923 by the governments of Greece and Turkey (it became part of the final Peace Treaty signed on July 24, 1923). It included a population exchange between Greece and Turkey that based upon religious identity, and involved the Greek Orthodox citizens of Turkey and the Muslim citizens of Greece. It was the biggest compulsory population exchange ever, involving approximately two million people (1.5 million Anatolian Greeks and 500,000 Muslims in Greece). The treaty excluded the Greek inhabitants of Constantinople and the Moslem inhabitants of Western Thrace, who were considered established (établis). But by January 1923, the vast majority of Asia Minor Greeks persecuted by the Turks had already fled to Greece. The actual signing of the treaty came more like a confirmation of the act. Meanwhile in Greece, a revolution broke out against a series of shortlived governments responsible for and incapable of dealing with the crisis. The Revolutionary Committee that took power brought those responsible for the catastrophe to trial in a court martial. They were eight individuals: three ex-prime ministers, one field marshal, one viceadmiral, one vice-general, a defense minister, and a finance minister. The indictment resembled a revolutionary document and was thought to be composed by Giorgos Papandreou, political advisor to the revolution and a rising star of Venizelos’s Liberal Party. In this document there was a chapter that disqualified the accused from the right to appeal. Six of the eight were found guilty and were executed the same day.

There is an intriguing story around the rare and highly criticized relationships that from time to time developed between Greek and Turkish men and women. A young lady from a very good Greek family in Monastiri ran away with a Turkish army officer. There followed protests by the town’s Greek authorities, the Metropolite, guilds and associations. Even the foreign ambassadors were involved, who exerted special influence because “European reforms” had begun in Macedonia. The Turkish “Inspector General of the Region at Large” and effective regent, Hilmi Pacha, ordered the immediate accompanied removal of that bothersome officer to Thessaloniki. The young lady was delivered

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to her family unscathed, as people said. That officer answered to the name of Mustafa Kemal. Had his involvement with the Greek lady not been cut short like this, conceivably a different evolution of history could have ensued in Turkey, Greece, and the Middle East.

2 A Quarantine Camp

When Granddad visited Aunt Marika and the kids in Constantinople he also left instructions on how to make “the safe.” That’s what he called a piece of sturdy white cloth with two strong cords. With this material Aunt Marika made a large wide belt to be worn next to the skin. It began at Theodosia’s waist and covered her belly, the cords tying at the back. Inside this belt she put the British gold sovereigns Granddad gave her and sewed around each one of them individually so that they did not move. He somehow felt that it was safer for a fifteen-year-old girl to carry the valuables rather than an older man like himself. Besides, Theodosia inspired him with confidence in the same way her mother had. Her mother had been the only one of his nine children he trusted with serious responsibility. The preparations for the one-way trip lasted a long time. Then came the day when the crier—responsible for informing the public—cried out loudly at the corner of each square the precise date and time Greeks had to show up at the dock of St. Stephan where they would embark on the big boats that would bring them to Greece. The girls, Theodosia and Niki, said goodbye to their aunts and uncles and with tears in their eyes kissed little brother Tilemachos who wanted to go with them. On the St. Stephan dock there was an immense crowd. People and animals were all waiting together. When a trumpet sounded everyone was quiet. On every ship ladder stood a sailor calling out the numbers people were holding in their hand. Granddad was going first and the two girls followed. They boarded and directed themselves at the stern of the boat. They settled at a corner of the deck that was covered with 33

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sails and cords. Granddad asked for an easy chair and lay down. He was quiet and seemed very tired. A family with two girls around ten and twelve came and sat close to them. The wife, Mrs. Eleni, seemed intelligent and kind. She watched Granddad as he breathed heavily. When an attendant went by she called to him, “Bring this man a glass of water. He is not well, and if there is a doctor on the boat, ask him to come and check him out.” Soon the captain of the boat came with a doctor who examined Granddad. They immediately ordered for him to be carried off the boat without his luggage. They didn’t want to risk taking any chances keeping a person with an infectious illness on a crowded boat. The two girls hardly realized what was happening. But when they saw their grandfather being carried away they wanted to go with him. No way! They had been registered onboard and had to remain on the boat. They both began crying. They were inconsolable. On top of having lost their parents they were now also abruptly separated from their caring grandfather and under turbulent circumstances. Where were they going all alone? What was going to happen to them? Crying continuously the two girls embraced each other inside Granddad’s easy chair and eventually fell asleep. They were awakened by the boat’s three loud whistles as it sailed out of the Golden Horn Bay heading first for the sea of Marmara and then for the Aegean toward Thessaloniki, Greece. On this late August day the sea was calm, the sky was clear and the sun’s heat was rather mellow. People said that dolphins were sighted jumping out of the waters in front of the boat but Niki and Theodosia did not move. They just sat there rather numb staring blankly at the sky watching the seagulls trailing the ship. They did not know what lay ahead for them or what could they hope for. Mrs. Eleni and her family remained nearby, watching over them sympathetically. She and her husband tried to be of help. They kept telling the two girls that everything was going to be all right, carefully concealing their own worries about the future. Theodosia thought that God must have sent these nice people to them and that God would also look after them in the future. A reassuring feeling of hope came over her. It was morning when they arrived at Thermaïkos Bay. The boat whistled again three times as it entered the port. It docked at Karabournaki in Aretsou. Getting off the boat Niki walked ahead with the other two girls. Theodosia followed with Mrs. Eleni whose husband

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took care also of Granddad’s luggage. The crowd was made to walk about a kilometer to a quarantine camp outside the town in Kalamaria where there was a large fenced off area with big and small tents. A big tent with four camp beds was allocated to Mrs. Eleni and her family. A small one with two beds and blankets was given to Theodosia and her sister. They dropped their belongings in the tent, but they couldn’t go in themselves before decontamination. Everyone was given a bar of green soap with potash and was made to wait in line for the showers, one line for the men and boys, another for women and girls. A woman with scissors went around cutting long hair for fear of lice. Theodosia, always holding Niki by the hand, saw with horror her braid disappear in a big metal garbage can. She had been proud of that braid, long to her waist, with its large bow. But her consternation was blunted by a more urgent worry: “the safe” around her waist. She was terrified at the thought of people finding out about it. Far at the front of the line she saw women stripping down naked, dumping all their clothes in baskets for the disinfecting ovens before entering the showers area. She looked around like a trapped animal. The line moved slowly and there wasn’t much discipline. Small kids ran around pushing and pulling on the cords that were supposed to keep people in line. By the time the two sisters got closer to the showers the sun had gone down. Theodosia whispered to Niki in her ear, “You go ahead and take a shower. Here, take our soap. I will meet you in our tent. You know where it is.” She then looked around to make sure no officials were watching, ducked under the cord, and ran behind the makeshift shower facilities and all the way to her tent. No one took notice of her in the general chaos that reigned everywhere. Niki returned to the tent much later. She had to wait naked in the cold together with the other women for their clothes to come back from the disinfecting ovens. Life at the camp was military style. There were common meals and lots of regulations. There was a curfew at night and in any case no one was to leave the camp at any time without permission. Soon Theodosia began thinking about the future. The quarantine period was forty days but those who had nowhere to go would have to remain in the camp afterward too. That was a miserable prospect. There were thousands of people there with many young men and women of her age. But she didn’t find anyone actively doing anything, not even thinking about his or her future. Her old vision of becoming a teacher came to her aid. If

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she could only get into a school to become a teacher, she’d get out of the camp and at the same time she’d ensure a future for herself. But how should she go about it? She went to the camp office and asked to speak with the person who was in charge. This was Miss Aggelidou, who fortuitously turned out to be a teacher herself and was very understanding. She told Theodosia that in order to become a teacher she needed to attend an academy (a teachers college) and that there was a good one in Thessaloniki run by Mr. Karachristos. “You must first wait until the quarantine period is over and then you should go to Thessaloniki and find this academy. It is centrally located close to St. Sophia Street,” she told her. Theodosia couldn’t wait. It was mid-September and she knew that school would soon begin. She explored the campsite and realized that it wouldn’t be difficult to sneak out. And so she did. One day she told Niki not to worry because she would come back soon. She secretly left the camp and began walking toward the big city, Thessaloniki. It took her almost two hours to walk the eight kilometers to the city. When she reached the city center and St. Sophia Church she began asking people whether they knew of an academy close by. She found herself at the doorsteps of a dancing school that had the words Dance Academy on its entrance. The next time she asked for directions she specified, “an academy for school teachers, please.” This way she eventually found the right establishment and asked to see the director. Mr. Karachristos was a middle-aged man, tall, thin, with curly hair. He was from Epirus, the arid northwestern mountainous part of Greece. He was honest and straightforward but had become embittered after he formally proposed to a pretty but considerably younger teacher working for him and got rejected. It was rumored that he had remarked afterward with sarcastic indignation, “I tried to pick up a straw and got tapped on my fingers.” He left Greece and went to Germany for postgraduate studies. When he came back he had a German wife. Karachristos listened to Theodosia’s story and appreciated her desire to become a schoolteacher. But she had no papers or school diplomas. He gave her an application form to fill out. “Will my application be accepted?” she asked shyly. “Come tomorrow in the morning to meet the professors who will give you a placement exam.” “We are in quarantine and I am not sure I’ll be able to get out and make it on time,” she dared say.

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“I’ll give you this note. Maybe they will show some understanding,” he said and scribbled something on official stationary and stamped it. That evening the long way back to the camp seemed much easier. Hope and excitement gave her energy and courage. At the camp she went straight to Miss Aggelidou, told her of the meeting with Karachristos and gave her his note. Miss Aggelidou was impressed. Far from reprimanding Theodosia for sneaking out of the camp, she was almost proud that her advice to this young girl had turned out to be so effective and straightway gave Theodosia official permission to leave the camp the next day for her appointment. Theodosia was very thankful. The next day Niki did not feel well and would not let her sister go. Theodosia managed to reassure her that she would soon be back and once again took the long walk to Thessaloniki. But the professors at the academy were faced with a problem. Theodosia had no papers, no way to prove her age, and no evidence of having attended a Greek school. On the other hand she manifested an ardent desire to become a schoolteacher. Breaking all the rules the professors decided to place the girl on the basis of only one composition. They asked her to write a few pages on a topic of her choice. She did not search long for a topic. She began her composition by describing the bells ringing at the St. Vlacherna Church near her home in Constantinople. She finished it with the quarantine camp at Kalamaria. She spared no details. When the professors read her composition they had tears in their eyes. She was admitted into the last year of high school—two years above where she would have been had she stayed in Constantinople—to continue afterward as a student toward a teacher’s degree. The only remaining problem was that Theodosia needed a place in the boarding school, which was full. She pleaded with the director of the boarding school, Mrs. Stella Petyhaki, a respected and benevolent lady whose office was inside the boarding-school building. She also asked for help from Miss Marika Synapidou, the director of the Model Primary School where future teachers did their practice; she too had her room inside the boardingschool building. Both ladies were confident that something would be arranged by the time Theodosia was ready to move into the boarding school, which in any case should be as soon as possible. Theodosia, thinking mostly of her sister, asked for a week’s time to get ready. The long walk back to the camp was less euphoric than it should have been. She was preoccupied with Niki. Not only was Niki sick but also there was nowhere she could go and the prospect of her staying

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alone in the camp was simply unacceptable. Something for her had to be found within a week! Niki was anxiously waiting for her sister in bed in the tent. When Theodosia finally arrived she felt better and got out of bed. Her temperature didn’t seem high. Mrs. Eleni made chicken soup and asked the two girls to come and eat with them. Fall showers had begun and everything was very damp in the tents. The night was calm and in the morning Niki felt better, but by the following evening she had a serious fever. The next morning Theodosia went to Miss Aggelidou again who brought in the doctor. He diagnosed double pleurisy and gave orders for Niki to be taken to a hospital in Thessaloniki. Theodosia went with her. At the hospital something unexpected happened that solved their problems ex machina deus! They found themselves in front of the family doctor they had in Constantinople, who recognized them. He had made the trip from Constantinople to Thessaloniki ahead of them. He examined Niki and said that she should be able to recover with no problems. He arranged for the girl to be moved into one of the better rooms. Theodosia thanked him and asked him if it was possible that they keep her sister there until some other arrangement was found for her. The doctor understood, “Don’t worry,” he told her, “we’ll keep Niki here for at least a month.” Relieved with the thought that her sister was in good hands, Theodosia felt free to attend to other matters. In the back of her mind she still had Granddad. What ever had happened to him? And then she remembered that he had said something about a close friend he had in Thessaloniki. He had told her that across the street from the White Tower—landmark and symbol of the city—there was a series of shacks selling all sorts of products and hidden amongst them was this dairy called “The Beauty” because a beautiful lady ran it. Granddad had said that the lady was a relative of Kleanthi’s and that Theodosia could go to her in case of need. Theodosia undertook another long walk to Thessaloniki. By now her shoes were falling apart, with holes getting so big that her socks were also getting worn out, exposing her feet. She managed to find the dairy. The lady owner was indeed beautiful. When Theodosia told her that she was a granddaughter of Athanasios Kouroukafas the lady took her in her arms lovingly. The first thing Theodosia wanted to know was news about Granddad.

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“He is well,” was the answer, “in fact he will soon be coming to Greece himself.” Mrs. “Beauty” and her husband George Bili, offered Theodosia dinner, and gave her provisions and some Greek money because all she had were some useless Turkish banknotes. They were happy to hear that she’d entered the Teachers Academy. “It’ll make your granddad happy,” they assured her. She bid them goodbye and walked away, pleased to have had a small taste of family. It was her last night in the quarantine tent. The next day she went around thanking and saying goodbye to everyone. She invited Miss Aggelidou to come and visit her at the boarding school and undertook one more endless walk to Thessaloniki. She arrived at the boarding school exhausted in the evening and went straight to the boardingschool director. “I am sorry that I do not have a place ready for you,” said Mrs. Petyhaki. “We will find something tomorrow. Tonight you can sleep in the teaching-aids room,” she added and led Theodosia to a room full of various items whose utility was not obvious. Among them was a human skeleton hanging upright. They brought her a camp bed, covers, and a small petrol lamp. That night Theodosia did not sleep much. Spending the night in the same room with a skeleton was creepy. She tried to think of all the nice things that had happened over the last couple of days and avoided looking at the skeleton hanging not far from her. But the skeleton exerted an eerie attraction and whenever her glance fell on its dark empty eye sockets and long hands with the bones glowing in the dark, cold chills ran through her body. In the morning she felt sick to her stomach and had rashes on her skin. Very early in the morning Mrs. Petyhaki called for her and told her that she could move in right away with Miss Marika Synapidou who had volunteered for this arrangement. “But first you must pass by the office of Mr. Karachristos and settle your dues,” she added. Theodosia tried to tell her about her trip from Constantinople and in particular about the belt with gold coins that she was wearing, which had to come out because it was hurting her skin by now. “Do not talk to me about these things; talk to Mr. Karachristos,” was Petyhaki’s answer. Mr. Karachristos listened very carefully to what Theodosia had to say about “the safe” and her granddad. He took the belt with the

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golden coins, put it in a real safe and told her, “When your granddad comes to Thessaloniki I want to see him. Let me know when he arrives.” Theodosia went to her room and found Marika there who, despite the difference in age and rank, said that she was glad to become roommates with her. There wasn’t much time to chat. Marika left some instructions and ran off to work. Theodosia too had to rush and show up in her class. She was late. She waited outside the classroom for the bell to ring before knocking and entering. Some thirty girls wearing full-body aprons stared at the newcomer as she entered. It was customary for students to wear full-body aprons at school. Theodosia had brought hers from Ioakimio but was not wearing it because she had not got around to ironing it. The teacher introduced her to the class. One girl raised her hand and said that there was an empty seat at her desk (these were two-seat desks). Theodosia took it and began making friends with the girl whose name was Maria Kontostathi. The school had day students and boarders. Kontostathi also lived in the boarding school. Theodosia and Maria could thus be together both at school and in the dormitories. They soon became good friends.

3 Theodoros Modis

Monastiri 1907. Giorgos had climbed up the berry tree. Their house in Monastiri with its enormous garden had many fruit trees but this one was his favorite. It was a tree with many branches, easy to climb even for a fiveyear-old, and the mature black berries were sweet with tiny inoffensive seeds. But it was late afternoon and it wasn’t safe for Giorgos to stay outside the house much longer, not even in their own garden. He came down the tree and headed for the house. The numerous trees formed a woods and the honeysuckle sprawling over the house walls concealed the house’s silhouette. Meager oil lamps cast a dim light on the windowpanes, signaling a small haven for a few orphaned souls: two kids, their mother, and the grandmother. At dusk, thick darkness spread under the dense foliage—a darkness filled with fear. Monastiri at that time, like most of the Balkan Pnseniula, was still occupied by the Turks. This had been the case for four hundred years. But things were finally changing. The Ottoman Empire was now in decline. It was expected that the Turks would be leaving soon creating an ominous power vacuum. Bulgarians, Serbs, Greeks, and Romanians were already vying for the land that would be liberated. The dominant Monastiri population was Greek but the fiercest pretenders were the Bulgarian comitadjis who tried to take control with terrorist tactics. Comitadjis were members of rebel bands supported by neighboring states, especially Bulgaria, that were meant to fight the Turks but ended up fighting mostly the Greeks. Life had become insecure and dominated by fear. Walking at night made you feel persecuted by the shadow of a fanatic fellow man serving a barbaric idea. These were the times when horrible fights flared up 41

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between Greeks and Bulgarians. Daily killings and massacres on the part of the comitadjis were only the prelude to the horrific struggle that followed. In one day there could be as many as five killings in Monastiri’s central streets. Passions rose high and it became a question of survival between the Greeks and the Bulgarians. Although the unsympathetic Turkish attitude toward Greeks unnerved the Europeans, the blood flowed abundantly. One day two large sacks were found in front of the Greek hospital not far from Giorgos’s house. They were filled with body parts belonging to Greek priests and teachers. That same night Giorgos watched young Greek men straddle fences and pass from portopoula to portopoula while silently preparing their revenge. Giorgos felt frustrated not being of age to participate. Young Giorgos was full of life and enthusiasm, impulsive, emotional, and easily-excited, qualities that he displayed throughout his life. His full name written in the Greek tradition was Giorgos Th. Modis, where Th. stood for his father’s name Theodoros. It invited the nickname Thymodis, which was occasionally slapped on him later in life and echoed the Greek word thymos meaning anger in modern Greek (in Plato’s The Republic thymos meant passion). But Giorgos had a particular reason to become emotional when Bulgarian comitadjis killed Greeks. They had assassinated his father, Theodoros Modis, only three years earlier. A desire for revenge lingered among all the members of the bereaved family—the boy, the girl, the grandmother, and mostly the mother. That night there was increased anxiety in the air. Only a few hours earlier the Greek defense forces had killed five Bulgarians and it was natural to expect retaliation from the other side, because this was the name of the game. When five Greeks were killed, the Bulgarian victims had to be at least as many, and vice versa. Giorgos and his sister Aglaïa, five and seven respectively, had already gone to bed and fallen asleep. Mother and seventy-year old Grandmother stayed up longer, alert to the front door. Suddenly Mother’s voice broke the silence. “What the hell! ...” She rushed to check latches and bolts at the front door. “I am not afraid of you, pigs, I am not afraid,” she shouted with a voice that revealed anger and courage.

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The children woke up terrified and crawled under her wide long dress. Steps were heard on the roof of the next-door hovel. People were walking slowly with heavy steps. “Wait and you’ll see, you mutts,” she repeated in a shrieking voice. No one responded but the noise of steps on roof tiles continued and became louder. A little later two muffled jumps were heard and someone began shaking the front door. A crack appeared between the two door panels. There were no voices but the door bolts gamboled in their slots. In a little while they would give in. The men outside were trying to pry the doors open with crowbars. “You pigs! Don’t you dare!” Mother’s voice showed decisiveness and courage. Her words came down as an awesome command unleashing determination and stubbornness. In the meantime she had gotten hold of an old pistol—one of Father’s keepsakes—and played with the trigger so that it could be heard. “You don’t have a chance, you mutts; as soon as you cross my threshold you’ll be dead. Giorgos, you take the ax, I’ll keep the pistol,” she called loudly. Giorgos was the five-year-old man of the house who would help her with the ax! “You mutts!” No response. But now the pressure on the door eased. The crowbars were pulled back. The creepy silence of the night returned. Mother kept listening to the fading noises of the retreating enemy. The children still trembled, but the feeling of victory reassured them about the uncertain future. This was the house of Theodoros Modis and even though he was gone the premises still harbored enemies to the Bulgarian cause, with the leading protagonist being his wife, Paraskevi. Monastiri (today called Bitola) is a city in the southwestern part of the Former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia (FYROM). Under Turkish occupation at that time it served as the capital of the WesternMacedonia Province with a population around 50,000 consisting largely of Greeks. Theodoros Modis had been born in Monastiri from a Greek family with Vlach roots. Vlachs are Romance-speaking people in the Balkans and Eastern Europe, descending from the romanized populations in present-day Romania and Moldova, the southern Balkan Peninsula and south and west of the Danube. Theodoros Modis became a successful lumber merchant managing to secure the rights to exploit the lumber from two nearby mountains. He kept a flourishing store, which

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was mostly responsible for his wealth, on Monastiri’s main street called Fardy. He was an enthusiastic patriot but also very human. When he sometimes went with friends by carriage to drink German beer at an out-of-town tavern he also took with him his teenage nephew named Giorgos, son of his brother Christos. Theodoros liked to sing folksongs of the popular uprising against the Turks in a loud high-pitched voice. His favorite one was Tou Kitsou i Mana. Theodoros was married to Paraskevi (Parouska in Vlachian). He first saw her while passing on horseback through a Bulgarian-speaking village, probably on a business trip. She was shaking blankets over the window at that moment and stopped when she saw him going by. He took a good look at her frozen in that position. She was a beautiful young girl with rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and hair braids falling down her back. He inquired at the village square about who lived in that house and they told him it was the Greek family Dimitriou. Encouraged, Theodoros came back, knocked on the door of Paraskevi’s house and asked her parents for their daughter’s hand. Paraskevi and her family were delighted that such a well-to-do Greek had asked for her hand. So they got married and Theodoros saw to it that they lived in a mansion on an estate centrally located in Monastiri. The couple had their quarrels. Paraskevi, often referred to as Modena (the wife of Modis), was strong-willed and stood up for her rights. Rumors had it that she had once held Dodos—that’s what she called him—at gunpoint. But significantly, the couple agreed on one thing: their love of all things Greek. They were patriotic and proud of their Greek heritage. While people lived peacefully, Modis concentrated on his business, took care of his family and his mansion, and respected the customs and traditions of his nation and religion. But at some point worrisome signs appeared. Strangers showed up and began spreading unsettling ideas about Exarchate, Bulgaria, Macedonia, insulting the Patriarch and Hellenism. Exarchate was the name given to the Bulgarian Orthodox Church when its head bishop decided to no longer report to the Ecumenical Patriarch in Constantinople. “We may still be slaves to the Turks,” Modis thought, “but we haven’t stopped being Greeks and Christians. What are these questionable people trying to stir up?” When he heard the Bulgarian motto “Macedonia for the Macedonians” he told his compatriots, “I am Macedonian but I am also Greek, like you. Consequently we should not strive only for Macedonia but for the whole of Greece.”

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Modis captivated his compatriots with his seriousness, prudence, modesty, and dignity. His faith in and love of his country inspired him and transformed him into an enthused and inspirational speaker. He enlightened people around him on the Greek national ideals, motivated only by patriotism. In the afternoons after finishing his commercial activities he’d gather his clients from Morihovo and acquaintances from Monastiri, and lecture them on Hellenism. “How can I explain to you,” he concluded his talk, “the way I feel toward my country? … It is something that cannot be put into words; something very big …” And as if he was talking to himself, “Greece, Greece … That’s all that counts in this world, nothing else, nothing …” On their way back to their villages up in the mountains the peasants from Morihovo who had come to shop in the Monastiri market rehashed what Modis had told them. “What a man!” they said to each other, “What a patriot, what a great Greek!” The Bulgarian Komitat immediately saw a dangerous enemy in the face of Modis. “He will ruin our plans,” said the chiefs in a secret meeting. “We must do away with him before it is too late.” They sent him warning signals to stop his activities, implying that his life was in danger. He defied them all. He united some of his compatriots: Doctor Konstantinos Monachos, whom people referred to as “the Monk”, Naoum Kalarytis, a shoemaker named Loukas, the pharmacist Filippos Kapetanopoulos from Pyrgous Eordeas, and others. “The Bulgarians,” he told them, “have organized themselves and they are trying to claim our land as if it were Bulgarian. They have already begun assassinating those who oppose them. Recently they killed Kostas the barber because he refused to offer his services to Bulgarian gangsters.” Kostas was a barber at the barbershop Kourou-Tsesme in Monastiri. Like the medieval barber-surgeons, he was also a surgeon and the Bulgarian Komitat often called on his services for wounded comitadjis. But at some point his Greek soul rebelled against aiding the enemies of his country, so he began refusing. “I do not want to deal with gangsters,” he told them when they called him next time. “But you have always worked with us and, you will get paid!” they remonstrated. “I didn’t know whom I was dealing with. As for your money, I do not need it.”

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As a consequence, Bulgarian terrorists tracked him down one evening while he was returning home, and the moment he crossed the dark square of At-Bazaar they stabbed him to death. “They are threatening others,” Modis continued, implying himself. “We must therefore organize ourselves. We must also make the population aware and proud of its Greek origin.” So Modis and his friends began openly working against the designs of the Bulgarian Komitat. The Bulgarians did not delay their response. They assassinated Kapetanopoulos’s assistant inside his pharmacy. They also killed some other innocent citizens of Monastiri for the sole reason of being Greek. The Greeks around Modis met to decide in what way they could confront the Bulgarian terrorism. “This is not acceptable,” said Modis. “The Bulgarians are murdering our people every day. The Turkish authorities are either incapable of protecting us, or they may be purposely shutting their eyes and ears. We must protect ourselves.” “In what way?” asked the others. “In the same way the Bulgarians do.” A young Greek known for his physical force and bravery stepped up. He had often smashed chairs in kafenios (cafés) on the heads of Bulgarians who talked improperly about Greece. “You see, my son,” Modis said to him, “the Bulgarians are using the pistol and the knife to appropriate our land—this land that has always been Greek.” “We should also fight them with the pistol and the knife,” rushed to volunteer the young Greek. “Let’s do exactly that,” Modis said calmly. “Look around for other young Greeks like you.” The young man went and found his best friend, another tall, muscular, and fearless lad. The two of them swore to let no assassination of a Greek go unpunished. Those two young men were the first Avengers of Monastiri who daringly and courageously curtailed the Bulgarian assassinations. They were Stefos Grigoriou, who later became chieftain, and Petros Hatzistephanou, whom they affectionately called Pakias. A few days later the oath of the Avenger was also taken by Stefos Ioannou, Michael Mageras, Alexandros Nitsas (affectionately called Sandras), Lazos Pampourakis, Stavros Tsamis, Vaggelis Konstantinou, Dimitris Rakobitis, Giannis Kontas, Stavros Mimis, and Kitsos Ioannou. Those young men, none of whom were older than eighteen, embarked on a singular, extremely dangerous, and effective struggle.

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They constituted the heart of the Avengers Corps, the effectiveness of which was soon to be proven. Defying the risk to their own lives they attacked Bulgarians in broad daylight in the center of Monastiri in order to humiliate or kill them, thus avenging the assassinations of their compatriots. Little by little, they neutralized the Bulgarian terrorists and reinstalled hope and courage in the terrified Greek population of Monastiri. They left a rich legacy behind them. Theodoros Modis thus became the founding member of the Revolutionary Internal Organization established in the spring of 1903 to defend local Greek interests. He had sensed the danger as soon as the Bulgarians began their propaganda in Macedonia. He took initiatives to instigate actions that would foil their plans. He became in charge of the dynamic executive section, whose charter included the protection of Greeks, reprisals on Bulgarians, the enforcement of discipline, the collection of taxes from tax evaders, etc. Sometime later the French journalist Michel Palliares, known to Greeks for his philhellenic sentiments, came to Monastiri. The notables hosted a luncheon in honor of their guest in a fashionable out-of-town tavern called Bukovo. The atmosphere was festive and many toasts were made to venerated national ideals. The Bulgarians thought it was an opportunity to assassinate Theodoros Modis. So five of them hid in a ditch by the road Modis would take to return to town. Unfortunately for them, two of the avengers, Stefos Grigoriou and Petros Hatzistephanou, went ahead of Modis on the way back. They spotted one of the lurkers, attacked him, and wounded him mortally. When the other four saw the Greek avengers, they disappeared. This incident intensified the racial animosity and hatred between Greeks and Bulgarians. In particular, the resolve of the latter to assassinate Modis became obsessive, and it wasn’t long before he was indeed assassinated. Three comitadjis shot him, wounding him mortally, on September 4, 1904 at noon in his office. He died during that night at the Greek hospital. His murder shook the Greek community of Monastiri and his funeral the next day turned into a mass demonstration against the Bulgarians. The whole of the Greek clergy came to Modis’s house from where the procession began. All Greek stores were closed and an enormous crowd participated in the procession. At the same time all Bulgarian stores were also closed fearing furious attacks from Greeks who had suffered a tremendous blow with Modis’s assassination. Many

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Turkish patrols crisscrossed the city streets and cold fear spread everywhere, giving the impression that a big storm was coming. Monastiri became unrecognizable. At Modis’s house there was an endless arrival of wreaths, crosses made from flowers, and sumptuous bouquets. At the same time people of all ages and classes went up and down the stairs to pay their respects and kiss the dead. All guilds came in force and all the students from the Greek schools were lined up in front of the house. Finally came the Metropolite (metropolitan bishop) and the imposing procession began somberly toward the Cathedral via Monastiri’s main street. On each side of the street the doors and balconies of the houses were covered with black cloths. At the cathedral a requiem was solemnly sung, following which the Metropolite Foropoulos gave a eulogy with much flare, praising the religious and patriotic virtues of the deceased and pointing out how immense a loss for Hellenism was the assassination of Modis. In closing, the prelate said, “My beloved children, the memory of the name of our brother that has passed away will certainly serve in the future as a reminder to each one of us of our duty to support the faith of our fathers and the Great Greek Nation.” Everyone had tears in their eyes. Thus among thousands of sobbing people, men and women, old and young, the funeral procession continued to the cemetery. At the grave a young man from Monastiri gave a powerful eulogy on behalf of the sworn Avengers Corps. This epitaph was like a new oath given in front of the venerable corpse of the protomartyr Theodoros Modis. Greek ambassador Dimitrios Kallergis reported to the Greek foreign ministry on September 7, “Theodoros Modis driven by true patriotic feelings played a decisive role in maintaining the local Greek population’s commitment to the nation’s aspirations,” and that at his funeral there were “thousands of citizens on the faces of whom one could read deep emotions but also anger for the atrocious crime. They followed the funeral all the way to the cemetery despite the falling rain.” After Modis’s assassination, hatred began growing deep roots among northern Greeks toward the Bulgarians, a people whose origins were in a tribe stretching all the way to Mongolia. The Greek Orthodox Church of early Byzantium had embraced them, proselytized them, and taken

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them under its wing. And yet, later these people turned against their benefactor with savagery and hatred. The Greeks of the north took a powerful oath for their nation’s salvation on Modis’s tomb. At that moment began Hellenism’s merciless Macedonian Struggle (Μακεδονικός Αγώνας). It culminated four years later in 1908 when Makedonomachi (Greek fighters for the liberation of Macedonia) marched triumphantly into Monastiri celebrating the end of the Sultan Abdul Hamid II and the restoration of the constitution. The 1908 event can be considered a milestone leading to the Balkan wars and the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire. In the wake of Modis’s assassination a folkloric grassroots song about him emerged spontaneously. It began: “Don’t you ever forget, young men, Modis’s death …” Paraskevi proudly kept it in her mind.2

4 Paraskevi

Paraskevi’s courageous stance against the intruders that dark night of 1907 was not surprising. Following the assassination of her husband she became progressively more independent, determined, and vindictive. She was isolated in a big house with her mother and two children but no other relatives of her own. Theodoros had two brothers, Christos and Nikos, but he kept closer ties with the family of Christos. Even with them there were occasional tensions arising between Christos’s wife Domniki—usually referred to as Atta—and Paraskevi, whose Bulgarian connection was poorly tolerated and would surface at the slightest tension. Paraskevi had been born in a Bulgarian-speaking village and spoke the language, but she became furious when she was treated as a Bulgarian. With Domniki they spoke Vlachian, a language close to Romanian. Christos Modis was older. He was a grocer, among other things, and he died young from stomach perforation. He had two sons, Giorgos and Alexander, and a daughter Ioulia. Christos’s Giorgos was fifteen years older than Theodoros’s Giorgos so the two cousins hardly ever played together. Having both first and last names the same they were generally referred to as Megalos (Big) Giorgos Modis and Mikros (Little) Giorgos Modis, a distinction that stayed with them throughout their lives—we will refer to them here as Giorgos Sr. and Giorgos Jr. whenever confusion is possible. The connotation of such a tag was a source of frustration for Giorgos Jr., who knew that his family was richer and his father more famous than those of his older cousin. Theodoros and Paraskevi lived richly. They owned the estate with their mansion, the lumber store on Fardy in central town, horses, carriages, etc. He bought her fancy clothes and jewelry, all of which 51

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acquired added preciousness once he was gone. With Theodoros out of the picture, Paraskevi had to worry about everything from safety to providing for her family. As time went by she became more involved with the members of the Avengers Corps, who venerated her as the widow of a national martyr. The house was big; it could provide storage space and serve as a meeting place for them. In this collaboration she found some protection for her family but also the opportunity to avenge her husband’s death. She decided to enter the armed struggle. The Modis mansion became a kind of headquarters for the Greek fighters. Paraskevi supported the guerrillas in every possible way. During the next five years Paraskevi saw her mother die, the Greek Army march north liberating land from the Turks and edging toward Monastiri, Giorgos Sr. enlist with the Greek guerilla fighters up in the mountains, and the Bulgarian comitadjis indulge in ever more frequent rampages against Greek communities. The Bulgarians became aware that the Greek fighters were using the Modis house. It wasn’t long before it became a target of attacks. Eventually a bomb set the house afire. At the last minute Paraskevi threw out of the windows whatever valuables could be saved, stashed everything on a horse-drawn carriage, including her two teenage children, and headed south toward already liberated Greece. Florina, the first town under Greek control, with about 15,000 inhabitants, was only twenty-eight kilometers away. Among the “valuables” she tried to salvage at the last minute was … well, a dress! Coquetry was not the reason Paraskevi tried to salvage a dress while her house was burning. And yet, preoccupation with dressing ran in the family. Theodoros’s grandfather—most probably also named Theodoros according to the strict tradition of passing first names from grandparent to grandchild—was extremely concerned about his attire. His last name was not Modis at that time but some weird, long, difficult-to-pronounce name now remembered only by Paraskevi. But Theodoros’s grandfather made a point of following the latest fashion. To keep up with trends he regularly ordered fashion magazines from Vienna for his tailors. Before too long the nickname Modis (from mode) was slapped on him and eventually became his last name. However, the dress Paraskevi tried to salvage had more pragmatic value. It was a traditional Balkan dress decorated with gold coins. Several lines of golden pieces had been sown in rows decorating the bust

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of the dress. The arrangement had small coins, grossia, at the extremities and progressively larger ones, flouria, toward the center. The row with the biggest coins, doublas (from double), weighed heavily and had corresponding market value. The trip to Florina on a horse-drawn carriage took several hours but that was not the problem. What bothered Paraskevi more was the thought of accommodation in Florina. Their abrupt departure from Monastiri had not been expected or planned for. Arriving in Florina unprepared late in the evening with all her belonging on a carriage was problematic. She knew that her sister-in-law Domniki with her family had also recently come to Florina. Putting pride aside, she decided to ask for help from them and directed herself to where they were staying. Domniki was not given a choice in the matter, but it was understood that Paraskevi would stay with them only temporarily until she could find a place of her own. Paraskevi with her two children were placed in the attic of the house. The arrangement was far from ideal and deteriorated with the frequent quarrels between Ioulia—Domniki’s daughter—and Paraskevi. It was at that time that Paraskevi began telling her son that he should grow up, earn money, and buy a house. She also intensified her efforts to find some place to rent that would not be expensive. She had been tapping into her savings—mostly in British gold sovereigns—ever since her husband died. With her house burned now and having moved to another country, even her last remaining income—the rent from her husband’s store in Monastiri—became uncertain. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Montenegro, Serbia, Bulgaria, and Greece fought the Ottomans in the First Balkan War during the fall of 1912. After victory at Sarantaporo, Greek troops under the command of Crown Prince Constantine advanced north towards Monastiri. The Crown Prince wanted to pursue his victorious advance further northward. But Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos disagreed. He considered it imperative for the army to move without delay to Thessaloniki before Bulgarian forces got there advancing from the northwest. In a famous cable, Venizelos ordered Constantine, “I forbid you to go to Monastiri. You must liberate Thessaloniki at once.” But the latter refused to obey this order and Venizelos used the right of his office to dispatch King George I (Constantine’s father) to the front to convince Constantine to redirect the Greek Army to Thessaloniki and thus prevent its occupation by the Bulgarians just in time.

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Crown Prince Constantine had underestimated the geopolitical importance of Thessaloniki—whose population was 40% Jewish (versus 25% Greek) at that time—probably because Monastiri was a more significant Greek commercial and cultural center. Monastiri was left to Slavic occupation and the town was given the name “Bitola”. Much of its Greek population fled to Greece and particularly to nearby Florina.

Paraskevi managed to find a small house by the riverbed into which they soon moved. It was a big change from what the family had left back in Monastiri. The commentary at Domniki’s home was, “Poor Modena, how can she live in such a dump?” But the future was uncertain and Paraskevi with her family had to live on a tight budget. Giorgos continued attending high school in Florina. But their situation was not about to get better. In fact, things got worse. One day Aglaïa fell ill. The doctor diagnosed scarlet fever and there was no effective medication at the time. In a matter of days the girl died at the age of nineteen. Paraskevi was again heartbroken. It was then when she first began the moiroloï, traditional lament song (dirge). She withdrew to her room and began lamenting in an improvised monotonous tune, recounting one by one all the misfortunes that had befallen her. First her sister Aspasia had died, then her husband was assassinated, then her mother died, then her house was burned down, and now her young daughter was gone. Giorgos took well to his letters at school. He read a lot, was good with words, and enjoyed acquiring fancy vocabulary. He had drive, ambition, and was outspoken. He kept thinking of his homonymous big cousin who had already distinguished himself by fighting in the mountains, by getting a lawyer’s degree from the University of Athens, by holding appointments in public offices, and who was now testing the waters in politics. Giorgos decided to become a lawyer too. He was not shy; he would be good in that profession. But he needed to convince his mother, who would rather see him get a job and bring in some money. Hardship and misfortune had hardened Paraskevi and increased her determination and resourcefulness, sometimes leaving odd marks on her body. The skin on her right thumb was deeply scratched and hardened from frequently cutting vegetables against it (e.g. for making the famous Vlachian pies). For some reason she did not use cutting boards. Her

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neck showed two small round scars. They were leftovers from a homemade cauterization treatment. Once she had a really bad sore throat. She took a steel rib from an old umbrella, got it red hot and pierced her throat with it. She claimed the procedure had cured her. Giorgos argued with her successfully in favor of his University education. Paraskevi agreed to provide him with one British gold sovereign per month during his studies, but he would need to supplement it with part-time jobs in Athens. Upon graduation from high school Giorgos went to Athens and enrolled in law school. There was a man from Monastiri, Joseph Lazarou, who held a head-of-department post at the Ministry of Education. Giorgos knew him and asked for his help on several matters including avoiding the draft. Giorgos was not the only student from Florina. Several others were also studying at the university at the same time. Among them were Pavlidis in the Law School, and Argyropoulos and Fistas in the Medical School. Pavlidis and Giorgos had been boy scouts together. They had both made scoutmasters rank. Pavlidis had a propensity for alcohol, which worsened over the years. Fistas was the same age as Giorgos but more scientifically inclined. He eventually specialized in radiology. The three of them stuck together, forming an inseparable group. During the following five years Giorgos’s time was devoted to studying, part-time jobs, and a camaraderie that forged lifelong friendships. They went back to Florina for the summers and on holidays. But the times were turbulent. Greece lost the war in Asia Minor and an enormous exchange of populations followed. Giorgos Sr., his cousin, who had been wounded fighting in the mountains of Macedonia, was now an elected member of parliament. His other cousin, Alexander Modis, got killed while fighting the Turks in Asia Minor. As a captain commander he was fatally wounded during the Sangarios battle. The Sangarios battle (August 10–29, 1921) was the most significant confrontation between Greeks and Turks on the Asia Minor offensive. The Greek Army advancing toward Ankara failed to crush the forces of Mustafa Kemal and was forced to make a strategic retreat. More than 4,000 Greeks died fighting, among them Alexander Modis who managed to send home a note written with red ink or blood, “Beloved family. I am dying happy. Be well.” He died happy because that day he had conquered a Turkish battery. With his father and two first cousins having left their mark on the country’s history, Giorgos Jr. felt a heavy legacy weighing on him. But

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armed struggle was not his thing. He was bright and good with words. That’s how he was going to make his mark. The Greek proverb i glossa kokala den ehei kai kokala tsakizei means, “the tongue has no bones but can crush bones.” Words would be his weapon. He returned to Florina for the summer of 1926, having completed all the requirements toward his degree. Not having the actual degree in his hands did not stop him from behaving as if he did. He rented an office on Florina’s main street in readiness to begin practicing law. At the same time he began writing articles, essays, even fictional short stories. His first article on the burning issue of “Macedonian Minorities” was published later that year. He wrote it in Katharevousa, the officially-used archaic form of Greek. In his exuberant patriotic style, he came down harshly on the Bulgarians—refusing consistently to capitalize the first letter in the word Bulgarian—with such remarks as: … During the Macedonian struggle the bulgarians, a wild and uncivilized horde, tried to impose the bulgarian language upon the Greek element that constituted the finest, most noble, and oldest element of Macedonia …

In another passage he didn’t hesitate to mention the legend of Basil the Bulgar-Slayer (Bulgaroktonos in Greek). HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Basil II was a Byzantine Emperor from the Macedonian dynasty who reigned from 976 to 1025. He often fought the Bulgarians who persistently tried to reach the Aegean. Following his victory in the Battle of Kleidion on July 29, 1014 he exerted his vengeance by cruelty. It is said that from the 15,000 prisoners that he captured he blinded 99 of every 100 men, leaving one one-eyed man in each group to lead the rest back to their ruler. Although the alleged mistreatment of the Bulgarian prisoners may have been an exaggeration, it gave rise to Basil’s Greek epithet of Bulgaroktonos, meaning “the Bulgar-Slayer.”

Giorgos Jr. mentioned Basil the Bulgar-Slayer in his very first article as follows: One can well imagine the extent of raids and destruction caused by the bulgarians at the expense of the Byzantines to understand the exemplary and virulent punishment inflicted

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on them by Bulgaroktonos, this civilized Byzantine Emperor who had always displayed unrivalled bigheartedness in all previous wars between the Arabs and the Byzantines. This roughening of Basil is enough to convince us of the kind of people he had to deal with.

And yet, despite his strong personal bias, Modis’s final conclusion in the article was something that the Greek government officially endorsed only half a century later: … We come today to put an end to this thorny issue of minorities by asserting that even if—thoroughly unjustified—we authorize schools and churches in bulgarian, we would lose nothing. On the contrary, we would resolve once and for all this issue that recurs on the international scene at the expense of little Greece. Not only the bulgarians will cease to claim rights on our populations—populations that see such claims with much distrust—but also the weakening of these claims will facilitate advancing toward a general entente in the Balkans from which much benefit will ensue for everyone.

He signed this article “Giorgos Modis, Licensed Lawyer”. Shortly afterward, however, with the actual license in his possession, he realized that signing simply “Lawyer” was more effective. He never signed anything “Licensed Lawyer” again. On Sunday July 18, 1926 one hundred boy scouts from Crete arrived in Florina. Scouting at that time was highly developed and coveted by young men of all ages. The arrival of the Cretan scouts was an important event for Florina and many activities were organized around them. As veteran scouts, Modis and Pavlidis participated in most of these activities. In addition, Modis addressed the lined-up scouts from the first-floor balcony of the Ethnikon Hotel in Florina’s central square. The local newspapers wrote the next day: “… young Giorgos Th. Modis gave an inspired speech …” He was twenty-four years old. Paraskevi never regretted her decision to support him through university studies. She was certainly proud of him now, even though she didn’t express it. Demonstration of appreciation was not in her character.

5 A Teachers College Academy

The boarding school where Theodosia shared a room with Marika Synapidou was under self-management. The tasks were distributed among the girls who lived there. Every Saturday night there was a gathering in which Mr. Karachristos gave directives, made checks, and conducted reviews. The program was strict. It began in the morning with a gym class and ended in the evening with volleyball. The course work included such subjects as: religion, philosophy, Greek language, mathematics, physics, chemistry, natural history, anatomy, geography, drawing, calligraphy, handicrafts (i.e. knitting, embroidery, sewing, and paper crafts), and gym. Theodosia went to see Niki at the hospital on Wednesday and Friday afternoons. One afternoon her friend Maria Kontostathi went along with her to meet Niki. There she told the two sisters that her own older sister was the director of the Melissa Orphanage for girls in Thessaloniki. Kontostathi said she would speak to her sister about Niki and the possibility of her being given a place in the orphanage when she left the hospital. Indeed, it all happened as Maria suggested. When Niki got well the three of them went to the orphanage together. Niki was admitted to the third grade. From then onward Theodosia visited her sister at the orphanage every Sunday morning after church. Mistress Kontostathi— Maria’s sister—was very happy with Niki’s progress and behavior. She did not have children of her own and took care of Niki like a daughter. She often took her home for dinner. Her husband was a doctor. Niki recovered completely. There were elections at the boarding school for a presidium. Karachristos himself was elected honorary President. Theodosia was 59

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elected curator of the restaurant. She had no idea what she was supposed to do, but she soon figured it out. There were two women in the kitchen, a cook and Vasso the cleaning lady. There was also the janitor, whom everyone called Uncle George, who was very helpful with the shopping. Theodosia, Kontostathi, Vasso, and Uncle George went to the market every Monday morning and shopped for the whole week. Everyone knew his or her task; Kontostathi kept the books. The team worked well; when Karachristos made his checks, he found everything to his satisfaction. Afentoula Bakratsa was a student in third grade. She too was orphaned and desolate like Theodosia but younger. The two girls often commiserated and helped each other. One day Theodosia had an idea. “Afentoula, what do you say if we whitewashed the kitchen and the dining room?” “Can we do it?” she wondered. It seemed like a big job to her. “We’ll get everyone else to help us,” Theodosia encouraged her. And the two girls got down to work. They mobilized the other girls to move all the furniture out in the yard and clean them up. Uncle George fetched the painter who turned the dining room and the kitchen snow-white in two days. The whole place lit up. They even decorated the walls with pictures and the tables with vases filled with fresh flowers every day. On Saturday the steering committee came for a meeting. When they saw the premises they congratulated and praised the girls for their initiative and their excellent work. Miss Synapidou woke up Theodosia one morning saying, “Hurry! Mr. Karachristos wants to see you in his office immediately.” Theodosia felt a flutter in her stomach. One was not summoned to the director’s office for minor reasons. But when she entered the office she broke into tears of joy. Her granddad was sitting across Karachristos’s office dressed in a new suit and smiling at her through his bushy gray mustache. She fell into his arms. Karachristos was also pleased to meet Kouroukafas. The latter had found out about Theodosia’s whereabouts from George Bili and had come to the academy to present Karachristos his plans for doing business. With the money from “the safe” he planned to trade in livestock, as he had done many times before. This way he’d grow that capital. Karachristos was convinced. After all it was Kouroukafas’s money anyway. So Granddad paid for all of Theodosia’s schooling, left some pocket money for her with Karachristos, and took the rest of the gold coins with him.

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Theodosia bid him goodbye with tears in her eyes as if she knew that she would not be seeing him again. In fact, he had a stroke a short time later and all was lost: Granddad, the business plans, and the money. Studying and chores at the boarding school made time pass quickly. On Sundays and religious holidays they went to church and afterward for a walk along the seashore by the White Tower. Occasionally, Miss Synapidou took the girls to a theater show. But the end of the school year approached and Theodosia began worrying about finances during the summer recess. The money her grandfather had left would soon run out. She had faith that God would not let her down, but she also understood that she had to find a job. She discussed it with Mrs. Petyhaki who offered Theodosia her first job: to embroider a tablecloth with twelve angels for the altar. As for the summer vacation Mrs. Petyhaki suggested that Theodosia go to Crete with her so that she would not need another job. A few days later Mrs. Petyhaki brought Theodosia a tablecloth with twelve angels drawn on it and embroidery threads. Theodosia was very happy to do the work at night after the lights-out bell at 8 pm. She could use her roommate’s big oil lamp. She found a second job that could be done during the quiet time in the early afternoon. She was to help with the preparation and the delivery of the common meal to the refugee center not far from the boarding school. With these two paying jobs she felt reassured. Miss Synapidou was very interested in what Theodosia was up to. “What did you answer about the Crete invitation? Did you accept?” “I have not answered yet,” said Theodosia. “That’s good. You can give your answer later. It is always wiser to postpone difficult decisions as far as possible because you never know what may happen in the meantime.” And then she proceeded to recount to her the story of the king and the groom who bragged that he could make the king’s horse talk. When the king heard it, he thought the man was simply silly, but the groom insisted that he could do it within a year. The king then told him that he’d give him half of his kingdom if he did it, but if not he’d cut his head off. The groom agreed but his wife was very upset, “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself in? What are you going to do in a year? The king will have your head cut off!” “Don’t worry, dear,” the groom replied. “In one year’s time the king may die, the horse may die, I may die, or the horse may talk!”

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But Miss Synapidou had also something else more important to discuss with Theodosia. She had not shared many secrets of her private life with her up to that time. The two of them formed odd roommates. They slept in the same room, but Theodosia always referred to her as “Miss Synapidou” because of her rank and because she was more than twelve years older. In fact, she was getting overdue for marriage by the standards of the era. “Now that you will be working late at night you can do me a favor,” Miss Synapidou continued. “I’ll be staying out late some nights and you can come and open the gate for me because the janitor normally sleeps at that time and he would give me a hard time. It is a long story that I will tell you some day in detail.” “How will I know what time you will be there so that I can come down?” Theodosia asked. “Our window overlooks the street. While you are embroidering at night I will throw a little stone at the windowpane. But you must make sure that no one wakes up.” Theodosia was glad to cooperate. She suspected there was a man involved but had no qualms about morality issues. She believed in God and she didn’t feel uneasy with the big eye painted at one corner of the ceiling in each classroom at school. Karachristos missed no opportunity to draw the attention of the girls to it, reminding them that God was continuously watching them and would know of any mischief they got up to. But in contrast with typical church doctrines she had her own peaceful relationship with the divine, as when she gave herself permission to secretly take candles from the St. Vlacherna Church in Constantinople in order to be able to prepare her homework. She did as they had agreed. When she heard the little stone at the window she walked down the stairs barefoot, crossed the yard to reach the gate, raised Uncle George’s crossbar, opened the gate to let Miss Synapidou in, and then closed it, replacing the crossbar in its slots. Marika Synapidou had a fiancé, Mr. Fotiadis, a lawyer and a refugee from the same place in Turkey as herself. But she couldn’t see him under normal circumstances because she was working all day and was locked up in the boarding school from seven in the evening onward. Moreover, Fotiadis’s mother and two sisters did not want to have anything to do with her, in part because they considered her too old but mostly because tradition required the sisters to get married before the brother could. Nevertheless, thanks to the daily meetings facilitated by Theodosia, the relationship flourished. Marika also got the chance to

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meet the ladies at Fotiadis’s home and reassure them that she would not take him away. She committed her eternal support to them! There was finally agreement and a wedding was scheduled for sometime before Easter. The wedding took place at the old St. Dimitrios Church. Everyone was invited, teachers as well as students. The ceremony finished with the traditional throwing of rice and candy at the newlyweds. Naturally, the new Mrs. Fotiadis left the dormitory room and moved into her new home where the couple lived happily ever after. They eventually had two wonderful sons, one of whom grew up to become a doctor and the other a mathematician. In the dormitory Theodosia found herself alone in the room, so she asked Maria Kontostathi to come and share it with her because in Kontostathi’s room slept three girls. The two friends were happy to also become roommates. Mail did not arrive often at the boarding school. When it did, the postman rang his characteristic bell and the girls ran out excited to see who had got a letter. One day it was for Theodosia. With her heart pounding—it was the first time she had ever received mail—she opened the envelope to read the joyful news. Aunt Marika and Uncle Spyros, together with her brother Voulis, would be soon moving from Constantinople to Thessaloniki. “Alleluia!” Theodosia was thrilled with the prospect of seeing her brother again and having more relatives in Thessaloniki, even if they included mean Aunt Marika. The difficult decision about the Crete invitation for the summer was now resolved. Life over the summer could turn out to be more comfortable for her in Crete than in Thessaloniki with Aunt Marika, but she’d have to be among strangers. So next time Mrs. Petyhaki called her in the director’s office and began saying that her relatives were looking forward to having Theodosia in Crete for the summer, she interrupted her to say that in a few days her aunt and uncle with her brother would be coming to Thessaloniki. She now had somewhere to stay during the summer. She expressed her gratitude anyway. Mrs. Petyhaki seemed disappointed but did not argue. Her night work was advancing well. Eight of the twelve angels had already been embroidered. At that rate she would have completed the project by the end of the school year. Preparations had already begun for the end-of-school-year celebrations. They included rehearsals for songs and the recitations of poems.

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The parents were invited to the end-of-year festivities. During their speeches the director talked about life in the boarding school and the president of the alumni talked about education and the culture of the school. They both made a point of impressing upon the students and the parents the utmost importance of education and the “sacred” function of the teacher. After the festivities many of the parents, including the relatives of Mrs. Petyhaki, visited the boarding school. The girls were there to serve refreshments. While Theodosia served the brother and the nephew of Mrs. Petyhaki, she took the opportunity to thank them for their kind invitation for the summer and expressed her regrets for not being able to accept it. She had already learned the usefulness and the validity of white lies. The Melissa orphanage organized a summer camp by the sea in Chalkidiki. Maria Kontostathi was going and invited Theodosia to join her for some time while waiting for her relatives to arrive. Theodosia accepted with pleasure; she’d be with Niki and her friend. Besides, she had no choice because the boarding school was about to close for the summer. But Niki was the happiest of them all. She had missed her sister and could hardly believe that she would be spending many days with her again. On the day of the departure and while waiting to board the buses for the camp Niki kept close to Theodosia, continuously holding her hand. They sat next to each other in the bus during the scenic two-hour drive. The camping site was at Maltepe, a gorgeous location by the sea near an inlet surrounded by pine trees with turquoise sea and golden sand. For several days they woke up in the morning with the singing of the nightingales and went to sleep at night under the bright moonlight. They enjoyed food, sleep, and the sea, even though no one really took advantage of it by swimming. No one knew how to swim or had a bathing suit. No one thought of swimming as sport or recreation. The girls just put their feet in the water. At the end of ten unforgettable days Theodosia thanked everyone profusely, left Niki behind, and headed back to Thessaloniki. She went directly to St. Dimitrios Street where Aunt Marika, Uncle Spyros, and her brother Voulis had moved into a small apartment in the basement of a three-story building. Voulis had grown up. He was fifteen now, handsome but silent and very thoughtful. Uncle Spyros had been given a store to run in Thessaloniki as a grocery store, the

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same thing he did in Constantinople. Up to now Voulis worked as a helper in the store. But Theodosia now had other plans for him. “Come September we should find a high school that you can attend in the evenings while you learn a craft during the daytime. Think of what you would like to do,” Theodosia told Voulis. Aunt Marika was the same fussy old lady she had always been. She had a fit when she took a glass from the cupboard and noticed a drop of water in it, “A mystery!” she exclaimed. But she was no longer in a position to dictate the kids’ futures. She had a first cousin who helped them become settled in Thessaloniki and who was managing the daily morning newspaper To Fos (The Light). She was reluctant at first to contact him regarding Voulis, but Theodosia pressed the issue. “Don’t worry, Voulis,” Theodosia reassured her brother, “Aunt Marika will get in touch with him right away to tell him that I am here too and that we want to meet with him.” Aunt Marika arranged a meeting. Mr. Theogenis Karetsos, the director of the daily To Fos, had a sympathetic ear for refugees from Asia Minor. He offered to hire Voulis temporarily as a helper in his office until a more appropriate post could be found. Voulis was encouraged by this prospect and for the first time began smiling. He later discovered the printing presses at the basement of the building and was intrigued by the typesetting process. He asked Karetsos whether he could become a helper to the typographers in the basement. And that’s how Voulis entered the printing business that later became his vocation. The boarding school opened again in early September and the girls began arriving at the dormitory one after the other. This was going to be Theodosia’s first year of training as a teacher. And yet not much changed in the daily routine except some new courses such as pedagogics, were added to the curriculum. There were some musical instruments made available to the students and Theodosia volunteered to take violin lessons. Over the next two years she practiced the instrument sufficiently to be able to decipher melodies for songs from sheet music. The school year went by smoothly and quickly. There was another summer with Aunt Marika, Uncle Spyros, and Voulis. And then the last year began, which was different and much busier. During the first semester the mornings were dedicated to watching classes being taught at the Model Primary School. During the second semester each girl

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prepared and performed many exemplary teachings in as many topics as possible under the supervision of Mrs. Fotiadis. The busy schedule made time pass imperceptibly. Before they knew it there were preparations for another end-of-year celebration. But this time Theodosia’s class was graduating. Besides speeches, poem recitations, and singing in the choir for the last time, the girls received their degrees. Theodosia’s grade on her license was Arista, the equivalent of A. Karachristos gave a moving farewell speech, not only addressing the graduating class but also announcing his own departure as director. But he promised to visit them in their posts and find out how they were doing. By the time they all sang the national anthem the atmosphere was emotionally charged. There were lots of goodbyes and tears of joy and sadness as most of the girls departed. At the dormitory the girls from the graduating class remained longer because they had one more thing to do: prepare their applications for appointment as public school teachers indicating their preferred location. Theodosia did not indicate a preference because she knew that new teachers fresh out of school had zero chance of being positioned in a big city like Thessaloniki, the only place that was of interest to her. She mailed her application to Mr. Laïos, Director General, in the Thessaloniki office of the Ministry of Education and went to Aunt Marika’s again for the summer months. She awaited the announcement of her appointment without anxiety. She knew what to expect. All appointments of young first-time teachers were generally to the most undesirable places, remote ends of the country, little villages by the borderland, or small islands. Announcements of the appointments began arriving in late September. As expected, there were none for Thessaloniki, and those girls who had indicated it as a preference were disappointed. Theodosia’s location was Katerini, a big town seventy kilometers south of Thessaloniki. Everyone thought she was very lucky. But one girl, Eleni Papadimitriou, was dismayed. Her appointment was for Florina, a remote small town close to the Albanian and Yugoslavian borders. She was among those who had asked for Thessaloniki because she was engaged to a young man who lived there. Moreover, her family lived in Katerini. She approached Theodosia in tears. “It does not make much difference to you,” she pointed out to Theodosia, “in fact you had not even indicated a preference, but it would be crucial for me to be able to come to Thessaloniki in less than

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one hour. From Florina the trip via the winding mountain roads takes five to six hours. It would mean the end of my relationship. Would you be willing to exchange locations with me, please?” Eleni was desperate. Theodosia did not think long before accepting. It was not really important to her whether she went to Florina or to Katerini. She would be in a town anyway, and that was better than being in an inaccessible, insignificant little village, so she gave her consent. The two girls went to Karachristos together and explained their mutual desire for exchange. In turn, he wrote a memo to Mr. Laïos who then approved the new assignments. That evening Theodosia went to see Mrs. Fotiadis and somewhat apprehensively asked for her opinion, “Was it stupid of me to accept this exchange and end up in such a remote small town like Florina?” “On the contrary! God is sending you to Florina so that I can have the opportunity to pay you back for all the good things you have done for me!” She exclaimed and continued, “My sister Eusevia lives in Florina. Come tomorrow morning and I will give you a letter for her. She will now become your sister too.” Eusevia was Marika’s beautiful younger sister. The director of the National Bank in Florina, Telis Mitsolis, had fallen in love with her and married her. The two sisters had been very close and Marika was sure that with the letter she wrote, Eusevia would take Theodosia under her wing. The preparations for the trip to Florina were not really significant despite its one-way nature. Theodosia did not have much luggage, nor was she about to acquire any soon. However, she did go shopping for an inexpensive violin. At the beginning of October she set off on her way to become a schoolteacher in Florina, a town she had hardly heard of before. She was eighteen years old.

PART TWO A Man and a Woman “We don’t love qualities, we love persons; sometimes by reason of their defects as well as of their qualities.” ―JACQUES MARITAIN Reflections on America

6 Florina 1926–1927

The train from Thessaloniki to Florina took forever, making endless stops and going through numerous tunnels and bridges. Theodosia had taken the first train in the morning in order to arrive at a reasonable time. The train finally pulled into Florina railroad station in the early afternoon. Railroad stations of country towns generally have trains arrive from one side and depart from the other side, but Florina being at the end of the line, has arrivals and departures on the same side. The other side shows the line stopping at the foot of a mountain. The town is built on a plateau between two mountains at an altitude of 700 meters. Lots of people were waiting the train’s arrival at the station. Trains arrived two or three times a day and these events were significant for the population of Florina. Some people took strolls to the train station just for the occasion. Theodosia got off the train and looked around to orient herself and find a taxi. For a moment she was lost in the crowd, men, women, peasants carrying merchandise, and even well-dressed gentlemen. Suddenly a taxi driver showed up from nowhere and took her luggage. “To the National Bank, please,” she said. The brand new building of the National Bank was impressive, an imposing two-story redbrick structure with arches supporting balconies. She directed herself to the door at the side of the building avoiding the central entrance where all the customers came in and out. When she rang the bell, a maid opened the door and took her suitcase, leading the way up the stairs. At the top of the stairs there was a tall, slender, beautiful lady. She was rather pale. Theodosia introduced herself and produced the long letter from Marika. Eusevia read the letter and was touched. She embraced Theodosia warmly. They sat down in the sitting room and talked until late 71

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when Mr. Telis Mitsolis came. He was not as warm toward Theodosia as Eusevia, but he agreed that she could stay with them for a while. “I am sorry,” said Mr. Mitsolis “that we do not have enough space to have you live with us permanently. It would be good for Eusevia who has so much need of companionship.” “I am grateful to you for the little time I can stay here,” said Theodosia. “It will give me time to find a room somewhere.” “Don’t worry. You do not need to search for accommodation. Look across the garden,” he said pointing at a two-story house at the end of the garden. “It belongs to the bank so you will not have to pay rent. I’ll give instructions to clean up the second-floor apartment. You can share it with Miss Smaro Georgiadou, who is a professor of literature at the girls’ high school and also needs a place to stay.” Theodosia later met Smaro—also a refugee—at the cafeteria where they ate together. The next morning Theodosia went to the office of the primaryeducation inspector. After formal introductions, his assistant, Mr. Klapsidis, prepared Theodosia’s oath before the inspector of primary education. She took the oath and was told to show up for work at the First Primary School on October 10, 1926. At the First Primary School of Florina all the teachers, apart from Miss Vasiliki Radisi, the nursery governess, were old ladies—spinsters with tired faces. The director, Miss Loukia Ioannidou from Monastiri, was the oldest and did not teach spending all her time in the office. The teachers had been impatiently waiting for Theodosia and were glad to see her. The director spelled out her duties. “Miss Panagiotidou, you will take the First Grade and you will incorporate in the curriculum also the auxiliary program. If you see that you still have some time left, you can relieve another colleague. You begin tomorrow morning. I’ll give you the program.” When the bell rang all the teachers went to their classes, except Miss Radisi, who stayed to talk to Theodosia with familiarity, as if they had things in common. In the early afternoon, Theodosia returned home excited. She had much to tell Eusevia. They chatted for a while, going over all the things that had happened in the morning and then they went out to do some shopping. Before Theodosia had time to become accustomed to her new school environment a memo arrived requesting that she and Vasiliki show up at the Prefecture at 10:30 am sharp. There they were told that they had been chosen to join the committee, which would organize the

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end-of-year Educators’ Ball. They were given the names of the other members of the committee, who were all high school professors and prefectural officials. Tasks concerning the ball needed to be distributed among the committee members. Vasiliki and Theodosia arranged to meet with the other members of the committee at a patisserie called of Spoudaios in the Varosi neighborhood on Friday afternoon. At the patisserie Theodosia and Vasiliki picked a large table and sat down waiting for the others to arrive. Suddenly a well-dressed handsome young man entered, directed himself to their table, and with much flair addressed Vasiliki whom he apparently knew. “This is Mr. Modis, eminent lawyer and compatriot of mine,” said Vasiliki making the introductions. “Don’t tell me, Miss Panagiotidou, that you do not remember me,” said Modis. “I was under the impression that you took good notice of me that afternoon when you arrived at the railroad station. In fact our glances locked for a moment.” “I am sorry but I do not recall any such thing,” said Theodosia and looked down. Vasiliki stepped in to resolve the situation. “I would ask you to join us, but we are waiting for some professors and prefectural officials for the first meeting of the Educators’ Ball committee.” Modis shook hands, said “Pleased to meet you,” and walked away, all along trying unsuccessfully to catch Theodosia’s eye. Vasiliki confided to Theodosia, “I am not surprised by his attitude. He is the most desirable man in town. He can have any girl he wants. Such men take advantage of young innocent girls. I advise you to stay away from him. For your own good, whenever you see him, move in the opposite direction.” That evening Theodosia also got Eusevia’s opinion. “Modis is the number one young man in Florina. He is handsome, educated, from a good family, but with a mother who is rather sourtempered they say. Anyway, you are not likely to run into him because the weather is getting cold. Winters in Florina confine people inside their homes.” At that moment Mr. Mitsolis arrived, grumpy because work had detained him. “We’ll take your temperature a little late today,” he said to his wife.

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“I am in the early stages of my pregnancy,” Eusevia explained, “and the doctor asked Telis to keep regular track of my temperature in the mornings and evenings.” Telis and Eusevia were well connected in Florina. They entertained magistrates very frequently. In fact the court’s presiding judge was again going to be their guest that evening. Later in the night it snowed. In the morning everything was covered in a thick layer of fresh white snow. It was Saturday, the day of the market. Peasants from the surrounding villages came into town bringing their goods for sale including animals loaded with firewood. People wearing thick black cloaks with hoods were covered with snow; their shining eyes clearly visible. Theodosia and Smaro waited in front of the house until they saw the animals carrying firewood go by and then they bought a large amount of wood. The cold was severe and it was difficult to keep the apartment warm. In the end they decided to move into one room together and let the stove burn continuously day and night. Still, Smaro felt cold and said she would try to find a room close to the high school in order to avoid walking a long trajectory every morning in the snow. Theodosia liked to walk in the snow. She particularly cherished the weekends when Mr. Mitsolis drove them into the countryside to enjoy the fresh snow in beautiful sunshine. The snow was there to stay. In Florina in those days the snow covered all the ground in October and you couldn’t see earth again until spring. Just as Theodosia felt comfortable in her class and began knowing each one of her pupils she heard that a new educator, Theodoros Kastanos, had just arrived and was entrusted to set up a model elementary school. Florina was one of the few towns in Greece at the time to have many well-staffed educational institutions: six elementary schools, two model schools, a boys’ and a girls’ high school, and even a Teachers College Academy. It was the country’s effort to fortify with enhanced educational facilities its border areas, which were populated with Slavic-speaking minorities. Kastanos was apparently highly motivated and planned to introduce new teaching methods at the model school, the so-called School of Work, which involved hands-on learning and other approaches he had studied in Germany. He had written a book on the subject and had just secured housing facilities for his model school. The house was by the river with a large yard extending toward the foot of the mountain. He was now looking for personnel. Theodosia got intrigued. For his part, Kastanos knew the good reputation of the so-called “Karachristos

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girls,” namely the teachers that were formed at the Teachers College Academy of Thessaloniki. Theodosia was invited to teach at the model school and so were the Kalfoglou sisters—Eleni, Philipini, and Dimitra—who were also Karachristos girls. She had met them when she was studying at Thessaloniki. Eleni and Philipini had graduated ahead of her. Dimitra was younger. The Kalfoglou sisters had known Kastanos from their hometown of Silivri, situated some seventy kilometers west of Constantinople, before the exchange of populations took place. Kastanos had arrived there in 1920 as director of the renowned Greek school Arhigenia Ekpedeftiria after obtaining his Ph.D. in education in Germany. But by the late 1920s they all found themselves transplanted to Florina. The Kalfoglou sisters were excited by Kastanos’s invitation to participate in the School-of-Work project and so was Theodosia, who read his book overnight. She was fascinated with what she read; here is a sample: The main purpose of the School of Work is not the acquisition of knowledge but the experience of lively activity—mental and physical activity, not concerning symbols, formulas, or even phenomena and relationships, but relating to life with its many problems. The School of Work leaves children free to face natural things and social relationships, and search for solutions. Naturally, the School of Work cannot be bound by curricula and timetables. Here the curriculum is adapted to the child, not the child to the curriculum.

The new model-school program was quite revolutionary. The pupils became the protagonists and the teachers more like spectators. The theoretical courses were taught in the mornings and the auxiliary courses such as drawing, crafts, gym, and singing, were taught in the afternoons. In addition there were activities with animals and plants. In the school’s large yard there were cages with rabbits and chicken, and a vegetable garden where the kids became involved. There was much excitement among students and teachers alike with all these things going on. Life with Smaro at the apartment was also rather enjoyable. Every morning Eusevia’s maid brought milk and asked the ladies whether they needed anything from the market. Smaro had two brothers— smart, educated young men; one was a schoolteacher, the other one an engineer. They often came to party with the ladies in the evening. Smaro taught Theodosia the basic steps of the waltz and the tango.

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“That’s all you need to know,” she said and added, “you never know who might ask you to dance.” Modis was nowhere in this picture. Smaro found out about an old lady named Christina who was reputed to weave excellent rugs. “I’m going to see this lady and ask her to make me two rugs for my dowry,” she told Theodosia, not entirely jokingly. “I’ll come with you,” volunteered Theodosia. Christina worked alone on her weaving machine in her modest home, producing beautiful rugs. “I use dyes that will never fade. I guarantee my rugs for a lifetime,” she boasted. The two young women were impressed and they both ordered two good-sized (around 1.5x2 m) rugs each. It was an investment reflecting their wishful thinking about matrimony. The bill for Theodosia came to two months’ salary so she arranged with Christina to pay her in installments because she didn’t have that much money. Of course, once delivered the rugs were carefully wrapped in cloth with mothballs inside and stashed away, awaiting an occasion to be used. Such occasions were rare. Theodosia spread the rugs out at Christmas and other important holidays but only much later in her life. Smaro never did! She never got married, never had a family of her own, and never opened that rug bundle. Fifty years later Theodosia found herself in Smaro’s home in a rare get-together. While the two old ladies reminisced about old times Smaro pointed at two dusty rolls in the loft of her apartment, “You know what these are?” she asked and proceeded to give the answer herself, “These are the rugs Christina made for us centuries ago; they are still in perfect condition!” Theodosia’s rugs also remained in excellent condition with the minimum use they got. They were passed onto her daughter and later to her daughter’s daughter, who could hardly believe that these “brand new” rugs were handmade by an old lady more than half a century earlier. Theodosia went to see Eusevia generally in the evenings and often met the couple’s guests. In those evening gatherings the discussions were interesting and informative. The two women cleaned up afterward, rehashing and gossiping over what had been exchanged. On one such evening and before the guests left Eusevia said, “Next Saturday, don’t forget the Educators’ Ball. I expect to see all of you there. Miss Panagiotidou is in the organizing committee and will reserve for us the best table!” “Of course,” confirmed Theodosia, “I will reserve for you a table at the gallery, centrally located with a good view of everything.”

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When they all left Eusevia asked, “Are you all fixed for the ball? Do you know what you’ll wear?” “In fact, no,” replied Theodosia, “I do not have suitable dress.” Eusevia looked at her, sizing her up, “You are the same size as me. Come along.” She went to her bedroom, opened the closet and revealed a rich wardrobe. “I know exactly what will look good on you,” she said pulling out a champagne-colored dress. “Try this on.” When Theodosia got into the dress Eusevia went to her dresser, opened a drawer and took out a pearl necklace. At that moment Telis walked in. “Telis, look, isn’t she adorable? Here, Theodosia, put this on too,” she said giving her the necklace. Telis was less enthusiastic, “Why don’t you give it to her, while you are at it,” he said with some sarcasm. “I couldn’t do that—this is your present! But she can borrow it for the evening of the ball.” On Saturday afternoon Theodosia went to Mr. Transvalidis, the hairdresser, who arranged her two braids into a beautiful updo. Later she met with Vasiliki, who was very elegant, and the two of them started for the theater building where the ball was to be held. “Let’s stay close together,” Vasiliki advised. The members of the organizing committee had assigned duties. Theodosia was to initially help people find their places and later sell lottery tickets. Early in the evening people began arriving at the theater, whose pit and gallery were fitted with round tables and chairs leaving a large open space in the middle of the pit for dancing. Before long, Modis with his entourage—Pavlidis, Fistas, and others—arrived noisily. He was holding a rose and scanned the floor until he spotted Theodosia. He approached her and offered the rose to her. “Miss Panagiotidou, you look superb!” “No more superb than you,” she managed to say. He wanted to shake her hand, but Vasiliki dragged him away and Theodosia went to help other people arriving. When the company of Mr. Mitsolis arrived—mostly magistrates— Theodosia shook everyone’s hand and exchanged a few words. Eusevia, her pregnancy clearly visible, looked nevertheless exquisite in a new dress. “Did you cut your hair?” she asked.

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“No, I have it up,” replied Theodosia. “It looks very good. You are lovely altogether!” Theodosia led them upstairs to their table at the gallery and as she walked away she heard the judge’s voice, “We’ll reserve this chair for Miss Panagiotidou, for when she finishes her work.” She passed from table to table, selling lottery tickets with much success. People were well dressed and in a good mood. No one refused to buy a ticket from her. She was the youngest among those selling tickets. In fact, the more tickets she sold the more people wanted to buy from her and not from someone else. When she finished she returned to the gallery and gained her seat. She watched the couples dancing downstairs. Suddenly Modis appeared at their table, handsome and formal, wearing a tuxedo with a flower on his lapel. He had an air of confidence revealing that he was aware of the striking impression he was making. Eusevia stepped on Theodosia’s foot under the table. He addressed Mr. Mitsolis while throwing furtive glances at Theodosia. “With your permission, Mr. Mitsolis, I would like to ask Miss Panagiotidou for a dance.” There was silence for a moment. Under the table Eusevia stepped on her husband’s foot this time. Mitsolis gauged the situation and then said, “Certainly, Mr. Modis, but you will have to wait because as you see there are many people ahead of you. She is the only lady at our table considering that my wife’s condition does not permit her to dance.” “Thank you. I understand,” snapped Modis, “I just want to let Miss Panagiotidou know that I’ll be dancing with her mentally all night.” He bid goodbye and left. Eusevia took Theodosia’s hand and whispered, “That’s good. Let him dance mentally!” The evening went on with much fun and conviviality. Modis and his friends down at the pit danced several times, apparently enjoying themselves. Theodosia danced only once, with Mitsolis. She kept thinking of Modis’s move with a certain satisfaction; she felt flattered. This handsome and well-to-do man had shown interest in her while there were so many beautiful women there. In the early morning hours following the judge’s departure everyone left from Mitsolis’s table and other people began leaving in large numbers. Theodosia was lost in the crowd. The innovative work at the model elementary school in Florina was not without opposition. The proponent of this work, Kastanos, had the grade of Vice-Director. But in early January of 1927 Gardikas showed up with the grade of Director. He was elderly, a bachelor, conservative,

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subscribed to old principles, and demanded his coffee on time. He did not like what he saw at the School of Work, particularly all the publicity Kastanos received in the papers. He got furious at Theodosia because she had asked the girls to come earlier in the morning in order to play volleyball before school. “I don’t want to hear the sound of that ball. I want to hear only the books opening and closing,” he said. Soon a fierce antagonism emerged between Gardikas and Kastanos. The two men were very different and not only physically. Kastanos was tall, thin, and dark, reminiscent of Byzantine church-icon figures. Gardikas was older, shorter and heavier with a round face and an oriental-style mustache. But more significantly, Kastanos was cultivated and gentle whereas Gardikas would not spare low blows. Kastanos had told the students that after morning prayer they didn’t have to make the sign of the cross three times—once was enough. This gave Gardikas the opportunity to taint Kastanos as a communist. He also used the fact that Kastanos had the girls wear breeches while doing gym to shame some of the peasant parents into protesting. Being in a position of power, Gardikas began by removing from their posts, with immediate effect, some of the fervent supporters of Kastanos’s program, including Theodosia and the sisters Kalfoglou. It was easy for him to do so because these ladies had not yet spent any time in remote border areas—a requirement for all new teachers—and at the same time, there was dire need for teachers in such areas of the Florina prefecture. Two of the Kalfoglou sisters, Eleni and Philipini, were relocated to Zagoritsani up in the mountains, a tiny Bulgarian-speaking village with only 735 inhabitants who hardly understood Greek. The village was renamed Vasiliada shortly after the two sisters arrived—in fact, Eleni was instrumental in the choice of name. Their job was to teach Greek to the children of the village. The task proved daunting under the circumstances. The extreme cold during the following winter almost killed the two sisters. They both got sick and with the village cut off by snow they didn’t even have aspirin. To their relief, the following year they got their permanent appointments back in Florina. Theodosia was relocated to Antartiko, a village of 2,500 inhabitants up in the mountains at an altitude of 1,060 meters, close to the Albanian border, twenty-nine kilometers west of Florina. Before leaving town Theodosia went to see Kastanos. He appreciated her work, not the least of which was the fact that she was the only teacher who had a violin in class and was able to decipher new melodies for children’s

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songs from his German books. “Where is Panagiotidou with her violin?” he was often heard shouting in the school corridors. Kastanos advised Theodosia to apply immediately and discretely for an official transfer back to his school. “File this application and I will support it in any way I can,” he promised. She set off for Antartiko midwinter, which was a real challenge considering that the roads on those mountains were often cut off by snow. But the people in the village were impatiently awaiting their new teacher. She found accommodation with one of the village’s notables, Nikos Liontzakis, a hunter, who was married to Eleni. They had a big house, the second floor of which was rented as a suite. A side benefit for Theodosia was that she often got to eat the game that Nikos caught and Eleni cooked, in particular a delicious dish of partridge accompanied by bulgur. The couple’s only sorrow was that they had no children. The next day she showed up at school. The new school—her third in three months—was small and ill-equipped. When she asked the students to say a prayer, they answered that they did not know one. She replied that they would learn one right away. The kids seemed smart and eager to learn. Theodosia too was highly motivated. They went into the classroom and she wrote on the blackboard the words of a beautiful morning prayer. The students copied it and she sang it to them several times. She asked them to memorize the words. She told the older students of the fifth and sixth grades to stay after school in order to learn the prayer. They did and they quickly learned the prayer, which they enjoyed singing. When the primary-school inspector, Alexopoulos, showed up early in the morning one day, before the bell rang, the kids spontaneously offered to sing their prayer. “Yes,” said the inspector, “please do sing your prayer.” Theodosia got them inside the building in the basement and they all sang the words of this prayer: Dear Lord, please listen to our morning prayer that we are sending You with devotion from the depths of our hearts, and keep us well. And all day long, Kind Lord and Father of all, do not stop helping us because without You no one can rejoice and live happily in this world.

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The inspector was impressed. He applauded enthusiastically even though it was a prayer and not a performance. When the kids saw him applaud, they began applauding themselves. That school inspector wrote an exceptionally favorable review about Theodosia. In fact he wanted her to come and work for his model school in Florina after she completed her residence in the countryside. There were two model schools in Florina—the other one was run by Kastanos, who also expected Theodosia to eventually come back. In Antartiko the students loved their teacher and so did their parents who kept bringing the young mistress pita—the traditional baked pie made of thin flaky dough known as phyllo—and other homemade delicacies. On a spring day a letter arrived from Vasiliki. Theodosia opened it full of anticipation only to find out that Eusevia had died while giving birth to a little girl who also had died. There had been complications during labor and Caesarian sections were not performed in Florina before 1956. Women could give only natural birth—those that could not either lost their baby or died, or both. Theodosia was heartbroken. She locked herself in her room and cried. She did not go to work the next day, claiming illness. She wrote a sympathy letter to Eusevia’s husband and felt somewhat better. Theodosia and Niki spent that summer in Oreoi where their Aunt Kiriakitsa, one of their mother’s sisters now lived. Theodosia first went to Thessaloniki to pick up Niki, who was still going to the girls’ high school at the Melissa orphanage. Oreoi is a small village by the sea in north Euboea, a huge island at the center of Greece. It is an island only technically because it is separated from the mainland by an artificially constructed channel. Oreoi is built amphitheatrically around an inlet. It has its central square right on the seaside. Aunt Kiriakitsa and her family had ended up there after they left Constantinople. Theodosia and Niki had not seen them since the days in Constantinople. It was only four years since they had seen each other but it seemed much longer. So many things had happened in the interim. The two girls felt once again surrounded with family and the village was traditionally hospitable. When they went for a walk by the sea and got thirsty, they knocked on the door of a little house to ask for some water. No one answered; the house seemed empty. But eventually an old lady showed up.

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“We are just looking for some water to drink,” said Theodosia. “Come in, come in,” the old lady invited them in. She went into the kitchen and a little later came back carrying a tray with glyko for them (spoon sweets consisting of fruits preserved in syrup) and water. It was more than they had expected. They ate the glyko, drank the water, thanked her, and prepared to leave when the old lady stopped them. “Wait a minute. You cannot leave like this. We are having vine harvest,” and she went back again to return with a basket full of grapes. “For good luck,” she clarified as she gave them the basket. The beach was very close and the water was clear and warm so the two sisters went swimming—which is a euphemism because this was only their second time in the sea—in their tee-shirts and slips for lack of proper swimsuits. They played in the shallow waters like toddlers. But Theodosia stepped on a sea urchin. It was a traumatic experience. It took her a long time to get all the pins out. She didn’t go back into the sea that summer.

7 Heart beneath a Rock

Returning to Florina in the autumn, Theodosia needed once again a place to stay. Kastanos had come through with his promise and she was going back to his innovative model school. She would like to live not too far from it. Spreading the word around among colleagues she found out that there was a room for rent next to where Eleni Kalfoglou lived. The two women went together to Mrs. Alexandra’s house to inspect the place for rent. It was a spacious room with a vestigial kitchen. It had a window on the road and a balcony in the back overlooking the river. Florina straddles a river, Sakoulevas, which occasionally becomes a torrent. It has very little water most of the year but the riverbed has high, fortified banks to protect the nearby houses from seasonal flooding. Mrs. Alexandra was a Vlach and everyone called her Sanda. Her house had a back door leading to the river and in front of it there was a large rock that gave protection against floodwaters. Theodosia decided to take the room. It was nice and only ten minutes from the school where she would be working. Moreover, she would now become neighbors with Eleni, with whom a closer friendship was developing. The work at the model school was exciting. Those studying to become teachers watched closely what was going on and often volunteered to participate in the various activities in addition to their scheduled teaching practice. Kastanos seemed satisfied despite the ongoing disputes with Gardikas. Theodosia’s new quarters had a large window with long curtains. From the balcony she could see the river and hear its water. Closer to the back door she could see the big rock protecting against floods. There were a few shelves in her room and she made a couple of clothes 83

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hangers from tree branches for her skirts. She hung a small petrol lamp by the kitchen corner and let it burn until she went to bed. There was no electricity yet in Florina. Lighting was provided either by natural gas or petrol lamps. As the winter approached the weather got increasingly colder. All the earth was covered with snow and was not to be seen again for many months. The temperature dropped as low as -32°C at night. It took much wood burning to keep warm. In the morning the quilt was hard frozen from one’s expiration and made cracking noises when moving around. Sanda got water out of the well, which seemed to steam as if it were hot because of the very cold weather. She lit the stove and put kettles on, but Theodosia could not wait for the water to heat. She had to get to work, so she washed her face with the well water. There hadn’t been any significant encounters between Giorgos Modis and Theodosia Panagiotidou since that memorable ball a year earlier because she had spent most of last winter in Antartiko. Besides, there was simply not much opportunity for unmarried men and women to meet. The fear of triggering insidious gossip made young men and women—mainly the latter—very apprehensive about public encounters. There were only few possibilities. One of them was churchgoing on Sunday, where men on one side of the aisle and women on the other could exchange glances. Another one was the patisserie on weekend afternoons where they could exchange a few words, and of course, chance encounters on the street. Modis had been rather frustrated not being able to make meaningful contact with Theodosia. The first day of the year is St. Basil’s Day when Vasiliki celebrated her name day. For January 1, 1928 she invited a few colleagues and close relatives for ouzo in the evening. But Modis called on her earlier in the afternoon to wish her many happy returns. While chatting with her he made a request. “How can I see more of your colleague, Miss Panagiotidou? So far our encounters have been only accidental on the street, or in church, but I have no chance to talk to her. Please arrange something so we can meet.” “Had you told me earlier, I would have invited you both for tonight,” said Vasiliki teasingly. “She has moved, you know. Now she lives in Sanda’s house by the river—if you pass in front of it, you’ll probably see her at the window!” She then suggested the patisserie in the Varosi neighborhood by the river. Vasiliki could go there with Theodosia and other colleagues one

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Sunday afternoon. Such an “accidental” encounter was socially acceptable and could lead to the exchange of a few words. When school began again after the holidays Vasiliki talked to Theodosia about Modis’s visit and his “need” to see more of her. “I think he has a crush on you,” Vasiliki continued. “He told me that you keep him awake at night! I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. I told him we could all meet at the patisserie in Varosi one afternoon. I know he doesn’t like pastries, but he certainly goes to patisseries.” And for good reason—patisseries offered unmarried men and women a rare opportunity to meet. That’s why the road in front of the patisserie at Varosi was often referred to as the nyfopazaro (the bride bazaar). But Vasiliki didn’t rush to make specific arrangements. She had been burned in a relationship with a man who finally did not marry her. Driven by that precedent—or by simple jealousy—she discouraged Theodosia from becoming involved with Modis. He sensed it and later advised Theodosia not to confide details of their relationship to Vasiliki. In any case, before a meeting between Theodosia and Modis had a chance to be set up, a random event unexpectedly came to play a crucial role in their lives. Despite the cold weather, when the sun shone bright on a clear sky Theodosia took her students out for a walk in the snow. The kids walked along the river, two by two, holding hands, either singing or simply being noisy. On such an outing Theodosia distinguished from afar the thin silhouette of a lady who looked familiar. A little closer she burst out in exclamation. “Kleanthi!” “Theodosia!” The two women fell into each other’s arms. Theodosia hadn’t seen her stepmother for six years. “What are you doing here?” she asked recovering from her surprise. “I want to ask you the same thing,” said Kleanthi. “Mine is a long story. I’ve been married again.” “I’ll stop by after school and we’ll talk extensively,” said Theodosia, worrying about the children on the road. That afternoon Theodosia came back to see Kleanthi and meet her new husband, Kitsos Sapountzis. She found out that most of the Bogazkoy village had settled in a village not too far from Florina called Filotas. It was a village that had been inhabited mostly by Turks before but following the exchange of populations the Turks had left and the Greeks had come in their place. There were still a few locals nevertheless. Kleanthi’s brother-in-law Kotsos had opened a coffee shop in the

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village—as he had done in Bogazkoy—and all the men regularly gathered in it. Over coffees and ouzos Kotsos overheard that a nice older man, Kitsos Sapountzis, who lived in Florina but owned six acres of farmland in the Filotas region was looking for a young wife that would take care of him and inherit his land when he died. He immediately thought of Kleanthi. A meeting was arranged between Kleanthi and Papou Kitsos, as Kleanthi referred to him because of his old age (papou means grandfather in Greek). The meeting led to a marriage and Kleanthi moved to Papou Kitsos’s house in Florina, which was next to the house of his cousin, Tegos Sapountzis the mayor of Florina. Now Papou Kitsos and Kleanthi lived together with his son Giannis who worked as a tailor in Florina; he had a tailor shop in the center of the town. Theodosia was glad to have found Kleanthi again. She did not hold a grudge against her stepmother with whom she had never lived under the same roof. She promised to come and see her often after school, which she did. She met everyone there including Papou Kitsos’s beautiful niece Athina, the mayor’s daughter. Athina and Theodosia liked each other, they were of the same age, and Athina was impressed with Theodosia’s maturity, independence, and life story. She also needed someone to talk to and Theodosia was a good listener. Besides being pretty Athina had become an only-daughter child. She had lost a brother and a sister when they were very young. Her father, Tegos Sapountzis became the first mayor of Florina when the town was liberated from the Turks in 1912 and had held that post for many years. That’s why everyone called him Mr. Mayor for the rest of his life. His family had moved to Florina from the village Kelli, thirty kilometers away, when Bulgarian comitadjis there had assassinated his grandfather. Athina’s mother, Anastasia, quickly made friends with Paraskevi—they had both been mortally hit by the Bulgarian comitadjis—and often exchanged pieces of their favorite pies. Athina was now of an age to get married and was coveted by mothers in good families who had sons of corresponding age. At the top of the list was Paraskevi. In fact, Anastasia and Paraskevi had set their hearts on the common future of their children. Theodosia often stopped by to say hello to Kleanthi, which gave Athina plenty of opportunity to confide to Theodosia about the mothers’ plans for a match with Modis. In fact, Athina solicited Theodosia’s help to compose a letter to him inviting him to a banquet in honor of

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her Cousin Giannis’s nameday. She was concerned about her writing skills considering how much of a scholar and man of letters Modis was. Theodosia was glad to help Athina. She put together a one-page draft and showed it to her. When Athina saw the letter she was so impressed with Theodosia’s beautiful handwriting that she asked her to write out the final letter for her to sign. Theodosia had been taught calligraphy at Ioakimio Parthenagogio where some traditions had oriental (notably Arabic) influences. She extended all extremities, mostly of capital letters, into spiraling tails. “Calligraphy like this will certainly impress him,” Athina concluded. The letter was brought to Modis with a messenger boy requesting a response. Modis accepted the invitation, which gave Athina an excuse to “write” another letter upping the familiarity a notch. She instructed Theodosia to include in this letter such phrases as: “so glad that you are coming” and “looking forward to getting to know you better.” The banquet for Cousin Giannis took place at Tegos’s house on January 7, the feast day of Saint Giannis. Athina also invited other friends including Theodosia. At Tegos’s house there were two tables set up in adjacent rooms, one for the parents and uncles, and one for the younger men and women. As the guests came in, they first went to greet the hosts and wish many happy returns, and then they separated into their allocated rooms. Athina with her friends sat at a round table alternating men and women. Modis was seated with Athina on one side and Theodosia on the other. Athina had Theodoros Liatsis on her other side, another potential groom for her but less desirable as he was only a civil servant. On Liatsis’s other side sat a young woman, Ariadni, who had a crush on him. Giannis sat between Ariadni and Theodosia. It turned out a rather intricate seating arrangement because Ariadni was seated next to and interested in Liatsis who was seated next to and interested in Athina who was seated next to and interested in Modis who was seated next to and interested in Theodosia! Two maids served dinner. Athina besides being pretty was also funny. While eating she took a bone from her plate and moved it around like a conductor’s baton, making everyone laugh. Modis got a chance to talk to Theodosia at length. In fact he paid more attention to her than to Athina, who couldn’t help noticing it. After dessert they played the social game of completing two-syllable words. They took turns, each one offering the person sitting next to him or her the first half of a two-syllable word, prompting the person to complete the word. At some point Athina turned toward Modis and said, “Fi-.” He responded

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by turning toward Theodosia and saying, “-los,” which makes filos and means “friend,” but at the same time he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “I love you.” An embarrassed Theodosia turned toward Liatsis next to her and said, “ka-” to which he responded with “-los” toward Ariadni, which makes kalos and means “good.” The game went on with no more unexpected incidents other than Theodosia’s pounding heart. The next day Athina in her desperation asked Theodosia to write one more letter for Modis, advancing such notions as “We could make a very nice couple.” After all, Anastasia and Paraskevi kept no secret of their plans to become in-laws. But Modis was already emotionally involved. A couple of weeks later on a Saturday afternoon the school committee met again to organize social events at the theater premises. Modis had found out that Vasiliki and Theodosia would be there. In fact the two women were sitting next to each other during the meeting when a clerk came in shouting, “Miss Panagiotidou is wanted at the entrance.” Vasiliki and Theodosia looked at each other with meaning. It was Modis. Theodosia went to the corridor leading to the theater entrance where she saw him waiting in the dark. He approached her and tried to shake her hand, but instead he took her hand in his two hands and trembling began kissing it. She pulled her hand back, but he would not let go. “Where have you disappeared?” he asked, “I haven’t seen you for weeks. I am not asking for much, just tell me where I can see you even from a distance, just so that I know you are there.” “I must get back before people start talking,” she said, and liberating her hand, turned around. “When do I see you again? Where?” “I will arrange something with Vasiliki,” she said and went back to her place in the meeting. When later they came out they saw him waiting at the street corner. He greeted them both from a distance but did not come close. A few days later Vasiliki came to Theodosia’s place in the afternoon for coffee. She had seen Modis and had news. “He is adamant that there must be a way for him to see you from a distance at least once a week. I told him of your new quarters and he said that he will be passing in front of the house and would like to see you at the window. You will know when he passes because he will whistle three times when he crosses the bridge.”

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And she continued, “What could I say? He is very upset. He is distracted and cannot find peace. He is afraid that you may find someone else and abandon him, in which case life will have no meaning for him. He scares me. It is the first time that he has experienced something like this. He has met many women before but never did he lose control of himself in such a way. In any case, make sure you lock your door securely at night!” Modis began taking frequent evening strolls with Fistas or Pavlidis on the road that passed in front of Theodosia’s new place. He watched out for smoke coming out of the chimney, an indication that she was in. She couldn’t see him well from her window because she would have to open it and lean out, but Eleni next door had a window that permitted spotting him from a distance and she would knock on Theodosia’s window to warn her that he was approaching. But the three whistles gave Theodosia ample warning to go to Eleni’s room and profit from her window’s disposition to enjoy a prolonged exchange of glances with passing Modis. In a close-knit, gossip-prone society exchanging glances was perhaps acceptable but even that would not go unnoticed. Sanda took notice of what was happening and remarked to Modis once in Vlachian, as if to punish the girls, “She knows you are coming and she goes to her friend’s room.” Seeing Theodosia at the window could satisfy Modis only up to a point. He needed more; he needed to express his strong emotions. He explored the region around her house and found the rock protecting against floods. At its base there was a concealed crack. He gave instructions to Vasiliki that he would be leaving letters for Theodosia in that crack. The first letter Theodosia retrieved was a blank page with only one phrase written big in its center, “I love you.” On the envelope it was written, “Heart beneath a rock”. The second letter: Saki [an abbreviation of the diminutive Theodosaki] is mine because I love her. Is there any other title of ownership more valid than the title of love? This powerful love that began growing inside me from the first time I set eyes on you when you came off the train! It was the first time that love revealed its fiery flower in front of my stunned eyes. Why shouldn’t I have the right to reach for you fearlessly?

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Eventually his letters acquired more specific content: Following a lot of work I have finally won this big case at court today. It was a mass action of dray owners asking compensation from the government. With this money I’ll build a house for you, my love. I will get the right architect to make it in Byzantine style in honor of my lady from Constantinople. I love you with all my heart.

Modis was referring to his first major win in court. Peasants who owned carriages drawn by animals to transport goods in the region were losing their jobs, hard hit by the onslaught of trucks and commerce via automobile. Another lawyer, an older man, had dragged his feet for two years, frustrating the peasants. They turned to Modis. He managed to get the peasants organized and he filed a ground breaking class action requesting compensation from the government. It was a daring project, which lasted for a whole year. He went to Athens and asked for the support of a high-ranking official there promising him a big present if he won. He also encouraged the peasants to bring their carriages and park them in front of the Town Hall demonstrating in support of their demands. At the end, the case paid handsomely. His receipts came close to 200,000 drachmas, a sum of money that would allow him to advance well toward the construction of his house. He had already bought a central parcel in town where the old clock tower had stood close to a minaret on Florina’s main street. Both the clock tower and the minaret had been demolished around 1920 following the departure of the Turks. “Is the location good?” he asked Theodosia in another letter. Ambitious as he was and under the influence of his feelings for his beloved Theodosia from Constantinople, he inquired at the National Bank—the new building of which sported Byzantine architecture—the name of the architect who had designed that building. When he found out that it was Aristomenis Valvis, a reputable architect from Athens who had designed many important banks and other impressive buildings

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across the country, he contacted him and commissioned a Byzantinestyle house to be built on his parcel of land. In designing Modis’s house Valvis was inspired by Le Corbusier’s architectural eclecticism, namely the Villa Schwob in La Chaux-deFonds in Switzerland. Le Corbusier built this villa—also known as the “Villa Turkish”—in 1916, after a trip along the Bosphorus, which led him to know many details of this type of construction based around two semicircular rooms back to back. But Modis’s parcel was much smaller than that of the Villa Schwob, so Valvis adopted only half of the original design, in other words only one semicircular room. To make it more Byzantine in style, Valvis decided on red as the main color of the house, circular formations above all doors and windows, a frieze with vertical lines below the roof, and rudimentary crenellations on the solid-wall railings of the balconies. The construction of the house proceeded at full steam. Modis planned to move his office there when finished. The house had three stores on the ground floor. Two of them would be rented out and one with a back door leading into the house was to become Giorgos’s office. Upstairs there was a large semicircular room with a wrap-around balcony. It had only two corners. It had two windows, one facing east, the other facing west, and a door that faced south leading to the balcony. There was a tile-covered canopy going all around the house at the level of the balconies. There were two more rooms, a kitchen and a bathroom upstairs. The house looked imposing from the outside because it was tall. All rooms had high ceilings, particularly the stores on the ground floor. The semicircular side of the house gave the impression of a tower. But it soon became clear to whoever lived in it that the architect’s main concern had been looks rather than functionality. Three rooms were little to show for such a large structure. There was one more room on the ground floor, referred to as the little room, which was not at all little; in fact it had a very high ceiling. There was provision for extending the house with two more rooms one on each floor, something that was never done. In the tradition of the times, homes did not feature living rooms. People spent their time in the bedrooms keeping one room closed—the so-called good room—always in a fit condition to receive guests. This was in part because, in the absence of telephones, visitors showed up unexpectedly and the host should be ready to receive them at any time.

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The semicircular room and the good room were connected with a two-leaf crystal door that could be opened to make one very large space. They were originally meant to be living room and dining room respectively because the latter had a second door leading directly to the kitchen. Another long balcony ran in front of the good room and the kitchen. The bathroom was very spacious in view of eventual installations of a bathtub, a washbasin, closets, etc., none of which were ever installed, so the extra space served for storage. The toilet itself consisted of a squat toilet (also known as an alaturka toilet), old newspapers and magazines served for toilet paper, and a bucket of water for flushing. Sparing no expense Modis found himself having to borrow money and pay interest. He felt a financial squeeze for a while. Before the house was completed he wrote to Theodosia another letter with specific instructions and left it in the crack of the rock. My love, our house will be soon finished. I have brought a pine-tree seedling from St. Irini in Athens and I want you to help me plant it in the garden. It will be our tree, a monument to our monumental love, so we must plant it together. Let’s do it tonight, very late. There is a full moon to light the way and Uncle George, the gardener, will have made all the preparations for us. I’ll come to get you around midnight. When you hear three whistles, sneak out. We will not take long. No one will see us.

That night Theodosia waited for the three whistles with excitement and apprehension. It was going to be one of those rare and risky occasions that they spent some time together and not simply saw each other from a distance. Being late in the night it should be fairly safe from indiscrete witnesses. In any case, she was becoming accustomed to simply obeying his instructions. When she heard the three whistles she left the house making no noise. He put his arm around her and they rushed quietly into the night, heading for the worksite. Uncle George was there. He had dug a big hole in the ground and had the pine-tree seedling with a pile of dirt from St. Irini next to it. Modis and Theodosia placed the seedling inside the hole pressing the special dirt all around it. The gardener then added more of the dirt he had taken out. He brought a couple of buckets of water and pressed the dirt while watering it. At the same time he wished, “That you make deep roots, and become very tall and strong, and provide shade to many children and grandchildren.”

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“Thank you, Uncle George! Be well!” Modis took her by the hand and they ran back to her house. There he kissed her passionately, if hurriedly, before she quietly disappeared behind the door. The messages under the rock continued on an almost daily basis. More rare were the late-night clandestine promenades that the two of them took toward the foot of the mountain or to survey the progress of the house under construction. But despite their precautions small-town gossip quickly caught up with them. People began talking about the romance between Modis and Panagiotidou and their clandestine late-night walks. Athina’s attitude toward Theodosia cooled. Her mother stopped sending presents and even talking to Paraskevi, and her father stopped sending clients to Modis. It came as a shock to Athina’s family after all the efforts they had made and the high expectations they had nourished. Paraskevi also took it very badly. She was furious at her son and even more so at that refugee who had led him astray. Instead of the Greek word prosfyga for refugee she referred to her with a made-up variation prosfynga that brings to mind the sphinx. Frequent quarrels between Giorgos and his mother on the subject were audible quite a distance away from their house. Theodosia was flabbergasted that Modis had chosen her over beautiful Athina, who deserved the title Miss Florina. But he referred to Athina as “that simpleminded girl” and argued that Theodosia’s big nose was full of wisdom. He’d also quickly recognized the spiraling tails in Theodosia’s handwriting. Athina was crushed and suffered a period of depression. Her family took her to the village of Pisoderi up in the mountains for a change of environment. She recovered and eventually married Theodoros Liatsis, who later confided to Modis, “Ever since that dinner at Athina’s, I kept hoping that you’d get Theodosia so that I could get Athina!” Liatsis held a civil-servant post at a bank. But it wasn’t just the social status that Athina had missed. Giorgos Modis was handsome. He had bushy hair and wore elegant clothes with an inevitable flower on his lapel. He sported the looks and the air of a sophisticated aristocrat.

8 A Two-Sister Show

Opposite Theodosia’s house lived and practiced a state veterinarian, Evgenios Evgenidis. His window was just across Theodosia’s window and she caught him staring at her. She bought some opaque cloth and made a heavy curtain, which she never opened. But it also happened that he often passed in front of her school when she was finishing work for the day. He was either not aware of the latest gossip and the couple’s late-night outings or he had been smoking too many cigarettes that weren’t simple tobacco, according to rumors. One way or another, his conspicuous stalking of Theodosia annoyed her more than flattered her, so she mentioned it to Modis. It wasn’t long afterward that the veterinarian received official notice for relocation to a nearby village due to “urgent needs” there. It wasn’t the only time that Modis took effective action to “protect” his beloved Saki. Several years later, and despite the fact that his relationship with her by now was no secret to anyone in Florina, a teacher colleague of hers began having an interest in her and declaring it to her. Giorgos started a rumor—and made sure it was spread around—that he had bought a gun and carried it with him in view of punishing anyone who might be tempted to mess about with his woman. The rumor proved effective in dissuading prospective suitors contemplating Theodosia. But the rumor also contained a grain of truth. Modis, a collector of eccentric items as he was, had bought a cane with an elaborately sculpted handle, which concealed a one-bullet rifle. The year 1928 proved very busy for Giorgos Modis. His house was almost completed and he moved his office there. The predominant color of the house was red, and with its semicircular side and many arches it posed indeed as a historic monument. But many things still 95

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remained to be done. For example, one bedroom had a small balcony from which an external iron escape staircase needed to be constructed. For the time being, however, the little balcony presented a hazard, not even having a railing. In any case, he installed his mother in the large semicircular room upstairs with the wrap-around balcony, and worked extra hard repaying his debts with interest. He also launched his own weekly newspaper on January 24, 1928. It was called Makedoniko Vima, Macedonian Forum, and had as its motto In the service of Macedonian interests. To launch the newspaper, the first issue featured a three-column front-page forward by Giorgos Th. Modis. Writing in Dimotiki, the spoken language, as opposed to the widely used archaic Katharevousa, and in the style of his plethoric prose, he said among other things: When I decided to publish the Makedoniko Vima I had no ambitions in mind, no secret plans, or dreams for Croesus’s riches, because after all I have not chosen journalism as a profession. One could say that I publish this newspaper once a week more like a hobby. However, my devotion to the ideological struggle is such that this publication may well become a primer for the Macedonian soul some time in the future … In our mind and heart reside the grandeur of our Greece and the prosperity of our Macedonia. That is what prompted us to publish this newspaper: the awakening of the veteran Macedonian, the awakening of his grand soul, which will pursue his struggle for the completion of his sacred goal. We will compel this soul to continue its sacred struggle for its salvation, for its existence.

The publication of his newspaper lasted only several months so he couldn’t describe in it his experience of climbing Mt. Olympus later that year. In early August 1928 he climbed Mount Olympus, together with twenty other climbers from all over Greece. What seemed to him at first an easy climb turned out to be a real challenge. He published an article about this expedition in the daily newspaper of Thessaloniki To Fos: Olympus—Jerusalem! Mecca! With your sixty-two springs and one thousand caves, Mt. Olympus, some people long for you but others curse you.

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∴

We started at the village Litohoro at the foot of the mountain and followed our guide, Kakalos, this faithful servant of the Gods. It is uphill right away. Half naked on a single file, the heat makes us exhausted. But the idea that in a few hours we will face the untrodden hideouts of the gods gives us strength and does not let us be discouraged by the rivers of sweat running down our bodies …

∴

After a three-hour rest, the first group begins toward the four highest peaks of Olympus under the light of the moon. In the morning the second group follows the tracks of the first. Fear, danger, and vertigo now accompany us. Here begins the real climbing: Olympus in all its commanding presence. Pantheon, Mityka, Stefani, and Throne are the steepest and most inhospitable peaks. The Throne of Zeus distinguishes mythology from reality. The pilgrim to this Throne must forget beloved persons, or better, make his will. Each of Mytika’s crests stands up like Cerberus, frightening timid pilgrims away … We are like ridiculous dwarfs climbing on all fours and endangering our lives under the constant threat of the Titans who shoot marbles at careless climbers …

∴

From the twenty-one only six of us make it to the highest peak … Another night at the refuge—we sleep again around the fire but as victorious pilgrims … On the snow that offered us water for three days a “young man” of sixty winters says goodbye to Olympus with a snow bath! Like a child he rolls in the frozen snow. And this unusual youngster continues to surprise us when we get to Prionia where he takes his bath in the crystal clear icy waters that gush out from the rock. It must be noted that the water was so cold one couldn’t keep his fingers in it longer than two minutes …

Modis, who loved photography, had his newly acquired camera with him. He had his picture taken on a flat milestone rock at the top of Mt. Olympus. He posed stripped down to his shorts, extending his arms

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and gaze up to the sky as if paying tribute to superhuman entities above him to whom he felt close. The ancient Greek gods had indeed been rather humanlike and were close to humans in many respects. They displayed emotions, such as love, jealousy, and anger. They got involved in relationships, intrigues, and fights. They made families and generally lived and acted on a level only slightly above the human level, not far away up in the sky. In the summer of 1928 Theodosia took a short vacation in Thessaloniki. She went to find Niki who was now too old for the orphanage and, as of a year ago, had been “adopted” by the director Kontostathi. Theodosia wanted Niki to come to Florina and continue her schooling at the Parthenagogio (girls’ high school). She picked up Niki from Kontostathi’s house and they went to see their relatives, Aunt Marika, Uncle Spyros, and in particular their brother Voulis. The reunion was euphoric. Voulis had grown up to be a handsome young man. Aunt Marika cooked a festive dinner. The next day the three siblings toured Thessaloniki. The city was impressive with its large buildings, stores with decorated windows, and asphalt-paved roads that were rare in the countryside. They walked along the long scenic promenade by the sea, and sighted the White Tower, which in fact was not at all white; it was rather a dirty gray. The tower had been part of the city’s fortifications built by the Venetians around 1200 AD following the Fourth Crusade, but rebuilt to its present imposing size—thirty-four meters high and seventy meters in perimeter—by the Ottomans in the fifteenth century. It served as a prison and a scene of mass executions during the Ottoman rule and acquired the name “Tower of Blood” or “Red Tower,” a name that it kept until the end of the nineteenth century. When Thessaloniki was liberated from the Turks in 1912 the tower was whitewashed as a symbolic gesture of cleansing, and acquired its present name. Theodosia—the only professional in the group—treated them to a meal at the seaside restaurant Stratis, close to Aristotelous Square. She needed to talk to them about events in her recent life, not the least of which was Giorgos Modis. They were all ears. But Voulis too had things to talk about. Some of the people he worked with at the printing shop were becoming excited by Marxists ideas and ideals coming out of the Soviet Union. It was an excitement that Voulis wanted to share. Also, he would be soon quitting his job

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because he was being drafted, and in any case, it had been made clear to him that he couldn’t stay as a helper in the printing shop forever. In early September the two sisters returned to Florina. They stayed together at Sanda’s while Niki attended school and Theodosia continued teaching at Kastanos’s model school. Theodosia took Niki to see Kleanthi, whom Niki hadn’t seen for eight years. On the way back Niki lamented, “Did you notice? I inadvertently called her Mom. How on earth could I do that?” Theodosia was more accommodating, “It’s all right. You were only five years old when Mother died and Kleanthi did play a mother’s role for you, if inadequately, for almost two years.” Modis and Theodosia kept seeing each other in clandestine late-night outings. He’d whistle three times after crossing the bridge; she’d slip out under cover of darkness and the two of them would take walks and, weather permitting, climb all the way up to the little St. Panteleimon church on the nearby mountain, one of the two mountains that flank Florina. They even met in his office late at night. The letters underneath the rock were progressively replaced with letters carried by errand boys—Kostas and Vangelis—in both directions. Sometimes they’d ask Vangelis to come along on their outing so as to disguise a date as a stroll by a group of friends. In sharp contrast to her beautiful handwriting, Giorgos’s handwriting was practically illegible. She was among the few people who could read it. She saved his letters; many of them surfaced again in the 21st century. Florina 16.5.29 Skatoula mou (my little rascal) I asked Kostas to bring back the clothes. It seemed wrong to send him without a note. Skatoula I don’t want you to have any bad thoughts. I love you. I love you and I imagine that with you I have seen the light of true love. I’ll see you tonight. Many kisses Giorgos

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD Saturday 18.5.29 Skatoula mou I was expecting to hear from you today with Kostas. Why didn’t you write? I had a lot of work today. I just now got some free time and I still hear the steps of clients outside my office so I may be forced to stop. Vangelis is next to me. I suggest we go out tomorrow; Vangelis can come with us. We can go where we went the first time. I am sending you a piece of manouri [delicious soft cheese]; it is exquisite! The cherries were good, weren’t they? They were brought to me as a present so I sent them to you. I violated the present! Skatoula, I love you. And since I know I love you, I know I am alive! I kiss you, Giorgos Tonight however, I say we meet in my office from 11 to 11½ Idem 6.6.29 Dearest Theodosia I take the opportunity of sending you these books to write a few lines. I want to write much, but I don’t have the patience. I don’t feel good today. I believe I’ll get better if I see you—in the afternoon at 4 o’clock at Jaskar’s. From these books I want you to give me a summary and your opinion. Read them carefully. They are beautiful. You must think a little higher. Like Marianthi!!! I want you to put on a little … powder tonight [the time’s equivalent of makeup]. I’ll be very happy tonight if I have you near me in the office. Yesterday I didn’t go out at all. I had ventouzes [cupping therapy] but I wish I hadn’t because it didn’t make me feel any better. In any case, I now expect you to write to me. I kiss you, Giorgos

When school closed in June 1929 Theodosia and Niki left the room at Sanda’s and went once again to Oreoi in Euboea. The two girls felt closer to Aunt Kiriakitsa who was their mother’s sister and was nicer to

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them than Aunt Marika in Thessaloniki. Moreover the picturesque seaside village of Oreoi was more appropriate for vacation than the big busy city. But this summer vacation was spoiled by illness. Theodosia got infected with malaria. She was ill for a long time and was treated with quinine. In fact, she retained sensitivity in her liver for the rest of her life. Coming back to Florina in September it proved difficult finding accommodation. They finally found a room on the outskirts of the town in a neighborhood crowded with refugees from Asia Minor. The landlady, Mrs. Katina, was a refugee from the Greek communities in Pontus at the far-east end of the Black Sea in modern-day northeastern Anatolia, Turkey. Mrs. Katina was pretty, newly married, had a little girl, and spoke the characteristic dialect—with remnants of ancient Greek—that people from Pontus spoke. When her little girl cried for a drink, she would instruct her, “Min kleïs, neron pe, pe neron,” meaning “Don’t you cry, just say water.” Theodosia and Niki made fun of these funny expressions throughout their lives, always cracking up at the sound of neron pe. In mid-September Theodosia was to participate in a Teachers Congress and Niki—herself a prospective teacher—decided to go and watch. The Teachers Congress was an event that took place every two to three years and was attended by all teachers and school inspectors of Florina. Exemplary teachings were scheduled and were followed by discussions. This year’s theme, geography, had been triggered by complaints that the teachers were not teaching geography due to the lack of maps. Most presenters were older teachers, some of them graduates of the renowned Megali tou Genous Scholi (Great National School) in Constantinople. It was a distinction that young Theodosia was able to share, having attended the girls’ section, Ioakimio Parthenagogio, right across from it. The classrooms on the top floor of Florina’s Sixth Elementary School were opened up so as to create a big hall. Blackboards were moved in and the model teachings took place under the observing eye of General Inspector Tsaves. Theodosia’s presentation was around the theme “How to make do without a map.” She read from a prepared text and argued that it was easy to draw maps on the blackboard with colored chalk using blue for the sea, brown for mountains, etc. “It seems easy for Miss Panagiotidou to say this,” objected an older teacher, “but is she aware that we do not have colored chalk?” Theodosia retorted that it could all be done with white chalk and proceeded to demonstrate it by making a drawing of Florina County on

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the blackboard, filling the lakes with solid white, and sketching in the mountain ridges with upside-down “Vs” and “Ws”. People applauded. Tsaves was impressed. He praised Theodosia’s work and remarked that if there is a will, there is a way to carry out one’s teaching task in all circumstances. As the discussions came to a close, Niki, who was sitting next to Theodosia, abruptly got up, pushing Theodosia aside and walked toward the podium with determination. People looked perplexed. Theodosia worried about what her sister was going to do, uninvited and unscheduled. Niki was prettier than Theodosia. She stood in front of the assembly, her chin up in the air—a posture she often adopted to compensate for her short height—and began reciting in a clear confident voice: Ta Scholia Ktiste, by Kostis Palamas This is a celebrated poem and Kostis Palamas was at the time Greece’s most popular poet. The poem addresses the importance of building schools. It consists of ten 5-verse stanzas and constitutes an impassioned and patriotic call to pay attention to education. Niki recited it flawlessly, sending chills down people’s spines in the audience. When she finished they broke into spontaneous, sustained applause. Tsaves wanted to know who the young lady was and when he was told that she was the sister of Miss Panagiotidou who had earlier made the presentation on geography he remarked, “Ah! This is the Panagiotidou sisters’ show.” Inspector Alexopoulos took the floor, thanked the young Miss Panagiotidou, and mentioned that her sister was very good with songs—having in mind the nice prayer he had heard in Antartiko—and so Theodosia should now lead the assembly in a song for closing the day. Theodosia was not prepared for this. Her mind quickly scanned all the songs that she knew. She finally announced, “The Mill,” and began singing it, progressively joined by most of the other teachers in the room. She later asked Niki, “When you walked up there, were you sure you could remember the entire poem?” “I didn’t give it a thought,” she answered. “It was appropriate for the subject matter and I just needed to recite that poem at that moment.” In the years that followed Theodosia did two more exemplary teachings, one in history and one in language. This was expected of teachers

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who wanted to earn promotion. On those occasions she had to actually teach in a classroom with kids. Kastanos’s model school and the School of Work suffered from, but survived, Gardikas’s attacks. Theodosia enjoyed the hands-on teaching methods, but Kastanos wasn’t happy that she lived so far away. It made it difficult for her to come to school at 7 am to prepare things before the pupils arrived. He suggested that she take a room in a hotel in town closer to the school. The idea appealed to her considering how long she had to walk in the snow every morning. In fact, Modis had an appropriate connection. The Hotel Panellinio was centrally located and was run by Mrs. Vasiliki (no connection to Vasiliki Radisi) and her son. They were from Monastiri and Modis had helped the son with legal matters. They were eager to do him a favor in return and so gave a nice room to Theodosia with advantageous long-term rent. The room had much light, a balcony, and a beautiful sycamore plant. An early photo of Theodosia that Giorgos took is on that balcony. She looked quite elegant. She was thin, with short hair, wore a knee-high printed-fabric dress and shoes with moderately high heels. Theodosia left Niki at Mrs. Katina’s place and moved into the hotel. Her new accommodation proved rather agreeable. She did not cook; there was a restaurant on the ground floor. Modis would make a point of eating there at the same time with her but at different tables because they were visible to the public. They just exchanged glances while eating. There was no easy way to go up to her room under the vigilant eyes of Mrs. Vasiliki. In her new quarters Theodosia saved money because the hotel bills went to Modis. There were two young men working at the restaurant, Iordanis and Efraim. They were brothers coming from the Caucasus area in Eastern Turkey. They made friends with Theodosia whom they saw daily. The three of them had in common a refugee background and a hard-work ethic. The two brothers confided to Theodosia that they wanted to start their own business, a grocery store, but had no capital. She felt pity for them and thought about lending them some of the money she had saved but hesitated. She asked Modis’s advice. “You can trust them,” he reassured her, “they are hard-working and honest men. You will not lose your money.” With his encouragement she lent them 15,000 drachmas from her savings. They opened a grocery store on Florina’s main street right across Modis’s house. The store did very well from the beginning. Iordanis and Efraim felt obligated to Theodosia and before too long they had

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paid her back. In fact they wanted to add interest, but she would not accept it. Years later when Theodosia lived in that house she shopped regularly at their store and most of the time they’d offer, “Go home, Mrs. Theodosia—we’ll bring the groceries to your place.” Electricity arrived in Florina in the early 1930s. It was provided by a private company and only at night. It was produced by two oil-burning generators—switching from one to the other exactly at midnight— giving out 110 volts of DC current. But the diffusion of electricity into private homes proceeded very slowly. In any case, the only electric appliance possible was light bulbs. Modis couldn’t wait for radios to become available. He bought a portable mechanical gramophone that could be wound up with a crank and began a collection of 78 rpm phonograph records. In his first batch there were several popular Greek songs, a German song, and also Brahms’s Hungarian Dances. The Modis house was among the first ones to be equipped with electricity. He was able to take a picture of Theodosia in his office at night without a flash, which was not available yet to amateur photographers. He also threaded a wire through a beautiful bronze candlestick holder and fixed a light bulb on it, thus turning it into a bedside lamp. Decades later, in accordance with the spirit of the times—it was 1968—his son Theodore stripped the wire and bulb away, polished the candlestick holder, and restored its candlestick function. But more decades later, with the appearance of little flickering-flame light bulbs in the 1980s, he once again re-established it as a bedside candle-imitation electric fixture. Another twenty years later, nostalgia for antiques made him come back to a plain candlestick holder again. At the beginning of May 1930 the Second Delphic Festival took place in Delphi, Greece. The First Delphic Festival, three years earlier, had included representations of ancient Greek drama (Aeschylus’s Prometheus Bound) by amateur actors, athletic competitions, Byzantinemusic concerts, lectures and art-and-crafts exhibitions. The second three-day festival was better organized and was attended by numerous intellectuals, artists, and journalists from all over the world. Modis could not have missed such an event. He got very excited when he visited Delphi. He sent a postcard to Theodosia.

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Delphi 6-5-30 Greetings from Delphi. I am now writing to you from opposite the Castalian Spring at 10 p.m. Most romantic. Whoever hasn’t seen this festival hasn’t lived. Or rather, he doesn’t know why he lives. Today I lived 2,000 years. Kisses, Giorgos

Not only did he attend the festival, but he also took many photographs with his camera, particularly of Miss Diplarakou who was playing Prometheus’s mother. When he later showed the pictures to Theodosia she remarked, “You must have been infatuated with this girl to take so many pictures of her.” “There is a fascinating story behind her,” he defended himself. Miss Aliki Diplarakou was the daughter of an Athenian lawyer. She was beautiful, intelligent, and spoke excellent English, French, and Italian. Back in January and while she was attending a beauty contest with her family in the theater Olympia, she suddenly heard her name being called by a member of the jury, who called her on stage to compete. She was stunned because she had never considered participating in that contest. Apparently, someone who knew her had inscribed her name into the competition without letting her know. It must be pointed out that beauty contests were taken seriously in those days. They were attended by distinguished personalities and even government figures. The contest of 1930, during those difficult times for Greece and the whole world economy, was organized by the Union of Journalists and enjoyed high formality. When Aliki Diplarakou refused to go on stage, the President of the Republic, Alexander Zaimis, who also attended the event, got up and said that participation in the competition was a national affair! So the eighteen-year-old Aliki not only got on stage to participate in the contest but also won the title of Miss Hellas. A month later Aliki Diplarakou represented Greece in the beauty contest for Miss Europe held in Paris. Confirming predictions, she emerged as the most beautiful woman in Europe for 1930. In October of 1930 she took part in the Miss World beauty contest in Rio de Janeiro and took second place to Miss Brazil. Greek lyric poet and playwright Aggelos Sikelianos and his American wife Eva Palmer organized the 1930 Delphic Festival. He was the first Greek candidate for a Nobel Prize in literature; she was closely involved with Raymond Duncan and his sister, renowned dancer

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Isadora Duncan. He chose Aliki Diplarakou to play the role of the mother of Prometheus. His wife designed the costumes for all the actors and dancers, modeled on Greek folkloric art. Idealists as they were, Sikelianos and his wife stayed away from sponsors and the commercialization of the venue while organizing the festival. This ruined them financially and shortly afterward led to their divorce. Little did Modis know that Aliki Diplarakou, that young pretty girl that so took his fancy, would make more headlines in the future. While a guest on a yacht, she violated the sacrosanct rule that no woman must set foot on the Athos peninsula. She dressed as a man and convinced a monk to let her dock for a while and visit a monastery. She was publicly cursed and anathematized by Patriarch Photios II. Later, Aliki married an English nobleman, Sir John Wriothesley Russell, and became Lady Russell.

9 The Disgrace

Gossip diffuses rapidly in small towns. Despite the precautions Modis and Theodosia took, people saw them and began talking. While walking her back from one of their nocturnal outings, Modis put Theodosia’s scarf on top of both of them to hide their faces from indiscreet eyes. But they drew a gendarme’s attention and were stopped. “It is me, Giorgos Modis,” said Modis who seemed to know him. “Ah! All right,” replied the gendarme and walked away. Theodosia was worried and got more so when the gendarme later knocked on her door asking for her identity. She sent a note to Modis to which he replied promptly. Saturday 15.3.30 Theodosia, On my way back I saw the gendarme and we chatted. I knew him. He simply wanted to know who I was because he did not recognize me under the scarf. He didn’t recognize you either because he referred to you as Soultana!!! I am surprised now that you are telling me he knocked on your door. He promised me to do nothing. I repeat—I know him well. But don’t worry. Whatever he did, it was motivated by petty duty. He is entirely harmless. I just saw him again today. But he didn’t tell me he came knocking on your door. This man is now quitting his job because he got married and is going away. I am telling you, stop worrying. I wanted to meet you, but since you wrote to me—and you did well to write me—I am relieved. Simply stop thinking about it. In another meeting I could tell you more. For a moment I thought of going to Monastiri because I had some business also with my old lady there, but I am still

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD undecided. In any case, I may be going Monday morning but I’ll be here again for you. Now I want you to be completely reassured. You hear? I demand it. Kisses, Giorgos

However, it was another event that propelled rumors about them to a critical mass causing real damage. Paraskevi spotted Theodosia one day passing in front of the house. She rushed out on the balcony and began shouting at her so that everyone in the neighborhood could hear it loud and clear. “You, good for nothing, prosfynga, go back where you came from. Leave my son alone. You sans-culottes, penniless bitch, you don’t belong here. Go home. Go back to Turkey, you raunchy slut!” She used the French expression sans-culottes, literally meaning “without culottes”, that was a derogatory expression for common people of the lower classes in the late 18th century. Theodosia, deeply ashamed, rushed to distance herself. But the damage was done. It wasn’t long afterward that Gardikas summonsed Theodosia to his office and reprimanded her for her behavior. “This matter must be resolved,” he ruled. “In the meantime you are being relocated away from Florina with immediate effect,” and handed her an official document justifying the decision by invoking such arguments as “lacking moral virtue” and “a dissolute life.” “In due time you will be informed about where you must go for the academic year beginning in September,” he concluded. Theodosia was crushed. She went home and cried for a long time. She then wrote a desperate letter to Modis, concluding that she wished she were dead. On his side, he composed an excessively melodramatic piece of prose that he typed on his typewriter as if he intended using it for literary purposes but kept her name on it nevertheless. It is dusk. I saw a shadow, a deadly figure behind your window. It was pitch-dark behind the iron bars. Only your eyes could be faintly discerned, strong, deep, and melancholic. Tired of seeing, very tired. How much you are suffering! But you must leave today. And your companion? He? Alas! He may feel sorrow tonight.

The Disgrace You are trekking… You are now trekking, my poor girl. Spring flowers no longer smile around you. Nor will a refreshing nightfall impregnate your bosom. All is dead around you; everything is trekking with you … Yes, an entire world is disappearing with you. Everything is going, you are carrying everything away with you. There is nothing left, my poor girl. Nothing is left in an orphanhood you experienced so harshly. You are going … You are going somewhere … very far, maybe there, there where we will all meet. Look back; you are not laughing. You are not looking at us. You are leaving. You are sliding so fast on life’s last steps! But why? My God! Nothing is following you. What am I saying! Everything is following you. Everything, dearest Theodosia: my tears, my soul, my life. Yes, my life. I met you on a wintery evening in January while I was on the joyless solitary path of my life. Your sweet eyes, worried and frightened, were looking for their match for other eyes more sensitive and of similar suffering. Your orphan soul then fell upon the first encounter. Because it was thirsty for a world of her own. Because you wanted a world as you had hoped for. Higher than your circle that meekly lets its thoughts and dirty wishes roll in mud. You sought to fly away from the constraining iron bars of a spoiled paradise. At some point hope smiled on your soul. The picture of a dreamlike life full of sweetness, desire, and love took form inside you. You lived a few months, very few, a short human life. Like laughter, it didn’t last longer than a dream. Because people’s hatred soon arrived, heavy clouds spread over your life’s dream. The people were mean to you, very mean at the beginning of your long journey. Are you leaving? Are you really leaving?

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD Alas! World! How small you are! How short is your life! Indeed, your silhouette is steadily diminishing. It is about to disappear in the depth of the horizon. Red clouds are playing their last game. But the sun, the big god in our lives, has gone down! It has gotten dark! A black sheet has spread everywhere. The little clouds that played happily at the sunset a little earlier are gone. They died! Just as you, my love, have hidden up there in that unknown world. And now … A picture has been lost. Two worried, shining, tearful eyes, a pure soul that got liberated from being knocked around by orphanhood, a little breeze, a souvenir consoles my psyche. Your eyes that I will no longer be able to look at… Florina 31.5.1930

It is not clear whether Modis actually sent this text to Theodosia and it is highly improbable that it was ever published anywhere. But she must have seen it because it was stashed away together with the other letters from him that she kept. Spirits calmed down over the summer recess and their usual correspondence via messenger boys, clandestine meetings, and exchanges of packages picked up again, although Modis still intended to intervene with the authorities on her behalf, if he saw an opportunity. In July, on a three-by-five card of his official stationary, he wrote: Florina 23.7.1930 My dear Theodosia, Throughout the night my thoughts were with you, despite the fact that I have established that you are all right. Worries kept me restless. I wanted to send you the oil earlier. But I was imagining (expecting) to hear from you; even a short note. What is happening? How are you doing? Send me the documents. Kisses, Giorgos

On another card he wrote a few words; on the back of this card Theodosia seems to have made a draft for her answer.

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14.8.1930 My dear Theodosia, Send me a few words. I think I need them. How have you been? Tonight I’ll be expecting a night of deprivation full of nightmares. Giorgos

On the back of the card, Theodosia wrote with a pencil: Why don’t you write a few words? You think that I do not need them? I am not like you. Really, you cannot imagine how much of a relief they would bring to me. I feel so depressed and I need you. I had been afraid that such bad things would happen.

When Theodosia showed up for work in September she was informed that she was being posted to Meliti, a village of about 1500 people some twenty kilometers northeast of Florina. She asked Vasiliki to let Modis know and went home to pack. She would be leaving the next day. The next morning Modis showed up at Theodosia’s door. “Are you ready?” he asked. “A taxi is waiting for you outside. Don’t worry about going to this village. I know the people there. They are my clients. They will treat you well. You’ll see—it will be better this way.” She was taken aback by his bold unexpected presence, but the words of support were welcome. “I need some more time to finish packing,” she said. “Take your time, the taxi will wait. I’ll see you later.” When she came down with her luggage she told the taxi driver to go to where the buses left, but on the way they saw Modis waiting for them at the corner. She was about to say goodbye to him when he said, “you sit in the back. I’ll sit in the front.” She realized that they were going to Meliti by taxi and that he was going to accompany her. She felt uneasy but was willing to go along with whatever he said. She felt lost, nervous, and her heart was pounding. The ride took about half an hour. Arriving at the village the taxi stopped at the office of the president, who was very glad to see Modis. “Mr. President, this lady is going to be your school teacher and you should take good care of her,” began Modis.

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“Don’t worry, Giorgos, she will have the best of accommodation,” he replied and clarified, “she will stay in my house. As you know I have three empty rooms upstairs. She can have the big room with the balcony.” Theodosia went upstairs to see the room. It was quite big with a bed and a little bed table. There was a round table in the middle with chairs, an easy chair, and a mirror on the wall. She came back down satisfied. Maria, the president’s wife, brought coffee and hot home-baked bread. A little later Modis thanked them and said goodbye, but before leaving he turned toward Theodosia and asked, “Where is this room? Can I see it too?” The two of them went to the room upstairs and closed the door. “Finally alone, my love, it’s wonderful.” He kissed her and said, “Everything is going to be all right. From now on we’ll be able to see each other more easily here than in Florina. I am very happy. I will leave now, but I will come back to see you on the weekends.” The next day she showed up at the school. It was in a new building. The kids were obedient and orderly but Theodosia was embittered. She felt disgraced. Many of her friends, Eleni Kalfoglou among them, were already keeping their distance from her. And now she was exiled to this small village twenty kilometers northeast of Florina, very close to the border with Yugoslavia. How long would she have to stay there? When and how would her honor ever be restored? Back in Florina, Paraskevi heard the news. “That she stays there forever! That’s what she deserves,” she exclaimed. For his part Modis tried to become involved in Theodosia’s professional situation. Saturday 17.9.1930 My dear Theodosia, And now we are far apart. But everything is so relative that we shouldn’t feel fatalistic. It was to be expected that we’d be separated one day. As it is expected that one day we will be joined forever. This idea keeps me sane. I am thinking of you, my dearest Theodosia, every minute, every moment. But I don’t know why … Here I stopped yesterday because Makris walked in and interrupted my inspiration. This morning I wanted to continue but I had to be in court. Now the boy is in a hurry and so am I.

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Tonight I will invite Kastanos to talk things over. I believe the primary-school inspector intends to send you to Kelli, but I am not sure. If it is true and not simple gossip that Kastanos is gaining power at the model school, we may secure permission for reinstatement. Don’t worry. Tomorrow I will write again. Lots of kisses, Giorgos Vangelis is here and says hello.

But Modis’s efforts proved fruitless. Theodosia was in Meliti to stay. He did visit her there almost every weekend. He arrived Saturday afternoon and went to the president’s office. As soon as he saw the kids leaving school and dispersing in the village streets he went to meet Theodosia. He wanted to know everything, what she did, how she felt, what she ate, etc. The atmosphere was less repressive in Meliti than in Florina because they did not have to pretend there was nothing between them. Still, they were not married, not even engaged, so they had to behave accordingly. No endearments in public, no staying in the same room. They often had dinner at the tavern with the president and his wife. They also went on excursions with them. But they mostly enjoyed each other’s company, taking walks in nature, dipping their feet in icy crystal-clear creeks while the weather was good. In spring Theodosia was given one more task at school. The Red Cross toured the region and left a Singer sewing machine with treadle power, together with some patterns for light clothing in the school of every village. Of course, no one knew how to use these machines. It was the teacher’s job to teach the girls how to use the sewing machines. Theodosia had used one when studying in Thessaloniki, but she had to stay up late at night figuring out what to do with this machine. On the two afternoons when there was no school, Wednesdays and Saturdays, the school was transformed into a sewing workshop. The older girls were highly motivated. They all wanted to make an undershirt and a slip. But together with the girls came several young mothers who wanted to learn and take advantage of the sewing machine. They were interested in making the school apron—an overall—that kids wore every day to school. In addition, Theodosia was dispatched to other small villages in the vicinity such as Achlada and Skopos that lacked appropriate teaching

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personnel, where she stayed from a few days to a week teaching them how to use the sewing machine. She set herself the goal to have the girls making a garment for themselves by the time she moved on. In the end she found the project gratifying. In each village she was welcomed like Santa Clause bringing presents and went away with much wellwishing. But in Theodosia’s mind remained the agonizing concern of regaining the respect of the people in Florina and going back to her position in the model school. She talked to Modis about it. He showed understanding. He said that they could get engaged and announce it publicly, but he’d like to do it in such a way that his mother did not find out! While Modis procrastinated over the engagement issue Theodosia took different action. She wrote to the offices of the teacher’s syndicate newspaper The Teachers Forum and gave them her new address requesting all back issues that she may have missed. She wanted to keep abreast of possibilities and opportunities offered to teachers. Poring over them she learned that teachers could enroll in a two-year program of continued education at the university—while they remained fully employed—provided that they qualified for the program by passing an entrance examination. Theodosia saw this revelation as a lifeline. If admitted, she would live in Athens for two years instead of Meliti, she’d be going to university instead of teaching, and she would acquire professional respectability. There was plenty of information on how prospective candidates should prepare for this examination, what topics would be covered, and what books must have been read. The next examination was to take place in September in Athens and an application had to be filed before the end of June. There was just enough time to prepare for it. She immediately mailed the list of books to the bookstore of Mr. Tsongos in Florina asking him to order them for her and let her know when they arrived so that she could come to Florina to pick them up. Modis must have passed by the bookstore and found out that she was contemplating going to Athens for further-education studies. He sent her a newspaper on which he had scribbled, “You’ll be deceiving yourself, if you think you can go to Athens with this program.” It wasn’t that he disapproved. He simply thought that her chances were nil, considering that the program was tough and was designed for senior teachers. He had underestimated her because when once he had suggested that she should aim to become director of a school, she had responded coolly. But this was not because she did not have confidence

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in herself or feared responsibility. It was simply that directors have much responsibility and little contact with the kids, which didn’t appeal to her. But now her mind was set. She wanted to contact someone who had already followed the program for more inside information. The newspaper article gave the names and locations of last year’s participants. She looked at the list of names not knowing whom to contact. She picked a name at random, Mr. Anastasopoulos from Volos. She wrote him a letter asking for details about his experience hoping to obtain valuable information. She was disappointed. The man turned out to be old and conservative, saw the program as reward for his long service, and disapproved of a young female teacher participating. Theodosia thanked him politely and put him out of her mind. Once she got hold of the books she devoted all her free time to studying. In the meantime, Modis in Florina became involved in establishing a mountaineering club. His experience climbing Mount Olympus had stirred up the desires to climb other mountains. The club’s first outing was scheduled for Easter of 1931 at Mount Parnassos. Before leaving for southern Greece, he went to Meliti to say goodbye to Theodosia. “Good thing I am going away so that you can have peace and quiet to concentrate on your studying. Goodbye, my love, my thoughts will be continuously with you.” As he kissed her she wished him good luck and a nice time with the beautiful female mountaineers. “There are no female mountaineers,” he retorted, “and in any case, there is no woman more beautiful than you.” A few days later she received her first letter from him. From Thessaloniki we took the evening train to Athens. There are too many people on the train; most of them are sleeping, some of them snoring. But I am not sleeping. I am writing to you, thinking of you, having you next me so that we are traveling together. I regret having left you behind. I should have taken you with me. You exaggerated about how much you needed to study and how little time there is left. From the moment we got on this train I have been imagining that you are sitting next to me and, while everyone else sleeps, you lean on my shoulder and I hear your heart beating for me. I wish it were true! I wish I could be sure that you love me a little! My love, you are probably still awake

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Easter is fun in Greece. It is a holiday more important than Christmas, probably because it is celebrated mainly outdoors and it takes place in spring when the weather is most agreeable. In the countryside it becomes a several-day feast, roasting lamps on spits and dancing to loud music produced by violins, wind instruments, and drums. Meliti was a typical village for such festivities, but Theodosia participated scantly. It wasn’t so much the studying she had to do. She was traversing a rather melancholic and preoccupied period in her life. On the third day after Easter the postman came again and people gathered around the bus that just arrived. There were letters from Modis, three of them! I regret, my love, not having brought you with me. I haven’t seen you for two weeks and it is too long. We are not going to repeat that. From now on you go wherever I go. The climbing experience was wonderful. Early in the morning the rising sun and the beauty of nature offer an exceptional spectacle. We climbed the highest peak from where the view was magnificent, but I couldn’t enjoy it without you. If I could only be sure that you were thinking of me, that you love me a little …

The other letters were in the same tone. It may not be for you the greatest love story the world has ever known, but it is for me. Coming back I will first come and see you and then go to Florina. By the way, I inform you that you have become a mountain climber. I inscribed your name in Florina’s new Mountaineering Club and you will participate in the next outing on July 20, on Prophet Elias day. We’ll be climbing Mount Kaïmaksalan, on top of which the relatives of those who died there during the Great War have built a little church with bullet and bomb shells. Every year delegations from various countries come and conduct a memorial service, in memory of those who died there. We’ll be climbing at night because it is a long and strenuous climb. My dearest Saki, I will get you a

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mule to ride on. Imagine, you will be like Penelope with the suitors! I promise to take pictures of you.

Little did she know at that time that it would all happen just the way he had envisaged it. She did go on that climb, he did have a mule for her, and he did take pictures. Theodosia was again into her studying later that summer when she received his letter with pictures of her on the mule with an explorer’s hat on and the other climbers around her. His comment was, “And for argument’s sake I enclose the pictures here.” In early September the postman brought a letter for Miss Theodosia Panagiotidou from the Ministry of Education. It looked ominous. She opened it with trembling hands to find out that she was being excluded from the university entrance examination. She did not qualify to compete with other candidates on grounds of “lacking moral virtue.” She broke into tears. All her hopes and dreams during the last year were destroyed in a few seconds. She became overwhelmed with desolation. Her head was spinning. She couldn’t think straight. She prayed to God to simply die. She cried for hours, lamenting her misfortune. When her tears dried up, she began thinking about what to do. There should be something that could be done to correct this injustice. She should go to Athens at once. There was no time to waste. There were only three days left before the examination was scheduled to take place. She quickly packed her few belongings, said goodbye to Mrs. Maria, and rushed to catch the bus for Florina. She needed to talk to Modis before taking the train. But going to him herself or approaching the Byzantine-style house where Paraskevi reigned was not an option. Arriving at Katina’s place Theodosia ran into Katina’s husband who noticed her distress. She did not hesitate to ask for his help. Very willingly he agreed to go find Modis and tell him that he was urgently needed at Katina’s home. Theodosia agonized through many endless minutes until she heard the three whistles at a distance. She came down and waited for him behind the front door. When he knocked, she opened the door and with no holding back she fell on him, crying uncontrollably. He was at a loss not knowing how to calm her down. At that moment she gave him the letter. “Is this what you are crying about? Don’t you worry, they will immediately retract this decision,” he affirmed.

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He said this with such a confidence that Theodosia felt shored up. She regained her posture but was unable to utter a word. “I know this man Joseph Lazarou who holds a high post in the Ministry of Education. He is from Monastiri. He has done many things for me in the past. You’ll go to him, you’ll tell him that you are my fiancée, that this document is no longer valid, and that I am asking him to do whatever is necessary so that you participate in the exam. He is very capable, you’ll see. Everything will be fine.” Modis’s support was like a balsam to her anxious psyche and she would have welcomed more of it. But she knew deep inside her that she could count only on herself. She did not have much to prepare for the trip to Athens. She got on the afternoon train and by evening she was in Thessaloniki. She was full of anticipation but also apprehension. Would Lazarou be able to get this interdiction retracted? And if in the end she were allowed to take part in the examination, would she be able to pass it? “Do not abandon me, God. Please help me, Lord!” she prayed.

10 Georgios Papandreou

At Thessaloniki’s railroad station Theodosia inquired about the next train to Athens. “The Europe Express stops on the way to Athens at 10 pm.” She had plenty of time. She bought her ticket. She smelled koulouria (large pretzels coated with sesame seeds) nearby and as she hadn’t eaten much all day, she bought one and savored it immensely. She then walked into a dairy and ate some yogurt. Afterward she went to the waiting room and sat on a chair waiting for the train. The train came from Europe and was full, but she managed to find a seat by the door of a compartment. The train’s rocking motion put her to sleep with her head resting on the corner. She was woken up by the ticket controller. There was agitation among the passengers. Someone said that they should be arriving soon. She lowered her suitcase from the overhead rack and waited in the corridor. It was daybreak when the train arrived in Athens. Locating an inexpensive hotel near the station, she checked in, washed up, and changed clothes. On her way out she asked the receptionist for instructions to the Ministry of Education. It was housed in a three-story building in downtown Athens. At the ministry she asked for the office of Mr. Lazarou. It became immediately obvious to her that Joseph Lazarou, who had only one good eye, had extensive powers in that environment. With much apprehension she introduced herself as the fiancée of Giorgos Modis from Florina. She presented the document with her rejection and explained to him, as Modis had suggested, that the accusations over morality issues were no longer valid. 119

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Lazarou looked at her, sizing her up suspiciously. He then pondered over his documents and frowned, “I am sorry, I cannot do anything about this. The lists have already been compiled and I cannot intervene at this point. Only the Minister of Education, Georgios Papandreou, can overturn such a decision. But he is sick and the exam is the day after tomorrow. You could try to see him by going to his home in Kastri.” Another rejection, but at least it wasn’t the end. There was still something to try. There was no time to waste. She took a taxi to Kastri, an affluent northern suburb of Athens hidden among parks and trees far away from the city center. Papandreou’s house was a brand new, imposing, two-story building with a garden and a tall white wall around it. A marble plate next to the gate read Galini (Equanimity). An officer stood guard at the gate. Theodosia approached him and told him that she needed to see Mr. Papandreou. “You can’t. He is ill.” “But I have come from Florina and all I want is a simple authorization. It is very urgent.” “I can do nothing,” he told her. “Your only chance is to catch the nurse when she leaves in the afternoon. She may be able to do something for you.” Theodosia looked around as if trapped. There wasn’t much else to do but wait for the nurse to come out. She sat on a marble ledge by the house’s entrance. She knew it was going to be a long wait. Time passes slowly when you are waiting for it to pass. It seemed as if she had been waiting forever. Eventually, by late afternoon, the door opened and the nurse emerged. Theodosia stopped her and pleaded for a chance to see the minister, “Please, I’ve been waiting all day. I came from Florina and I just want his authorization.” “You may be lucky because he is better today,” the nurse seemed sympathetically disposed. “He no longer has fever. But it is too late now and I have already bid him goodnight; I can’t go back. Come tomorrow morning and meet me here when I arrive at 9 am. He may agree to see you then.” The next morning Theodosia was back in front of Papandreou’s house shortly after 8:30. The nurse arrived promptly at 9:00. “Wait here,” she told Theodosia and disappeared inside the house.

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Theodosia’s heart pounded for a few moments that felt like an eternity. But the door opened again and the nurse called her, “Come in.” She brought Theodosia to the minister’s room and left. Georgios Papandreou—who later became prime minister—was tall handsome with curly hair. He was wearing a dark-blue silk robe de chamber with thin white lace at the edges and was sitting propped up in bed on many large pillows. Theodosia began by thanking him for seeing her. She explained that she had come from Florina and wanted to participate in the university entrance examinations in connection with the further-education program, but that she had been refused the right to participate. She handed him the document she had received from the Ministry of Education. He took the document and looked at it briefly but did not show much interest in its content. He wasn’t the kind of person to be swayed by such arguments anyway. He himself had just gotten divorced from his first wife to marry a famous Greek actress named Cybil with whom he already had a son, provoking a tsunami of scandalous gossip. Cybil herself was an illegitimate child of King George I of Greece and was twice divorced. (Fifteen years later Papandreou divorced again because of his involvement with explosive singer Rosita Serrano from Chile.) He looked at Theodosia benevolently and said in disbelief, “You are telling me that they are not letting you compete for this program?” He pulled on a thick cord hanging by his bed, which rang a bell. The nurse showed up. “Bring me the necessary paper, pen, envelope, etc.” A little later the nurse returned carrying a small tray with a pen, an ink jar, paper, envelope, and blotting paper. He scribbled something on the paper; the nurse sealed the envelope and gave it to Theodosia. With her emotions rising, she thanked him and wished him well. Coming out of the house she felt reborn! But finding a taxi in this remote part of Athens wouldn’t be easy. She ran toward the busy Kifisias Avenue. She stood on the edge of the road and waved to all the cars that went by. She was becoming increasingly anxious when a taxi that was almost full stopped and the driver asked her where she was going. “Anywhere in the city center,” she gasped. The other passengers made room for her and she squeezed in. She rushed to the Ministry of Education and gave Lazarou Papandreou’s letter. He opened the envelope, read the note, and smiled, “This will do it,” he said. “You must show up here tomorrow morning

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at 8 am to register and then go to the main hall of the School of Literature where the examination is scheduled for 9:30.” That was it. The tension was diffused. She went to a restaurant to eat something and have a drink but mostly to wind down. The tight deadline had been met. The next day the examination taken by forty-five men and three women lasted until 3:00 pm. They were all happy because the topics covered were not difficult. In fact they were among the ones Theodosia knew best. She was particularly pleased with her composition on the theme “Luck versus Effort.” It was a topic she held close to her heart. She knew all about the merits of perseverance, but she thought that some luck was indispensable. “I am not a fatalist,” she wrote, “but without some good fortune one cannot succeed. Effort alone is simply not enough.” Further down, however, she argued that there was good news—citing a Greek proverb—that fortune favors the bold. The results of the examination were going to be published in a few days in the newspapers. Even though it was Theodosia’s first time in Athens, the idea of tourism did not cross her mind. After all, she hoped she would be soon coming back, so she decided to go home right away the same way she had come. She checked out from the hotel and headed for the train station for another long night trip. The difference now was that instead of anxiety she had feelings of real accomplishment. She arrived in Meliti elated, hoping that she would soon be leaving that village. The school had just opened, but she went there like a tourist. To the many questions asked by her colleagues she only replied, “I am waiting for the newspapers with the results.” On Saturday she did not go to school but waited for the bus to bring the mail. Around 11 am the post with the much-anticipated newspapers arrived. With shaking hands she opened To Vima on the second page with the results of the University exams. When she spotted her name among the first group tears came to her eyes. Her joy was indescribable. She had no close friends or other obligations in Meliti so she did not hesitate; she was going to leave right away. She began gathering all her belongings and cleaning up her room. She knew Modis would come sometime in the afternoon as he usually did on Saturdays. Maria brought her a plate of aromatic woodcocks—game caught by the president—that she had just cooked. When she saw Theodosia ready to leave she was very sad and began crying.

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“I like you so much,” she told her. “If it weren’t for Modis, I would fix you up with my brother in America who is rich!” “I like you too, Maria, and two years is not that long. I’ll be coming back,” she said, hoping that such a thing would never happen. In the evening Modis arrived in a taxi that stopped in front of the president’s house. “What happened? Did you get the paper?” He asked breathless. Without saying anything she showed him the newspaper folded on the right page. He immediately found her name and noticed that she had come fourth in order of merit. He took her in his arms dancing and singing. “Bravo, sweetheart! Well done, my love! It is time now to say goodbye to this place. Are you ready to go?” “Yes, please, let’s go!” They gathered her luggage and went on their way, leaving behind a saddened Maria and the president. In Florina Theodosia prepared an envelope for Papandreou with a thank-you note and the clipping from To Vima where she had underlined her name. She was going to mail it in Athens. She finished the note by writing, “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be sitting at this university desk now.”

11 Further Education 1931–1933

Arriving in Athens Theodosia directed herself to Piraeus where Aunt Xanthipi lived with her family and Tilemachos. Xanthipi now had two children of her own, Giorgos and Barbara. Her husband Stratos worked as an engineer at the mills of St. George. Theodosia explained to them the reason behind her visit and how she would be living in Athens for the next two years attending the university. “You can stay here with us. We’ll give you your own room,” insisted Aunt Xanthipi. “Thank you,” Theodosia said kissing her. “I will stay here and commute to Athens until I find more suitable accommodation there.” The reunion brought great pleasure to everyone. They asked about Niki. She told them how Niki had finished high school in Florina and had moved to Thessaloniki, staying at the YMCA and attending a fiveyear Teachers College program, following her sister’s example. The next morning Theodosia left very early from Piraeus in order to be on time at the university in Athens. All the students had gathered in the courtyard. She didn’t know anybody. She stopped in front of the bulletin board and saw the program: six hours per day, 8–12 am and 5– 7 pm. While looking at the board another lady approached her. She was from Crete and seemed nice. The two women sat on a bench and introduced themselves. Her name was Aglaïa Kyrmizaki, apparently from an upper-class family. She spoke English and French and she also painted. An acquaintance of hers, Vasilis, came to talk to them. He was from the Peloponnese. “What are you up to? I am looking for a room and everything is really expensive. We should go explore the rents uphill toward the woods; everyone is going there.” 125

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“I am going to leave you,” said Aglaïa, “I live with my brother who is an officer in the army and has his own apartment in Athens. See you on Monday in the Philosophy Hall.” “Shall we go look for housing?” Vasilis asked Theodosia. “Yes, let’s do. It’s my first time in Athens.” “Where are you staying?” “In Piraeus with relatives.” On their way, Giannis and Costas, also from the Peloponnese, joined them. “Don’t waste your time,” they advised, “after searching for three days we have located two pensions, nice and cheap. You will find them on Patriarch Serge Street. Ring the bell at Number 20.” The pension at Number 20 was a three-story building with three rooms and a common kitchen on each floor. There was a terrace at the top of the building with a beautiful view of the city and the nearby Lycabettus Hill. The landlady showed Theodosia the available rooms. Theodosia liked the middle room on the top floor and decided to rent it. She promised to bring the money the next day and sign the contract. For her part, the landlady promised to clean it up and to add a camping bed for Theodosia’s “brother” who lived in Thessaloniki and might visit her from time to time. Now that she had an address she immediately communicated it to Modis in a telegram because she knew he’d be worried. His first letter arrived within a few days. It was full of bitterness and complaints, saying that she was distracted in Athens and had forgotten about him, that all her promises about love were lies, that she was not capable of loving him, that he suffered so much and she did not understand him. “My love, do you understand that I am longing to hear from you?” Early the next morning she went by the post office and sent him another telegram: I AM WELL STOP I HAVE WRITTEN TO YOU STOP I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH STOP SAKI”

A regular correspondence followed with letters coming and going every few days. She began attending courses at the university. She and Aglaïa sat next to each other in the front row of the amphitheater and became friends. They ate at the YMCA at noon. The Royal Gardens were not far from the university; the two women took a stroll there and went to

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the Oasis Café of Zappeion where they had dessert and listened to live music. The Royal Gardens (now called National Gardens) is a large public park of 38 acres in the center of Athens. It is located directly behind the Old Palace (now the Greek Parliament building) and extends south to the area where the Zappeion is located. The Zappeion built in impressive ancient-Greek architectural style, was the first building to be erected specifically for the revival of the Olympic Games in 1896, which took place across the street in the ancient Panathenaïko or Kalimarmaro stadium, also refurbished for those Olympics. Theodosia and Aglaïa had two more hours of courses in the afternoon and then they headed toward Hauteia (near today’s Omonia Square) where they had a beer and something to eat before going home. Theodosia went to visit her aunt in Piraeus on weekends whenever she didn’t have other things to do; she was always welcomed heartily there. One Saturday afternoon while Theodosia was preparing to go to Piraeus, Modis showed up at her door. They fell into each other’s arms in a tight embrace and kissed for a long time. She finally said, “What a wonderful surprise! How did you get here at this hour?” “I couldn’t wait any longer. Two weeks without seeing you is too much,” he said and explained, “there are commercial flights now. I took the airplane from Thessaloniki. It is really amazing! You will see when we do it together.” The first passenger flight in Greece was between Athens and Thessaloniki and took place on July 10, 1931. Giorgos’s flight was three months later. He took his shoes off and lay on the bed. “Come lie down next to me. Tell me, what have you been doing besides school?” he asked. “All that you see in here. How do you like my room?” “It is very nice and has a great view.” “Would you like to go out or are you tired?” “Yes, I am tired because I had to get up early in Florina to be in time for the airplane in Thessaloniki. I just want it to be the two of us here.” “I have some fruit. Let’s eat something and rest. We can go out tomorrow,” she said.

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She spread a white tablecloth on the table because she knew that he liked it and set the table for two using all the silverware she had. They ate peaches and seedless grapes, and then went to bed. They woke up early in the sunlit room. They got dressed and left the house without being noticed. They walked down to the patisserie, Kyvelia, for breakfast. The place was already crowded mostly with men. Unexpectedly Modis spotted people that he knew. They were colleagues, classmates from his university days. They kissed each other on the cheek. Modis made the introductions, “My fiancée, Miss Panagiotidou.” Theodosia hoped her cheeks did not become visibly red. They chatted, reminiscing about old days for quite some time. Eventually Mr. Aristedis, a judge, said, “Now that we are all together, let the young lady tell us where she’d like to go.” “I’d like to see the Acropolis,” Theodosia said. “A good idea! I have my car here; let’s go.” Five of them squeezed into a Ford Model A that Aristedis drove. Theodosia, the only woman, sat in the front. She was getting accustomed to being the only female in a predominately male gathering. Aristedis parked the car at the foot of the Acropolis hill. It was a bright sunny day with a blue sky but it was not particularly hot. The walk uphill and through the Propylaia (the monumental gateway to the Acropolis) was invigorating. The visit to the site was breathtaking and emotional. There were no guards, barriers, or forbidden areas. They were able to walk everywhere, even inside the Parthenon and hide behind its columns. No one remained untouched, even though they missed the museum, which was closed. They all promised to come back. “We thank the young lady for her fine idea,” said Aristedis. “Shall we all go for a meal?” suggested Modis. “We’ll drop you off at the Averof restaurant, but we will be going because we are expected elsewhere.” Modis and Theodosia drank wine at the restaurant, which put them both in a cozier mood. “You should stop saying ‘Modis’ when you refer to me,” he said. “The men call each other by their last names because of habit left over from student days. But I am your Giorgos now, whether we are just the two of us or in company with others.” She felt encouraged to touch on a sensitive subject. “When you introduced me as your fiancée, do you think they noticed that we were not wearing wedding rings?” she asked him with

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meaning. (In Greece wedding rings worn on the left hand signify engagement). He took notice but replied only, “It will happen.” On the way home they did not talk much and when they got there Giorgos said, “Finally alone. I have the impression that I did not see you enough today and I’ll be leaving tonight.” They embraced, kissed, and fell on the bed. “I do not want to go and leave you behind,” he said later. “I’ll be missing you and thinking of you all the time. I’ll be suffering.” “I don’t want you to be unhappy, sweetheart. You know how much I love you. I’ll be writing to you regularly and you’ll come again.” “Shall I come next weekend?” “No, wait for a while so that we can concentrate on our jobs and let the dust settle. Later we can see each other more frequently. We have two years ahead of us to live like kings, loving each other and enjoying Athens. Let me make you a coffee and we should be going.” They were at the train station in plenty of time for him to find a good seat. They kissed with misty eyes and parted. Theodosia did not feel like working that night. Much had happened in the previous twenty-four hours and she wanted to digest it all. She went to bed early and recollected events one by one. In the morning she rushed to the university because Professor Exarchopoulos, who ran the first hour, was strict and took attendance. Aglaïa was waiting for Theodosia, “You just made it. You’ll tell me all about the weekend at lunch time.” They took notes frantically for hours, sometimes barely managing to keep up with the professors. After lunch they went to sit on their bench in the Royal Gardens to compare notes. Consolidation of their notes was essential for such courses as Language and Qualified Instruction, for which there were no textbooks. Hopefully, someone was going to put out summaries, but it was a good idea to have their own notes anyway. On Wednesday afternoon they were free so they went to the Oasis Café at Zappeion where there was also live music playing. They found a table with a view of the Acropolis that became illuminated at dusk— quite a spectacle. “Isn’t it amazing?” said Aglaïa. “We are drinking our coffee with a view of the illuminated Acropolis and music playing in the background. Many people would envy us!” Two fellow students came close and sat at a nearby table.

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“That’s where you are! We’ve been looking for you. We had a general meeting of the Communist Student Society and elected officers. One lady from your class was elected General Secretary. The president, Mr. Manolopoulos, was looking for you to ask you to join our society. Everyone in your class has joined except for you.” “I am afraid we will become exceptions,” said Theodosia. “Because I am engaged and my fiancé is a nationalist.” “And me,” said Aglaïa, “because my brother is an officer in the army and he will be running after you!” Soon university attendance got into a routine. They took notes all morning, had lunch at the YMCA, and afterward went to their bench in the Royal Gardens to correct and consolidate their notes, something they repeated in the afternoon. Finally, they’d walk down to Hauteia for a beer and a bite to eat standing up at a food stand, and then go home. At home Theodosia invariably found letters from Giorgos that needed to be answered promptly. In the meantime Giorgos was stewing in Florina. He imagined all kinds of unpleasant scenarios in which Theodosia ran away with someone else. He decided to make a lightning visit and surprise her. He again took a flight to Athens. It was Friday. He went directly to the university because he knew that Theodosia would still be there. He arrived in the late afternoon and saw that most of the students had left. He headed for the Royal Gardens. Theodosia and Aglaïa had been working at their bench, touching up their notes. Aglaïa had managed to find and buy notes from previous years and they were now comparing them with their own. At that moment they saw Manolopoulos coming toward them holding some papers. Aglaïa immediately got up and left saying, “I can’t stand that guy.” He tried to stop her but to no avail. He then directed himself to Theodosia and sat on the bench next to her. “Please, just listen to me,” he began. “We have a society that you must join. Let me first read to you our manifesto and then you decide.” “I don’t have much time. I can listen to you only for a minute,” she said rather annoyed. He began reading from a document using a newspaper to screen it from public view, pretending that he was reading the newspaper, but inadvertently he held the newspaper upside down. At that moment Giorgos spotted them from a distance and, quite upset, walked toward them. Closer he noticed that the man was holding the paper upside down and concluded that something improper was

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going on. He gauged his alternatives for a split second: make a scene, beat the guy up—or at least try to beat him up? But such bravado was not in his nature. When it came to physical confrontation he was a coward. He abruptly turned around and ran away. Theodosia had just enough time to catch a glimpse of the peak of his hat above the newspaper that was blocking her view. The hat seemed familiar but it took her a minute to realize that it could be Giorgos. She sprang up and shouted, “Giorgos, Giorgos!” But he was already far away. She ran after him without being able to catch up. Theodosia concluded that he had secretly traveled to Athens and followed her in the gardens to spy on her. How preposterous! Visibly disturbed, she walked uphill toward home. He was probably going to be there. But she had no courage to face up to him. She was crying and felt guilty even though she had done nothing wrong. She got to her room with tears in her eyes. She found him barefoot in his pajamas. He took her in his arms. “My love,” he began “I am so sorry! I must have caused you much pain when you called me and I did not answer. But I cried a lot too, you know. I went crazy when I saw you with someone else in the park. Now that I have you in my arms, I feel better. I love you, I love you very much, and I ask your forgiveness. It won’t happen again.” She did not say anything. She cried some more, put on her nightgown and lay down in bed next to him. “Sweetheart, please, say just one word so that I can hear your voice.” “Good night!” In the morning she felt better. She got up before him and prepared breakfast. There was some pastry and cookies that they devoured because they were very hungry, having skipped dinner the night before. Afterward they went downtown to walk around the town, do some shopping and try to see if they could get tickets for the Bolshoi Ballet at the Herodion Theater. Giorgos went to the box office. He returned a little later smiling and waving the tickets in his hand. “We were lucky! We’ll be in the second row! Tonight we should have dinner in Plaka before the show. It is close to the theater.” That evening in Plaka, the bohemian part of Athens, there was a permeating scent of honeysuckle and morning glory, and a magnificent moonlight. The cobblestone streets and all the taverns seemed shining clean. There were flowers everywhere and sounds of people enjoying themselves. In many establishments songs accompanied by guitar were

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heard (popular Greek music at the time did not yet involve the Bouzouki). They entered a rather crowded tavern and found a table by the open window. Theodosia felt welcomed by the smell of acacias. People were well-dressed and in a good mood. By the time they had finished eating Delapatridis, a strange individual, made his appearance. He was fancily dressed, with a frock coat, top hat, monocle, cane, and briefcase. The crowd welcomed him enthusiastically. Someone from the neighboring table whispered to Giorgos and Theodosia, “He is the mascot of Athens. They call him ‘the President’. He gives speeches; he recites poetry, and he promises to create a ministry of love if elected president. They say that he ‘lost it’ following a disappointment in love.” Delapatridis was never taken seriously but he did become a popular figure in Athens in the 1930s. His reputation spread outside the taverns and coffee shops of central Athens. As a consequence, he was brought to aristocratic homes of upper-class suburbs to entertain social gatherings. When he died poor in 1960, he was buried by the City of Athens, at public expense. Theodosia found Delapatridis’s act entertaining. But Giorgos looked her in the eyes and said, “You see, my love, what may happen to me if you ever leave me?” The Herodion Theater is a Roman open-air theater built according to the Greek tradition but with Roman dimensions: it is enormous. When Theodosia and Giorgos took their seats they could see a corner of the Parthenon peeking over the wall behind them. All this under bright moonlight was awe inspiring. Giorgos explained, “This Odeon was constructed in 161 A.D. by Herodes Atticus—a distinguished and rich Greek aristocrat who served as a Roman senator—in memory of his wife, Aspasia. You can see how much he must have loved his wife by the size of this edifice.” “The size of the structure is also a consequence of the amount of money and power that he had,” added Theodosia to spare him any comparison with the house he had built for his beloved (future) wife. The Bolshoi ballet performance, watched from real close in this setting, was magnificent. Theodosia pointed out how fortunate Athenians were to have easy access to quality shows like this. They came out of the theater around midnight and found the streets around the Acropolis full of people. There was a bohemian itinerant artist making portrait cutouts with glossy black paper. Giorgos couldn’t resist having his portrait made. “Look at what a good job he is doing,”

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he justified it to Theodosia. He liked supporting artistic talent like this; years later he had a sketcher make his crayon portrait. Theodosia had these portraits framed and hung on the walls of the good room. By the time they were back at the pension, all negative emotions of the previous day had been forgotten. They had left the window open and the room was cool and smelled of pine trees. “I can now read your letter that came yesterday,” said Theodosia with some sarcasm. “Never mind that obsolete letter. I’ll be writing fresh ones to you soon. Just come and sit next to me for a minute so that I can look at you, touch you, and smell your fragrance, all these things that I’ll be dearly missing starting tomorrow night.” Next morning when Theodosia got up Giorgos was already up and busy at the table writing. “What are you doing?” she asked. “I have an urgent case for which I am not quite prepared,” he admitted. “Don’t worry. We do not need to go out today. We’ll go for a late meal before your train. Keep working now and I will prepare breakfast.” She made coffee, slices of bread with butter and honey, and several pieces of fruit. “All this is wonderful,” he exclaimed. “Where do you find such nice fruit?” “A little higher up on this street there is a greengrocer and we’ve become friends. He keeps the best pieces for me. He is not cheap, but it is worth it.” He pulled her close to him. “It is so nice to have you around me, to hug you and kiss you all I want. This is happiness!” She kissed him but said, “Finish your work first,” and went to sit in the kitchen with a book letting him concentrate. They both worked for several hours. Around 3 pm he shouted, “Saki, I’ve finished. Where are you?” and when she showed up, “I am hungry! Let’s hurry and go to The Nightingales before they run out of food.” The tavern was down the hill so they walked fast. Despite the late hour for lunch—even by Greek standards—there were still quite a few people dining there and the music was still playing. Big barrels with red wine were lined up on their side against one of the walls. They quickly got into the prolonged leisurely Sunday-lunch mood.

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That evening there was another teary-eyed farewell at the railway station. “My love, how am I going to survive without you for a whole week?” he said, thus confirming he’d be coming again the following weekend. Next morning at the university Aglaïa was eagerly waiting for Theodosia, “I am so glad to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I’ve been through an ordeal this weekend and I had nobody to talk to. I don’t want to involve my brother in my personal life, so I just remained silent and waited for you.” “What happened?” asked Theodosia worried. “My engagement with Mr. Ptomadakis is over. I broke off with him.” “I trust your judgment so I can’t believe this is a mistake.” “No, it is not a mistake. He is a wonderful person, and I will never find another one like him, but there are too many obstacles. It wasn’t meant to lead to a marriage. It is a long story, but we must go into the classroom now.” It was a usual day full of courses and taking notes. In the evening the two women went for a walk. Aglaïa opened up her heart to Theodosia with all the details and felt better. On Friday afternoon Theodosia did not go out. She waited for Giorgos at home with some anxiety in case he’d be again looking for her in the park. He showed up at 5 pm holding a large bouquet of flowers and a package. She took the flowers and the package from his hands so he could embrace her. “My love, what a pleasure to see you,” he said as he kissed her. They relaxed in each other’s arms. It was going to be another weekend of love, food, and going out. “You must promise me not to come every weekend,” pleaded Theodosia. “We both have work to do and it is tiresome and expensive for you.” “You are worth it!” was his answer. In the following months he did skip a few weekends, which he compensated for by scaling up his rate of letter writing. Easter of 1932 was approaching and Giorgos had promised to come only for the Easter weekend. One late afternoon a couple of weeks before the university closed for the holidays Theodosia and Aglaïa were walking on the large Panepistimiou Street with its many shops sporting

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seasonally decorated windows. In one of those windows there was a full-length mirror facing the passersby in which Theodosia suddenly saw … Giorgos. She turned around with a scream to find herself in his arms. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed, “what an unexpected delightful present!” “Yes, sweetheart, it is a present for both of us.” As soon as Theodosia had finished the introductions he rushed to say, “Where can I take you both for a drink?” Aglaïa objected but he insisted, “Miss Kyrmizaki, you’ll not refuse a treat from your friend’s fiancé and the opportunity to make wellmeaning and effective wishes? After all, this is the time you usually have your beer, if I am not wrong.” He led them to the Averof restaurant. When they entered its distinguished environment and heard the live music playing they felt festive. He ordered a bottle of champagne and hors-d’oeuvre. They toasted Giorgos and Theodosia being eternally happy together and a “good fortune” for Aglaïa, meaning a good man to settle with. “It is time for me to go,” said Aglaïa later. “My brother will begin wondering about me.” They thanked her for the nice company and they all left. On the way home, Giorgos was impatient. “Darling, I’ve been missing you so much.” He pulled her in a dark side street and kissed her passionately. There was no one to take notice of such “misbehavior.” They walked home with their arms around each other. The next morning Theodosia woke up first and prepared to go to the university. “Saki, where are you?” he shouted waking up suddenly. “I have courses today,” she answered. “No, don’t go. Stay with me today. I am leaving in the evening. Let’s not waste a good time together.” “Okay, I’ll stay,” she conceded, “but you will not come again until Good Friday.” “On my word of honor!” he promised. That morning they went to the Byzantine Museum of Athens. Giorgos insisted he wanted to find ideas for decorating the semicircular room in his house accordingly. In fact, before going to the museum they stopped and picked up large sheets of heavy white paper and crayons. In the museum Giorgos stopped in front of several paintings and frescoes to copy motifs and settings. They spent the better part of the

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day there. Theodosia amused herself because he did a good job representing what he saw. Now the big challenge would be to find a plasterer/painter in Florina capable of transferring these ideas onto the room’s curved walls. For Easter, Aglaïa went to her parents in Crete. Theodosia cleaned up and decorated her room putting some lilacs on the table. On Good Friday she went to church very early in the morning. She saw women with flowers rushing to the church and at the church she found young and older girls quietly decorating the epitaph with flowers. It was a beautiful scene. The only sound was the continuous mournful slow strokes of the church bell reminding Christians in the neighborhood of the day’s solemn significance. Good Friday is a melancholic day—it invariably rains in Greece on Good Friday! But for Theodosia it was different, and so was her prayer. “Christ, my Lord, please forgive me. On this day that everyone is sad I am happy because my love is coming to see me. I got up early today to come here and pray, but also because I am worried about him. He is traveling and may be taking an airplane. Please keep him well,” she prayed. On Good Friday the mass is in the evening. During the mass the decorated epitaph is taken out in a solemn procession around the church. The people follow with their candles lit listening to the endless grave, slow strokes of the bell. When Giorgos came in the afternoon Theodosia expressed the wish to go to the church of St. George at the top of the Lycabettus Hill. “They say it is very beautiful up there,” she suggested to Giorgos. “That’s a great idea,” he jumped. “It is indeed very beautiful. It is the highest point in the metropolitan area and the view is spectacular. There is also a restaurant. I have been there years ago when I was at the university. It is an easy climb for mountaineers like us!” They walked on the path up the Lycabettus Hill through pine trees hearing distant church bells. The smell of pine blended with the smell of thyme. At the top, the panorama was breathtaking. A cool springnight breeze invigorated them. They arrived at the right time—the beginning of the encomiums. They bought candles, lit them, and held on to them. In a little while the precession began outdoors around the little church. Giorgos and Theodosia bowed when the epitaph passed in front of them. They then joined the crowd, following the epitaph and chanting along with the chanters.

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As the procession came back to the church most people left and rushed to secure a table at the restaurant. “No, let’s not do that,” said Theodosia, “let’s take our time to enjoy this magnificent view of the big city. Look, you can spot several epitaph processions down there with all the people carrying candles. Who knows when we’ll get another chance to see such a spectacle again?” During the summer of 1932 Theodosia traveled more than usual. She visited her friend Aglaïa in Crete. Aglaïa’s hobby was painting, at which she was quite good. Her home was like a museum. All the walls were covered with her paintings. The two friends enjoyed their time together outside the university environment. Aglaïa wanted Theodosia to have one of her paintings, a beautiful watercolor landscape. Theodosia was touched. She liked the painting very much but she thought it would be hard to carry and she had no home yet to put it up. So she promised to pick it up later on another occasion. She never did go back to Aglaïa’s house, never picked up the painting, and regretted it for the rest of her life. The rest of Theodosia’s summer was divided between Piraeus where she saw her relatives and Florina where she got together with Vasiliki and was updated on all the teachers’ news. Her fears were justified. Gardikas was still well-entrenched and imposing his ways. That was not what she wanted to hear. She brought it up with Giorgos. She was worried that her further-education program might not be enough to placate Gardikas who had instructed her to “resolve this matter.” Giorgos acknowledged her concern and said that they would soon become officially engaged, without being more specific. She wondered whether even such a move would warrant her rehabilitation in the eyes of Gardikas, but said nothing. University opened in the fall. Theodosia was back at the Athens pension, and Giorgos undertook again his frequent long-range roundtrips. The distance by rail between Thessaloniki and Athens is 500 kilometers, and between Florina and Thessaloniki 190 kilometers. With the trains of the time, the overall trip took 10–12 hours. And yet he did it every two to three weeks.

12 The Engagement

A letter from Giorgos in early December mentioned a present he was going to bring next weekend, with the word “present” underlined. Theodosia had a suspicion but did not want to jump to conclusions. She prepared as usual for his arrival, if with some additional care, such as putting on her new dress, draping the table with a colorful tablecloth, and placing the icon of the Virgin Mary within arm’s reach. He arrived beaming with a bouquet of flowers. In his suitcase he had a bottle of champagne, a newspaper, and a small cordon-laced box in the shape of a heart made of yellow silk tissue containing golden wedding rings and some of the traditional sugared almonds. Theodosia’s suspicions were being realized. He unfolded the newspaper—To Vima—and began reading aloud: “Mr. Giorgos Modis and Miss Theodosia Panagiotidou have given mutual promise of marriage. Congratulations!” Theodosia became radiant! She took out two glasses. He opened the champagne and filled the glasses. With the bigger ring he made the sign of the cross on the Virgin Mary’s icon and then put it on his finger. He did the same with the smaller ring, which he put on her finger. They clinked glasses and made toasts. “That we live together in happiness and good health!” he said and kissed her with meaning. “Yes, my love,” she responded. “How did you say that? Say it again!” He demanded. “Yes, my sweet love.” “What joy! What happiness! So you do love me?” “Yes, Giorgos, I love you very much.” 139

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That evening their going out had to be special. Theodosia put on an elegant winter costume with a fashionable hat. Giorgos wore his double-breasted suit with a bowtie and a white carnation on his lapel. They looked chic. “A new fancy restaurant has opened in Hauteia,” she suggested when they finished getting dressed. “People say there is good food and live music.” “Excellent! Are you ready? Let’s go,” was his impetuous response. She knew by now that once excited about going somewhere he’d become impatient with any of her last-minute delays. “Yes, I am ready. Let’s go.” They walked down the hill for about twenty minutes toward the city center. The new restaurant was very crowded. All the tables were either occupied or reserved, and they of course had no reservation. They stood in a corner looking around, hoping someone would leave—a rather unlikely prospect. A gentleman with his wife who noticed their perplexity approached them and asked, “Are you with the group?” “No, we are visiting from Thessaloniki,” said Giorgos not wanting to mention insignificant Florina. “We too are from Katerini and have come here for a few days. You are welcome to come to our big table if you want. My name is Ioannidis and this is my wife Mina,” said the man. “And I am Modis and this is my fiancée Miss Panagiotidou,” said Giorgos. Ioannidis was also a lawyer. “Well, you will meet more colleagues tonight. There is a group of lawyers coming. We met them here the other day and had a very nice time. It is my wife’s birthday today and we decided to celebrate it with bigger company. We have reserved tables for many people. Oh! Here they come.” A group of people entered the restaurant. The waiters had rearranged the tables, one next to the other to make one long table. Giorgos looked at the door and immediately rushed there to hug a couple of the men. They all approached the big table. “Let me introduce to you my fiancée. Saki, these are old friends and classmates from my university days.” “Sit wherever you want, all these tables are reserved for us,” said Ioannidis. Giorgos got absorbed with his old comrades. The music began playing a classic tango tune and someone asked Theodosia to dance.

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“We should first be introduced,” she said, “I am Miss Panagiotidou, the fiancée of Giorgos Modis.” “Giorgos Modis? The lawyer from Florina?” asked the man in surprise. “I know him well. Where is he?” “He is talking to friends over there,” she said pointing to the end of the long-table arrangement. “Please, excuse me for a minute. I need to first say hallo to him and ask his permission to dance with you,” said the man. “I’ll wait,” said Theodosia, smiling. A few minutes later he came back, “I am sorry, but he argued that he must dance with you first, before anyone else can dance with you tonight!” The waiters brought several champagne bottles and plates of horsd’oeuvre. People made toasts for Mina’s birthday but also for a happy matrimony for the engaged couple. “Giorgos, come over here. We are waiting for you to toast with us,” Theodosia called him. He came closer, bringing his friends along. After a few glasses people began singing and the music stopped to let people sing. Theodosia, who enjoyed singing, let herself go. Giorgos eventually apologized, “I am sorry, sweetheart, I neglected you but I hadn’t seen these people for many years.” Someone shouted, “Time to dance. Music, please!” They all got up to dance. Giorgos and Theodosia were left alone at the table. He did not ask her to dance and neither did she ask him. “Are you angry with me that I did not let you dance with that man?” “No, darling, I will never be angry with you.” They sat holding hands and watched the others dance. “What time is it?” asked Theodosia at some point. “It is two!” “It’s late. We should be going. You apologize to that man, if you want to, for not allowing me to dance with him, and I’ll say goodbye to Mina.” “Ask her when they are coming again here so that we can come too,” said Giorgos. They left the restaurant and walked fast in the brisk atmosphere of the early morning hours. They were home in twenty minutes. Giorgos did not leave Athens that Monday. He stayed on to prolong the celebrations. They went to Glyfada, a suburb by the sea in the direction of Cape Sounio. Even though this was not a season for the

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beach, the seaside taverns were always full of people and the smell of fresh fish on the grill contributed to their joyful mood. Giorgos and especially Theodosia had reasons to be happy. It was December and yet the weather was mild compared with Florina at this time of the year. They were comfortable outside without wearing heavy winter coats; a winter costume for her and a suit for him were adequate. He had his camera with him. He set it up with the timer and took pictures of the two of them in affectionate poses. It was December 12, 1932, which is the date he’d had inscribed inside their wedding rings. This last visit of Giorgos marked a milestone in their relationship. The official engagement gave satisfaction to Theodosia, but did not relieve her of all her anxiety. There were still things to be desired. Indeed the reality was less than ideal for the seemingly idyllic couple. Paraskevi was very upset about the prospect of such a union. It would be for her the ultimate blow after all the previous catastrophes that had befallen her. It broke Giorgos’s heart to see his mother suffer and he wanted to spare her further unhappiness. So he kept his engagement secret from her. In fact, he had made the announcement in the Athenian newspaper To Vima because he knew that his mother read only local newspapers and newspapers from Thessaloniki. Eleni Kalfoglou, however, Theodosia’s colleague and close friend, saw the announcement in To Vima and was happy that her friend was finally being “rehabilitated.” So she rushed to consolidate the event by pressing the point further. In Florina’s major local newspaper she published her own announcement with personal congratulations and good wishes to the couple for a happy marriage. This way she could have peace with her conscience in getting close to Theodosia again. Giorgos’s cousin Ioulia—the sister of Giorgos Sr.—saw the announcement in the local papers and rushed to visit Paraskevi. “I came for coffee and to wish you well for Giorgos’s upcoming marriage,” she told Paraskevi, enjoying her words because she knew how much Paraskevi loathed that union. Paraskevi told her that she was misinformed, but inside her she was furious and so was Giorgos, who denied the validity of the announcement to his mother. He told her, “Don’t listen to what people are saying. I am telling you the truth.” Giorgos had met Eleni. He whimsically referred to her in the plural—to include her two sisters—as the Elenes. He could tell when Eleni had visited Theodosia’s room by the odor she left behind. “The

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Elenes have been here,” he’d joke. But when he saw her announcement in the local newspaper he got really mad. “The Elenes fucked up,” he complained to Theodosia when he saw her next time. “She deserves a spanking; why the hell is she meddling in matters that do not concern her?” He then proceeded to publish a retraction in the same Florina newspaper, which he showed to his mother: It was erroneously mentioned in our newspaper last week that Mr. Giorgos Modis and Miss Theodosia Panagiotidou have given mutual promise of marriage.

Theodosia found out about this retraction only much later when she finished her university studies and went back to Florina. And yet the engagement, with all its shortcomings, made Giorgos— and especially Theodosia—feel more respectable and comfortable in public, as if the rings on their fingers made a whole lot of difference (even if he took his off when he went back to his home in Florina). He became more audacious in his outbursts of enthusiasm. On one occasion, during his visit to Athens, he bought tickets for the National Theater to see a dramatic play involving two great Greek actresses, Maria Kotopouli and Cybil. Minister of Education Georgios Papandreou, who was carrying on a well-publicized extramarital relationship with Cybil at that time, had established the National Theater only one year earlier. Theodosia and Giorgos got dressed appropriately and went to the theater. They were early; the theater was rather empty. The usher guided them to their seats, which were in the middle of the very first row! People began arriving from all directions. At some point Theodosia remarked, “Giorgos, nobody is coming next to us!” He smiled. In a little while the theater was practically full but the first row remained empty with only the two of them in the middle. “Darling, why is no one coming next to us?” she demanded to know. “Because I bought the whole first row, so that we will not be bothered!” he answered with a big smile on his face. She was flabbergasted. She felt flattered, even though deep inside her she disapproved of such waste of money. It was later in the evening that she verbalized another thought, “Imagine if Papandreou wanted to watch his lover perform tonight. He would have to content himself with a seat in some row behind us!”

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And so continued Giorgos’s visits to Theodosia throughout the winter. They ate in nice restaurants invariably featuring live music, and they went out to evening shows, theatrical plays, satirical troupes, or musical performances. Athens was the cultural center of Greece and all forms of significant artistic expression began there. On one spring night they went to see the premiere of the revue “Parrot 1933” at the Kentrikon Theater in Kolokotronis Square. In this revue a young singer from Thessaloniki, Sophia Vembo, herself a refugee from Eastern Thrace—who later achieved fame because of her distinctly sonorous contralto voice—was making her stage debut. She appeared as a gypsy playing a guitar and singing the song Mia gynaika perase (A Woman Went By). Her success that night was amazing. When she bowed at the end and threw her guitar over her shoulder to leave the stage, the other actors stopped her saying, “Where are you going? Don’t you hear the audience shouting bis?” “What do I care if they are shouting bis?” said Vembo, not being familiar with this French term for encore! She eventually went back on stage and repeated the theme song several times. But Giorgos’s most eventful visit was the last one, on Sunday June 4, 1933. It was shortly before Theodosia completed the further-education program and received the grade lian kalos (equivalent of B+), a program that Giorgos had predicted she would fail. He went to Athens for work this time. He had a case with trial needing to be in an Athenian court. He arrived in Athens with his two clients and settled them in a good hotel. He then went to see Theodosia for a short while, but he had to go back and take his clients out to dinner. He told her he’d be coming home late but he would try not to wake her up. He came back after midnight and Theodosia smelled lots of wine on his breath, but he was in a good mood and very warm toward her. She had never seen him so “hot.” In the morning he kissed her many times in a hurry and left saying, “Pray that we win this case!” “I am sure you’ll win. Know that you will and believe in it.” But she also lit her tiny oil lamp and prayed many times during the day. He returned in the evening visibly exhausted with dark circles under his eyes but smiling. “We won! It was a triumph!” he exclaimed and took out of his pocket a little bag with 20 British gold sovereigns.

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“And this is only the first installment. My clients are very happy and they want to treat us to a good restaurant tomorrow night. I suggested that we go to The Paradise in the northern suburb Kifisia.” “Are you hungry? Do you want to go out to eat something now?” “I haven’t eaten much all day, but I do not want to go anywhere. I am too tired. The joints in my arms and legs hurt from the tension during my pleading in court. Simply fix me something yourself here.” He spent most of the next day in bed. In the evening they got dressed, took a taxi and arrived at The Paradise in Kifisia around 9 pm. It was a refreshing summer evening following a hot day. They sat at a table in the garden not far from the main entrance. Giorgos’s two clients arrived a little later. They ordered many plates, all in the middle of the table to be shared, and wine. Everyone was in a jolly mood. They kept talking about the trial. It was about 11 pm when suddenly the shrieking sound of racing cars was heard, followed by persistent bursts of machinegun fire. It was another assassination attempt on the life of Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Eleftherios Venizelos was an eminent Greek leader of the Greek Liberal Party. He was known for his opposition to the monarchy and the defense of the Megali Idea, i.e. the liberation of all Greek territories from the Turks including eastern Thrace, Constantinople, and the western coast of Asia Minor. Venizelos had such profound influence on the internal and external affairs of Greece that he is credited with being “the maker of modern Greece,” and is widely known as the “Ethnarch.” On June 6, 1933 Venizelos and his wife had been invited for a social evening at Penelope Delta’s residence in Kifisia. Penelope Delta was a cherished friend of the Venizeloses. He loved her peaceful house among the trees and the quiet setting where he could find refuge from his exhausting work in the noisy city center. Penelope Delta was a Greek author of teenage literature. Her historical novels were widely read and influenced Greek popular perceptions on national identity and history. Delta was thrust into the middle of the turbulent Greek politics of the early twentieth century. She committed suicide on the day German troops entered Athens in World War II and raised the Nazi flag with the swastika at the Acropolis. That night Venizelos and his wife Elena left Delta’s home around 11 pm. As usual, Venizelos’s car was followed by another car with his

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bodyguards. But when the two cars arrived in the vicinity of the restaurant The Paradise, a third car appeared from a side road and got between the two cars. From that position the attackers fired machineguns at both Venizelos’s cars. One bodyguard, Markakis, was fatally wounded. More bursts of gunfire and Venizelos’s wife Elena and his driver Koufogiannakis were also wounded but, despite his wounds, Koufogiannakis kept driving. Venizelos wasn’t hurt. Royalists, opponents to Venizelos, were involved in this second assassination attempt on his life.

Most of the customers of the restaurant, the Modis table included, came out onto the street alarmed. They learned later that the Venizelos vehicle escaped and made it to the Hospital Evaggelismos, thus avoiding further fatalities. Everyone was visibly disturbed. Nevertheless, they all went back to their tables and continued their dinner. The next morning Giorgos bid farewell to his clients at the airport. The weather was particularly hot so he decided to stay longer in Athens in order to go to the sea. He and Theodosia went shopping for swimming suits. She bought a dark-blue, one-piece bathing suit with a white belt. He got boxer shorts. They arrived at Glyfada beach in the late morning. They put on their swimming suites and went straight into the sea. Neither one knew how to swim, so they didn’t venture far. They played in the warm crystalline waters to their hearts’ content. They sunbathed on the sand and he set the timer on his camera to take pictures of them in their swimming suits and the idyllic setting. But soon hunger and the tantalizing smell of fresh fish on the grill brought them to the nearby restaurant. “I’ll have a sole on the grill,” said Theodosia. “Fried red mullets for me,” ordered Giorgos. The fresh fish, the Retsina wine, and the grapes afterward—Giorgos believed that after fish one must always have some grapes—made them sleepy. They lay down on the sand until the sun went down, and agreed to come back again the next day. Before going to Glyfada the next day, they went to the Ministry of Education to see Joseph Lazarou once again. This time they wanted to remind him that Theodosia needed to go back to her post in Florina. But Lazarou did not promise anything. “You are effectively asking for a revocation of the detachment order Gardikas, the Director of the Model School, made,” he pointed out. “We’ll see if something can be done about it, but these things are normally matters for the local self-government.”

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In fact, Lazarou did nothing. When Theodosia saw Gardikas again back in Florina he announced to her that she was being posted to Kleisoura, a village of 1300 inhabitant 36 kilometers south of Florina at an altitude of 1200 meters. Theodosia was again disappointed but not Giorgos. “It is a very nice village,” he said. “One of my best friends, Charilaos Argyropoulos, lives there. He is a doctor who specializes in tuberculosis and runs a sanatorium. He is married to Maria Svoronou from a rich Athenian family. They have built a wonderful mansion and they live like kings. You will be close, I’ll be able to see you more often, and we’ll have great company and a great time.” It was obvious that for Giorgos and the difficult situation with his mother, this solution was more convenient than having Theodosia right in Florina.

13 Kleisoura

One Sunday morning in late September Giorgos and Theodosia with her luggage took a taxi to Kleisoura. She was going to be the schoolteacher of that village. She would be coming back to Florina for Christmas and other holidays. They arrived in Kleisoura when the mass had just finished and people were coming out of the church. The weather was mild with an energizing morning breeze. They spotted Dr. Argyropoulos and his wife Maria on horseback coming from the opposite direction. Giorgos ran toward them, waving his hands. They dismounted their horses and embraced each other. It was an emotional encounter. The families of Modis and Argyropoulos had similar backgrounds—Argyropolos’s grandfather had been assassinated by the Bulgarians—and the two men had attended university in Athens together for a number of years and had become good friends. “Come everyone, let’s go home,” Maria interrupted the joyful reunion of the men. There were three servants at their manor house, one man and two women. The hosts went to change while a luxurious breakfast was being served. They came down a little later cheerful and full of questions. They wanted to know all the details, the date and place of the wedding, the best man, etc. Giorgos explained that nothing had been fixed yet, and that he was working on his mother who opposed the union. But what was urgent at the moment, he said, was to find suitable accommodations for Theodosia. “Don’t worry, there is no rush,” said the doctor, “We have six bedrooms here, an entire guesthouse. Stay here and relax right now and everything will be taken care of. Just let the taxi go because tomorrow 149

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morning you can get a ride with me. I have to be in a tribunal in Florina concerning the sanatorium.” “Lambro,” he shouted at the servant, “make sure the taxi driver has something to eat before he goes.” Mrs. Maria later said that she knew of a good home that might have a room for rent and sent one of the maids to fetch the landlady. A little later Mrs. Marika Karakouta came into the sitting room where everybody was. She had three children—two older girls and a young boy. Her husband—like most husbands in the village—was abroad. She was a poor but proud woman. When she expected visitors—Theodosia later found out—she’d put on the stove a small piece of the precious butter she used with parsimony, to impress her guests with the smell of burned butter permeating the house. She said she had a big room with a fireplace, completely furnished. Theodosia agreed to take the room without first seeing it, just because Mrs. Argyropoulos vouched for it. Mrs. Karakouta smiled with satisfaction acknowledging the flattery. She then had some food and left. “Mr. Argyropoulos, are we interfering with your work?” Theodosia thought to ask. “Not at all,” he answered. “We will all take a walk toward the sanatorium in the afternoon. It is really nice up there. We are not very busy any more. Tuberculosis has been practically wiped out with the discovery of penicillin. But let us first have lunch.” He rang a bell and gave orders. They went into the dining room. Excellent food with rich variety made its appearance in an impressively short time. After lunch they passed to an adjacent smaller room for coffee and more chatting. The doctor wanted to know how Theodosia had ended up in Kleisoura. Theodosia let Giorgos handle it while she talked to Maria about everything and nothing. “I am so happy to have your good company,” said Maria. “You must come here every day in the afternoon after school. We’ll have coffee and talk.” A little while later the doctor shouted, “It is time! Let us go to the mountain.” Giorgos with the doctor took the lead and the two women followed. They walked past the sanatorium on a long mountain trail. It was getting dark by the time they returned and everyone was tired. Life in Kleisoura turned a new page for Giorgos and Theodosia. It was close to Florina and yet far enough to mute all echoes of malevolent

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gossip and curses pronounced by Paraskevi. Giorgos came almost every weekend. The Argyropouloses’s estate and friendship provided an ideal environment and they often entertained guests, sometimes from abroad because Argyropoulos had connections in Germany where he had done his specialty. There were fancy meals, walks in the mountains, horseback riding, and stimulating discussions by the fireplace. With her morale boosted Theodosia went to school every day full of energy and appetite for work. The pupils were good too. She kept the older girls at school in the afternoons to learn new songs. They loved it. They came to her house after hours asking her to go to school and learn more songs. She had never before seen kids asking for more school, and she complied with pleasure. Her good work did not go unnoticed. Inspector Petropoulos was impressed by what she was doing and was touched by the rapport she had established with the students. He wrote several favorable reviews of her work in rapid succession. As a consequence, she was promoted repeatedly in only a few years thus attaining a very high grade (and salary), to the envy of her colleagues. “How come you are getting more money than we do?” was a frequent remark she got from colleagues on payday. In Florina, Mr. Klapsidis, the inspector’s assistant, told her on one occasion, “What have you done to Inspector Petropoulos that he is so taken with you? With such good reviews you have nothing to worry about.” In fact, her only worry was that there was not much room left for further promotion and, of course, how to get back to her post in Florina. Being in Kleisoura did not deprive Giorgos and Theodosia from sophisticated entertainment. They had acquired a taste for the cultural life in the capital and couldn’t stay away from it for too long. Every now and then they undertook a trip to Athens over a long weekend. Giorgos came to Kleisoura from Florina with a taxi, picked up Theodosia and continued to Athens for about 500 kilometers in a direct way, bypassing Thessaloniki. These taxis did not have meters. They were more like cars for hire with a chauffeur who happened to be the owner of the vehicle. The trip with stops often took more than ten hours, but it was faster and more agreeable than going by train. It was even more economical, especially when the Argyropouloses decided to join them. And, after all, they needed a car in Athens anyway.

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Giorgos would have liked to own a car. So he asked for driving lessons from the taxi owner. But he did not do very well because of his nervous nature. Theodosia tried her hand and did much better. That was it! Giorgos decided he preferred being driven around. In Athens there was the usual wining and dining, shopping, and going to shows until they ran out of money. When they returned to Florina they had only their new clothes to show for their trip, which they did proudly. They walked Florina’s main street wearing their new clothes and triggering comments from onlookers. Theodosia once came back with an elegant camel winter coat. It was the latest word in fashion. “Look at what she is wearing now!” women on the street told each other. At the beginning of the trip Giorgos came into Theodosia’s room in Kleisoura and emptied his pockets full of money on the table. “Here it is,” he’d say. “Let’s go.” She was the treasurer, but she had limited say on how the money could be spent. On one occasion, an acquaintance in Athens, desperate for cash, offered them a parcel of land in the Philothei suburb for 14,000 drachmas, a sum that Giorgos could have easily afforded. But he didn’t think much of the parcel. “It is out in the sticks,” he said, “too far from the center of the city!” He refused the offer, spent the money on fun things, and returned home practically penniless. Many a time in her later life Theodosia regretted that refusal. Philothei became one of the most coveted locations in the Athens metropolitan area. On a weekend following Easter, while Giorgos was on another mountain expedition, Theodosia went to Florina to see Niki and get in touch with friends; Vasiliki was one of them. “Nice to see you,” said Vasiliki when they met. “It has been a long time and I have much to tell you.” They took a walk to the patisserie of Spoudaios and sat at a table outside for coffee and pastry. “Where should I start?” began Vasiliki. “The model school has changed completely. Kastanos has health problems—a heart condition—and Gardikas triumphs. He has taken over the model school and is changing it. The two directors are constantly at loggerheads with one another. We’ll wait and see what happens in the end, but in any case, your post remains open waiting for you.” “I hope to come back some day,” replied Theodosia not elaborating on her fears that as long as she was not married and Gardikas was still there it wouldn’t happen.

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“I am sure you will manage it. But now let me come to another matter concerning Mrs. Paraskevi, Giorgos’s mother. He is away and most certainly knows nothing about it. You remember the day that you passed in front of her house on the main street and she came out on the balcony shouting all kinds of obscenities at you?” “How can I forget it?” lamented Theodosia, “I had to run away to try to find a place to hide while she kept screaming at the top of her voice.” “Well,” Vasiliki continued, “the incident got to the ears of Father Christos, the priest of the parish, who waited for an appropriate occasion to make his intervention. On Easter day everyone went to church to take communion, many having fasted for as many as forty days. One after the other people took their turn receiving communion but when Mrs. Paraskevi’s turn came, he skipped her and went to the next person. A little later she tried again but Father Christos said, ‘You wait until the end.’ At the end of the mass he asked her to come to the sanctuary and said, ‘How dare you ask for communion while you have been seriously sinning? You have caused much suffering with your opposition to your son’s union and with all the filthy things you have said about his fiancée. First you must ask forgiveness from God and then also from your children. When you have repented and feel relieved, you can come to confess and take communion.’ The verger who was nearby overheard everything and spread it around. All Florina is talking about it.” “I felt sad,” Vasiliki concluded, “because when Giorgos finds out, he’ll be upset.” Indeed when Giorgos came back he was distressed. His mother had been traumatized by the priest’s refusal to give her communion. She practically had a nervous breakdown. A rapid shaking of the head that stayed with her like a tick for the rest of her life was probably initiated by that event. Her “excommunication” by Father Christos became legendary. The priest even used the incident as an example to get other women back on the right track. He’d issue warnings like, “Shape up! Or I’ll give you the Modena treatment,” referring to Paraskevi with the slang local expression for Mrs. Modis. Giorgos could no longer bring up the topic of his relationship with Theodosia to his mother; much less ask for her approval of an eventual marriage. At the same time, superstitious as he was, he could not decide to marry Theodosia without his mother’s consent. The story of a distant relative who got married against her mother’s wishes and soon afterward died was indelibly marked in his mind. The situation was stuck and Theodosia was well aware of it.

14 The Wedding

In an autumn weekend of 1935 Giorgos came to see Theodosia in Kleisoura with a beaming smile and much agitation. “It may sound unbelievable but my mother has given her consent to our union!” he said and paused for emphasis. Then he added, “as long as she does not have to become personally involved. ‘I am sick and tired,’ she said, ‘of people giving me disapproving looks and I want to have communion again. Go and get married, do whatever you want, just make sure I don’t have anything to do with her directly.’ I told her that we could get married in Athens in a restrained family circle and live in another house in Florina. What do you say, sweetheart, do you agree?” “Yes, I agree with everything. But we need to prepare a little. A wedding is a milestone in life and it is nice to have fond memories of it. We could plan it for the Christmas vacation when I have two weeks off. It will give us time to do the necessary shopping and find a place to live.” Theodosia could not move into the big Byzantine-style house he had built in her honor. That house would continue being occupied exclusively by his mother. “I don’t want fancy things for the wedding,” Theodosia continued, “but we should buy some new clothes and maybe have the ceremony at the beautiful little church of St. Barbara on Kifisias Avenue. Afterward, we just offer a drink to the priest and the best man, and the two of us take off somewhere for a few days.” “Sounds good, my love, you always put things wisely.” They decided that Voulis was going to be the best man. Giorgos had met Voulis under unorthodox circumstances. Following his military service Voulis found himself in trouble because of his affiliation with 155

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the communist party. He ended up going to jail for about six months in early 1935 just for being a communist. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

The October Revolution of the Bolsheviks in Russia in 1917 triggered the foundation of communist parties in many countries all over the globe. Avraam Benaroya, a Sephardic Jewish teacher and leader of Thessaloniki’s Socialist Workers’ Federation, founded the Communist Party of Greece (ΚΚΕ) on November 4, 1918. The young KKE opposed from the beginning the Greek offensive in Asia Minor, characterizing it as an imperialistic and adventurist war. It also took up a position in favor of an Independent Macedonia and Thrace, by suggestion of the Communist International (the organization that advocated world communism). This position of the KKE triggered persecutions against the communists in Greece for many years. KKE’s ties with minorities living in Macedonia—particularly the Sephardic Jews of Thessaloniki—were strengthened because of the well-developed class-consciousness of the Jewish proletariat. The connection between Jews and communists bolstered anti-Semitism and anticommunism in Greece. Persecution of communists was widespread in the early 1930s and culminated when the dictatorship of Metaxas was imposed on August 4, 1936 with the consent of King George II. Under the pretext of the “communist danger”, Metaxas outlawed KKE and unleashed unprecedented persecution against the communists.

When Voulis came out of jail he had no money and no job nor prospects of one. He asked Theodosia for help. She talked to Giorgos first and then told Voulis to come to Florina where Giorgos could get him a job. Indeed, Voulis went to Florina and stayed in the room Theodosia had kept at Katina’s house for whenever she returned to Florina during vacations and holidays. Niki had also used the room during the two years she attended high school there. Giorgos did find Voulis a job in Florina as a helper in the office of Giorgos’s friend Kortsaris, who worked as a contractor in public works. What Voulis never found out was that Giorgos paid Voulis’s salary to Kortsaris because the latter had no particular interest in hiring Voulis and had done it only as a favor to Giorgos.

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Voulis was glad to become Theodosia’s best man. It would be an opportunity for him to go to Athens and see Ioanna again, a young lady he had met at the International Fair of Thessaloniki the previous year, with whom he had become emotionally involved. He would very much like to find a job in Athens, as he hoped that things would become serious between them. He wanted to leave Florina in any case. His oneroom accommodation there left something to be desired. He had two part-time visitors, Niki and Theodosia. Things were particularly complicated with Theodosia’s visits because Giorgos also wanted to be with her. On these occasions Voulis had to disappear. It mostly happened during summer vacation with nice weather so he’d take an alarm clock with him, set it for a couple of hours, and go lie down on a quiet grassy spot under a tree and take a nap. When the alarm rang, he knew he could go back. In June 1935 Niki finished the Teachers College Academy in Thessaloniki and anxiously waited for her appointment, hoping it wouldn’t be in a too distant village. By the end of the summer the appointments were announced. Starting in January 1936 Niki was to teach in the school of Perasma, a little village of 650 inhabitants six kilometers southeast of Florina. Everyone was relieved. It was so close to Florina that Niki could walk there. But Niki quickly gave up the idea of walking back and forth to school every day. She came to Florina and stayed at Theodosia’s place only on weekends and holidays. And even then she only once did it on foot. She later explained, “I maintained a good pace by calling to myself, ‘one, two, one, two, …’ as in a military march. I made it in a little over an hour.” But the villager from whom she rented a room had a donkey. He went to Florina on weekends and for twenty drachmas he took Niki along on the donkey. In early December 1935 Giorgos and Theodosia undertook one more trip to Athens to do the necessary preparations for the wedding. They planned to stay several days so that Giorgos could have a suit made, which involved a couple of visits to the tailor for fittings. Arriving late in the evening on Wednesday night they took a room in a hotel centrally located for easy access to the downtown stores. Giorgos complained about a bad earache, but they ignored it hoping it would go away as they had a lot to do. After breakfast the next morning they hit the market. Their shopping included: a white nightgown and a beige flannel robe de chamber for Theodosia from Stratigakis, silk pajamas with red edging for Giorgos from Stroggylou, slippers and shoes for both of them from

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Bei’s shoe store, two-tone shoes (black and white) for Giorgos, and patent leather shoes for Theodosia. Giorgos’s suit was made at Politi’s, where they also found a shirt and tie to match. In the meantime Giorgos’s earache was deteriorating. Following a fitting at the tailor’s the next day Giorgos said that his earache was becoming intolerable. So they decided to go to a hospital emergency ward. There a doctor diagnosed an abscess in Giorgos’s left ear that required immediate intervention. Giorgos was signed into the hospital for surgery. Theodosia worried and prayed in the waiting room for what seemed to her a very long time. Finally, the doctor came out to say that everything went well and that Giorgos could leave the hospital the next day. Theodosia went to the hospital the next morning to pick up Giorgos. He came out with a white bandage circling his head in a lopsided way. She smiled but said nothing. She just wished him well. He was no longer in pain. They went to the tailor for another fitting, had lunch and went to the hotel for an afternoon nap. When they woke up in the late afternoon Giorgos felt much better. It was Saturday night. “We must go out,” he said, “I’ve heard much about Attik’s Paddock. Let’s go find out what it is all about.” Attik was a Greek composer, lyricist, and performer of his own songs. He was one of the most important exponents of Greek Light Song in the early twentieth century, which dominated Greek music before the buzouki era. The Attik’s Paddock was an artistic group that included singers and other improvising presenters, mimes, satire, etc. Attik was the artistic director and acted as compere (master of ceremonies) for the group. They performed in the Athenian tavern called Montmartre. When Theodosia and Giorgos with the white bandage on his head entered the tavern, they found it full of people, with Attik on stage running a show. They had to walk around the tables, drawing attention to themselves, until they found a free table. They had barely sat down when they heard Attik over the loudspeakers, “And now a warm welcome to our oriental friend who came wearing a turban on his head!” People turned around, looked at Giorgos and laughed. Giorgos got mad. He stood up and said to Theodosia, “Let’s get out of here; I don’t need to listen to this.” “Sweetheart, please sit down and don’t make a fuss,” she pleaded. “He is making only satirical comedy. That’s his job!”

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He reluctantly sat down, turning his back to the stage and sulking for the rest of the evening. On Sunday morning they went to the church of St. Barbara and met with the priest. He listened to their request with compassion and agreed on the date, pointing out that it had to be done at 13:00 because at 12:00 he had another wedding. He also gave them some instructions and advice. Back in Florina Theodosia looked around and found a place to rent on Captain Modis Street, a street in central Florina named after Giorgos’s first cousin who was killed fighting the Turks in Asia Minor fifteen years earlier. It was a two-story house and had three rooms, a hall, and a kitchen on each floor. The landlady, Katinga, was Bulgarian and lived on the ground floor. The first floor was minimally furnished. The house was nice, clean, and centrally located, near the marketplace and a five-minute walk from the Modis house. Theodosia discussed it with Giorgos and decided to rent it. Christmas was on a Wednesday in 1935. Giorgos, Theodosia, and Voulis traveled to Athens on Tuesday. They all stayed in a downtown hotel. On Christmas morning Giorgos and Theodosia put their new clothes on and met Voulis for breakfast. “You look like movie stars!” Voulis exclaimed. “Dear brother, one gets married only once,” remarked Theodosia. They had a leisurely breakfast making endless wishes and toasts. Theodosia then prepared the items they had brought for the wedding. She wrapped the box with the wedding crowns and sugared almonds and separately wrapped a bottle of cognac. She gave the box to Voulis, the cognac to Giorgos and kept the bouquet of flowers for herself. They checked out of the hotel, got into a taxi with their luggage, and told the driver to go to the church of St. Barbara on Kifisias Avenue. Giorgos invited the taxi driver to come inside the church. The church smelled of flowers and incense. The priest’s words touched Theodosia profoundly and she began crying. All she could think of was to give thanks to God, which she did quietly in her mind, “Thank you, Lord, that I was fortunate to become a bride, properly in church, and that You gave me this man who loves me and is good to me. Please, do not abandon us.” She raised her head and stood proudly by her husband. When the priest finished he invited them to kiss. They kissed on the lips. The verger brought a tray with glasses, the bottle of cognac, and the sugared almonds. Everyone gave the newlyweds wishes. Theodosia soaked it all

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in. In her loneliness she found support and love in the wishes of these strangers: the verger, the taxi driver, and the priest. “That God keeps them well!” she wished without verbalizing it. Then another thought came to her mind. Her grandmother Theodosia—from her father’s side—whose name she carried, had also been married to a man named Giorgos. Couples with names Giorgos and Theodosia are very rare because despite the fact that his name is most common in Greece her name is among the rarest. “What is your name,” Giorgos asked the taxi driver. “Giorgos, like you,” he answered. “Good for you! Now we have finished here and we would like you to drive us to Sounio, please.” Voulis got off at Gyzi Square. He was expected at the house of Ioanna’s parents. They continued for another half-an-hour ride to Sounio where Giorgos had made reservations at the best seaside hotel. Their room was on the third floor and it had a large balcony on the sea. “Saki, look at this bathtub. It is enormous. We can both fit in it!” They filled the bathtub and got under the hot perfumed water together. The fragrance was intoxicating. “This is wonderful!” “Yes, my love. Turn off the water and come closer.” They remained hugging quietly like this for some time. Taking a bath in a bathtub was very special. Their homes didn’t have bathtubs or hot water. This was an experience possible only in fancy hotels. When they began feeling cold, they turned on the hot water again. Eventually they rinsed themselves and put on the bathrobes. He took her in his arms and dragged her to the bed. They made love as if it were the first time. They dosed for a while. When they woke up it was dark and they were very hungry. Giorgos called room service, “What is your Christmas menu?” “Cabbage with pork. It is very nice, sir.” “Very well, but also a bottle of champagne, some smoked salmon, and a small tart, please.” They put on their robes and went out onto the balcony for a while. Across the little bay up on top of the hill was the Temple of Poseidon where they would be visiting and taking pictures on the following days. In a while the waiter came in and set the table. Theodosia put her flowers in a vase at the center. Giorgos opened the champagne and filled the glasses.

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“To your health, my dearest Giorgos! Be well and love me.” “To your health, my sweetheart. I need your love. I cannot live without it.” The next day they walked up the long hill to the edge of Cape Sounio where the ruins of the ancient Temple of Poseidon rest. It was a bright sunny day and the exercise made them feel good. The columns of the temple resemble those of the Parthenon but the surroundings produce a different kind of awe. Cape Sounio is the southern-most tip of the Attica Peninsula. It rises high and extends into the Aegean Sea. The temple is constructed at the highest point of the rocky hill. Those who visit the place feel suspended in the sky while being surrounded by water down below. That’s the spot where the mythical king Aegeas sat waiting for his son Theseus to come back from Crete where he went to kill the Minotaur. Aegeas had asked his son to raise white sails on the boat if he succeeded in killing the Minotaur. However, Theseus forgot his father’s instructions and when Aegeas saw again black sails on the boat coming back to Athens, he concluded that his son had been slain and jumped into the sea and drowned. That’s why this sea was named the Aegean Sea. Giorgos had his camera with him. They took more pictures with the timer, which became their “official” wedding pictures. A couple of days later they left Sounio and came back to Athens for the end-of-year celebrations. They got in touch with Giorgos’s old friends from university and arranged to meet in the same restaurant in Hauteia, near Omonia Square, where they had met before. Much the same group was going to have a big New Year’s Eve party there. Theodosia put on her white dress and her patent leather shoes and fixed her hair up. She looked lovely. “Our friends won’t recognize you,” remarked Giorgos. When they arrived at the restaurant most people from the group were already seated at the tables. Someone saw them, raised a hand and shouted, “Over here!” Their glasses were immediately filled with champagne. The music began playing the Blue Danube waltz by Johan Strauss. Without finishing his champagne Giorgos rushed to put his glass down. He grabbed Theodosia’s hand and brought her to the dancing floor before anyone else had a chance to go there. Giorgos and Theodosia began an accelerated twirling over the entire floor. As people quieted down watching them the music seemed louder. No one else got up to dance. Everyone was content to simply watch the spinning couple,

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which seemed to enjoy themselves immensely. When the music finally stopped people broke into spontaneous applause and cries of “Bravo!” Giorgos kissed Theodosia and they returned to their table but she didn’t get a chance to sit down. One after the other all the men in the group wanted to dance with her. She refused no one. She was quite intoxicated by the whole thing.

15 Giorgos Th. Modis

Contrary to what may have been naively thought, Giorgos’s passionate involvement with Theodosia and his frequent trips to Athens did not compromise his career, nor did they slow him down in his many other activities. He had a lot of energy and resented sleeping, which he considered a waste of time. “We’ll be sleeping for an eternity,” he used to say. His office in his new house allowed him to go upstairs and have the lunches his mother prepared for him. He furnished the office with an elegant black desk made to order from walnut wood and several dark Viennese-style chairs. He made sure (mostly Theodosia’s job after they got married) that there were fresh flowers on his desk every day. He was also sophisticated and stylish about his clothes. He liked to put a carnation or other flower in the buttonhole of his lapel. At the same time he did not tolerate a pronounced crease on his pants. To Theodosia’s dismay, he’d ruffle a little his freshly ironed pants just after putting them on. His business blossomed. He defended mostly peasants from all the villages in the prefecture of Florina. He built a reputation for winning cases in favor of uneducated and helpless individuals. Despite the fact that on his license he had obtained the grade kalos, equivalent to only B, he excelled in court. He managed never to lose a court case even though he was always stressed out worried that it might happen. Indicative of his tactics is one day in court when things were going badly for his client. Just before all was lost, Giorgos saw a life-saving opportunity in a derogatory remark the prosecutor made about him. Giorgos got up “insulted,” excused himself to the judge, and walked out of the courtroom in the name of “safeguarding his self-respect and personal dignity.” 163

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It was a high-risk tactic but it paid off. The judge decided to postpone the case because the defendant no longer had a defense lawyer. When after weeks the same case came to court again, the atmosphere was different and Giorgos was able to win the case. His popularity increased in the countryside around Florina but also in the town itself. Although his weekly newspaper devoted to “Macedonian interests” lasted only a few months, he continued publishing articles and editorial columns in other papers. He touched upon a variety of topical issues but mostly defended the local working class: farmers, livestock breeders, peasants, and in general the underprivileged. For example, sometime in 1930 he wrote: The following case was put on trial in the Florina Country Court a few months ago. Two civil servants of the Internal Revenue Service were accused of causing bodily harm to a peasant who was their host—it has become a mandatory custom to provide accommodations for civil servants in our villages—while he served them his humble meal of ten fried eggs. They got so upset with the unimpressive meal that the poor peasant received the whole plate with the hot oil on his face. I am not interested here in that the district court judge believed these two civil servants instead of the entire village that testified in favor of the peasant, and declared innocent these two “heroic” civil servants. I am more interested in the following question: What impression will this peasant retain from Greek civil servants and the Greek nation in general compared to the Slavic propaganda spilling over across the border that keeps sucking up to him now just as much as it has done in the past? … What I am afraid of is that an unjustified victimization of Macedonians and the irrepressible descent of southern Greek bureaucrats onto Macedonia, as if it were their colony, breeds disaster. Because coming here to this promised land called Macedonia they indulge in nothing else but corruption, petty politics, factions, and other mean actions. … The Greek state irresponsibly never considered developing local Macedonian executives for local governance. … God forbid the moment when Macedonian intellectuals begin starving while they watch the Peloponnesians transferred here feasting. A just danger will arise. This is what we fear for tomorrow.

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More than once in 1931 he took issue with the state of education in Macedonia, blowing the whistle on inadequacies and scandals. He also criticized the idea and learning methods of the School of Work, something that Theodosia had found most appealing when she taught at the model school: It has been unquestionably established by serious educational officials and by enlightened senior military personalities that our national education here in Florina and in Macedonia in general leaves something to be desired. Our teachers try to put to work thousands of silly modern systems, which they are unable to understand, much less teach them. The education of our children has thus become disastrous for what concerns the learning of the language and the nourishing of the soul. Our senior teachers are dry, insipid, without soul, without inspiration or warmth for the nation, maybe because of their own inadequate upbringing. So they go to conferences where they study—or more accurately they listen to expositions on—educational systems that they could possibly use. Recently, our educators and their younger imitators debated for days what educational system to use this coming school year. Some neophytes, who never understood their mission in Macedonia, fanatically insisted on the so-called School of Work, which they discovered is being used in Germany. They wanted to introduce it here without even adapting it to our social conditions and our state of development. They missed the fact that it would be better for the young Macedonian kids to learn how to say good morning in correct Greek than get hands-on schooling, which in our situation is rather superfluous.

In 1930 he published a small book entitled In the Dungeons. It is a short fictional novel—75 pages—recounting a dramatic love story set in Monastiri in 1912 while Bulgarians and Serbs are taking over the city from the Greeks. Despite the fact that at that time Katharevousa—an archaic type of Greek—was the official Greek language, also used in the newspapers in a watered-down version, Giorgos wrote his book in Dimotiki—the colloquial form of Greek spoken daily—thus making the book more friendly and enjoyable for the average reader. But when later he wrote another little book, the publisher rejected it. Giorgos did not take well to that rejection. He wrote back complaining and accusing

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the publisher of having demonstrated lack of sensitivity and damaging discouragement of an aspiring young author. By 1932 his cousin, Giorgos Sr., had been repeatedly elected MP in the Greek parliament for almost ten years. He belonged to the Central Liberal Party, which was positioned midway between the fascists and the communists. But despite his well-established political career, Giorgos Sr. feared Giorgos Jr. because the latter was more energetic, more brilliant, more outspoken, and overshadowed his older cousin in gatherings. Giorgos Sr. tried to keep his younger cousin at a distance and away from what he considered to be his own “turf.” For his part, Giorgos Jr., finding the most suitable political post for him already occupied by his older cousin, had to differentiate himself. Not willing to go toward the fascists, he moved further to the left, treading a fine line between liberals and communists with whom he did not want to be associated. He embraced the villagers, the farmers, and the stockbreeders. And even though he openly declared he was not a communist, he was sometimes mistaken for one. Giorgos Jr. was also influenced by his distant cousin Alexandros Svolos, in setting his political orientation. Svolos was ten years older than Giorgos Jr. and taught Constitutional Law at the University of Athens. He was a prominent Greek legal expert and later served as president of the Political Committee of National Liberation, a resistance-based government during the German occupation of Greece. Because of his left-leaning political views, however, he was dismissed and reinstated as university professor several times between 1935 and 1944. But Giorgos Jr. was less of a socialist than Svolos was, so he joined Ioannis Sophianopoulos’s two-year-old Agricultural Party. He ran unsuccessfully for a seat in parliament in the elections of 1932; he received few votes. He tried again in the elections of 1936 but was again unsuccessful. He nevertheless kept publishing articles and editorials like this one: Wake up farmers! Today’s capitalist regime has taken advantage of you. Has taken advantage of you in the most barbarian way, sucking your blood drop by drop. You may have bought a parcel of land from the Turks at such a time, which makes it illegal now. For a farm of one acre you may have paid twenty-five Turkish liras, i.e. 9,000 of today’s drachmas. The Venizelos government

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passed a law in 1923, presumably aiming to help you legalize your farm, saying that all illegally acquired properties should be approved by a committee residing in the court of first instance. The process of this approval required you to have a lawyer, whose fees were comparable to what you paid for your farm. In 1926 the same bureaucrats of the Venizelos government concocted another maneuver at your expense. You were required to submit this approval for ratification to the Ministry of Agriculture through the local Office of Settlements via a lawyer, again paid by you. Strangely, however, once more the same bureaucrats decided to have these decisions reexamined for a second time by a new committee of the court of first instance for which you had to pay a heavy deposit and a third lawyer’s fee. And as if all the skinning you have suffered so far was not enough, the law stipulated that these new decisions had to be again ratified by the Ministry of Agriculture, involving one more lawyer’s fee. When finally, God willing, the new decisions were also ratified, you had to pay the notary public, but also the state because your farm was considered to have been bought again. What is the result? The politicians of Venizelos are deceiving you when they say that they are doing agricultural politics. They are forcing you to tighten you belt more and more, because with all these exorbitant fees to lawyers and committees you have repaid tenfold the price of your farm. You would have been better off to have never bought it in the first place.

But Giorgos’s time and energy was also directed toward less professional activities. He liked sketching—he had a gift for it—and even took a few drawing lessons. He sketched whenever possible, sometimes during court proceedings, on whatever paper was available, much like doodling. Many years later, Theodosia encouraged her children to draw and paint, hoping that some hereditary trait might show up. He had a passion for photography, which was a rather extravagant hobby at that time. He had managed to get hold of a folding Kodak camera that opened up to reveal a pleated-leather dark chamber. It had a 10-second timer, thus making self-portraits possible. He took pictures with an eye for interesting themes. Theodosia was one of his favorite subjects. He took all kinds of pictures of her and of the two of them using the timer. He experimented with contre-jour shots

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and time exposure using only a petrol lamp. In fact, he participated in a photo contest once and won first prize, which was a Brownie Box Camera. At the center of Florina on the main road—Alexander the Great Street—there was a coffee shop called Kafenio ton boudaladon (Café of the Idiots). Giorgos often went there to meet friends, drink wine or ouzo with mezedes (appetizers), and sing. The friends stayed there late into the night, having drawn the curtains so that people passing on the street didn’t see them. The standard group included former classmates from university like Menelaos Pavlidis and Takos Makris (lawyers), Nikolaos Fistas (doctor), and Kortsaris (contractor). They all sang pretty well, particularly Kortsaris. Fistas took himself more seriously and was not always present at these joyful gatherings. Giorgos Sr. never went to the Café of the Idiots; he was serious minded and didn’t mix with people in light-hearted ways. Niki had the opportunity to meet Giorgos and see him often because she spent quite some time in Florina staying in Theodosia’s room. She went to high school there and simultaneously followed training as a nurse in the municipal hospital in Florina between 1928 and 1930. Becoming a volunteer nurse—to be called on duty upon emergencies— was popular among young ladies at that time and training for it was provided for free. Niki also stayed in Theodosia’s room later when she came back to Florina for vacations and holidays while studying in Thessaloniki. The three of them—Theodosia, Niki, and Giorgos—went to see whatever show came to town: theater, troupe, even opera. Giorgos had bought a carnet for all spectacles in the movie-theater building where these things took place. But during those years Theodosia spent most of her time teaching in Meliti or in Kleisoura so she missed some of this activity. When an opera came to Florina, Giorgos went only with Niki. It was the first time Niki had seen opera and coming out after the show she couldn’t hold back from singing to Giorgos instead of talking to him. Quite amused, he sang back to her. Many decades later Niki told Giorgos’s children that their father was very handsome. “He was Miss Modis,” she said in an attempt to give him a beauty-contest title. He was also flirtatious and frisky at times, even while married to his beloved Saki. “He had long hands,” Niki remarked with meaning. “Once, when I was still a teenager, he chased me around the room and my skirt was caught at the corner of the bed and was torn. I didn’t like that at all,” she concluded.

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But the incident did not constitute significant unfaithfulness in Giorgos’s mind, not even in Niki’s. Stereotypical faithfulness, like political correctness, change with time. “Aunt Niki, you were prettier than our mother,” remarked his children. “How come he did not choose you over her?” “He simply loved your mother,” Niki answered marking her words, “There is nothing else to be said.” Among Giorgos’s other interests was also metaphysics. Two of his friends shared this interest, Pavlidis and Fistas. Fistas was the scientist of the group. He had opened the first Radiology Lab in Florina in the late 1920s. It all began in the Café of the Idiots. In one get-together Fistas opened up his heart on a subject that immediately intrigued Giorgos and Pavlidis. “There is a new science called parapsychology,” he began and to preempt objections he added, “let me remind you of the outstanding fact—of which all Greeks must be proud—that the Greek genius has left no aspect of broad science untouched and unexplored. We must continue this tradition.” He then proceeded to describe how he had witnessed communication with the dead and levitation of small objects through the use of the small table, a three-legged table with no nails or other metal. He explained that electromagnetic phenomena producing radiation take place in the brain. Under certain circumstances such radiation can be received by other people. The resulting phenomena are: thought transfer, telepathy, clairvoyance, the power of suggestion, poltergeists, and the like. This electromagnetic radiation is characterized by a variety of frequencies and amplitudes depending on the individual. Consequently, it cannot be captured by everyone but only by individuals with the appropriate receptiveness. When there is resonance between transmitter and receiver the success of the transmission is complete. Giorgos was superstitious by nature, so Fistas’s talk fell on fertile ground, but Pavlidis went further. He listened the entire time, absorbed as if hypnotized. So the three of them decided to have after-hours meetings in Fistas’s medical office to explore such matters further. They did so several times. Fistas showed them some literature on the subject and they indulged in experimentation. Giorgos seemed less susceptible but Pavlidis had a propensity for these phenomena. Fistas hypnotized him and had him do weird errands. Afterward they would

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invariably end up in the Café of the Idiots where they met and had drinks with other friends. “Fistas can do whatever he wants with Pavlidis,” Giorgos confided to Theodosia. Half a century later Fistas—the only one of the three of them still alive—wrote a book in which there was a section devoted to each metaphysical phenomenon. Under ‘extrasensory perception’ he wrote: Extrasensory perception is an admirable mental capacity of man. The man who possesses it is capable of seeing through matter. It has been said that King Lyngos of Florina was capable of seeing through the trunk of a tree, i.e. if there was someone behind the tree and if it concerned a friend or an enemy. Hence the ancient-Greek phrase, «οξύτερον Λυγκός οράν», used to describe someone who “has a better vision than Lyngos.” A true descendant thereof was the dear departed friend and classmate of mine from Florina, M.P. lawyer [here Fistas did not give Pavlidis’ name out of respect for the privacy of Pavlidis’s family] with whom I have carried out many experiments: thought transfer, telepathy, extrasensory perception, and power of suggestion. We had amazing successes. He could read clocks through walls. He could read a word written by an unknown person months earlier through three envelopes. Whenever he was next to me he had no will of his own. He was ready to do, i.e. accept as an order, whatever idea I suggested. He served as prefect in the town of Veria. One day he came to my medical office for consultation. When I inquired about the state of schools in his prefecture, he told me, “Many schools are suffering from frequent childbearing of female teachers, which is at the expense of the students’ education.” I smiled and without any back thought I said, “As a prefect you have power and authority. Take pencil and paper and issue an order: female teachers should not give birth at inappropriate times.” A month went by and my friend was under continuous pressure from my joking suggestion. At the end he gave in. He took pencil and paper and wrote down his famous order: “I am issuing the order that female teachers do not give birth during the school year, etc.” It is indicative of the great power of suggestion.

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And yet, Fistas may have underestimated the power of suggestion. While some people are less susceptible than others—as he pointed out—precious few are those who are “immune” to becoming influenced. In the years and decades that followed it became clear that the media can shape personal opinions and seed conspiracy theories, that youngsters can become easily influenced to go to war or worse to become suicide bombers, that groups of people in sects can become influenced to commit mass suicide, and that entire races “influenced” into different religions wage war against each other. It has been argued that the greatest vulnerability of the human species is its propensity to become influenced! Metaphysics was only one of the many directions in which Giorgos channeled his energy, and a minor one at that, considering his so many other energy-consuming activities: practicing law, mountaineering and skiing, politics, frequent travels to Athens with his woman, publishing a newspaper, writing articles, writing short true stories, writing long fictional stories, drawing, photography, and drinking and singing at the Café of the Idiots. He spent his energy avidly. One may say that he burned his candle at both ends. His internal clock ran faster than the clock on the wall. He consumed his quota for life on earth faster than most people. A villager up in the mountains living serenely and quietly would need to reach 90 or 100 years of age to have accumulated comparable life experience. Could Giorgos have anticipated that he’d die young? Not at all! He kept making more and more plans for the future until the day he died.

16 The House on Captain Modis Street

Following their wedding in Athens and the honeymoon trip to Sounio, Giorgos and Theodosia traveled together by airplane this time to Thessaloniki. It was Friday morning, January 3, 1936. Theodosia was as excited as a child to be in an airplane. They had barely settled in their seats and marveled at the view through the window when they were told they were already arriving. For a minute she contemplated her entire short life. In Constantinople as a child they didn’t even have electricity and they had only heard of airplanes. Now she was flying inside one. “Thank you, my Lord, for all these opportunities offered to me,” she prayed in her mind. In Thessaloniki airport they picked up their luggage and headed for the Florina bus terminal. The bus left at 3:30 pm and four hours later they were in Florina. They went to the new house on Captain Modis Street. Giorgos was going to sleep there that night. He could tell his mother the next day that he had just arrived. It was very cold. They lit the small wood-burning stove in the bedroom but they had to sleep tightly close to each other to keep warm. The next day Giorgos bought and had installed a large wood-burning stove in the hall, capable of warming the whole house, and another one with an oven for the kitchen. Theodosia brought over the rest of her belongings from Katina’s house and said goodbye to Katina and her husband, who congratulated her and wished her a happy married life. There was one more week of vacation before she had to go back to her post in Kleisoura. She went by Mr. Soua’s store and bought material and other accessories necessary for making curtains for all the windows of the house. Mr. Soua congratulated her and agreed to her paying the bill in monthly installments. She wasn’t going to ask Giorgos to 173

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pay for such things. She then asked Virginia the seamstress to bring her portable sewing machine and make the curtains at home. When the curtains were finished and hung up the house looked all dressed up. There was something to do in the house every day, but Theodosia enjoyed doing it. Giorgos came for lunch or dinner, but he generally slept at his mother’s at night. When Theodosia tried to argue with him to stay the night he protested, “You two are going to tear me to pieces. You pull one way, my mother pulls the other way; I’ll be split into two.” So she accepted the situation. Vasiliki came one morning toward the end of the week. “Vasiliki, it is so nice to see you. How did you find me here?” asked Theodosia. “It wasn’t hard. Everyone in Florina is talking about you.” “And what are they saying?” “No one had expected that Modis would get married. But now they all approve and respect you both. The nasty gossip has finally stopped.” “He is good to me, Vasiliki, and I love him very much,” confessed Theodosia. The two women chatted for a couple of hours. Theodosia recounted everything concerning the wedding in full detail. Vasiliki promised to come back soon for more mouabetia (prolonged chatting between women consisting mostly of gossip and rumors.) But the vacation days finished and Theodosia had to show up at the school in Kleisoura again. She’d be coming back for Easter and other holidays. In the meantime, Niki could stay in the house whenever she came from Perasma. Voulis found a job in a printing shop in Athens. He and Ioanna were going to get married and live in her parents’ house at Gyzi Square. The room at Katina’s house in Florina could now be abandoned. That summer Theodosia and Giorgos took a last trip to Athens. They did shopping for clothes again—she bought a white summer costume with hat and shoes to go with it. They went out to restaurants, to the beach at Glyfada, and to evening shows as usual. But the era of the long trips from Kleisoura to the capital was coming to an end. They were replaced by the much shorter and more frequent trips to the house on Captain Modis Street in Florina, which demanded attention and began resembling a real home. It was Saturday morning in Kleisoura, the day before Christmas 1938. It was very cold and was snowing continuously. Theodosia was drinking

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coffee with Maria Argyropoulos while waiting for Giorgos to come pick her up. The sound of a car horn announced his arrival. Theodosia ran out and embraced him. “Let’s go,” says Giorgos, “it is very cold and I want to go to our little nest in Florina.” “First we need to say goodbye to Mrs. Maria and the doctor. Come in for a while.” Mrs. Maria gave orders for a lunch box to be prepared. They had hot drinks, exchanged wishes for the holidays and took off in the taxi that was waiting. They arrived in Florina at the house on Captain Modis Street around 2 pm. The first thing to do was to light all the stoves. When the house warmed up Theodosia made coffee and spread the white tablecloth on the table. Giorgos wanted to eat always on a white tablecloth. They opened the package Mrs. Maria had prepared for them. There was a little bit of everything—salty, sweets, and fruit. “What wonderful people they are! I am so glad you have such good friends. We will miss them,” she said nostalgically. The children of the neighborhood were going from house to house, singing carols, and asking for treats. There was a knock on their door. Theodosia opened the door and saw three boys and two girls between eight and twelve years old. “Shall we sing?” they asked. “You sing loud and clear,” instructed Theodosia. Their hands were cold and their noses red; she showed them in to warm them up a little. She gave them some of Maria’s goodies. “Come and see an uncle in the room who loves you,” she directed the kids to the room where Giorgos was lying down. He jumped up, took out his wallet and gave them some money. They left smiling cheerfully. There was shopping to be done for the Christmas dinner. Despite the cold, the market across the street was especially busy. Women were selling their greens, vegetables, and fruit. Theodosia went first by Lazaros the butcher, and then did the other shopping including a Christmas cake. Giorgos spent Christmas Eve with Theodosia but Christmas Day with his mother. As usual, he split his time between the two houses. When the stores opened again on Tuesday a young man brought a big package. Theodosia was alone in the house. “Where is this coming from?” she asked. “I work for Mr. Papageorgiou and I am supposed to install it,” said the young man. “It is a radio; a very good one, made in Japan.”

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Papageorgiou was the main electric-appliances store in Florina. “Bravo to Giorgos!” thought Theodosia, “and I’ve got no present for him.” Radios were very expensive. One radio cost 12,000 drachmas, which was considered an exorbitant amount of money for a household appliance. Few houses in Florina were equipped with a radio. Moreover they had to wait until after sundown, when the electricity in Florina came on, in order to listen to it. But once Theodosia turned it on, she couldn’t stay away from it. She listened to the news, music, or whatever was on. On December 31 Giorgos said, “We are invited to the end-of-year ball tonight.” “But I have no dress to wear,” said Theodosia, “You have your tuxedo, of course.” “I’d rather we don’t go,” said he. “I don’t need anyone else as long as I have you.” They spent that evening just the two of them. They opened a bottle of champagne, listened to the end-of-year countdown on the radio, and saw the lights go out for a moment at midnight and come back on right afterward as the power generation switched generators. Then they cut the Vasilopita (New Year Cake)—which contained a gold coin—into four pieces, naming each piece: the first one was for Jesus, the second for Giorgos, the third for Theodosia, and the fourth for Paraskevi. The gold coin was found in Giorgos’s piece. “Be always happy and well, my love,” wished Theodosia for him. During the following week Paraskevi left Florina for a few days. She went to Proti on foot. Proti is a small village five kilometers northwest of Florina where some relatives of hers, from her sister Aspasia, lived. Her absence created an opportunity for Theodosia to go stay in the big house. It was the first time she had seen the inside of the house Giorgos had built for her. Takos Makris came by the house late that night. Takos had been born in Florina but his family came from Monastiri. He was eight years younger than Giorgos. He practiced law in Thessaloniki but came often to Florina where he had a house. Whenever in Florina, he passed by Giorgos’s house, no matter what time of day or night, and shouted or whistled from the street for Giorgos to come out. That night, while Theodosia and Giorgos were sleeping together, Takos whistled. Giorgos got out of bed, put a blanket around him, and came out on the little balcony with no railing on all fours to talk to Takos. Theodosia was alarmed and kept shouting behind him, “Careful not to

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fall!” Takos absolutely needed to tell Giorgos about his new affair with renowned Greek actress Anna Kalouta! During their stay in the big house Theodosia took the opportunity to clean it and wash the curtains. Despite the circumstances, she still considered the house to be her own. She finished just in time before Paraskevi returned and she had to move back to Captain Modis Street. Those few days turned out to be the only time she ever spent in that house with her husband as a couple. When holidays finished Theodosia went back to Kleisoura and was again immersed in the old routine: school in the morning, coffee with Maria in the afternoon, Giorgos in the weekend. She enjoyed and gave herself fully to all three. At Easter she had the opportunity to go abroad—not very far, to Belgrade in neighboring Yugoslavia. Giorgos had a compatriot and classmate from childhood called Nikos Skandelis. They had gone to elementary school and part of high school together in Monastiri. Unlike Giorgos who had moved with his family to Greece, Skandelis had stayed in Monastiri and ended up becoming a military doctor in the Yugoslavian Army. Monastiri is less than thirty kilometers from Florina and people traveled often between the two towns. Relationships had been normalized between Greece and Yugoslavia, so Florina residents didn’t need a passport to go to Monastiri. They’d go there just to shop for items that were less expensive. Paraskevi went regularly to collect rent from the man who occupied her late husband’s store. Sometimes Giorgos went with her. On such occasions Giorgos got in touch with Skandelis. The two of them talked or rather argued about politics. Giorgos teased and mocked Skandelis about Serbs and their army being crass. For his part, Skandelis invited Giorgos to come and check things out for himself. He specifically invited Giorgos and his wife to come to Belgrade for a big military ball at Easter time. Theodosia was chatting with Vasiliki at the house on Captain Modis Street when impetuous Giorgos burst in carrying a box. “We are going to Belgrade for the Easter Ball,’” he announced to Theodosia. The two ladies looked at him surprised, sending questioning glances at the box he was carrying. He put the box aside and proceeded to explain that his old pal Skandelis had invited them to the event. They’d go by train leaving after tomorrow. He eventually admitted that the box contained a new dress for Theodosia to wear at the event.

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The ball took place in a large hall at Belgrade and was attended by many people mostly related to the Yugoslavian military. Giorgos put on his tuxedo and Theodosia her new dress. Giorgos had a good command of the local Slavic dialect and could manage in Bulgarian and Vlachian (he also dabbled in German and French), but Theodosia knew none of the local languages—she could lose her job if they heard her speaking the local Slavic dialect at school. Fortunately, everyone spoke Greek at their table. Skandelis proved an exemplary host. He adhered to protocol and etiquette. He was gallant to Theodosia, executing bows and hand kissing. He clicked his heels before asking permission to dance with her, which he did more than once throughout the evening. The noise of his heels clicking shook Theodosia every time. And at the end, before they left, he gave them a going-away present: a beautiful crystal statuette representing a mermaid. Giorgos and Theodosia cherished it. She placed it as decoration in the good room. But when the Germans later occupied the house they took the statuette, obviously because they liked it. “The Germans, those barbarians!” she used to say whenever she thought of the little mermaid. By the end of the school year it became known that Gardikas was being transferred away from Florina. This opened up the way for Theodosia to regain her post in Florina’s Sixth Elementary School. “Now we should be able to have all the detachments made by Gardikas recalled,” said Giorgos. “Imagine if something like that could happen!” said Theodosia as if daydreaming. “It must be possible. I’ll go to Athens to expedite things with Lazarou,” he reassured her. Giorgos was right. With Gardikas out of the picture Lazarou was amenable to the recalling of old detachments Gardikas had made in Florina. In any case, Giorgos and Theodosia were now married and Gardikas’s original arguments no longer had any ground. Lazarou assured Giorgos that Theodosia would soon be notified of her transfer to her old post in Florina. Giorgos brought the news to Theodosia in Kleisoura. Her face lit up and she immediately began preparations to permanently leave the village. She paid Marika all outstanding rent, and said farewell to Mrs. Maria and the doctor with many thanks for everything. The separation scene was sad for both couples; they promised to keep in touch. But as

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it turned out Theodosia went back to Kleisoura only once four decades later, and Giorgos never did. Life in Florina entered a different phase involving a number of new activities. Theodosia went back to her post at the Sixth Elementary School of Florina (Kastanos’s days of experimentation with the School of Work at the model school were over). Giorgos began spending the night more often in the house on Captain Modis Street. He told his mother that if Theodosia couldn’t come to the big house his mother would be staying there by herself. He left his shaving articles there, however. He shaved there because his office was downstairs and he generally had lunch with his mother. One day he had lunch with Theodosia and she gave him a plate of food for his mother when he went back to his office in the afternoon. Paraskevi could have it for dinner. But Paraskevi was too proud to accept it. “Don’t give me food for her again,” an irritated Giorgos told Theodosia in the evening. “She simply throws it away!” And contrary to what he unfailingly did—as a sign of respect—whenever he referred to Theodosia with pronouns, namely to say “She with a capital S” or “Her with a capital H,” this time he did not specify capitals for the pronouns he used for his mother. Theodosia did not rush to send more food, but on occasion she did send pieces of dessert and other delicacies that she had made. Eventually, Paraskevi began accepting and even welcoming Theodosia’s plates. Giorgos continued publishing articles and short stories. Beginning in 1937 he published one essay or short story every year in the Annual Journal Makedonikon Imerologion (Macedonian Calendar). He also persevered in politics, despite his two previous unsuccessful attempts. He kept cultivating relationships with the presidents of the villages where his clients came from. One of them, Voltskos—president of the village Skopos and later of the village Achlada—was often invited for dinner at Captain Modis Street. Theodosia had to prepare the meal, put the white tablecloth on the table, and worst of all, go around picking up the pits of olives that he spat on the floor, as he was accustomed to do in the village. But there were also benefits. The wives of Giorgos’s clients brought all sorts of goodies to the house: flour, cheese, meat, eggs, vegetables, etc. Also, when Giorgos and Theodosia visited these villages from time to time they were welcomed grandly. Their visits invariably turned into feasts. These two villages, like many others around Florina from where Giorgos’s clients came, were “my villages” as he liked to refer to them.

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Being officially married permitted Giorgos and Theodosia to be seen together in public and to attend social events as a couple. On his insistence Theodosia attended carnival balls and other social events wearing fancy outfits, which she prepared herself. She dressed up as a gypsy, as an oriental noble woman, or simply as a rich aristocrat. He escorted her to these outings. In one picture of them together he later asked the photo lab to add a skinny mustache on him as a retouch for enhancement. .

Despite the chilling of her friendship with Athina, Theodosia kept visiting Kleanthi. During one of those visits it was Kleanthi who needed a good listening ear. Kleanthi’s husband, Papou Kitsos, was considerably older than she was, and she was concerned that if he died she’d find herself on the streets not having anything to her name. So she asked Papou Kitsos to make a will leaving her the parcel of land he owned in Filotas. But he didn’t want to hear any such thing, obviously preferring leaving the land to his son and grandchildren. Every time Kleanthi brought up the subject, he’d reply in distorted Greek, mi mou kanis tantera katomena, loosely meaning, “don’t make me nauseous.” Theodosia told Kleanthi that she’d speak to Giorgos about it, which she did. Theodosia and Giorgos went together to see Papou Kitsos and Kleanthi. Giorgos reasoned with the old man. “When you married this woman,” he reminded him, “you promised her the land in case you died before her, which is not unlikely considering the difference in age. I can make sure that this land will pass to your son and grandchildren when Kleanthi dies. With this document that Kleanthi will sign, anything you leave to her will revert back to your relatives upon Kleanthi’s death, provided they don’t kick her out. We know they are all good people and wouldn’t do any such thing, and we all wish you to live to be one hundred and more, but these are legal matters to make sure your promises are kept.” With Giorgos’s document that Kleanthi signed, Papou Kitsos was reluctantly convinced to make a will leaving Kleanthi the parcel of land, which was a good thing because he died soon afterward and Kleanthi’s only argument for keeping her room and board with Kitsos’s family was her ownership of that land. As the winter settled in it got very cold again and the roads were often covered with a layer of ice. Giorgos acquired a cane equipped with a nail at its point so as to grip onto the ice. Katinga, the landlady at

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Captain Modis Street, had a dog, but she wasn’t very serious about it. It was a street dog that never came into the house. She just fed it from time to time, but so did Theodosia and Giorgos. In fact, the dog became rather attached to the latter. It followed Giorgos to his office. It was a clever dog. It learned the trajectory between the house on Captain Modis Street and Giorgos’s office rather well. On an icy winter day Theodosia was worried about Giorgos coming home for dinner without his cane. She saw the dog in front of the house gave him the cane and told him, “Take it to Giorgos. Go to Giorgos’s office with it.” The dog understood. He took the cane in his mouth, went to Giorgos’s office, and delivered it. From that day the dog was trusted with this errand, which he carried out diligently. He would not let go of the cane to strangers. It had to be delivered to Giorgos personally. Giorgos and Theodosia became rather attached to the dog. But their attachment came to a sad end when the dog was later poisoned during the German occupation. The Germans were clearing the streets of stray dogs by throwing poison-balls around. Giorgos and Theodosia both cried over the catastrophe of that dog’s undeserved death. In spring of 1939 Niki was relocated further away to St. Paraskevi, a small village twelve kilometers north of Florina, close to the Yugoslavian boarder. Her visits to Florina became rarer. At the same time Theodosia nagged Giorgos about the lack of proper furniture. She thought they needed a big double-bed with two small bedside tables, a wardrobe, and a round dining table with six chairs. It was more than she could afford to pay by herself. He agreed. “Go order everything the way you like it at the carpenter shop down the road,” he told her. “There is a good young man working there with his father.” She did so with much care and anticipation. She saw it as consolation for not living in the big house. But it wasn’t meant to be. The young man who took the order was drafted before even beginning the work. His father was old and unable to carry out the work by himself, so he closed the shop and waited for his son to come back. But the mobilization that followed sent the young man to fight the Italians at the Greek-Albanian border. Some time later the father was notified that his son had been killed in action—no other details. The bad news combined with his weak heart resulted in him also dying soon afterward. The beautiful furniture Theodosia had dreamed of never materialized.

PART THREE War and Its Aftermath “It is not enough to win a war; it is more important to organize the peace.” ―ARISTOTLE

17 The War—Early Years

Monday, October 28, 1940. Like every weekday Theodosia woke up early in the morning to go to work. Giorgos wasn’t there; he had spent the night at his mother’s house. She hurried through breakfast and went to school. The streets were empty and quiet as if there was something wrong. At the school entrance there was a soldier keeping guard. “What is going on?” asked Theodosia. “Haven’t you heard? We are at war with Italy. The Italian ambassador in Athens gave Metaxas an ultimatum to allow the Italian Army to occupy a number of strategic positions in Greece. He demanded an answer within three hours. Metaxas said no. The Italians declared war before the three hours expired. Our mountains are getting full of Italians, but we will crush them all.” “God be with you,” said Theodosia and hurried back home, buying a couple of koulouria from the bakery on the way. When she got home she found Giorgos anxiously waiting for her. “This is bad news. What have you heard?” she asked, worried. “Saki, come here,” he pulled her close to him and kissed her. She made coffee to dip the koulouria in. “It was to be expected,” said Giorgos, “the Italians have been in Albania for months now. But I am mostly worried about the Germans. If they ever get down here …” They decided to go out and shop for provisions, each one separately. Giorgos had to stock up the other house too. They’d meet again after 5 pm when the town’s electricity came on to listen to the radio. Shortly after noon there was a knock on Theodosia’s door. It was Niki. 185

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“I was thinking about you, little sister. Haven’t seen you for a long time,” said Theodosia. “I didn’t need to ask for leave today,” said Niki with irony. “How is your work, anyway?” Theodosia wanted to know. “Everything is fine, but the question is what will happen now? They are calling everyone who has had training as a nurse. I was asked to show up at the hospital. Eleni Kalfoglou will be there too. So I left early this morning to iron my uniform and apron here.” “There is a table in the kitchen. Spread the green military blanket and iron on it. How did you come from St. Paraskevi?” “On foot!” “How long did it take you?” “More than two hours, and I walked fast! But you look good, sister, now that you are making good money,” Niki alluded to all the promotions Theodosia had received. Theodosia prepared something to eat and afterwards Niki left for the hospital. Giorgos came at 5 pm and they turned on the radio. It began with a proclamation by Prime Minister Metaxas: The time has come for Greece to fight for her independence. Greeks, now we must prove ourselves worthy of our forefathers and the freedom they bestowed upon us! Greeks, now we’ll fight for your Fatherland, for our wives, for our children and our sacred traditions. Now, above all, fight!

And then followed a mixture of news, military marches, and inflated patriotic talk: … Italy is waging war on Greece across the full length of the Greek-Albanian border. Italians are advancing and capturing mountain after mountain and village after village. But Greece never dies. Greek youth is fighting back, intercepting a much larger army. Greek soldiers have woken up as demigods to face this great danger. With Greek courage and national unity, one army, one people, they charge ahead confronting the terrible conqueror. The Greek fighters straddle our mountains, chasing and capturing Italians. They’ll make them prisoners; they’ll load them on their trucks, and will drive down Victory Lane into our cities. Greek soldiers with a smile on their lips and the fiery cry

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aera charge the enemy with their bayonets in an explosive festival of freedom that leads to redemption …

There was more talk like this on the radio. The first airplanes were heard in the skies later on but there was no bombing. Florina did not seem to interest the enemy for the time being. Nevertheless the community began preparations for such an eventuality. Over the next few days a number of public bombing shelters were designated. Among them was Modis’s big house because it had a basement protected by two concrete floors. However, the most important shelter in terms of size and security was a tunnel at the foot of the mountain near the river’s big bridge. Airplanes appeared in the sky and increased over the next few days. They were probably interested in the numerous military trucks crisscrossing the national road, some carrying Italian prisoners, others carrying Greek soldiers. The inhabitants of Florina became alarmed. Many decided to leave the town, believing that they would be safer in the nearby villages. It wasn’t long before bombs began falling in the town. It was sudden. The sirens gave only a short warning. People panicked and scattered toward the shelters. Theodosia found herself on the big bridge in her robe and slippers, not knowing how she had got there. But she didn’t make it to the mountain shelter. Soon the sirens signaled the end of the bombing and people returned home. Many of them made preparations to leave the town. Giorgos showed up at Captain Modis Street terrified. “Saki, we’d better go to St. Paraskevi and stay in Niki’s room. We can leave tomorrow morning.” Giorgos slept at Captain Modis Street that night, but the next morning the bombing started before they woke up. They hardly had time to get dressed. Giorgos panicked. He grabbed a large baking pan, put it over his head and ran out to the shelter in the mountain. Theodosia didn’t like the shelters, “There is no air in there. I feel suffocated,” she complained. She stayed home and went down to the basement, even though it did not qualify as a shelter. Windowpanes broke and some buildings were damaged without casualties. But Giorgos’s uncontrollable reaction made it clear to her that they should leave Florina. She put a suitcase together and waited for him to come home to eat and leave for St. Paraskevi.

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He came around noon, terrified and very nervous. He pulled Theodosia toward him and kissed her. He pleaded with her to leave, pulling her by the arm. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he kept shouting. “Giorgos, dear, calm down, the airplanes are gone now. Let us gather our things, have something to eat and then we’ll go.” He looked out the window and saw a taxi waiting in front of the house next door. He ran out and returned a little later saying, “Our neighbors are taking a taxi to go to their village. I asked him to come back for us as soon as he finishes with them.” The taxi came back three-quarters of an hour later. They took some of the food provisions and the suitcase, and locked the door. The roads were full of people leaving town. The trip to St. Paraskevi took a little more than half an hour. Fortunately Niki’s room had a reasonable-size bed. Giorgos lay down. “Come next to me, sweetheart, now that I am more relaxed.” They went out in the afternoon. The village was full of people from Florina, some staying with friends, others renting rooms. Everyone was interrogating newcomers to find out what was going on in Florina. “As soon as we left Florina we heard the airplanes bombing the town,” said some new arrivals. “So we kept running to get as far as possible as quickly as possible. Here things are better and it is a nice day with sunshine.” St. Paraskevi was close to the Yugoslavian border but rather far from the Albanian border where the fighting was taking place. Giorgos and Theodosia went to the kafenio for coffee and found out that the village also had a restaurant and an inn. That night they slept without fear or worries. The next day they went out for news from Florina. They asked a bunch of youngsters passing through what they knew. “All was quiet today; no airplanes,” they replied. “You know, Giorgos,” started Theodosia, “if tomorrow is also quiet, we should go back and see how your mother is doing.” “I am sure she has gone to Proti. She has relatives there,” he seemed not worried. “But we should be closer to Florina anyway,” continued Theodosia. “We could find somewhere to stay outside the town maybe around Kontonis’s house. We will have him and Afrodite [his wife] for company. What do you think?”

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“It is not a bad idea because we are indeed very far here. If all goes well, tomorrow evening we can go back.” The next day at dusk they started on foot. They walked briskly and got to Florina after a good two hours of walking. The town seemed deserted; no lights. They went straight home and turned on the radio. The news was good. “The Greek Army advances victorious. Many Italian soldiers are surrendering. Their best armies are retreating.” Giorgos and Theodosia felt encouraged. They realized they were hungry. Good thing there were some eggs. But Giorgos could hardly eat. He did not feel secure in the town. “Tomorrow we go to Afrodite’s and look for a place to stay. What do you say?” suggested Theodosia. “Yes, we must go so that I can find some peace,” he admitted. At dusk the next day they walked the gentle uphill slope to St. Nikolaos Church at the west outskirts of Florina. There in a small side road they came to the last house; it had a garden. Afrodite spotted them from far away, recognized them and waved her hand. They told her the reason for their visit. “I understand,” she said, “but our extra room is taken by Father Makris, who also got very scared in town. Come in anyway—the men will come soon. They just went for a walk.” “Giorgos can stay,” said Theodosia, “I’ll go asking around for accommodation in the neighborhood.” “There is this woman named Christina, further up. She may know something,” advised Afrodite. Theodosia found Christina’s house. She was a young mother of two. Her paraplegic sister was sitting in front of the fireplace. Christina was eager to help. She directed Theodosia still higher up to an isolated house lost in the woods. The landlady, Mrs. Eleni, could rent them one room. “We’ll come tomorrow morning with my husband,” said Theodosia. On the way back she chatted with Christina who agreed to prepare the place and equip it with a few elementary utensils. In Kontonis’s house the men were having a lively discussion over coffee. “You seem well here,” Theodosia said to Giorgos. “I’ll go back to town and you come whenever you want.” In any case all was quiet. This was not the time they bombed anyway. The airplanes came in the morning and generally from the other end of the town.

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At home Theodosia found Niki who was very glad to see her. “I was afraid that I would go away without seeing you,” admitted Niki. “We are having many casualties at the hospital and we’ll be transporting the most serious cases to Ioannina. I was the lucky one to accompany them. Tomorrow morning we are leaving. Therefore, when you leave the room in St. Paraskevi for good, take my clothes with you because I won’t be going back there.” “We will not stay there anymore because we are renting a room here near Kontonis’s house. But I will go one day and take care of your things. So now you are going away for good?” lamented Theodosia. “It seems that way.” “Good luck and God be with you. Watch out during the bombings and write to me. Do you need money?” “I have enough, thanks.” They heard Giorgos’s voice shouting on the stairs, “Where are you, Saki, my love? I haven’t seen you all day?” “How was it, Giorgos?” “In that nice company I forgot everything and calmed down. We’ll go back tomorrow, and tomorrow night we’ll sleep in the room we rented; just one last night here.” “There is nothing to worry about,” Theodosia reassured him, “everything is very quiet now.” Niki kissed them both goodbye and left to return to the hospital. From the next day, life took a strange turn. Those who had vegetable gardens began selling vegetables in their yards. Christina brought fresh vegetables to Theodosia several times a week. They all took nice nature walks. Everything was very quiet, so quiet it became worrisome. On Sunday the Kontonises invited the Modises to dinner. On the agenda was the news. The Germans were coming. There was no doubt they would come—the only question was when. It was on the radio that the Germans had gotten to Serbia, finding no resistance. That was something new to worry about. But the bombing by the Italians was not completely over yet. One morning while Giorgos and Theodosia were having coffee the sirens rang and soon afterward the buzzing sound of propeller airplanes was heard. Jumping up, Giorgos grabbed the large baking pan over his head and ran out toward the shelters shouting, “I’ll be waiting for you in the shelter, you hear, Saki?” But she wasn’t about to follow him. Soon the bombs began falling randomly but continuously for quite some time. Theodosia wanted to

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go look for Giorgos in the direction of the big bridge, but she waited for the bombing to stop. When the airplanes finally went away she left the house to look for Giorgos. She saw him on the road coming back from the shelter with the baking pan in his hand. “What did you do, Saki, where did you go?” “I didn’t go anywhere,” she replied calmly. “No bombs fell here. All the fuss was on the other side of the town.” “This is no life,” he continued. “People were really scared, the children were crying. How long can we carry on like this?” “Calm down, my love, it’s all finished now. Wash up, change your shirt, and let’s go to Afrodite’s.” At Kontonis’s house there was agitation. “How did you make out, Afrodite?” asked Theodosia. “Not well,” she replied. “Giannis got so scared that he felt pain in his heart. I had to treat him with cold compresses.” “And Father Makris?” “He is suffering too but says nothing. He is in the other room.” In a little while over coffee the men began exchanging bits and pieces of information. The bombardment had caused quite a bit of damage to houses but no casualties. Only two people died in the shelters—from heart attacks. One of them was the father of the Elenes. Many bombs had fallen on the fields outside Florina. “Those Italian pilots don’t seem very sharp shooters,” snapped Kontonis. But another explanation that circulated later was that the Italians were not a warlike people by nature and their pilots preferred to discharge much of their ammunition on uninhabited land rather than inside the town. The bad news was that, despite the Greek gains over the Italians in the mountains, the Germans were taking over the offensive. They were coming through Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. Florina was in their way. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Italy invaded Albania in the spring of 1939 and attacked the British Empire in Africa, but could not claim victories like those of Nazi Germany. Benito Mussolini wanted to reassert Italian interests in the Balkans, feeling threatened by German encroachments (the Kingdom of Romania in the supposed Italian sphere of influence, had accepted German protection for the Ploiești oil fields in mid-October). Expecting a quick victory against Greece’s inferior army Mussolini surprised not only his ally Hitler but also his own generals by his decision

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to attack Greece. Hitler got angry at Mussolini’s move. He was mindful of Greek resistance and didn’t think that conquering Greece would be an easy stroll to Athens. He also did not want to delay his big offensive in Russia. But on October 28, 1940, after Greek Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas rejected an Italian ultimatum demanding the occupation of Greek territory, Italian forces invaded Greece from Albania. The Greek Army counter-attacked and forced the Italians to retreat. By midDecember, the Greeks pushing back occupied nearly a quarter of Albania, tying down 530,000 Italian troops. In March 1941, Operation Spring (Operazione Primavera), an Italian counter-offensive, failed and Nazi Germany had no option but to come to Italy’s support and invade Greece on April 6. Greece was at war with Italy when the Germans attacked. The bulk of the Greek Army was on the Albanian border, from which the Italians had tried to enter Greece. German troops invaded through Bulgaria (an ally) and Yugoslavia, creating a second front. Greece had already received small, though inadequate, reinforcement from British Commonwealth forces in anticipation of the German attack but no more help was sent after the invasion began. The Greek Army found itself outnumbered in its effort to defend itself against both Italian and German troops. As a result, the Bulgarian defense line did not receive adequate troop reinforcements and was overrun by the Germans, who then outflanked the Greek forces at the Albanian borders, forcing their surrender. The British forces were overwhelmed and retreated to southern Greece for evacuation. The First German SS-Panzer Division was given the task of clearing resistance from the Kleisoura Pass driving through to Kastoria in order to cut off retreating Greek and British forces. Resistance from the Greek 20th Division was fierce. According to some accounts, the SS were convinced about the need to capture the Kleisoura Pass only after Officer Kurt Meyer threw a live grenade at the feet of some of his soldiers. On April 12, the Greek Army retreated from Albania to avoid being cut off by the rapid German advance and on April 20, the Greek Epirus Army Section surrendered to the Germans. On April 23, the armistice with Germany was repeated with the Italians, ending the Greco-Italian war. By the end of April, Italian, German, and Bulgarian forces had completed the Axis occupation of Greece, with Italy occupying nearly two-thirds of the country. The Greek victory over the initial Italian offensive of October 1940 was the first Allied land victory in World War II and helped raise morale in occupied Europe. The Greek victory has become legendary in

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some parts of Europe. There is a saying today among Italian-speaking Swiss soldiers, who antagonize their Italian counterparts, “we’ll send you to fight the Greeks!” At the end of World War II, the German officers on trial at Nuremberg commented that if the invasion of Russia had taken place on schedule, i.e. early in the spring of 1941, instead of at the end of June, they would have succeeded in conquering the Soviet Union before the winter of 1941, which proved to be the only thing capable of stopping the German advance. Field Marshall Keitel, who was Chief of Staff of the German Army, was very bitter when he said, “The unbelievably strong resistance of the Greeks delayed by two or more vital months the German attack against Russia. If we had not had this long delay, the outcome of the war would have been different on the eastern front and in the war in general; others would be accused and occupy this seat as defendants today.” However, many historians dispute his conclusion.

One spring morning while Giorgos and Theodosia were at Afrodite’s house, Christina came running. “Is Mrs. Modis here?” “Yes, I’m here, Christina, what is the matter?” answered Theodosia. “They are getting two busses ready and people are reserving places. Tomorrow morning they will be leaving for Kastoria because the Germans are coming.” Kastoria is a picturesque town on a lake seventy kilometers southwest of Florina, close to the Albanian border. It gets its name from the Greek word kastoras meaning beaver. Trade in animal fur has traditionally been an important element of the city’s economy. “Thank you, Christina, we’ll think about it and will let you know. What do you think, Afrodite?” “I don’t know. I am sure Giannis would like to go, but I have my little son Kostakis to think of.” “We don’t know what to do either. What do you say, Giorgos?” “I think we should go, but I need to tell my mother that I’ll be away so that she does not worry.” During that night all was quiet. They slept well without anxiety about bombings. The airplanes had not been heard for several days. In the morning Giorgos left the house at daybreak and returned a short time later. “People are scared and are massively leaving town for Kastoria,” he said. “I met Koufokotsos, the director of the Farm School, who invited

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us to go to Kastoria with him on the school’s horse-drawn carriage. What shall I tell him?” Theodosia didn’t see the point. She found that even their move to Mrs. Eleni’s room was no longer justified, if it had ever been. But she was sensitive to Giorgos becoming easily panic stricken. “We can go, if you want,” she said, “but the Germans will come to Kastoria too. They will take all of Greece, you know that.” She saw that this did not make him happy so she added, “As you want, my love, the suitcase is ready. Tell him we’ll wait for him at St. Nikolaos Church when he passes by.” Kontonis decided to join them. The four of them got on the small one-horse carriage at 10:30 am. The way was long but the weather was sunny and pleasant. Three hours later they met with British troops. They were on their way back home; they had paused on the side of the road for a rest. Some were shaving, others were singing. The carriage stopped and Giorgos walked over to them. “Where are the Germans?” he asked. “They are coming. They just crossed the border; tomorrow or the day after they will be here,” they replied and offered him coffee. That was no surprise but no reassurance either. Giorgos went back to the carriage and the trip continued. Theodosia leaned on Giorgos shoulder, covered herself with her trench coat and fell asleep. She slept for a good while. Giorgos worried. “What is the matter, Saki, are you all right, my love?” “I’m fine. I’ve never slept so well.” “I’m worried that you may be getting sick.” “No I am perfectly well; just sleepy, is all.” She turned to the other side and slept some more. “Be patient,” advised Koufokotsos, “we’ll get there eventually. Do you want to stop in some village to eat something?” “I’d rather eat at the hotel when we get there,” replied Giorgos. And some time later, “Wake up, Saki, I can see Kastoria. We’ll be soon arriving.” Kastoria too was empty of people. “Go straight up to Lefteris,” instructed Giorgos, who apparently had been to Kastoria before and knew the places. Ifigenia, the lady at the hotel, welcomed them. “What has happened to all the people in Kastoria? We didn’t see anyone on the streets.”

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“They heard that the Germans were coming and they all left for the villages.” “Can we have something to eat?” “How would you like some fish soup?” “That’ll be great!” Being hungry and tired they found the dinner delicious and the sleep afterward relieving. In the morning they went down to the hotel’s garden, which was full of fruit trees. Theodosia tried some wild plums that seemed ripe; they tasted good. She picked a bunch of them, washed them at the fountain and ate them ravenously. Ifigenia watched her from a distance and said, “How can you eat those? Aren’t they sour?” “No, they taste good,” replied Theodosia and kept eating them. “It makes sense that you also sleep a lot. You must be pregnant,” concluded Ifigenia. “I don’t think so. Why are you saying that?” Theodosia had good reason to doubt Ifigenia’s conclusion. She had not gotten pregnant for more than ten years and not because of contraception. In fact, among the many derogatory remarks Paraskevi had made about her was that she was also barren. But Ifigenia continued, “I can see it in your eyes, your sleepiness, and your liking these sour fruit. Be careful, take your heels off because our streets here are cobblestone and you might fall. I’ll give you a better pair of shoes. Here try these on,” and offered Theodosia a pair of flat shoes. “I don’t want them,” objected Theodosia. “We are the same size,” insisted Ifigenia. Theodosia tried them on. They fitted so well and felt so good that she did not take them off. She went out and saw many people from Florina. Mr. Andreas Daskalakis with his wife were there. They were considering leaving the following morning for Athens in one of the military trucks provided for that purpose. “Are you going to Athens, Mr. Andreas?” Theodosia asked him. “I am not sure. My wife wants me to stay here with her,” he replied as if he were thinking to himself. “Giorgos too wants to go, but I don’t know what he’ll finally do.” At 6 pm everyone gathered around the hotel’s radio to hear the news in Greek from the BBC:

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD Following fierce fighting for many days, the Greek Army has capitulated and the Germans are now advancing throughout the Greek territory …

Somewhat later and in connection to the Greeks having defeated the Italians and having caused heavy losses to the Germans, the BBC rebroadcasted an excerpt from an earlier speech by Churchill: …. Hence we will not say that Greeks fight like heroes but we will say that heroes fight like Greeks.

Very early the next morning people began crowding around the trucks in order to get on one of them. Giorgos too woke up early and went downstairs, “I’ll go see what’s happening,” he told Theodosia. Theodosia waited for a long time and when she didn’t see him coming back she went herself to where the trucks were. The trucks were full of people and had their engines running. Giorgos was sitting inside one of them next to Koufokotsos. When he saw her he got up but he did not come out, fearing to lose his place. “Come with us, Saki, to Athens, to escape the Germans.” “Giorgos, I can’t. I don’t feel I have the necessary energy. You go,” she said and began crying. “Here, take the money,” he said shoving a bunch of bills in her hand as the truck began moving. The trucks left. Theodosia was inconsolable. She felt hopeless. She kept crying while walking aimlessly in the town. She saw a church and went in. She felt safe in there as if bombs do not fall on churches. She prayed while crying. “Oh God! Please do something. What will become of me? Will I ever see my Giorgos again? What am I going to do all alone? If I only had a child, I’d have a reason to live,” and Ifigenia’s remark came to her mind. She went back to her room at the hotel and fell asleep. When she woke up she went downstairs to eat something. From her table she could see the street up ahead. Suddenly, she distinguished the silhouette of Giorgos at a distance walking toward the hotel. She got up, ran outside toward him and fell in his arms. “My love, what came over me?” he lamented. “Where was I going with no money, no papers, no belongings, nothing. You took everything!” “I took everything?” she asked in disbelief. “You gave them to me for safekeeping.”

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Theodosia kept all documents and other valuables, including Giorgos’s degree, in her large purse. In his hurry to go Giorgos hadn’t thought of sorting out his documents. “God enlightened you,” she whispered, thanking God in her mind, and then continued, “Daskalakis—who decided against this runaway to Athens—said that these trucks will probably never make it. He overheard that the Germans are targeting vehicles on the roads, particularly military trucks.” Her remark eliminated any remaining ideas still in his mind about running away. They remained in a tight embrace for a while. Then they slowly walked to the hotel holding each other. Mr. Daskalakis was there. “Come and have a drink with me,” he invited them. “Did you hear what the Greek soldiers were suggesting? They say that we should leave the cars here and go back to Florina on foot. Whenever we hear airplanes we should hide. They say this is the best way to survive the trip.” There was fish again for dinner; this time in the oven. Some fish soup was reserved specially for Theodosia. After dinner Theodosia went out in the garden for some more of the sour fruit she liked so much. Ifigenia came to Giorgos and said, “Put silver in my hand and I’ll tell you good news.” She then told him that his wife was pregnant. Giorgos ran toward Theodosia smiling, “My love, is it true?” He took her in his arms and kissed her. “I don’t know. Is it?” she replied enigmatically. “And I was about to abandon you in order to save my skin!” “Don’t take anything for granted. This is only the opinion of a simple woman. We must wait and we’ll find out.” Late in the evening word came that German bombers had indeed hit the two trucks to Athens and that there were many casualties. Theodosia made the sign of the cross. “Thank you, God, for saving my Giorgos,” was all she could say. Very early the next morning there was shouting on the streets, “The Germans are coming!” The Germans had to pass on the road along the side of the lake. Some Greek soldiers had camouflaged an artillery gun on the opposite side of the lake intending to slow down the Germans so that the Greek Army could withdraw unhindered. With the first Greek shot the Germans reposted. A real battle broke out. The exchange of fire lasted for more than an hour. Eventually the

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Greek soldiers gave up and ran to hide in the woods. The Germans continued pounding the Greek position for some time. The hotel guests could observe all this from their balconies with binoculars. When the shooting stopped they saw a German officer approaching the town. He knocked on the hotel door and asked if someone spoke German or French. Giorgos volunteered. The German’s urgent concern was to find a hospital and doctors. Giorgos gave him directions to the hospital. The German rushed back. The intensity in the atmosphere was defused. Giorgos was much calmer. He went out a little later and came back with a big gryvadi, a large fish that lives in Lake Kastoria. He directed himself to the hotel owner. “Mrs. Ifigenia,” he said, “this is for you for the good news you had for me. Are you really sure?” “One hundred per cent! I can’t be wrong. Go out to the garden and see what you wife is up to again.” “Sweetheart, how can you eat these fruit so unripe and sour?” “I love them,” she replied and continued eating them. “Mrs. Ifigenia, please make the fish boiled with carrots and potatoes,” he ordered. Theodosia was relieved to see Giorgos being himself again. They had good company in the hotel. They could stay in the hotel as long as necessary. Anyway, they couldn’t go back to Florina before the Germans had repaired the bridges destroyed by the withdrawing Greek Army. The weather was most agreeable. The spring sun was bright but not hot. The sky and the grass had glowing colors. This was the time of the year when nature was at its best and the vegetation released a wide range of fragrances. Giorgos and Theodosia took walks along the lakeside and sat at cafés. But there weren’t many people. This town, just like Florina, had to a large extent been abandoned. Walking up a hill they heard cries and loud weeping. People were bringing back their wounded and dead. They went closer and found out that almost a whole family had been lost leaving a single child behind. What a catastrophe! “Let’s go away from here, please,” said Theodosia, “I don’t feel well.” That night in the hotel restaurant everyone had something to report from what they had seen or heard during the day but not Theodosia. She remained silent. Someone praised the Greek resistance, particularly the victory over the Italians, “They say that while our soldiers froze their asses off fighting on the snow, the Italians wore silk underpants!” People around the table laughed. Some forty years later Theodosia’s

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son wanted to tease his Italian boss and asked him whether this rumor was true. Giovanni Maderni’s nonchalant answer was, “Not true for all soldiers, only for the officers.” Mr. Daskalakis had good news, “I spoke with a driver who came from Florina. It is very quiet there, he said. Many people have come back and opened their stores. The road is not too bad. The Germans are repairing and fortifying the bridges so that their heavy vehicles can cross them. They will have finished in a few days and road traffic should be soon reestablished.” “Bravo, Andreas!” Everyone around the table applauded. And yet, the consensus was that it was probably safer to go back on foot. The sour fate of the camions that had left for Athens a few days earlier was in the back of everyone’s mind. Over the next days the decision was taken that half a dozen Florina residents would begin their long walk home, staying overnight in various villages on the way as needed. On Monday morning they all got up early for a last breakfast at the dining room. Mrs. Ifigenia was being very attentive. “You need tea and biscuits,” she told Theodosia. “Mr. Giorgos, I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” “I will not fail,” obliged Giorgos. “Good luck on your return trip and God be with you!” Despite weather perfect for walking, the long walk proved exhausting. The first night they stopped in the village Vatohori where the villagers were very hospitable. They were particularly attentive to Theodosia, whom Giorgos introduced as “my pregnant wife.” And they went out of their way to be nice to her after she said that she was friends with Dimitra Kalfoglou (Eleni’s sister) who had spent time there teaching at the village school. The next day a passing truck offered them a ride and they did not refuse. They arrived in Florina a couple of hours later. Relieved to be back they separated and headed for their respective homes. Theodosia and Giorgos ran into the mayor, Tegos Sapountzis—the father of Athina—who had never left Florina. He seemed forsaken. “I was alone here. Florina became a ghost town and there was a lot of bombing,” Tegos told Giorgos. “When the Germans came, I heard that they were looking for me so I tried to hide in your house but you had locked the door!” he complained. “Fortunately, I managed to get into your basement from the window. The Germans burned my house but they never found me,” he added.

18 Aglaïa

Despite the presence of the Germans, life in Florina returned to a more normal state. Theodosia went to see the gynecologist Doctor Gymnopoulos. He confirmed that she was almost three-months pregnant and that everything was in order. The baby was expected sometime in early December. She was very happy and so was Giorgos. He kept talking and worrying about what needed to be done in preparation for the baby’s arrival. She wanted to keep it as a cherished secret for a while, but when her friend Eleni showed up she couldn’t hold back any longer. “Where did you disappeared to?” asked Eleni. “I was busy at the hospital but what happened to you?” “We went to Kastoria and, thank God, we returned safely. Have you heard from Niki and all the wounded she was responsible for?” “She is still in Ioannina, but I understand she’ll be going to Athens.” Theodosia remembered her sister’s last remark, “… I won’t be coming back.” “Eleni,” Theodosia began, “I want to tell you something but you must promise me not to spread it around. Not yet, anyway. Well, I am three-months pregnant. I went to Gymnopoulos the other day.” Eleni took Theodosia in her arms and kissed her. “Promise me that I will become the baby’s godmother.” “Of course you will.” The two women stood still for a few seconds, letting the emotions sink in. “Come on Sunday to eat with us,” invited Theodosia. 201

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“Thank you, we’ll see. I’ve got to go now because I sneaked out from the hospital to find out what had happened to you.” The baby preparations over the next few days did not only include crib, stroller, tub, etc. Theodosia would need some ongoing help at home. She went to the Albanian quarters at the outskirts of Florina to find Fotini, the school cleaning lady. In a small town like Florina, the Albanian quarters, called Tsifliki, were the equivalent of a low-income sector. The houses there were more like huts without doors. Occasionally, a hanging curtain separated one room from the other. Fotini worked as a cleaning lady at Theodosia’s school to support her family. She had two teenage daughters. The older one, Maria, was fourteen years old. Her husband—a Roma— had been long out of the picture. Theodosia explained to Fotini that she needed her oldest daughter as a live-in helper. Fotini was happy and not only for the additional income. “It’ll be good for her and will keep her off the streets,” she decided. “Tell her to come tomorrow with her clothes and a spare blanket, if you have one, to cover herself at night,” said Theodosia. At home Giorgos was worried, “Where have you been, Saki? I was looking for you everywhere?” “What is the matter, my love, what are you worried about?” “I am worried about you. You must not exert yourself. I ran into Loukas and he told me a lot of things. You shouldn’t get tired, you shouldn’t put on too much weight, and you should sleep all you want.” “All right, all right. Loukas is a pediatrician. You should rather listen to Gymnopoulos who said that everything is all right, that I am doing just fine.” Maria came the next day with her belongings. She installed herself in the other bedroom. She seemed pleased. The good room remained intact. On Sunday morning they were awaken by the soft distant sounds of flute playing. Theodosia opened the window to hear it better. “Can you hear it, Giorgos? It must be Taliadoros—the carpenter—again playing his flute from atop the mountain.” “Shall we go up there?” asked Giorgos. “No, that’s too far. We could eventually go just up to the little church of St. Panteleimon.”

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At that moment Maria came running into the bedroom, “I was cleaning the stairs and heard passersby say that the Germans are going from house to house seizing empty rooms.” “Stop cleaning, get in bed, cover yourself with the blanket and pretend you are sleeping. You, Giorgos, get in our bed. I will sit in the hall,” instructed Theodosia and threw a shawl over the radio. It wasn’t long before they heard steps outside on the stairs. Two young officers rang the bell. “Guten Morgen!” They came in and kept talking to each other. Theodosia just looked at them. They went in every room, took a look, and left. At the entrance they put a sign on the front door. She wondered what it could mean. They did not come back. A curfew was imposed between 7 pm and 6 am. Bulgarian soldiers made their appearance on the streets and in the market. Giorgos moved the radio to the other bedroom away from the street window so people on the street would not hear it. But other than that life went on more or less normally. Theodosia wanted to write to Niki with the good news but she didn’t know where Niki was. She’d had no news from her for a long time and was worried. Had Niki gotten married to Dimosthenis, she would probably be here now, she thought to herself. Dimosthenis (Dimos for short) Anagnostides was a civil engineer, also a refugee from the Anatolia region in Turkey. His sister was a teacher and knew Theodosia. That’s how he had met both Niki and Eleni, who worked together as nurses at the hospital. Dimos was an easygoing man. He liked Niki and wanted to propose to her, but Niki was quite a bit younger than he, and more importantly, she wanted to first fall in love. So Dimos settled for Eleni. The two of them got married and when later it was decided that Eleni become nouna (godmother) to Theodosia’s child, he received the title of nounos (godfather). From then on Nouna and Nounos replaced Elenes in the Modis family. Eleni and Dimos wanted very much to have children but their desire had an unhappy ending. When her womb got swollen she thought she was pregnant and went to see the gynecologist, Mihalis Hatzitasis. But after examining her, the doctor was almost angry. “You are an educated woman and a nurse at that,” he reprimanded her. “Couldn’t you figure out earlier that this is not a pregnancy but a large tumor in your belly?” And then he prescribed, “Whether it is benign or malignant, it must

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come out.” He gave her the coordinates of a clinic in Thessaloniki where such an operation could be carried out. Eleni left Florina immediately and went to Thessaloniki where she had a hysterectomy. Eventually, Theodosia received the long-awaited letter from Niki: Chrissovitsa 25.6.1941 My beloved sister, A couple of weeks ago I came to Chrissovitsa to live here with, yes, my own Giorgos! He is an officer in the Greek Army and I met him in the Florina hospital when they brought him with shot wounds. We all moved together to Ioannina. I took good care of him and he is recovering well. And we also decided to get married. I am very happy! We’ll live with his family here in Chrissovitsa, a village inland, north of the Peloponnese at 700 meters above sea level with a population of a few hundred people. I filed an application demanding to be transferred here for family reasons and I am hopeful it will be approved when schools open again. I’ll have no competition. No one else will be asking to come and teach school in this little village in the middle of nowhere! I have news of Voulis and Tilemachos. Voulis was sent to fight the Italians on the Albanian border while Tilemachos fought the Germans a little later in the Bulgarian border. Voulis did very well! They pushed back the Italians deep into Albania, but the disorderly retreat that followed the capitulation to the Germans left him lost in the high mountains. The poor guy had to walk several hundred kilometers to Athens through mountains and villages in the cold winter. It must have taken him weeks, unshaved, unwashed, and hungry. When he arrived exhausted at Ioanna’s house and knocked on the door, his wife didn’t recognize him. They had assumed that he had been killed in the war. He had to repeat many times at the door, “I am Voulis, I am Voulis.” I hope all is well with you. Wish me luck in my new family. With all my love, Niki

In the afternoon of December 7, 1941 Theodosia’s waters broke. Giorgos ran out and a little later returned with Gymnopoulos. It was before the curfew and the night promised to be long.

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“When do you expect it, doctor?” asked Giorgos. “I’d say around midnight, but we have to wait and see. It’s the first one so it is unpredictable.” They listened to the news on the radio, talked, and drank coffee. “It’s midnight and still no significant dilatation. It’ll probably be in the morning,” concluded the doctor. “How is it going?” he asked Theodosia. “Now the contractions are stronger and more frequent,” she replied. “It’s a good sign—we might be finished by three. We’ll go to the other room now for a while. Don’t force yourself, but scream all you want. Letting go helps.” In a while the screams became so loud that the doctor came back. “How do you feel?” “Ah! It hurts very much. I cannot stand it.” “Now with every contraction you push as hard as you can. We’ll finish soon—push, hard!” One last contraction and the doctor received a little girl. “Giorgos, there is a bottle of alcohol there to wash your hands and help the doctor,” Theodosia managed to instruct. “A beautiful and healthy girl! Everything is fine,” pronounced the doctor. Aglaïa was born at 7:45, on Monday, December 8, 1941. They had decided that if a girl they would call the baby after Giorgos’s late sister, which pleased Theodosia as it reminded her of her friend in Crete. The doctor cleaned the baby, wrapped her with a cover, and placed her next to her mother. Theodosia felt a great relief. She took a deep breath. “Thank you, God!” she prayed. She leaned over the baby’s little head with tremendous joy and satisfaction. Giorgos too was overwhelmed. “I have no words, Saki, to thank you for this present you gave me. I feel I am flying. I wish you well, you and our little Aglaïtsa,” he said and kissed her. Aglaïtsa is the affectionate diminutive for Aglaïa; later in her life they called her Agla for short. Eventually Theodosia began organizing maters, “Maria, you go let Eleni know and then ask Kleanthi to come and make lalaggites.” Lalaggites are a sugar-covered type of pancake distributed to friends and relatives on the occasion of a birth. Later when Kleanthi and Eleni arrived, Theodosia gave more instructions, “Grandma, you make the lalaggites and Maria will do the distribution. Eleni, I wish you had been here last night.”

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“I too regret very much not being here,” said Eleni, “let me just see her. She is quite big and so beautiful! That she lives!” With infant mortality still very high at the time, the standard wish to a newborn was, “That he/she lives!” The expression is still in use today. “Thank God everything went all right,” continued Theodosia, “Giorgos helped the doctor!” “Mistress, what plates shall I use for the lalaggites?” asked Maria. “The middle-size ones, the ones we use for fruit. Take the first three plates to Doctor Loukas, our grandmother [Giorgos’s mother], and Mrs. Ioulia [the sister of Giorgos Sr.], and after that go to all our neighbors.” Giorgos went out in the late afternoon. With a brisk determined pace he took himself to the Café of the Idiots. When he got in he shut the door behind him slamming it loudly. “Listen everybody!” he shouted and jumped on a table. “I had a beautiful little daughter last night and everyone is invited to drink whatever they want to her health.” But in his hurry to get on the table, he scraped his leg on the sharp edge of the table’s metal frame, suffering a serious cut. When people in the café saw the blood gushing out from his leg it became clear to them that he needed medical attention. Someone fetched a taxi and Giorgos was taken to the emergency ward of the hospital. They put him on a stretcher with wheels and moved him into the operating room. On the way two nurses were chatting, “Who is he?” asked one of them. “Judging from his crooked legs, I bet he is an arabatzis” replied the other. Giorgos heard the exchange but couldn’t see their faces. An arabatzis is the owner of a horse-drawn carriage used to carry low-value stuff. Later that evening while leaving the hospital Giorgos saw Eleni returning to duty. “Who was that stupid nurse that mistook me for an arabatzis?” he lashed at her. She shrugged her shoulders not knowing what he was talking about. Among the many milestones during that year was also Paraskevi’s visit to Captain Modis Street to see her granddaughter. This was the first time the two women had met. There were no warm exchanges between them. Paraskevi brought a small gold coin for Aglaïtsa. Theodosia spoke to her in the plural, addressing her as “Mother”, but remained in bed. But the ice was broken and opened the way for future contact between them.

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Addressing older people in the plural was a sign of respect. But doing so at home with your own parents was rare and encountered mainly among nobility. Theodosia had not been exposed to such practices at home during her childhood in Constantinople. But she was determined to enforce it in her new family. Later in the day, Atta, the mother of Giorgos Sr., a graceful slender and sensible old lady, came to see Aglaïtsa; to wish her well, and to give her a small gold piece. Aglaïtsa was breastfed and began growing healthily, making her parents happy. The first Sunday after Aglaïtsa was forty days old—and Theodosia could go out according to the custom—they took her to church for Father Christos’s blessing. They dressed her well and covered the stroller with a blanket. Eleni came too. They arrived in church toward the end of mass. Theodosia walked up to the sanctuary and told Father Christos that she wanted his forty-day blessing. “Bring the infant,” he instructed. She took Aglaïtsa in her arms and the priest recited some text. When he finished, she told him, “Father, I want your blessing too and I also want to thank you for your valuable intervention with Paraskevi Modis.” “Ah! You are the teacher who became Mrs. Modis?” he said when he finally caught on. Theodosia kissed his hand and received his blessing. It crossed her mind to bring up the sign hanging on the wall inside the church that so irked her because it read, “WOMEN, DO NOT TALK.” Her opinion was that it should be changed to simply, “DO NOT TALK.” But she didn’t want to poison the pleasant atmosphere and so said nothing. She went away feeling peaceful. Now her thoughts were always around Aglaïtsa, who made her full of joy and love. Her life had gotten meaning. Giorgos too was taken by the little creature. He became very attentive to her needs. He woke up first in the morning when she cried and went to look at her one last time before going to bed at night. He kept humming to her, “… my little doll, my big joy, my Aglaïtsa, my soul …” He was now generally sleeping at Captain Modis Street at night with his wife and daughter, having only lunches at his mother’s. Aglaïtsa’s daily routine included a morning stroll in the sun and an evening bath, after which she was breastfed and put to bed. But one Sunday morning they took her up on the mountain close to the St. Panteleimon little church, where they made a little swing for her with a

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rope. Giorgos insisted to attach her safely and swing her repeatedly. Theodosia worried about the cold mountain wind blowing on the baby. That night Giorgos woke up perturbed in the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep, which also disturbed Theodosia’s sleep. In the morning Aglaïtsa refused to eat. She was feverish. “She seems to have high fever, Giorgos. You should get dressed and go fetch Doctor Loukas.” “Saki, I knew it! It is the nightmare I had last night,” said Giorgos and proceeded to tell her about a bad dream he had during the night. “Don’t let a dream upset you. Babies are like that. They get sick even by a simple change in the weather and their fever can easily go very high. Go get Loukas now and also buy a baby thermometer.” Loukas showed up in less than a quarter of an hour. “Good morning, doctor, thank you for coming so fast.” “Your husband got me concerned. What was he so upset about?” “Did he tell you about his dream?” “No, he didn’t.” “He had a nightmare last night. He was wearing, he said, three black hats and couldn’t take them off.” “That could mean three crises with the baby’s health,” said Loukas jokingly. “Let me examine her.” And a little later, “As I was afraid, it is pneumonia.” “Alas, doctor, what are we going to do?” Theodosia was now really worried. “Nothing. It will go away by itself, just as it came. Give her a quarter of a sulfamide and a little bit of aspirin every morning for two weeks or more. But also reassure Giorgos because he wasn’t at all well when I saw him this morning. I’ll be stopping by here every day.” Giorgos returned later. “What took you so long? The doctor gave instructions for a treatment.” “I couldn’t find a baby thermometer. I went to every pharmacy in town.” Loukas came the next morning as promised. “How are we this morning?” “So-so. We couldn’t sleep. She was quiet during the night, just moaning a little every now and then. She doesn’t eat anything.” “That’s all right. Give her the sulfamide and the aspirin.”

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“What do I do with Giorgos? He doesn’t eat; he doesn’t sleep. He’ll get ill too. Why don’t you take him for a walk and talk to him a little bit? What should I do if her fever rises later?” “I’ll come back in the evening.” In the evening Aglaïtsa’s temperature rose to 44. “Doctor, what shall we do?” Theodosia was frantic. “Let’s give her a bath,” was the doctor’s advice. In the bath Aglaïtsa opened her eyes and looked at everyone. Giorgos was encouraging her, “Come on, sweet little girl, get better now.” After the bath she was dried and put to bed. She seemed serene. Half an hour later Loukas took her temperature. It was way down. Thank God! “Giorgos, you can take one black hat off, the crisis has passed,” Loukas joked. “There may be others but they will be less severe. Try to get some sleep tonight. I’ll come tomorrow morning.” Aglaïtsa underwent two more such crises within a week but then her fever subsided for good. She began eating again. Everyone concluded that the three-black-hat omen had run its course. When she had completely recovered they made plans for her baptism. Eleni no longer went to the hospital every day. Wounded soldiers did not arrive in great numbers as they used to. Now she was on guard only twice a week and had time to prepare for the baptism. As godmother she had to prepare bombonieres (sugared almonds wrapped by tulle and tied with a ribbon) for the guests and a present for Aglaïtsa. The traditional present consisted of a gold cross and chain that is worn around the neck, but under the circumstances (German occupation and war hardships) Eleni’s present ended up being a necklace made of many tiny white pierced seashells. Years later Theodosia would show the necklace to a befuddled Aglaïtsa and remind her, “This is your baptism present!” Other presents for Aglaïtsa’s baptism arrived from as far away as the village of Skopos. The Village president Voltskos sent a lamb, a white blanket woven on the loom, and lots of good quality feta cheese. In days of food scarcity such presents acquired exceptional value. “God bless him,” said Theodosia, “Giorgos, please take the lamb to the butcher to have it prepared for Saturday and give your mother some of the cheese and invite her to the baptism on Sunday and to the dinner afterward.”

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Besides Maria, who lived with them now, Theodosia also enjoyed the help of Kleanthi. Grandma Kleanthi came to help with the cooking, particularly on such occasions as Aglaïtsa’s baptism when there were guests invited for dinner. That was the first time the two grandmothers met, a rather cold encounter with minimal contact. Paraskevi couldn’t possibly become friends with Kleanthi who was also a refugee. Florina being a small town, the elite in the town knew each other well. Loukas, like the gynecologist Gymnopoulos, were more than just doctors to the Modises. They were friends and they were mutually invited with their wives to family celebrations. Giorgos was particularly close to Loukas. Giorgos and Loukas visited the monasteries in Mt. Athos together even though neither of them was particularly religious. Giorgos had brought back a beautiful icon of St. George and the dragon. Contrary to traditional Greek Orthodox icons, this one was not painted in color depicting drawn Byzantine faces. It was a detailed fine wood-cutting work and became cherished in Giorgos’s family. Besides being a doctor, Loukas owned a field of walnut trees in a small village called Karies up in the mountains about forty kilometers west of Florina. In fact he spent more time up there and made more money from lumbering walnut trees than being a pediatrician in Florina. When Aglaïtsa was born he had a tree cut down and sent to the Modises as a present. Walnut gives a rich dark brown wood for furniture. With this tree Giorgos had a built-in showcase-dresser combination constructed for the good room in his house. In one of its drawers Paraskevi stashed away items of real and sentimental value. Among them were the ownership titles to her land in Monastiri, a little box filled with Yugoslavian-currency bills whose value had evaporated through inflation, and an American buffalo nickel that she used to hide inside the New-Year pies that she made (it was only on very special occasions that she used a real golden piece). Inside that drawer she also kept two custom-made little purses for small change and one or two folded paper bills. The little purses were equipped with secret puzzlelike locking mechanisms and were decorated with designs made by tiny colored beads, manually sewn on fabric serving as crystals in a mosaic. One purse carried the initials Π. and Θ. for Paraskevi and Theodoros respectively, and commemorated the fall of Constantinople (1453) and the Greek revolution against the Turks (1821). The other purse carried the initials Γ. Μ. for Giorgos Modis (Theodoros’s father) and commemorated St. George and the 1908 restoration of the constitution by the Young Turk Revolution that brought back multi-party politics and

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the end of the Sultan, an event widely applauded by the Greek community of Monastiri. On Aglaïtsa’s baptism, as well as on her first birthday on December 8, there was a feast at Captain Modis Street. Giorgos splurged on champagne and delicacies to honor his princess. Among the dinner guests were Eleni and Dimos, Loukas and his wife Angela, Kontonis and his wife Afrodite, the Gymnopouloses, Theodosia’s friend Ioulia, and Paraskevi. Invariably, at some point Giorgos would pick up Aglaïtsa and dance with her to the tunes of the gramophone, calling her “My Dollar Princess.” He was inspired by the well-known musical by Leo Fall The Dollar Princess, which had been a big hit in London and New York in the late 1910s. For her part, Aglaïtsa tried walking and saying “Ba-ba”, to her father’s delight. In the last week of December children knocked on their door asking for ksila gia kalanda or wood for the big fire. In the local tradition the kids of every neighborhood spent days gathering wood to make a fire on the evening of December 23. Some kids went to the mountain to find wood, but most went from door to door asking the residents of the neighborhood. Those who did not give them wood had to give them money. That night there were fires in several neighborhoods. There was one on the little square at the end of Captain Modis Street. It was visible from the windows of Theodosia’s house. Aglaïtsa watched it too. Early on before the flames were very tall, and later when they were smaller again, the older kids jumped over the fire. Aglaïtsa had been breastfed for more than a year when she began having diarrhea and colic pains. Theodosia became worried and talked to Giorgos about it when he came home in the early afternoon. “I am glad you are here, my love, I’ve been waiting for you,” she began when he came, “but first tell me, have you eaten lunch?” “Yes, I had bean soup at my mother’s. What is the matter?” “We too had bean soup!” (Bean soup has been whimsically labeled the national dish of Greece.) “There must be something wrong with Aglaïtsa,” continued Theodosia. “She had diarrhea again. I think you should go get the doctor.” Giorgos went out and a little later returned with Doctor Loukas. “Good afternoon, how are we doing?” asked the doctor. “You will tell us, doctor. She has diarrhea.” “It could be a cold or something that she ate. You should feed her only your own milk for a while,” he suggested.

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At that moment Aglaïtsa began crying again. They proceeded to change her—the same thing, diarrhea with a particularly bad smell and green color. “What has she eaten today?” asked the doctor. “Nothing but my milk,” replied Theodosia. The doctor looked at the baby thoughtfully for a minute, then he took Giorgos aside, “You should go get Gymnopoulos,” he told him, “I think his specialty may be required.” Giorgos left for the gynecologist’s house. Loukas went to the good room and Theodosia looked after Aglaïtsa but also washed herself. When Gymnopoulos came he went directly to the bedroom and told Theodosia, “I need to examine you to better understand what’s happening to Aglaïtsa.” A little later he exclaimed, “Eureka! Listen, Giorgos, doctor—this lady is three-months pregnant,” and turning toward Theodosia, “You shouldn’t breastfeed any longer. Your milk is not good. You must find a cow that has recently given birth and give the baby fresh cow milk every day.” Theodosia was again taken by surprise. She was under the impression that women who breastfeed do not conceive. But she was happy nonetheless and so was Giorgos. The next morning he bought the baby bottle that the doctor had recommended. He also went by Grandma Kleanthi to find milk, because Papou Kitsos’s family had cows among their animals. From then on Grandma Kleanthi had a new job—to bring fresh milk to Aglaïtsa every day. There was indeed a relationship between breastfeeding and pregnancy, but it wasn’t that you could not become pregnant while breastfeeding as Theodosia had thought (not if breastfeeding extends beyond six months); it was rather that you should not breastfeed while you are pregnant. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Greece suffered greatly during the occupation. The country’s economy had already been devastated from a six-month war against the Italians and the Germans. Economic deterioration was aggravated by a relentless exploitation by the Nazis. Raw materials and food were requisitioned, and the collaborationist government was forced to pay the cost of the occupation (1.5 billion drachmas per month), both of which contributed to rampant inflation. Because the outflows of raw materials and products from Greece to Germany weren’t offset by German payments,

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substantial imbalances accrued in the Greek National Bank. In December 1942, the Greek government was forced to agree to treat this imbalance as a loan to Germany without interest, which was to be repaid after the end of the war. By war’s end, this forced loan amounted to 476 million Reichsmarks. It was never repaid by Germany and the issue kept coming up from time to time. The requisitions of the occupying powers (Germany, Italy, and Bulgaria), the drop in agricultural production from wartime disruption, the breakdown of the country’s distribution networks, and the collapse of the central government, coupled with hoarding by farmers, led to a severe shortage of food in big cities during the winter of 1941–42. Given that even in peacetime Greece was dependent on imports of wheat to cover about one-third of its needs, the blockade imposed by the Allies on German-dominated Europe further exacerbated the situation. The result was the Megalos Limos (Great Famine). Some 40,000 people died of starvation in the greater Athens metropolitan area alone. By the end of the occupation, famine and malnutrition had claimed more than 300,000 lives in Greece. This was one of the great humanitarian tragedies of World War II.

Voulis’s family in Athens was hard hit by the Great Famine. They had no work, no money, no food, and a young baby named Lakis (short for Apostolos, the grandfather’s name). People in the villages suffered less thanks to the local produce. Niki pregnant in Chrissovitsa did not feel much of the squeeze in foodstuff. She was, after all, the village’s beloved schoolteacher. Similarly in Florina, anticipating hard times ahead, Paraskevi had provisioned her house with food supplies. The little room downstairs was full of big sacks of wheat, flower, potatoes, rice, etc. Voulis wrote to Theodosia asking for help, “Beloved sister, please, send us anything that can be eaten, even flour from stones will do!” Theodosia was accustomed to Voulis asking for help. But she realized that this time it was a question of survival. She asked Kyrkos the taxi owner if he knew anyone who could be trusted to carry a package to Athens for her. “There is this young man, a trustworthy lad, who often drives a truck to Athens,” he replied and gave her his name. She prepared a package with five kilos of flour in a sewn sack and had it sent to Voulis. She repeated this operation several times, sending toasted bread, cheese, etc. On one occasion the young driver was urgently called elsewhere and relayed the package to a colleague doing the same route. That package never arrived.

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The most eventful incident was when Theodosia wanted to send Voulis a large piece of ham. She asked Lazaros her butcher how to prepare it and followed his advice. The five-kilo piece of meat was fried all around but only superficially. Then she wrapped it with greaseproof paper and inserted it in the middle of a big sack of flour. It was covered with flour all around so that it couldn’t be seen. It resembled another package of flour. But Theodosia’s insistence to the driver to be careful and not lose it made him suspicious. He must have understood that something more valuable was inside. Perhaps he found out what it was. He was an honest man, but only up to a point. When he took it to Voulis he asked for some money, even though Theodosia had paid him as usual. Voulis objected, “We have no work, we have no money.” “You’ve got to give me something valuable,” he said. “Do you realize how much I can ask for it on the black market?” Voulis gave him his camera, which satisfied him. But then another problem came up. Voulis had close neighbors on each side of their house. How could they cook meat without the neighbors smelling it? Such a smell could raise a riot in the neighborhood! They carefully sealed the front door and all the windows, cut small slices of the meat, and cooked a few slices at a time. They kept eating from that piece of ham for weeks. But in late 1942 another letter calling for help arrived from Voulis. Its central point was, “Lakis has been ill and he is not recovering well with what we eat, or should I say, with what we do not eat here. Can Ioanna bring him to Florina where he can be fed better?” Ioanna and Lakis came to Florina and were installed in the good room. He was one-and-a-half years old and extremely skinny. He could hardly stand up. They stayed with Theodosia through the winter 1942– 1943 and were adequately nourished. She made sure Lakis had an egg every day. When they left he was in rather good shape and walked well. In the meantime a letter from Niki announced the birth of her daughter, Angela. She sounded happy, “I am so lucky we live in this little village and not in Athens,” wrote Niki, obviously aware of the difficulties Voulis and his family were going through in the capital.

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HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

November 8, 1942 was the thirtieth anniversary of Florina’s liberation from a four-century-long occupation by the Ottoman Turks. Like the rest of Greece, Florina was now under German occupation. Bulgarian propaganda was rampant at this time. The Bulgarians, being allies of the Germans, wanted to claim the prefecture of Florina as they had successfully done with that of Monastiri, arguing that the people of Florina were predominately Bulgarian. The perspicacious prefect of Florina, Konstantin Bonis, who spoke German, decided to organize an anniversary celebration and informed the German-garrison commander accordingly. He showed him the celebrations program for his approval— which the commander gave—and invited him to attend the wreathplacement ceremony at the monument of the unknown soldier—which he accepted. On the day of November 8, the celebrations began with a Te Deum in Florina’s main church, which was packed with people, following which the veteran Macedonian fighter, Giorgos Ch. Modis, gave the panegyric oration. Afterward, there followed the parade of the boys’ and girls’ highschool students and elementary-school children, all carrying Greek flags in front of the German commander and his garrison, but also in front of the stunned eyes of their Bulgarian “link”—the infamous Andon Kalchev. (The so-called links were engaged in non-existent “military operations.” In reality, they worked incessantly for Bulgarian propaganda.) It was a loud declaration to the Germans, but also to Kalchev, of the Greekness of the people of Florina. The manifestations continued with a gathering—demanded by the German commander—of delegations of farmers at the cinema building

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where the commander donated a symbolic sum of money toward the needs of Florina’s National Orphanage. The prefect and the mayor addressed the farmers. In the afternoon, dance groups performed Greek national dances at the stadium, giving another strong signal of national spirit. In the evening the choir Aristotelis gave a concert at the cinema building packed with people but also attended by the German commander. The beautiful, impressive, but also nationalistic, celebrations demonstrated unequivocally the love of the people of Florina for Greece, something that left the German commander perplexed and Andon Kalchev alarmed. The hatred for Greeks intensified among the Bulgarian-propaganda activists and during the following days they convinced the Germans to arrest six Florina citizens on the unfounded grounds that they were spreading false news. Among them were Timoleon Liakos, the headmaster of the boys’ high school, the doctor Mihalis Hatzitasis, and lawyer Menelaos Pavlidis—Giorgos’s friend. But thanks to Prefect Bonis’s skilled intervention, they were all released before long. At the German-garrison headquarters Bulgarian officers like Kalchev had convinced the locals that Bulgaria would soon take over German-occupied Greek Macedonia and many sympathizers rushed to come forward so that they were not punished—or better still, so that they would be rewarded later. The “links” with their supporters manipulated the Germans who excelled in punishing Greeks accused of resistance. A number of villages around Florina were burned down and their populations decimated. For example in Kleisoura the Germans killed 217 inhabitants, among whom there were 150 women and children, in reprisals for two Germans killed by Greek communists.

Among those executed in Kleisoura—the village where Theodosia had spent five idyllic years—were Argyropoulos and his wife Maria, the Modises’ friends. The Argyropouloses spoke German and they had tried to shame the Germans into stopping the massacre. The German response was to burn down the sanatorium and kill its director and his wife. One day toward the end of January 1943 Eleni came to see Theodosia early in the morning and visibly alarmed. “How come so early, Eleni? What’s the matter? Are the Germans arresting people?” Theodosia preempted her. “Have you heard?”

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“Yes, they arrested Modis [Giorgos Sr.] last night,” lamented Theodosia, “I am bracing myself because they may be coming for our Giorgos too. It will be a disaster. Yesterday he was so happy. Aglaïtsa called him ‘Baba’ clearly for the first time and he became ecstatic with joy.” There was nothing the two ladies could do but worry. The rest of the day was all doom and gloom. Giorgos came home early in the evening. He was upset. They had also arrested the doctor Mihalis Hatzitasis again. “It is my turn now,” he told Theodosia. She tried to be reassuring, “They were politicians,” she said (Hatzitasis had also served as member of parliament). “They may spare you. And then, remember how Bonis managed to swiftly liberate all those arrested a few months ago?” A dark cloud sat upon them for the rest of the evening. They went to bed but couldn’t fall sleep. Around 3:15 am they heard boots on the stairs outside and then knocks on their door. Theodosia rushed to the door, “Who is it?” she asked. “Police, open up.” She opened the door and the policeman asked, “Where is Mr. Modis?” “In the bedroom, sleeping,” she replied. “Tell him to come out immediately without getting dressed. You can bring him his clothes at daybreak.” He managed to put on some socks and shoes. He threw his raincoat on top of his pajamas and kissed her hurriedly, “Don’t worry,” he tried to tell her but it all came out mumbled. Theodosia fell on the bed, crying. Waiting for daybreak she prepared his clothes. On a little tray she put the necessary items to make coffee. She woke up Maria and gave her instructions to feed the baby. The sun was not up yet when she got out. The police headquarters was very close, further down on the same street. When the guard saw her he said, “Down the corridor, first door to the right.” Entering the room she found the three men walking nervously around a wood stove burning very hot. “Good thing you are here,” said Giorgos Sr. when he saw her. “I have prepared a note that needs to be delivered in person. There is this man called Laskaris Papanaoum who holds a high post in the Gestapo in Thessaloniki. They are somewhere near the Analipsi neighborhood—

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you’ll have to ask exactly where. You must go and give him this note. Only in his hands,” he emphasized. “Can you do it?” “I’ll do my best,” replied Theodosia somewhat apprehensive. “Good luck!” came from everyone. “Shall I make you some coffee on this hot stove?” she offered. “That’ll be good! Please do.” After the sun came up there was quite a bit of activity outside their door. Finally someone came in and said, “Get ready we will be leaving in less than an hour.” “To go where?” was the obvious question. “To Thessaloniki, the prison of Pavlou Mela.” “Saki, take my raincoat and kiss Aglaïtsa for me.” “God be with you.” “And remember, to him personally,” Giorgos Sr. reiterated to Theodosia as she left. Theodosia left the police station crying and not looking back. She found Aglaïtsa crying. “Why my little girl?” When Aglaïtsa saw her mother she stopped crying and stood up. “Ah! You are clean. Maria changed you. That’s good. Now let’s get your bottle and go drink it by the window. We’ll see Baba,” she said trying to silence a sob. She pulled the curtain and stood by the window holding Aglaïtsa, who was sucking on the bottle. It wasn’t long before they saw the escort, Germans, policemen and the three prisoners. Giorgos paused in front of the house and looked up at the window waving his hand. The policemen gave him a minute. Theodosia waved back and began crying again. Aglaïtsa said, “Ba-ba.” Then the escort disappeared around the corner. Theodosia began planning the trip to Thessaloniki. Aglaïtsa was the biggest problem. Maria was too young and Kleanthi too old to be trusted with her. Eleni, who would have loved to have children of her own, was the best person to take care of her. Eleni was happy to do it. She agreed to take a couple of days leave from the hospital to look after Aglaïtsa. Kleanthi was also of help. She suggested that Theodosia stay with her niece, Anastasia Zampetas, who was now married and lived not far from Analipsi in Thessaloniki. On departure day Eleni came very early in the morning so that Theodosia could catch the first train to Thessaloniki. “Don’t take the baby outside because it is too cold,” Theodosia gave last-minute instructions. “Give her the bottle regularly, a little bit of

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fruit every now and then, and custard if you can make one. I should be coming back tomorrow.” In Thessaloniki Theodosia went straight to Anastasia’s place. She had met Anastasia as a child in Bogazkoy during the summer vacations she spent in that village; the two girls had the same age. Anastasia now lived in the neighborhood of Aghia Triada. Anastasia was a beautiful, uneducated, generous, and exuberant woman, blonde with blue eyes. She was married and had four beautiful young children, three boys and one girl. She was glad to put up Theodosia and get news of her aunt. But Theodosia didn’t have much time for chatting. She went out asking for the Gestapo headquarters and was directed to a villa at the intersection of Vasilissis Olgas Avenue and Gravias Street. Villa Hirsch or otherwise known as Villa Beni Fernandez was an old two-story mansion, one of many owned by well-to-do Jewish families in Thessaloniki. It was beautiful if somewhat sinister-looking with its classical ornaments on the roof and balconies featuring railings with sculpted-marble columns. It was designed in 1911 (one year before the Turks left the city) by Pierro Arrigoni, Italian architect from Turin, who in the late nineteenth century marked the cityscape of this city with designs attributed to Art Deco. Now the villa housed the Gestapo but also the ruthless Sipo and SD, security police and security services respectively. There are numerous testimonies that some nights during the German occupation cries of pain and suffering could be heard from this building coming from Greek partisans tortured by the Germans inside. When Theodosia approached the iron gate she heard a loud “Halt!” that shook her. The guard spoke to her loudly in German and when he realized that she didn’t understand he just waived her back. She began talking to him in Greek, repeating the name of Papanaoum and trying to make her four-month belly as visible as possible. Finally he let her in, pointed at a closed door down the corridor and showed her a chair to sit on. She waited for more than an hour. Eventually the door opened, a man came out and took a look at her. She jumped up and pleaded, “Mr. Papanaoum, I need to speak to you.” Without answering he went back in the office leaving the door open behind him. Theodosia followed him. He sat behind his desk and looked at her interrogatingly. She handed him the note. He took it, read it, folded it again and waved to her to go away, pointing at the door. He never spoke a word.

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Theodosia left with ambivalent feelings. She had managed to carry out the mission entrusted to her, but did he understand what was at stake? Was he going to do something about it? Was he a good guy or a bad guy? And finally, was he really Papanaoum? Back in Florina, Theodosia had one more project—to let the prisoners know that she had accomplished the task. She wanted to prepare a package in which she’d hide the message. She sent Maria to Paraskevi, asking for the blanket that Giorgos used when he slept there because she had heard that it was very cold in jail. She also made patatokeftedes, Greek meatballs made with potato puree instead of meat, and inside one of them she hid a note saying that she had personally delivered Modis’s letter. Maria came back with the blanket and said that Grandma Paraskevi wanted to come and see Aglaïtsa soon. That she comes, thought Theodosia realizing that Paraskevi was in the process of normalizing relations with her. The package was consigned to Kyrkos, Giorgos’s favorite taxi owner, who often drove to Thessaloniki and back for his business. He and others in that business also carried letters and packages between the two cities, which were thus delivered much faster and more reliably than the ill-functioning postal service. Theodosia gave him instructions for delivery to the Pavlou Mela prison, authorizing him to pay the guards if they asked for money. He came back the next day with a letter from Giorgos. My dearest Saki, Congratulations for your excellent work from all of us here! The patatokeftedes were delicious and they will again be most appreciated if repeated. Many kisses to my little princess. Take good care of her and of yourself. I love you. Giorgos

Theodosia had a new activity now, sending packages with clean clothes and food to the prison and receiving back packages with dirty clothes. But she was agonizing over the executions. Following the killing of a German officer by partisans the Germans hanged eleven citizens and a priest in the square of Florina for reprisal. The town got bolted down for a while; it became a dead city where only fear reigned. Grigoris Kotsopoulos, the president of the village Vevi, came to see Theodosia and inquire about Giorgos. When she opened the door,

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unlocking multiple locks, he remarked, “This is absurd. What are you locking yourselves up for? If they want, they will come in despite your locks. There is nothing open in town, not even one café. I came to find out news about Giorgos. What is the latest?” “He is in the Pavlou Mela prison in Thessaloniki,” said Theodosia. “They are all right but scared. There are frequent executions. They come in, call them by name, and then take them out to be executed. God forbid!” The prison of Pavlou Mela used to be a Greek military camp before the Germans came. Now it housed 600–650 prisoners serving as a pool to draw from whenever executions were required for reprisals. It was run by Heuser—a Gestapo sergeant who had become camp commander— a short, fat man with harsh gray hair and the air of a field marshal. His Nazi fanaticism had reduced him to a subhuman level. At some point he walked up to Giorgos Sr. and slapped him on the face for no reason or provocation whatsoever. The prisoners in the Pavlou Mela camp came from all over Macedonia, part of Thessaly, and many Aegean islands. They were peasants, laborers, merchants, scientists, officers, etc. Some were accused of sabotage or having helped British troops to escape, others for collaboration with guerrillas, others for stealing German equipment in particular food, and some for “false denouncement.” Many, like the Modises and Hatzitasis, didn’t know why they were there. Three days after their arrival a German-speaking prisoner who served as interpreter to Heuser confided to Giorgos Sr. that terrible charges had been filed against them. Presumably they were preparing a revolution and the slaughtering of Germans and Bulgarians, whose heads they would kick-roll down the streets of Florina. These charges had been made under oath to the Germans by some “fellow citizens”, protagonists of the Bulgarian cause. The Modises and Hatzitasis had arrived at midnight. The prematurely awakened prison guard who received them scratched his head a little and then decided, “I will take you to the best ward, where the ambassadors are.” He took them to a large irregular room on the first floor. Everything was concrete, which made your bones freeze on those cold days. The beds consisted of three boards, sometimes with some hay on them, on two wooden horse stands. The “ambassadors” included a Jewish merchant from Thessaloniki who had also served as unpaid consul for Norway. He had converted to Christianity a year earlier and, together

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with another newly-converted Jew, had made the silly move of going to the Gestapo and asking whether they too had to wear the yellow Star of David required for all Jews. The Gestapo’s answer was to send them to the prison of Pavlou Mela. Several other Jews, among them the biggest merchants of Thessaloniki, were in the same thirty-five-bed ward. The Germans had confiscated all their merchandise and then locked them up in prison. “They took all our stuff,” lamented the older one while trying to warm up his boney hands on a brazier releasing meager heat. And he continued in Greek contaminated with Turkish expressions, “Oooooo.K. Fifty-year sweat down the drain, Oooooo.K. But why put us in jail? For dis-parasi?” meaning “money for the teeth” in Turkish. During the Turkish occupation the Turks often went to eat and drink in Christian homes. They sat down at the table but they did not start eating until the host put some money next to their plate. If the amount wasn’t satisfactory they waited for it to be increased before beginning eating. The money was supposed to be for the wear and tear on their teeth! In the same ward there were two men from the island Lemnos, shoemaker Vasilis Panoudis and schoolteacher Andriotis. The latter was well educated and spoke French and German. They had been arrested together for an absurd reason. “It was my bad luck,” Vasilis told Giorgos Sr. “During the first days when the Germans came to Lemnos, a German came to my store and by waving his hands he made me understand that he too was a shoemaker and that he needed to repair his boots. He came again at other times to repair more boots. And then he disappeared. However, one day I received a letter with no stamps on it but with many German seals. As it was in German I asked the schoolteacher Andriotis to read it to me. The letter was from Hans, my fellow-craftsman. While the teacher was reading it, the Gestapo suddenly showed up. Because it was written in the letter, ‘… now we have war with Russia and our ideology will prevail.’ What ideology? I was neither with Hitler nor with the communists. I was a family man, always liberal and democratic. What the hell got into him to write to me? Didn’t he have other friends who would be able to read his writing?” And then he continued, depressed, “Fourteen months ago we were found innocent in a court-martial, and yet the Gestapo still keeps us imprisoned. Their court-martials seem to function, but this Gestapo …” he left his phrase unfinished.

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“Now I also feel guilty for poor Andriotis,” Vasilis continued his sad monologue. “His wife claims that it was my fault. What did I do wrong? Don’t look at him now. The prison has made him sick and a hypochondriac. You should have seen him before. He was the besteducated teacher about to be promoted to school inspector.” Kanatas and Titos, two young men from Rapsani, had almost gotten executed because of a donkey. Kanatas proceeded to tell the story, “The Germans had locked many of us in the school. Around midnight the German guard mistook a donkey for a partisan. He took a shot at him, which prompted another guard to also shoot in that direction. Others from the encampment began shooting at the shadows of the trees. In the end there were two wounded. The Germans got so mad they wanted to execute everyone, about sixty people! Fortunately, the interpreter caught the ‘partisan’ donkey and so we were spared. But they brought us here for punishment.” The thirty-five prisoners of the ward lived under a permanent cloud of fear brought to the foreground by the sound of any odd motorvehicle engine. Is it a paddy wagon? Is it the interrogator? Is it the camp commander? It didn’t make much difference. Death lurked behind all of them. For whom would they be coming next time? But at dusk the mood changed. The day had gone well. The night was all theirs. They could laugh during the night and they laughed uncontrollably. Following a day of tension and anxiety, they let go, told jokes, made farces. The songs of Kanatas and Titos were sweet and full of sorrow until midnight. A soldier guard outside joined the singing in sympathy. On the morning of March 1, 1943 Giorgos Sr. woke up very early. “Are you awake already?” Vasilis asked him. His bed was thirty centimeters away. “You are still at the beginning. Don’t take things badly. God is merciful. It will all pass.” “You are right, Vasilis, everything passes,” replied Giorgos Sr., not convinced that what he said sounded reassuring. When the first sunrays came in through the ward’s enormous windows they diffused some color from the colorful blankets of a few rich Jews. One by one the inmates began waking up, some going to the bathroom, others beginning to shave. Suddenly the sound of vehicles moving into the camp’s yard was heard. Before one had time to take notice of the vehicle sound an abrupt change took place in the ward. All faces turned yellow; eyes immobile, wide open with consternation and fear. Everyone stood still,

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petrified, breathless, as if some electric current had immobilized them. Some were looking at each other idiotically. Others were looking at the windows or into space with eyes that seemed big but empty and blind. No one uttered a word, or moved a little finger. A fly walking could be heard. “What’s the matter? What is going on?” Giorgos Sr. whispered. He was himself overcome by the widespread agony and paralysis without even knowing why. “Are you blind? Can’t you see? The paddy wagons,” said a voice that Giorgos Sr. didn’t identify. He then noticed two large trucks completely covered from all sides parked underneath their windows; a third one stood further away. Many German soldiers were jumping out of them fully armed. There were also four or five from the German Military Police. They could be recognized by the metal gorgets they were wearing, a flat metal crescent with ornamental designs suspended by a chain worn around the neck. Giorgos Sr. didn’t want to admit what was happening, “Wait a minute, fellows, maybe they are not here for the worst. Maybe they will be transferring some of us elsewhere; it is very crowded in this building.” The initial consternation had subsided and now everyone was trying to control his nerves and regain his posture. “Good Lord, I wish it were,” said Vasilis and made the sign of the cross, and then continued, “but so much fuss for a simple transfer—I don’t believe it.” “But we haven’t heard of any sabotage or other action by the resistance. Why should they do it?” asked Giorgos Sr. “Search me,” replied Titos. “Remember the donkey of Rapsani? This time it could be the rats of Thessaloniki! Here, you guys, have a cigarette, it could be our last,” and offered his cigarette pack. Giorgos Jr. had been speechless, paralyzed with terror, from the first moment the paddy wagons had shown up. He didn’t really smoke— he’d light a cigarette only on occasions of intense sorrow or intense joy—but he took this one. Before long they heard steps and talking on the marble stairs leading to the floor upstairs. On other days there would be so much noise from shouts, fights, and songs coming out from all the wards. But that day one could think that there was not a soul in the whole building, only the heavy sound of boots on marble and the echoing of German voices from the concrete.

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The steps stopped at the second-floor ward. It was clear that they were to go first. Someone in front of Giorgos Jr. made the sign of the cross devoutly; it wasn’t clear whether he meant it for those facing death upstairs or was thanking God that it wasn’t him. The inmates gathered in front of the windows. The two trucks outside began filling up with people. Pale but calm, the men about to die took their seats, one next to the other. “Brothers, take revenge,” they shouted in the direction of the windows where the two Modises and the others were standing. Pashalidis, a medical school graduate, had a sad smile on his face. A young German policeman was crying like a child by the wall behind the trucks; he must have been the only human in that flock of beasts. “Look, they even took old Tonos!” “Is that possible?” “Come and see him.” They watched him climbing on the truck with difficulty. He sat next to the others after carefully buttoning his gray coat. He was an old man from the island of Lesbos, who ran a travel agency. He had been accused of helping British soldiers to escape. The court martial had found him innocent, but the Gestapo kept him there. Still, he was not considered a high risk and was allowed to come and go freely to Thessaloniki, doing shopping for the camp. He expected his release anytime. His blacklisting was a bad omen for everyone. “A very bad day,” whispered Vasilis, “no one can be safe.” Suddenly the heavy sound of boots came from outside their ward. The blood stopped circulating in everyone’s veins; they looked at each other speechless. They all changed appearance again; yellow faces, but this time with a glow in their look, like that of the early Christian martyrs. Everyone thought that his last moments had arrived and that he had to sum up the courage to face the situation. The iron door opened with a bang that resounded in the deadly silence of the hall as if it were empty. Three grim and grave Germans walked in armed with pistols and machineguns. They were followed by the stooping prison guard whose face was also yellow. The dreadful entourage stopped in the middle of the room with the Germans throwing cold and apathetic glances around. The prison guard, always bent forward, called the names with a hoarse voice: “Vasilis Panoudis,” he said and stopped as if he lost his voice; and then he added hurriedly, “Andriotis.”

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Vasilis was standing next to Giorgos Sr. He showed no reaction on his pale face. “Good bye, fellows, I hope you have better luck,” he said and began toward the door. But stopped for a second and turning toward Giorgos Sr. added, “In my suitcase there are sixty thousand drachmas and some biscuits. Send them to my poor wife.” He then walked to the door with a calm steady pace as if he were going to his store in Limnos. The Germans stepped aside for him to pass. They looked at him with wonder and perhaps some admiration. Andriotis, the sickly teacher, lost his composure and broke into heartbreaking crying. “What did I do? Whom have I harmed?” he kept repeating. “My poor children! My miserable children!” he screamed with despair. He wanted to be saved. He tried to run but stopped. He turned his back to the Germans and broke into tears again. He took his golden wedding ring off his finger and raised it high with his right hand, “Take my ring and give it to my wife.” No one moved to take it and he couldn’t decide whom to turn to. With confused steps he circled around as if in a tragic dance, holding the ring high up with his hand, his pale face distorted by the fitful crying and the harrowing refrain, “My poor children! My miserable children!” There was a harsh German voice, “Com, com.” The teacher, circling around, always crying and holding the ring in his hand, walked out. The heavy door closed shut again. Sighs were heard from several directions. Was it sadness for the unjust loss of comrades or relief that they had been spared one more day? But the calm interlude didn’t last long. In a few minutes the steps were heard again. The iron door opened again with the same loud bang and the terrible entourage walked in at the same grim and grave pace. More blood was needed; the count should be fifty and they did not have enough. Fifty Greeks had to be executed as reprisal for the distribution of communist propaganda sheets. All hope was gone. Giorgos Jr. thought this would be his end. All inmates snuggled around a column in the middle of the room trying to hide behind it in a desperate move of selfpreservation. The pale stooping prison guard shouted hurriedly like a gabbler, “Kanatas, Titos.” The two friends were shaken when they heard their names. “God damn them! Sons of bitches! Us too? The motherfuckers!” cursed Kanatas and started for the door. But immediately turned around,

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grabbed his coat from his bed and threw it on his shoulders as if he was afraid to catch a cold. Both of them rushed out without saying goodbye, not even looking back. There was silence. The Germans gave a scornful look to the rest, swung round, and left. The door closed behind them. Inside everyone remained transfixed. Someone whispered, “Are they coming again?” No one moved; no one talked. The Jews that had gathered in the middle leaned on each other for support and stood speechless, isolated. A relative of Kanatas was weeping. Hatzitasis, the doctor with a heart condition, was looking blankly at the ceiling, or more accurately at the sky. Kanatas was heard singing outside, “Cry for me, Mother, cry for me …” Another song came in response from another truck, “Goodbye, pitiable world …” It was a well-known Greek folksong from the early nineteenth century that had been sung by women in the remote mountain village of Souli when they jumped off a cliff with their children in order to avoid capture and enslavement by the Turks. But harsh German voices made them shut up. More shouting was heard as the tents of the trucks came down, “Revenge! Revenge!” The curtain dropped. A cerecloth was already wrapped around those men still alive but soon to be killed. The trucks disappeared in the distance, leaving smoke behind them like the incense burning in the Greek Church. In the afternoon anguished voices were heard through the prison yard, distant calls of mothers and brothers, “Is Nikos still with you? Is Giannis alive?”

20 The Separation

One morning toward the end of March the prison guard showed up holding two documents, one for Giorgos Sr. and one for Giorgos Jr. They were being notified that they were free to go. They could hardly believe it. They collected their belongings in a hurry. Their hearts pounded all the way until they found themselves outside the front gate. Tears of joy ran down their face. They left without looking back. Giorgos Sr. went to his apartment in Thessaloniki, but Giorgos Jr. went to find a hotel. Their common ordeal had brought them somewhat closer, but their relationship was such that the possibility of them staying together even for a short while did not come up on either side. In any case, Giorgos Jr. needed long-term accommodation. He decided to stay in Thessaloniki. He was afraid to go back to Florina. The possibility of being arrested again terrorized him. Moreover, the big city had always been in the back of his mind as an eventual relocation. Now that he was making a new beginning he might as well do it in the city he always wanted to end up in. He could open an office in Thessaloniki and bring his whole family here as soon as his finances and other conditions permitted, hopefully with the Germans gone. Giorgos Sr. in Thessaloniki took it upon himself to investigate how they had ended up being arrested by the Germans. He was able to establish that there had been testimonials under oath against the three of them by four neophyte-Bulgarian natives of Florina, alleging that the Modises were preparing a revolution and assassinations of Germans. One of the four incriminators was Menelaos Ghélé a lawyer from a Greek family with Bulgarian affiliation that Giorgos Sr. and Giorgos Jr. had often helped in various ways in the past. 229

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After the war ended Ghélé was arrested, accused as collaborationist and traitor. From inside the jail he wrote to Takos Makris, “I haven’t betrayed anyone; this is slander. Also, I am very sick and in need of treatment in a hospital.” Takos intervened in his favor and Ghélé was moved into a hospital where he recovered. But afterward there was a trial in which he was found guilty of treason and was convicted despite Makris’s efforts. Giorgos Sr. was one of the prosecutor’s witnesses. Ghélé remained in prison where he died. Ghélé’s whole family—his three daughters, his sister, and his sister’s children (two girls and one boy)—were all tainted as collaborationists and were harshly persecuted. They almost got lynched by an angry public. The women had their hair cut and were dragged onto the streets. Theodosia felt bad for them, particularly for Ghélé’s three girls who had been her students. More than fifteen years later and before Agla (no longer called Aglaïtsa) entered University the nephew of Menelaos Ghélé came to see Theodosia in Thessaloniki. He wanted to study law so he came asking for Giorgos’s books. She had kept all those books, as if fulfilling Giorgos’s wishes even though it was clear that neither of her children was going into professions relating to law. She became convinced to sell Giorgos’s books to Ghélé’s nephew. But while coming and going in her apartment in Thessaloniki the young man ran into Agla with whom he chatted. He was three to four years older than she was. Sometime later Angela—Doctor Loukas’s wife—came to see Theodosia and suggested a match between Agla and Ghélé’s nephew. The young man had probably been too self-conscious (probably familyconscious) to directly approach Agla himself. Soon rumors began spreading about Theodosia possibly becoming related to Menelaos Ghélé. Theodosia did not hold anything hard against the Ghélé family, which was now answering to the more Greek sounding name Ghélis. She had never spoken with hatred about Menelaos Ghélé. And yet he had been responsible for Giorgos’s imprisonment by the Germans. Had Giorgos not been imprisoned, life could have turned out very different for her. In fact, she never expressed hatred, spitefulness, or desire for revenge against anyone. The most negative emotions she ever expressed about someone were in saying, “He is no good; it is better to stay away from him.” And she never said this about members of the Ghélis family.

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But marriage was not yet in Agla’s frame of mind; even less so the kind of marriage facilitated by others. She was graduating from an excellent school, she had a group of intellectuals for friends, and she was looking forward to university life. Marriage was still far in the future. Theodosia received a notice to show up at the post office at 5:00 pm to receive a telephone call from Giorgos. “Saki, my love, I am free! Modis and I were liberated today. I wish I could fly and be there with you two.” “Alleluia! God is Great! How are you? How do you feel?” “I am okay. I am staying in a hotel. How is my princess?” “She walks and calls for her baba.” “You must come and bring her along.” “As soon as you find a place to stay.” “I am looking into both an office and an apartment.” “As soon as you are settled, write to me and we will come. We must also go to Papanaoum to thank him. We should do it soon because later I won’t be able to travel. Right now I’ll prepare a suitcase with your clothes, just let me know at what address Kyrkos should bring it. Goodbye, my love, be well,” she said and hung up. A week later there was a letter from Thessaloniki. Theodosia looked at the envelope. It was from Giorgos and had a sender’s address: Paleon Patron 18. “He has found a room,” she concluded. “A letter from baba,” she told Aglaïtsa who responded with, “ba-ba.” In her answer Theodosia told Giorgos that she’d be coming to Thessaloniki with Aglaïtsa at the end of April and asked him to order a large piece of manouri cheese because it was impossible to get hold of such extravagant delicacies in Florina. It was a bright sunny day so she took the letter to the post office with Aglaïtsa in the stroller. On the way back she stopped by Angela’s to tell her the news. Angela and Loukas were thrilled to know that the Modises had gotten away from the Gestapo’s claws. They now kept their fingers crossed for Doctor Hatzitasis, who was still being held captive. Loukas took Aglaïtsa in his arms. “She is adorable and she has good weight. You must be doing something right, but you should avoid picking her up. How do you feel?” “I feel good, doctor,” said Theodosia, “I spend my days at work and my nights next to my little doll. We sleep a lot.” “That’s good,” approved the doctor.

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“We’ll bid you goodbye now,” said Theodosia, putting Aglaïtsa in the stroller, “it is time to go eat.” “Come back again.” At home Maria had lunch ready. Aglaïtsa ate some bread dipped in the meat sauce and her cream custard. Theodosia then put her in bed and began preparations for the trip, a large suitcase with both winter and summer clothes. She wasn’t sure what kind of weather they’d come across. Next time Kyrkos brought a package from Giorgos, Theodosia asked him if he could take her and Aglaïtsa to Thessaloniki the following week. “We can go on Wednesday,” he replied. “We should leave early in the morning.” “Good! Please tell Giorgos so that he can expect us.” She then told Maria, “You know, Maria, when we go to Thessaloniki next week you shouldn’t stay alone here. Go to your mother’s, unless you prefer to spend a few days with Grandmother Paraskevi. Go to see her tomorrow and find out whether she’d like you to do that. But when we return, you should come back here right away.” After dinner Theodosia as usual changed Aglaïtsa, put pajamas on her, and put her in the bed. She later lay down next to her; they slept together. “What wonderful company you are to me,” she murmured, “Thank you, God! Please keep an eye on both of us,” and then in a loud voice, “Maria, lock the door and go to bed. Goodnight!” When Giorgos saw them at his doorstep he exclaimed full of joy, “You are finally here! My two great loves! My big doll and my little doll! What a joy! It has been such a long and turbulent time.” He took Theodosia in his arms and kissed her. “And you, little demoiselle, let me take a good look at you,” he picked Aglaïtsa up and raised her way high. Theodosia took a good look at him. On his face two lines, one on each side of the mouth, were visible much more than before. His hair, which had had white hairs before (the first white hairs appeared on him in his twenties) was now shining gray. He seemed more aged than just a couple of months. “Giorgos, you seem tired. Did you stay up late last night?” “No, I sleep well now. You should have seen me before. I couldn’t fall asleep in jail because of fear and anxiety about whom they might call the next morning. We were all scared to death. I don’t want to think about it anymore. Thank God for this man who saved us.”

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“Is Hatzitasis out?” “No, he is still in there. Who knows what will happen to him. Come now, let’s make some coffee. I have bought treats for you.” He lived on the third floor in a studio consisting of a big room and a small kitchen on the side. There was a double bed in the room and a little cot, apparently for Aglaïtsa with two chairs against it so that she didn’t fall out of it at night. Giorgos was joyful and energetic but Theodosia was preoccupied with what he must have gone through. “What are you thinking of, Saki?” “You, my love, and that you must rest and recuperate.” “You mean I shouldn’t work?” “No, you should work, of course, but without exaggeration and undue fatigue.” “I want to save money in order to buy a house so that we can all come and live in Thessaloniki.” “All this is fine, but your health is most important.” “I am fine. Don’t worry about me. How about you? How is the pregnancy going?” “So far so good. Things will get more difficult now, but there should be no problems.” “I am so sorry not to be there when my son arrives.” Giorgos was confident it was going to be a boy and of course would be named Theodoros, his father’s name. “Fortunately the Germans have not arrested the other doctors. With Gymnopoulos, Loukas, and Angela I will have plenty of support.” “It is lunchtime. Shall I go and get some food?” volunteered Giorgos. “No, my love, you shouldn’t go down and up all those stairs. We can slowly go, all together, and also have a walk by the seaside in the sunshine.” It was a bright sunny day but not very warm. Theodosia wore her black winter coat and also put a coat on Aglaïtsa; it was white with five big buttons covered with black cloth. She had shining black shoes with a strap on her short white socks that left much of her little legs exposed. Giorgos wore his winter suit and a tie but the flower on his lapel was missing—a sign of a certain decline. Theodosia had combed Aglaïtsa’s hair into curls. Giorgos had bought a little horse made of cloth on wheels that Aglaïtsa could pull with a string. They walked by the sea and when they passed the White Tower they asked a photographer to take their picture.

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The next morning Giorgos called Papanaoum and asked for an appointment; the latter suggested 5 pm at his home. “You should go and tell Modis because he may want to come with us,” said Theodosia. “You are right,” replied Giorgos, “I’ll go to his place right away to make sure I find him there before he goes out.” Giorgos Sr. was in agreement. It was arranged that they would pick him up in the taxi on their way to Papanoum’s place in the afternoon. Laskaris Papanaoum was from Monastiri. He was the son of a Greek schoolteacher. He and Giorgos Sr. went to high school together in Monastiri, but later their paths diverged. While Modis took to the mountains to fight the Turks and the Bulgarians, Papanaoum sided with the Germans and the Bulgarians. He served the Gestapo with the grade of “Officer of the Wehrmacht.” He got married to Ellen, a plump Swiss lady who loved Greece and learned excellent Greek. At the Papanaoum residence the men, obviously moved, embraced each other. Theodosia gave Mrs. Papanaoum the manouri cheese. “Oh! I know this cheese. It is my favorite, thank you. I am so sad that we’ll be soon leaving beautiful Thessaloniki.” “Are you leaving?” Giorgos Sr. asked Papanaoum. “Yes, we are making preparations. That’s why I rushed to get you out. Things are deteriorating for us; we must go.” They discussed life in prison and Papanaoum’s intervention. “I couldn’t talk to you then,” he said addressing Theodosia and then turning toward the others, “I was normally not involved with what was going on at the Pavlou Mela prison. But after I got your note, I asked to be briefed on the execution lists whenever one was compiled. I saw Giorgos Modis as the last entry in a list with fifty names. A German sergeant had included the name following Bulgarian recommendations. I simply crossed the name out.” Papanaoum paused for a while and then added, “It is an ugly war. But then, no war is beautiful.” Everyone was quiet. The atmosphere had gotten embarrassingly heavy. There was something incongruous in this group of friends belonging to opposite warring factions. Ellen broke the silence by getting up and going to Aglaïtsa. “Come to me, sweet little girl. Let me hold you for a while,” she said picking Aglaïtsa up. To her sorrow, Mrs. Papanaoum was not able to have children. “Look, Laskaris, how beautiful she is. Do you want to hold her for a minute? No one is watching!” Instead, Papanaoum invited everyone to the dining room where they had coffee and cake.

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  

In 1945 the Special Collaborationists Court of Thessaloniki sentenced Papanaoum in absentia to death, but Germany refused to extradite him to Greece. He died in Germany where he got German citizenship.   

Back home Giorgos spoke to Theodosia but it rather seemed as if he was speaking to himself, “Now I understand. What Papanaoum said about the execution list makes sense. I can still see old Tonos getting up last on the truck buttoning his coat. There was absolutely no reason for him to be executed. He had been found innocent and was expecting to be released at any moment.” Again a gloomy atmosphere engulfed them like smog. Finally Theodosia said, “Let’s thank God and hope that He will keep an eye on you.” “He should keep an eye on you too during the difficult hours you’ll be going through without me.” “I won’t be all alone. I have good friends to rely upon.” He took her in his arms, “Darling, stay with me, you are all I have.” “I’ll make cream custard for Aglaïtsa,” Theodosia said changing the subject, “and why don’t you see if you can find some chicken soup for tonight.” At dinnertime Giorgos asked, “What are we going to do tomorrow?” “Tomorrow is a work day. You go to work and I will go to Aunt Marika. We’ll take a taxi with Aglaïtsa.” “Where are you going to find a taxi? Wait for me at lunchtime—I will find the taxi.” But the next day Theodosia felt less energetic. “My love, I don’t feel so well. My back hurts. It is wiser that I lie down and rest. We came to be with you for a while. We don’t need to see anyone else. In fact, I should be getting back to my place in Florina. Please check with Kyrkos when he can take us back.” “I was looking for a good play we could go to. I know how much you like the theater.” “Thanks, my love, but my condition does not permit it. My back hurts when I stay immobile too long. And then, what would we do with our little doll? You must forget all this now. It is a good thing we have been to the theater so often in the past. I cannot complain.”

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Harsh reality threw a veil of sadness upon them. She remembered longingly the days when they had splurged into the nightlife of the cultural metropolis. But there was a new quality in her life now that blunted that longing. Bearing children brought an unprecedented richness to her existence. On departure day Theodosia woke up early, preoccupied with the trip. She got out of bed quietly and prepared Aglaïtsa’s food and other provisions for the road. After breakfast she dressed the little girl and brought her to Giorgos. He was inconsolable. “Saki, I cannot stand this separation.” “You are not the only one. Let’s hope that we’ll soon meet again, as we have said so many times. Now, no more sadness. Come, Aglaïtsa, give your daddy a kiss.” Giorgos picked her up and danced around. When they heard steps on the stairs outside he quickly put her down and took Theodosia in his arms in a tight embrace. They were both crying. Kyrkos and his helper took the luggage and Giorgos carried Aglaïtsa down the three stories. Theodosia with the baby took the entire back seat of the taxi. Giorgos kept holding Theodosia’s hand through the window until Kyrkos started the engine and the car began moving. They were both crying. They waved to each other until out of sight. It was comfortable in the car’s back seat. Aglaïtsa lay down with her bottle and Theodosia took the other end trying to collect her thoughts but soon they were both asleep. She woke up alarmed, worried about Aglaïtsa but saw that she was still fast asleep, as she had left her. She took the girl’s little hand, which calmed her down. She laid back thinking, praying, “My Lord, help me deal with everything and also watch over my Giorgos.” Arriving in Florina Theodosia asked Kyrkos to first pass by Fotini’s place in Tsifliki to pick up Maria if she was there. Maria had chosen to go home rather than spend the time with Paraskevi. She was excited to see them. She took Aglaïtsa in her arms and began singing. “Come in the car, there is room for you,” said Theodosia. The house on Captain Modis Street seemed lifeless and cold. Theodosia was depressed. She clenched her teeth and gave orders to Maria, “Take this money and go buy something to eat tonight and some yogurt for Aglaïtsa. Go by Angela’s and tell her to come for a while, if she can. Also ask Eleni to come.” Angela was the first one to show up.

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“I am glad to see you, dear. I needed someone to be with me because it has been a bad day. Giorgos and I have been crying since morning.” “Enough of that now! Your trip was good and we are all here for you.” Soon Eleni arrived, followed by Doctor Loukas. “Thank you for coming. I needed people around me,” admitted Theodosia. “I’ve been thinking of you,” started Eleni, “You didn’t drop us a word to say how you were doing.” “How was your visit to Thessaloniki?” asked the doctor. “Our family reunion was great, but today has been very difficult. Giorgos couldn’t let go of us this morning.” In the evening Grandma Kleanthi showed up. “How did you know we were back, Grandma?” “I didn’t know. I also passed by last night to see if you’d returned.” “We had a nice time. Giorgos took good care of us. But now we are all alone and we will have to rely only on letters and packages. Let’s thank God, however, because things could have been worse. He could still be in prison, or even worse …” “You must look after yourself now. Your time is approaching. We must prepare.” “Good thing you came. Why don’t you cook something for dinner? Make lots so you can take some home for Granddad too.” Kleanthi was being very helpful. Much more so than she had ever been as a stepmother when Theodosia was a little girl. The other grandmother, Paraskevi, also visited Theodosia often since Aglaïtsa’s birth. She wanted to smooth relations with Theodosia with the view to eventually having them come over to live with her, but she didn’t quite know how to go about it. In any case, the two grandmothers had minimal overlap—and not by chance. For Paraskevi, Kleanthi was another no-good refugee, and moreover, she consumed too much olive oil in her cooking! With the good summer weather Theodosia took Aglaïtsa for a stroll every morning around eleven. But today day she had to go see the gynecologist, Doctor Gymnopoulos. “I am glad to see that all is well,” said the doctor, “It should be easier this time. I’ll see you again in fifteen days.” On the way back Theodosia and Maria, who was pushing the stroller with Aglaïtsa, saw a group of Germans and some policemen making

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their rounds. Further down the street Theodosia asked someone, “What is going on?” “The Germans are going from house to house.” They rushed home. All was quiet in their street. They had barely finished lunch when there was a knock on their door. “Ba-ba,” shouted Aglaïtsa. A policeman instructed, “Leave the door open. A German officer is looking for residence.” “There is the ‘good’ room,” offered Theodosia. The German came in, saw the room and liked it. “Is he going to bring more people?” “No, he will be sleeping there alone.” He locked the room and took the key. The next morning he came with his stuff that included a wardrobe, a table, and two chairs. He took out all the things he did not need. He wanted the place mainly for sleeping at night because he’d be away for most of the daytime.

21 The German Occupation

On August 11, Theodosia, Maria, and Aglaïtsa went for another of their morning strolls. They had just gone uphill to the National Road. Aglaïtsa ran ahead and Theodosia ran after her, but suddenly she felt a sharp pain. She stopped, bent forward to alleviate the pain, and gave orders, “Maria, run and call the doctor. I am afraid I am having the baby! Also, ask Eleni and Grandma Kleanthi to come.” The pain stopped and she slowly made it home pushing Aglaïtsa’s stroller. They had already prepared things at home for this eventuality. All she had to do was put on her nightgown and lie down on the bed. Grandma Kleanthi showed up promptly. “Are you ready? I was afraid I might have it on the road!” exclaimed Theodosia. “Put some water on the stove to be boiling when they come.” Eleni and the doctor arrived shortly. “Glad to see you, doctor, I have lost my waters on the road.” The doctor examined her and smiled, “Where are you, Giorgos? You should be here to watch your son’s arrival. I don’t think it will be long this time.” Labor advanced rapidly. Before they knew it the doctor was pulling the baby’s head with his hands. The baby came out swiftly and began crying; it was 1:00 pm. “Eleni, you take the baby, I will attend to the mother,” instructed the doctor and then turned toward Theodosia, “Congratulations! You’ve given birth to a fine boy in five minutes! This was the fastest delivery I’ve ever had.” The doctor then specified, “He was born with a caul. Birth with a caul is very rare and it indicates a gifted person. That he lives!” 239

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A caul is a portion of the amniotic sac sometimes covering a child’s head at birth. Blissful Theodosia with the new baby at her side began organizing things. She called to Kleanthi who kept busy in the kitchen, “Grandma, we’ve got work for you again. You must make lalaggites— lots of them.” Then turning to Maria, “Maria, take some lalaggites to Grandma Paraskevi and tell her that we have a baby boy. We should send some to Doctor Loukas and to Ioulia. And also, we need a plate for Eleni and finally one for ourselves.” Later Maria returned from Paraskevi excited, “Mistress, Grandma was thrilled that Theodoros was born! She will soon come to see him. And on the way back I ran into our German who wanted to know the sex of the baby. I managed to communicate to him that it is a boy. He seemed very pleased.” That night Theodosia wrote a letter to Giorgos with the news. Maria could send it to him the next day. The next morning the German knocked on Theodosia’s door and brought in a cake with Greek writing on it: “That he lives!” He put it on the table with a beaming smile, gave a military salute, and left. They later found out that he was not actually German, but Austrian. He had four children of his own and he loved kids. When Theodosia saw him for the last time he gave her his home address at Graz and suggested that her kids should go there to study when they grew up. The newborn began breastfeeding with no difficulty. Domniki was the only one from Giorgos Sr.’s family who came to well wish the newborn. Theodosia told Maria to go to church and ask the priest to come home and bless the baby. The priest came at noon. Theodosia set up in bed with the baby in her arms. The priest gave his blessing and many wishes. She was touched and very thankful. Shortly after the priest left, Eleni showed up with an air of reporting for duty at a hospital post. Theodosia told her, “Tomorrow, come only for coffee in the afternoon. I feel very well. I’ll be getting up and taking it easy in the house.” “Don’t rush to get up. Stay in bed another two days to make it at least a total of five. You don’t want to catch a cold and have complications,” Eleni advised. A little later Katinga the landlady came to visit bringing along an enormous Bulgarian captain with her. With the excuse of the newborn, Katinga wanted to show off her important Bulgarian connections. She

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introduced him as a relative of hers and had him sit next to Theodosia. His feet smelled bad. Theodosia covered the baby. Only his head was showing with the gold coin they had pinned on him. The Bulgarian kept eyeing the gold piece. Eleni looked alarmed. Theodosia called Maria, “Make coffee for our visitors,” and then whispered in her ear, “run and ask Grandma Paraskevi to come immediately. Tell her it’s an emergency.” Eleni, terrorized, served them the coffees. Theodosia held her composure but disliked the Bulgarian’s inquisitive glances and worried about his intentions. It seemed forever until Paraskevi showed up. Paraskevi came into the room with a supervisor’s air, leaving the door open behind her. She welcomed them in fluent Bulgarian and asked them to come out and sit in the hall because male eyes should not fall upon a woman who has just given birth. Eleni brought chairs out in the hall. Paraskevi closed Theodosia’s door behind her and engaged them in a discussion in Bulgarian. Eleni served them the pastries Giorgos had sent. In due time, Paraskevi rounded up the conversation, got up, thanked them for their visit, and wished them all the best. She then opened the front door and they left. “God bless you, Mother, you were wonderful,” uttered Theodosia, always talking to Paraskevi in the polite plural form. “I didn’t know what to do with them. Why on earth did she bring him here? And he kept looking at the gold coin. You handled it very well!” Before they had time to put everything back in its place, Angela and the doctor showed up. “We are dropping by to see how things are going. How is little Theodoros Modis?” “He is fine—eating and sleeping.” “That’s good. We saw Gymnopoulos and he was impressed at how easy the delivery was. Unprecedented in his career, he said.” “That was a good thing, doctor. Now we are resting.” “Let me see him, open him up. He looks like his father. I’ll tell Giorgos when I see him; I’ll be going to Thessaloniki the day after tomorrow.” He then turned toward Eleni who moved to prepare something, “Don’t get up, Eleni, we are not going to have anything. It’s dinnertime anyway. We were glad to see you. Be well and happy. Au revoir and bon appétit,” they said and they left. Soon everyone had left except for Paraskevi. She came close to the baby, uncovered him, and looked at him. She was apparently touched. She talked to him in Vlachian, “You look like Dodos, your grandfather,”

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and then she continued in Greek, “May you become brave like him.” She took a gold coin that she had wrapped in her handkerchief and put it on the baby’s head and made a wish, “May you live and prosper!” “He resembles Dodos,” she repeated, “he is handsome like him.” She made the sign of the cross on the baby. Theodosia covered him up. The baby opened his eyes. Paraskevi continued, “Welcome to life, little fellow; be well!” Maria came in saying that the alarm clock rang indicating time for breastfeeding. “I’ll be going,” said Paraskevi. “Giorgos sent us a case of fruit. Please take whatever you want.” “I don’t want anything,” replied Paraskevi proudly. “Maria will bring it,” insisted Theodosia and then louder so that she could be heard in the kitchen, “Maria, fill up a basket with fruit and go with Grandmother.” Theodosia breastfed the baby and also fed Aglaïtsa. Then they all got in bed and it wasn’t long before all three of them were asleep. Maria woke her up when she returned. “Mistress, there are leftovers from the food Grandma cooked yesterday. Shall I warm them up?” “Yes, that’ll be good.” They ate and then Theodosia slipped back into bed next to her sleeping children. A few days later a letter from Giorgos arrived: Thessaloniki, 19.8.1943 My dearest Saki, I am grateful to you for bringing into this world my son and grandson of Theodoros Modis. That he lives! I was touched by Eleni’s remark that I will now have a rival. I love you all. I wished the baby was black [Giorgos made a joke], but since he looks like us and did not immortalize your sympathetic nose, I am very happy. With Aristedis from the Labor Centre [the people who rented one of the house’s stores] I have sent you some things, together with my dirty clothes. Tell Maria to make a dress out of the piece, I was thinking of making a shirt for myself; anyway I have more of this material. I am also sending you my socks that need repairs. I have other things to send you. Write to me. Did you receive the oil? I have a lot of work right now. Some other time when I am calmer I will write more extensively.

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Lots of kisses to all of you, Giorgos Send me my suit with Mr. Rolo or whoever else is coming.

Life had gotten more complicated for Theodosia with the baby’s arrival but richer at the same time. She felt grateful to have a son, the male element her home lacked. He would grow up and she could have him all to herself. He’d be always with her, unlike husband and father, or so she hoped. Kyrkos came with another package and a letter from Giorgos who kept harping on his longing for them, “… I miss you; I love you all. I wish you were here for a while … write to me details about the kids …” Theodosia sat down to answer him. She was worried about him being all alone and also about his health following the traumatic time he had spent in jail. His psyche had suffered, which could have repercussions on his body. My love, I wish I could help you. I keep thinking of you day and night. As we agreed, you should be going out in the evenings with colleagues to entertain your solitude. Don’t worry; you’ll make friends and girlfriends. The main thing is that you are well. Write to me about how you feel. Be patient for a little longer. After I complete forty days I can take my little boy and come to see you. The news here is that the Germans are requisitioning all big houses. They came to yours and expressed interest in taking over the whole house and turning it into a pharmacy. Your mother wants us to move in there urgently so that the house becomes fully occupied. But I can’t envisage a move right away. I must first complete at least ten days. In any case your mother seems happy that we will soon be all together.

In this letter it seems as if Theodosia was giving Giorgos permission to be unfaithful. She probably felt that she had no choice. At the same time she was genuinely concerned about his health and general wellbeing. As for Paraskevi, she had been indicating that she’d be happy to have them move in with her ever since Aglaïtsa was born, but had procrastinated with a number of excuses: the moving-house process had to grow “organically”; the moon had to be full, etc. But when the Germans pointed out that such a big house was wasted on a single person,

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she argued that she had a daughter-in-law and two grandchildren who lived with her. And then she rushed to have the move implemented. When Eleni came and saw Theodosia running around the house with preparations for the move, she was critical, “You shouldn’t work like this. You should be still taking it easy. There is the risk of hemorrhage.” “You want me to let the Germans take the house?” objected Theodosia, “it sure comes at the wrong time, but we’ll slowly pack everything.” Then turning to Maria, “Maria, go to Rachel’s and ask for her husband to come here and take apart all the stove installations and bring them to Grandmother’s house.” And to Kleanthi in the kitchen, “You, Grandma, make coffee for everyone while I feed Boulis.” Little Theodoros was referred to as “Boulis” because, with Giorgos away, baptizing him had been postponed indefinitely, which meant he couldn’t be called by his official name yet. In the meantime, among the various ways to address a baby they chose Boulis (baby boy) because Queen Frederica had a personal attendant who answered to such a name. The packing was mostly completed in a couple of days by Maria, Eleni, and Theodosia. Grandma Kleanthi kept busy mainly in the kitchen making sure there was always food for everyone. Then Maria asked her uncle, who owned a large horse-drawn carriage, to come and size the move. “These are all the things that need to be moved,” Theodosia told him, pointing at the furniture, a large chest and several piles of packages and suitcases and bundles with clothes. “There is also burning wood and charcoal to be transported. You figure out how many trips are needed. You know where the house is. Just make sure you have a couple of strong young men to help you because there are stairs in the house.” “I’ll be here tomorrow morning with my young men. I reckon we’ll be done by noon.” The move the next day was smooth, if tiresome. The carriage made two trips. Maria went with the movers and supervised where things went: the wardrobe and the beds in the bedroom, the table and chairs in the good room. The burning wood and other items were stored in the bathroom, which had lots of space. The radio was carefully wrapped in a cover and placed inside the built-in closet under key. The new home seemed stuffed with all kinds of items. A German went by, took an inquisitive look at the movers but said nothing. By early afternoon Theodosia and Kleanthi were pausing in the emptied house on Captain Modis Street while Maria was sweeping it for

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the last time. They heard a voice at the front door, “Mrs. Modis, a telegram!” I LACK NEWS STOP WHAT IS GOING ON STOP PLEASE CABLE STOP GIORGOS

Theodosia rushed to cable back: HAD TO URGENTLY MOVE HOUSE STOP TONIGHT WE WILL ALL SLEEP WITH YOUR MOTHER STOP WE ARE WELL STOP KISSES

Then she took a taxi with the two kids and Grandma Kleanthi to the new residence. Grandma Paraskevi welcomed them at the front door with a large loaf of white bread that she had specially ordered at the baker and an icon of the Virgin Mary. They made the sign of the cross and kissed her hand. Paraskevi was moved, “You should be here, Dodos!” she murmured. They all went upstairs to the kitchen where Paraskevi made coffee. Aglaïtsa ran around the house excited but Boulis began crying wanting to eat. Maria took him out in the balcony waiting for Theodosia to breastfeed him. Aglaïtsa seemed to enjoy the balconies. Theodosia came out too. It was a warm sunset with soft colors and the air smelled fresh and clean. She fed Boulis and put him down on the bed. She arranged Aglaïtsa’s little bed next to hers. Things seemed to find their places. She sighed, “Thank you, God, for helping me do all this.” She went to the kitchen where Maria had potatoes boiling. She put a hot potato on a plate with some salt and took it to Paraskevi in her room. “Mother, would you like a potato? There are more hot ones.” “No, no, let the children eat,” she responded but took the potato and ate it. Theodosia made some potato puree for Aglaïtsa and prepared her bottle. Afterward she put her in the little bed and paused for a while before breastfeeding Boulis. She opened the bedroom door giving onto the little balcony without railing. She smelled the pine tree they had planted with Giorgos, which stood tall in front of her. The air seemed thin. She took a deep breath and thought of Giorgos. He should be there to enjoy seeing everyone finally settled in the house he had built for this purpose.

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In the meantime Maria and Kleanthi were restoring order, folding blankets, arranging things in closets, etc. Theodosia made a salad with potatoes, cheese, yogurt, and fruit. “Come and eat,” she called them, “I am very tired and will soon be going to bed.” They sat down at the table in the kitchen. Paraskevi did not show up. Kleanthi said grace wishing everyone health and harmony; Theodosia added the wish that Giorgos would come soon. That night Theodosia was so tired that she couldn’t fall asleep. But she rested. She was satisfied watching her children sleeping peacefully in their own home. The next morning she wrote a letter to Giorgos. My dearest Giorgos, I am late writing to you but I didn’t receive a letter from you either. I had so much to do that I had no time for letters. I am glad you sent the money; it came at the right moment. Since your mother insisted that we move, I had to make some necessary preparations beforehand. I had painters whitewash the inside of the entire house (I left the outside for you!) It has become nice and bright. Only your mother’s room has kept its original color, everything else was painted white. I spent some money, of course, but it was necessary. You cannot imagine how beautiful it is now when the sun comes in. The move was hectic but now we have settled in. Aglaïtsa keeps running around. She particularly enjoys the semicircular balcony where she spends a lot of time with Grandmother. Can you believe it? We are all living in your house, our house!

Eleni came later in the morning, “It is very nice up here with clean air and balconies all around where the kids can play. You did the right thing when you decided to move.” “I didn’t decide anything myself. Others decided for me. I only executed orders! Fortunately, it is over now and we have gotten rid of that Bulgarian landlady. On Sunday, Eleni, I want to get out. We’ll go to church to receive a blessing, okay?” Sunday morning was the first time after the delivery that Theodosia went out socially and met with people. It was much earlier than forty days after giving birth, but she didn’t care. Maria pushed the stroller with Aglaïtsa, Theodosia carried Boulis, and Eleni provided moral support.

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“Thank you, Eleni. I enjoyed our outing after my long in-house confinement. We got the priest’s blessing and we saw so many people. Will you come home with us now?” “No, it is noon and Dimos is expecting me. I’ll come in the afternoon.” At home Paraskevi welcomed them and even sat down to eat at the same table with Kleanthi, if reluctantly. It was obvious that the two grandmothers did not get along well. In fact, it wasn’t long before Paraskevi could no longer tolerate the presence of Kleanthi. Whenever the former caught sight of the latter coming into the house, she withdrew to her room, slammed her door, and shouted criticism and complaints against Kleanthi. Invariably, she would end up with a moiroloï, lamenting her misfortunes, to which the latest addition was this sorcerer—Kleanthi—who had come into her house. Things got pretty bad when one day Paraskevi who had spotted Kleanthi from the balcony, dislodged a tile from the canopy at the base of the balcony and threw it at Kleanthi. The tile missed the old lady but from that day Kleanthi’s visits became clandestine. She’d sneak into the house quietly and try to remain out of Paraskevi’s sight, not always with success. Sticking to the tradition he began with Aglaïa, Doctor Loukas had another walnut tree cut down and sent to the Modises as a present for the birth of Giorgos’s son. It was Theodosia this time that hired a carpenter (the same one as before) to use the wood to construct a door with a full-length mirror for the built-in closet in the bedroom. One day Maria returned home at noon, running and short of breath, “Did you hear? The Germans are going from house to house searching for radios to confiscate.” The Germans confiscated all radios because the BBC broadcasted news in Greek every evening, informing Greeks on matters the Germans tried to keep secret, and urging them to resist. The Germans made it clear that they would punish with death anyone who secretly kept a radio. Paraskevi and Theodosia were immediately mobilized to hide the radio. They wrapped it in a dark blanket and tied it with a rope. Then they took it downstairs to the laundry facility. The house had an external washhouse. It was a room on the same level as the basement but its entrance was in the garden outside the house’s front door. It featured a large sink and an oven to warm water via burning wood or charcoal, all

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custom-built with concrete. There was wood stacked in rows and sacks with charcoal against the wall. They placed the radio bundle in a corner and emptied two sacks of charcoal on top of it, covering it up. “Let’s hope this works!” thought Theodosia. They closed the door of the laundry area and went upstairs to the kitchen to prepare a meal. Theodosia didn’t forget to cover the radio’s table with a decorative cloth, move it to another location, and coil up the antenna wire out of sight. They had barely finished eating when they heard knocks at the front door. Three Germans came up inquiring about radios. Theodosia told them, mostly with sign language, that they didn’t have one. They ignored her and went from room to room looking inside. Then they went to look in the little room downstairs and afterward below to the basement. Theodosia followed them around. When they came out they noticed the entrance to the laundry area. She opened the door for them with some apprehension. One of them walked down the few stairs to look around. He gave a kick to the charcoal with his boot without revealing the hidden bundle inside the pile. Theodosia’s heart was pounding. After they left she went upstairs, terrorized, “We’ve got to get rid of this radio,” she declared. She sent an urgent message with Maria to friends of Voltskos in Florina to urgently come get the radio. Voltskos and his men came late that night with a carriage and took the radio, still wrapped in the blanket, directly to somewhere in the countryside around the village Skopos. “Burry it deep in the ground,” Theodosia had instructed them. So they did. The Germans finally gave up the idea of turning the Modis house into a pharmacy. It wasn’t only that the house was now well occupied. It was also that it had long stairs that would be a nuisance for a pharmacy. Nevertheless, two SS officers came one day with the intention of living in the semicircular room. When Theodosia saw the two officers, her attention was drawn to a pin on the collar of one of them; it depicted a skull with bones. She whispered to Paraskevi standing next to her, “Look at the skull!” The officer wearing the pin must have heard something because he looked at Theodosia, then took a small German-Greek dictionary from his pocket and leafed through the pages. When he found what he was looking for he turned to Theodosia, pointed at the Greek word for “skull” in the dictionary and exclaimed, “You said nekrokefali, didn’t you?”

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She felt her legs giving away, “No, no,” she objected, I didn’t say anything.” To her astonishment she never saw the pin with the skull on his collar again. In fact, she caught the German officer taking off the pin and putting it underneath his collar when he entered the house. The two Germans lived in the semicircular room for about a year. Several officers came in and out during the day. At times a third one spent the night there. They were generally discrete but they expected Theodosia to cook the meat and other provisions they brought, “For us and for you,” they specified. She often delegated the task to Grandma Kleanthi. A feeling of trust slowly developed toward these two officers. They provided medicines whenever needed. They were well educated, had studied ancient Greek at school, and one of them used to paint. He had his color crayons with him and one day he made a portrait of Aglaïtsa, who had just stopped crying. It depicted her melancholic in her pajamas. Theodosia liked the portrait and had it framed. It followed Aglaïtsa for the rest of her life. Communication with the Germans involved some German words and some Greek words but mostly sign language. And yet, they managed to understand each other even on rather complicated subjects. For example, one of the Germans confided to Theodosia that their hopes for winning the war relied upon what he called the “new weapons.” At that time she did not know what he meant, but after the war ended with the two shocking atomic-bomb holocausts she realized that he had been referring to the nuclear weapons the Germans were secretly developing. When Boulis was one year old Theodosia decided to wean him from breastfeeding mainly so she could go back to work when the school year began. She wanted again to find milk from a cow that had recently given birth. There were no more cows in Kleanthi’s home. But she knew a woman called Panagiota who had many cows. “Grandma, keep an eye on the children,” she told Kleanthi. “I am going out to find milk for Boulis. I’ll be back soon. Maria, you do not go anywhere until I come back.” She went out in a hurry. There was no one on the streets. There was a rumor that the Germans would be leaving soon. Resistance groups had intensified their activities. Theodosia found Panagiota, who sold her a liter of milk and agreed to reserve a liter for her every day. On the way back there was an eerie silence in town, brutally broken by occasional

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sounds of gunfire. Theodosia ducked her head and stopped running to catch her breath in front of Tzimas’s fabric store, which was closed with its rolling shutters down. At that moment she heard the whistling sound of a bullet that passed centimeters above her head. She screamed as she felt a gust of warm air on her face. The bullet pierced the shutters and was lost inside the store. Theodosia looked at the hole in the shutters and shivered at the realization of how close to death she had gotten. It was probably a stray partisan bullet. With trembling legs she ran home while thanking God. She went into the house and collapsed on the stairs. The German who lived there—there was only one of them left by now—was on his way out and saw her like that. He inquired what had happened and said, “Frau, from now on I will go and get the milk for you every day.” He did so but not for very long. The Germans were indeed leaving and he had to go. He left in a hurry, taking the medical supplies with him but leaving some items behind. Among the things he left were a pair of Zeiss binoculars and a floor lamp with an articulated horizontal arm. The lamp had a square base and an adjustable vertical trunk consisting of a square-cross-section rod sliding in a square channel, all made out of varnished wood. Theodosia saw the binoculars and thought of Giorgos. She knew he would appreciate them because they were much better than the ones he used during his climbing expeditions. She then hung them in the bedroom from a nail inside the walnut door of the built-in closet. The Germans left Florina at the end of October 1944, but before leaving they made another house-to-house search looking for guns and hidden partisans that could interfere with their departure. They showed up at the Modis house unexpectedly. They went from room to room as usual. Theodosia followed them around. One of them noticed the builtin closet and opened its door to look inside. Theodosia saw the binoculars hanging from the nail and cold sweat doused her. There was a large basket with apples on the closet’s bottom shelf. With a hand that was trembling with fear she reached for an apple and offered it to the German saying, “Ist gut!” He took it, noticed her trembling hand, smiled, and closed the closet door. When they left, Theodosia ran to Paraskevi, “Mother, we must hide the binoculars somewhere safe!” she gasped.

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Paraskevi took the binoculars inside their leather case, wrapped it with many newspapers and then went downstairs and out of the house. There were several pots with plants on the concrete porch in front of the house’s main entrance. She turned the biggest pot upside down emptying out the plant. She placed the bundle in the bottom of the pot and replaced the plant with as much dirt as could fit on top of it. The binoculars remained there for more than a year without suffering significant damage. With the Germans gone, Paraskevi regained her room—the big semicircular one. The room had two corners; Paraskevi’s bed was in one corner; Maria slept on a couch in the other corner.

22 The Liberation of Thessaloniki

When the Germans invaded Greece in April 1941 King George II and his government left mainland Greece and went to Crete. But the Germans conquered Crete with paratroopers in a pyrrhic victory on May 20, 1941 and King George and his government were taken to Cairo in Egypt by British forces during the night of May 24. Giorgos Sr. also decided to go to Cairo and join the Greek government-in-exile there. He was worried about his safety in Greece. A new “convert” into the Bulgarian ranks, well connected in the Bulgarian embassy, who had not completely lost his humanity yet, had informed Giorgos Sr. that the Bulgarians and Germans were again becoming interested in his person. He was supposed to travel in a “great boat” that Mrs. Cybil, the Greek actress now wife of Prime Minister Papandreou had used. But it turned out to be a deplorable and slow motor vessel with an even more deplorable captain who eventually brought them to Cesme in Turkey instead of Egypt. Other passengers were impressed with stoic Giorgos Sr. who remained seated at the boat’s stern leaning on his cane with his hat on, silent for hours. From Cesme they crossed Asia Minor and reached Cairo by train. King George II, Prime Minister Georgios Papandreou, Giorgos Sr. and other politicians returned to Athens when the Germans left on October 17, 1944. An agreement was quickly reached to form a national-unity government that included six ministers affiliated with communist-leaning organizations, such as the National Liberation Front (EAM) and the Greek People’s Liberation Army (ELAS). Early in the morning on November 1, Papandreou asked to see Giorgos Sr. and told him: 253

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“You will go to Thessaloniki as Government Commissioner, that is, general governor with broad jurisdiction and authority. A British vehicle will be waiting for you in front of the Ministry of Interior at twelve o’clock sharp to bring you to the airport. Mr. Papalazarou will also come with you as General Commissioner for the town of Kozani.” Giorgos tried to object because he had just given all his clothes to be cleaned. “We cannot be bothered with things like that. The ministers of EAM and KKE have also agreed on your person. The British are eager to have someone they can communicate with in Thessaloniki.” “And what exactly is going on in Thessaloniki right now, Mr. Prime Minister?” asked Giorgos. “We don’t know! That’s why you are going there. Communists are of course dominating the scene for the time being, but they’ll shape up. After all, they do have some legitimate complaints. A national guard will soon be formed and ELAS will be dissolved. The police force will be reinstated. Things will get back on track. We are coming out of a general disruption and overturn. You need to be patient, careful, and understanding. Good luck!” Giorgos Sr. has described in detail more than once his experience with this assignment in the books he published later. Below is an expert translated from the Greek texts recounting the eventful early phase of his appointment.3 At exactly 12:00 an English three-quarter-ton military truck picked us up from in front of the Ministry of the Interior. Papalazarou, who was going as General Commissioner of Kozani, was also there. But instead of the airport we found ourselves on a deserted waterfront of Piraeus! We boarded a brand new cruiser named Sirius. With this, I told myself we’ll be in Thessaloniki in a few hours. But the ship would not move. More people came onboard in the evening, officers from the relief organization Em. El., a forerunner of UNRRA [United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration], and three employees of the Bank of Greece carrying half a dozen big sacks full of drachma bills worth billions. However, by the time we arrived in Thessaloniki rampant inflation would have rendered them practically worthless. The ship finally sailed in the morning but moved very slowly like an overloaded barge and always southward. At

The Liberation of Thessaloniki noon I went up to the captain’s bridge deck and asked him, “Are we going to Alexandria by any chance?” He laughed and answered, “We are avoiding mines. We’ll soon head north.” Around dusk we encountered three or four huge ocean liners carrying an Anglo-Indian division to Thessaloniki. We were now traveling together. I took courage. We stopped at the big port of Skiathos for forty-eight hours. The presence of ELAS soldiers was obvious. They were patrolling the coastline—severe, grim, savage. On shore I went to visit the house of Papadiamantis [Alexandros Papadiamantis was an influential Greek novelist, short-story writer and poet who lived in Skiathos]. Several people who had found out—I don’t know how—that I had been appointed General Governor approached me asking with obvious anxiety, “Are we going to be liberated? Are we going to be saved?” I reassured them, “Everything is going to be all right. We’ll get back to normality and regular life.” The fleet finally set sail. At the last minute they transferred Papalazarou and me to the transport ship that was carrying the division commander and the staff of the 4th Indian division. I understood why I was transferred only when I disembarked in Thessaloniki. We traveled again at a slow pace because of the damned mines, even though there had already been a clean-up operation. The only pastime was eating. At 8 am we had tea in our cabins. Then a copious breakfast with coffee, milk, marmalade, butter, cheeses, cold cuts, even fish with prunes! Snacks at 10:30 am and lunch at noon. More tea with snacks at 5 pm and finally dinner. We were stuffed! We entered the gulf of Thermaïkos on Saturday noon. It was a bright sunny day. We anchored in front of Thessaloniki. The sky was clear blue, the sea deep blue, and behind us at the left old Mt. Olympus had snow on its peak. The city with its tall buildings down along the waterfront, and the medieval wall up in the background crowned with the pinewood and decorated with the glitters scattered like diamonds by reflections on the window panes posed indeed like the “Nymph of Thermaïkos.” Officers and soldiers came out on the docks and the bridges of the ships to look at and admire the spectacular view. The disembarkation began speedily and orderly. The English soldiers very willingly assisted their Indian colleagues to transfer their belonging into the boats ferrying

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD them ashore. The disembarkation was completed by nightfall. The whole division was now in Thessaloniki. Sunday morning promised another sunny halcyon day. I was waiting to be taken on shore at any moment, but in vain. I remained prisoner of the ship, pacing up and down the decks, hanging around. I received visits, however. Among others who came on the almost empty ship now was an old friend, General Bakirtzis, currently commander of the “Group of ELAS Divisions.” With him came someone with a wrinkled uniform, leather gaiters and a large mustache that was presented to me as Markos Vafiadis. I did not pay attention to him as I took him for a bodyguard. But when I found out that he was the “Captain” of the “Group of Divisions”—in other words, the big chief and ruler—I made sure next time they visited me to express my appreciation for his “momentous” achievements. The commander of the Indian division, General Halliday, a short, round, and good-natured fellow, had remained on the ship with a few of his staff for reasons unknown to me at the time. He broke into laughter when I told him about my mistaking Vafiadis for a bodyguard, and in order for me to be able to look after the captain correctly next time he gave me chocolates and a bottle of whiskey. It was a rainy and sultry Monday morning. I packed my suitcase expecting to finally go ashore. I was becoming indignant. The trip had lasted long enough and now I was sitting and watching Thessaloniki from the boat for three days! But some captain came and told me in good French, “Today it is raining; tomorrow, Tuesday, is a bad day for the Greeks; you’ll go on shore on Wednesday.” I went out of my mind. I told him that I wasn’t on a cruise. I had a very important urgent assignment. Had I traveled on a donkey I would have gotten to my destination sooner. But he did not stick around to hear my objections. I went and complained to General Halliday, but he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. I didn’t know what to think. By 11 am the sun peeked behind the clouds. The same captain came around and said in French, “Let’s go.” I grabbed my suitcase; Papalazarou did the same. We disembarked on the right side of the White Tower. To my surprise I saw a large group of people welcoming me with flowers. How and when had they found out? I imagined they had been waiting there since morning or even since Sunday! I recognized many of them. They were acquaintances

The Liberation of Thessaloniki from Florina and from Monastiri. But it all became clear to me when we turned onto Niki [Victory] Avenue along the seaside. Crowds awaited me. The two wide sidewalks of the avenue were full of people. ELAS soldiers were lined up all along on both sides. Every now and then, Indian soldiers stood at the corners. General Halliday, Papalazarou and I got into a luxury English convertible with its top down that was parked in front of the White Tower. A tall Indian officer stood up next to the driver. The mysterious captain bid me goodbye with a handshake and a smile. A smaller car appeared and took up position in front of us. It had a wireless and two officers standing up, an Englishman and an Indian. More cars followed us with English and Indian officers. We drove with ceremonial slowness. The English had organized everything in strict secrecy, copying welcoming ceremonies of maharajas and viceroys. My welcome was the warmest, sincerest, and most enthusiastic that the Macedonian capital had ever known. A crescendo roar of “hurray” greeted us. Hats were thrown in the air. Women and girls crammed on balconies threw flowers, waved flags, and cheered with enthusiasm. The further we drove the denser the crowd and the louder the cheering. I understood that these raving people expected me to bring them freedom, order, and security. Could I possibly deliver? Would the representatives of the communist party cooperate? They were known not only to violate agreements but to also go against their own party’s interests. If I only had our own police force … We stopped at Eleytheria’s [Liberty] Square where a Scottish company was lined up. We inspected them. They then showed me the balcony of the Hotel Ritz from where I would speak. I found there a loudspeaker, a table with paper, pencil and water, and a glass of soumada orgeat syrup. [Orgeat syrup is sweet syrup made from almonds, sugar, and rose water.] N.B. I gave my speech. But in the evening I found out that the militia had arrested many among those who had cheered the loudest. I had “broad jurisdiction and authority,” but no essential power.

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Giorgos Sr. was frustrated not being able to enforce anything. He didn’t have a single policeman under his orders and became aware that the communist-dominated militia massively arrested opponents of their ideology and proceeded to summary executions. In vain he tried to interfere with these practices. He felt helpless. One day in late March 1945 a new General Governor of Macedonia showed up in Thessaloniki! Bewildered, Giorgos Sr. boarded an English airplane and flew to Athens. When the new Prime Minister, Nikolaos Plastiras saw him, he asked, “What are you doing here?” “You have appointed a replacement for me,” complained Giorgos Sr.

“How can that be? No, I haven’t done any such thing!” Apparently, someone in the Central Committee had forged his signature. But Giorgos Sr. was fed up with that powerless position, so he quit and went to Florina, where there was a marginal battalion of the National Guard. When the first English arrived there, EAM (the National Liberation Front) organized welcoming ceremonies that included … Bulgarian songs. A close acquaintance of Giorgos Sr. was heard publicly shouting, “Death to Modis!” without specifying which Modis he meant (most likely Giorgos Sr.) A young English vice-counsel and Captain Evans, who had spent two years on the mountains with ELAS, had just been charged with checking out the situation in Florina and neighboring Monastiri. The latter asked Giorgos Sr. for copies of his books written before the war. Giorgos Sr. gave him three volumes of his Macedonian Stories. Evans had learned enough Greek to read them. Several days later Evans came back to thank Giorgos Sr. and express his gratitude, “Your books revealed things to me.” “How is that?” “I’ve been in this area for two years now and was under the impression that those who speak the Slavic dialect are Bulgarians, those who speak Vlach are Romanians, and those who speak Albanian are Albanians. When I read in your books that these villages were populated mostly by Greeks I did not believe it. So I went to Proti and asked old men, old women, and children what they were. They told me, ‘We are Greeks.’ ‘Aren’t you Macedonians?’ I asked. ‘We are Macedonian Greeks,’ they said. ‘Aren’t you Bulgarians?’ ‘Heavens No! They can go to hell.’

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‘Aren’t you Macedonians like those in Yugoslavia?’ ‘Of course not—they are Bulgarians.’ “So I came to believe that you were telling the truth. But I cannot understand how people can speak one language and feel they belong to another nationality.” At that point Giorgos Sr. asked him, “Tell me who are the oldest and worst enemies of the British?” After a moment’s thought he answered, “The Irish.” “Well, don’t the Irish speak English?” and continued, “aren’t the Welsh bona fide Britons even though they speak a language that resembles English less than these dialects here—full of Greek words— resemble Greek?” Evans admitted that Giorgos Sr. had a valid point and that his own thinking had been rather naïve. It took more than a couple of years before the Greek Nationalists progressively supplanted communist influence in Thessaloniki. And when that happened the roles became reversed. Communists and communist sympathizers were persecuted, imprisoned, and executed. Atrocities prompted Giorgos Sr. to take action in favor of the communists despite his political leanings. He intercepted irregular executions and facilitated the escape of communists to neighboring Yugoslavia and Bulgaria. In the meantime, in a background of food shortages and rampant inflation, Giorgos Jr. kept sending packages with provisions and money to Florina. He sometimes included clothes in need of cleaning or mending. He invariably expressed his longing for his family in the letters he included. Theodosia returned packages with things he requested but often also with certain provisions depending on whether the shortage was more severe in Florina or in Thessaloniki. Thessaloniki, Tuesday 11.1.1944 My dearest Saki, I received the butter, which was exquisite! I would like some more of that because I am thinking of adding it to my diet. I eat well here in a good restaurant nearby but one portion costs 55,000 drachmas and to feel full you need at least three of those, which are entirely deprived of grease. I also enjoyed the eggs, which were very fresh. I received the clothes and sent Eleni’s basket on to Vasilis. I am eager now to see what kind of luck we are going to have this year following so much success with the coins in

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD the New-Year cakes. That everyone be well. Patience is needed. I got paid and I almost sent you some money, but then I decided to buy some gold sovereigns instead. So now I’ll send you money after tomorrow, Thursday, when I’ll receive a good amount. I was telling you that I bought some excellent flannel material for 4,500,000 drachmas. Now it is worth 10,000,000. Let’s see what the tailor will make from it. He wants three million for his work. Fortunately I managed to buy in time shoes (black) for 1,500,000. Now they cost 3,500,000. People are asking whatever price they want, completely wild. The expensiveness is unheard of. With the money I will send you make sure to quickly stock up on food supplies. Do you have enough wheat? Rush to buy more, I will be sending money again. Make sure you do not run out of the essentials. You also need clothes. The kids? Write to me. I read your last letter many times especially Aglaïtsa’s words. I want you to write a lot. You hear? Given that I don’t have the chance to listen to her directly I want you to share with me all her sayings. Also, you too must write more than two three phrases; not only me. Skatoula, I miss you. Now that I am writing to you I have been home since 6. I am in low spirits and lonely. I don’t go out anywhere, except to see Mirtsos, whom I often visit in the evenings. The movie theaters do not show good movies. I haven’t been to a theater premiere or other concert either. When you see that the socks are too worn out, don’t mend them but try to stitch a toe section at the heel. Fortunately I still have 8–9 pairs. As for the price, you’ll be lucky to find a pair for 100,000. What is Makris up to? Write to me a lot. Your aunt is well. She has her brother Mihalis there and they all eat together. I love you all. How is it going with my mother? Does she sometimes scold the kids? Greetings to my Aunt Domniki, Ioulia, and Tsana. Write much and often. Kisses Giorgos

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Here Giorgos asked Theodosia to convey greetings to his relatives naming them one by one but significantly leaving out Giorgos Sr. In another letter three months later he indicated that prices at the restaurant had gone up by a factor of ten. Saturday 15.4.1944 [day before Easter] My dearest Saki, Tonight I waited to receive your letters and the basket before writing to you. I wasn’t able to buy anything because everything was closed. I will later send you some oranges and rice. There are shortages of everything this year. Moreover, everything is expensive. The meat costs 2 million drachmas. One dish at the restaurant is 500,000. Dearest Saki, I don’t want to hear complaining. We’ve got to make do with whatever we have and I hope it will soon be over. I haven’t forgotten anything and you know well that I cannot forget you all. Today I am depressed because I remembered our previous life here and I am brooding over it, but what is there to do? You are all constantly on my mind. Patience is needed. I want to bring up again the possibility of getting together, but the trip is so painful. Look after the kids. I have much confidence in you and I want you, my dearest Saki, not to worry and to be careful. Happy Easter! Be well, all of you. Kisses, Giorgos HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

During the German–Italian occupation of Greece from 1941 to 1944, catastrophic hyperinflation and Nazi looting of the Greek treasury caused the Greek government to print currency notes with progressively larger denominations. In 1944 they actually printed a note with 100,000,000,000 drachmas on it! In November 1944, after Greece was liberated from the Germans, old drachmas were exchanged for new ones at the rate of 50,000,000,000 to 1. But this new drachma also suffered from high inflation, which was reigned in only progressively as the country’s economy improved.

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In May Theodosia was persuaded to undertake a short trip to Thessaloniki in order to bring the kids to Giorgos. The trip was again arranged with Kyrkos the taxi owner. It was the first time Giorgos had seen Boulis. But he was more interested in Aglaïtsa with whom he could now communicate. The reunion had a bumpy start because Theodosia was frustrated trying to fit everybody into Giorgos’s small studio. At some point she even suggested that they go visit Anastasia Zampetas to check out whether there could be more space for them there. But in the end it worked out all right. Giorgos was very happy to be with them and his tight quarters proved more cozy than bothersome. When they left he wrote an emotional letter. Thessaloniki, 29.5.1944 [St. Theodosia Day] My Dearest Saki, Many and happy returns! I love you very much. Your visit was among the happiest and most beautiful moments of my life. You gave me so much joy that your sulking when we first met, and mine later at Zampetas’s, were eliminated the way the first snowflakes melt in water. I am very content because I needed you intensely. I longed for human warmth and for the beauty we have created together some time ago; also for the joy we have brought to our existence with our new worlds. When in the past I said Skatoulitsa [my little rascal] Aglaïtsa, I was talking mainly to myself; but now she understands me. I crave to repeat her many clearly articulated words as well as her failed attempts. I have a craving for all that she does. As for you, Skatoula mou, without jewelry—and you shouldn’t become conceited—you were so nice to look at and possessed such a beauty that I felt my male egoism immensely satisfied. Everything was good in you because you shared the genuine beauty of the children. I feel good and reassured about them, which I consider proudly and egoistically my own. There are some things that can be communicated only in silence. For that reason I won’t write about the most recent splendor that you offered me. Everything was nice and beautiful around you, my beloved Saki. Once again your virtue triumphed in all its majestic appeal. I was telling you that there is nothing that can be compared with you guys. Here everyone and everything is so much more conventional, dull, both in theory and in practice.

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I can assure you I see only insipid people standing around me. They are not interesting or inspiring. They all have a second skin that makes them look like stumps. Yes, I savored rare beauty during your visit. Everything was beautiful. There were no clouds, not for a minute, not for a second. Your natural beauty with your living jewels provides the best framing for your life. Your creation is rooted in your soul and the new ones you created with some of … my help. Skatoula! I love you all. Be well and I am sure that an even more beautiful life awaits us given that we are all good. I have great expectations. I would write much, very much, more if time permitted, because now I feel an all-embracing joy—a human but also a divine joy. You should be very happy. Even more today because your little Giorgos loves you, respects you, and esteems you much more than friends like Eleni who have shown their good but also their bad sides to you. Write to me about the kids and especially about my Aglaïtsa. I kiss you all. Giorgos

The situation in Thessaloniki did not really improve with the departure of the Germans in October 1944. One could say the opposite. The Germans had been interested in the country running smoothly to whatever extent was possible under their occupation. But now the communists, vying for power mostly in the north, were more interested in hindering the government’s functioning in Athens. By year’s end Giorgos’s letter presented an unusual picture of his financial situation. Thessaloniki, 19.12.1944 My Dearest Saki, I am writing to you in a hurry, I meant to write yesterday. Unfortunately, Boutzouvis informed me only just now that he’ll be traveling to Florina. Regarding your concerns about bringing the children again here, it is better that you wait for a while. They are asking at least two gold sovereigns per month for a bigger apartment and I have had no business for 5 months now. Not a single case. There is absolutely nothing! Lawyers, as usual, do not help each other; they are practically ruined.

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD They fired us from our last project and you can well imagine the tragedy. On the other hand, things are so irregular that nothing can be done. Or maybe everything can be done; I don’t know what to think. In any case, I’d like to come for the holidays to see you and the kids. But the trip these days scares me. Therefore wait until we talk about this again. I want you to send me my pajamas and the radio. I am sending you some nice oranges, a chocolate bar, some spaghetti, and two cans [spam]. Write me lots. Kisses, Giorgos It is imperative that you send me one golden sovereign. I need it desperately. Don’t forget, I am really broke.

Theodosia asked Voltskos to unearth the radio. The dark blanket wrapped around it had rotted away and so had much of the radio’s wooden case. Some of the metal chassis was rusted. She sent it to Giorgos as it was. He brought it to an electrician. With some work on it and with a new wooden housing the radio was eventually made to play again and it did so for many years in the Modis family. Giorgos did not go to Florina that year. It took him twelve more months to find the courage to do so. Traveling between the two cities became progressively more treacherous and vehicles had to move in convoys in an effort to avoid ambushes by communist guerrillas.

23 The Communists in Florina

The departure of the Germans did not signify the end of occupation for Florina. The Germans had brought the Bulgarians with them, and the Bulgarians had no intention of leaving. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

The Bulgarians allied themselves with the Germans during World War II in order to eventually annex Greek territory. Despite the fact that the Bulgarian occupation of Greece took place mainly in the regions of Eastern Macedonia and Thrace, Florina was also under Bulgarian influence. The German authorities gave the exponents of the Bulgarian cause a free hand in their policy of intimidating the local population. Greek resistance forces had the double task of facing the occupying army as well as Bulgarian fascist paramilitary forces. While the Axis Powers occupied Greece, different guerrilla bands created resistance movements all over northern Greece. Among them were the National Republican Greek League (EDES), the Slavic-Macedonian National Liberation Front (SNLF), and organizations such as the Greek People’s Liberation Army (ELAS) and the National Liberation Front (EAM) both partisan armies under the aegis of the Greek Communist Party (KKE). The word “national” appeared in the names of all organizations active in the resistance in Florina. They all solicited the assistance of Florina residents by citing the interests of the nation, describing all their acts as “national resistance.” In the name of national resistance Greeks clashed with Greeks in all sorts of conflicts; a prelude to the civil war that followed. It was in the name of national resistance that ELAS rebels ambushed the Germans in April 1944 in Drosopigi, under the command of Elias Dimakis or Gotse, who shortly afterwards crossed into

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Yugoslavia together with several dozen Florina rebels who were uncertain of what nation they belonged to. The nation was fragmented throughout Greece and in Florina the affiliation of some rebels vacillated awkwardly between Greece, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia and even Albania. But there were also collaborationist movements like the Ohrana battalions constituted from armed members of Bulgarian-sponsored units. At the end of the occupation Ohrana members were quick to join the Slavic-speaking units officially under the jurisdiction of ELASEAM in order to avoid punishment. Slavic Macedonians sympathized with ELAS-EAM and in general with the Greek Communist Party because of their friendly disposition towards the ethnic minorities of Greece and the fact that they had acquiesced to Soviet demands for an independent Macedonian state that would contain most of Northern Greece. At a meeting between Yugoslav and Greek partisans in 1943 Tito’s representative used the term “Macedonian nationals” for the first time and asked for the cooperation of ELAS-EAM to win Bulgarian collaborationists back to the Macedonian ideological camp. Throughout the war ELAS resisted Yugoslav pressure to allow the Slavic SNLF to form separate ranks and pursue its own policy in Greek Macedonia. Many ELAS members were not communists. They had been swayed into its ranks by sincere patriotic feelings. In the province of Florina partisan-like activities did not cease with the departure of the Germans. They were carried out by Bulgarians through 1945 and by all those who had been armed as Bulgarians by the German-Bulgarian regime to fight ELAS and EAM, but later joined ranks with the Slavic-speaking units of ELAS. In any case, they enjoyed the support of the communist members.

Across the main street from the Modis house lived a family whose father was Bulgarian. They often had Bulgarian officers invited for dinner. During the summer they ate on the balcony, visible to neighbors, purposely setting their table using a Greek flag for a tablecloth. It made Paraskevi furious. On the morning of November 1, 1945 the town crier announced that ELAS forces were going to “officially” liberate Florina and therefore Greek flags should be raised in all houses. They heard it well at the Modis house because the crier used to make a stop on the corner of the little square right in front of their house. Paraskevi took out the big Greek flag on its blue-and-white pole and fixed it on the balcony overlooking

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the little square. It wasn’t long before soldiers came down the main street from the northwest side of the town. They were jubilant and sang with loud voices, “Zaborba, Zaborba …” When Paraskevi heard them she went crazy. “These are not Greeks. These are Bulgarians! Take the flag down,” she shouted as she pulled the flag back inside the house continually protesting, “If these are the people who will liberate us, we are doomed.” The residents of Florina quickly realized that they had to deal with a new type of occupation by Greeks with communist leanings and an important element of Bulgarians amongst them. New directives and different textbooks were introduced at the elementary schools. Among them was the suppression of the Morning Prayer. Theodosia was irked. She replaced the traditional morning singing of the prayer by all students in the schoolyard with a more discrete prayer inside her own classroom. The new administration acted in the name of “Free Greece.” It was communist-friendly but did not consist of true-blue communists. The real communists were entrenched in the mountains around Florina, waiting for the right moment to take over the town. A number of educators were drafted to work for the new administration because most men in command had little or no education. The high-school teacher Ioulia Dimitsopoulou—Theodosia’s friend—was one of those drafted. They also approached Theodosia but she was able to resist because she had two young children to look after and couldn’t be away from home for extended periods. It was a good thing, because Ioulia paid dearly for her involvement with the ELAS regime. When the communists were finally defeated and expelled from Greece she was accused of having collaborated with them. She lost her job as a high-school teacher and suffered financial hardship. Following much bitterness and many efforts in different directions over four years she was eventually reinstated as a high-school teacher. Theodosia had met Ioulia in Thessaloniki back in the late 1920s when she visited Niki at the YMCA. At that time, Ioulia from Florina was studying at the university to become a high-school teacher and was also staying at the YMCA. The three of them—Niki, Ioulia, and Theodosia—had Florina in common and hung out together. But Theodosia and Ioulia became close friends later in Florina because Ioulia also lived on Captain Modis Street, a few doors down from Theodosia’s house. Ioulia had a sister, Maria, and a brother, Takos. Maria died young and Takos left Greece right after high school to study in Germany, was

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subsequently declared a deserter from the Greek Army, and could no longer come back to Greece. During the war Ioulia and Theodosia were two lone ladies on Captain Modis Street enduring the hardships of war. Prompted by Aglaïtsa’s birth, Ioulia and her mother began sending goodies to Theodosia: pitas, cakes, desserts, etc. They said Theodosia had taken the place of their Maria. Years later, Ioulia’s father, who needed money for his business, asked to borrow from Theodosia. The latter, even though she couldn’t part with money easily, gave him her savings: twenty British gold sovereigns. He later gave her back twentytwo saying that this way he could come again to ask for her help if needed. He died at 95, doing business all the way to the end of his life. The new occupying forces in Florina needed accommodation. Like the Germans before them they began confiscating rooms and even whole houses. Two young conscripts with guns and insignia of rank on their shoulders showed up at the Modis house with the intention of living there. Theodosia let them in and began explaining to them the difficulties: the grandmother was ill with serious flu, the two very young children were often crying, etc. “You can stay the night in the good room,” she suggested, “but it will be difficult, as you can see, for the long term.” But something else got their attention. “You are Mistress Theodosia,” said one of them with a big smile. Then she recognized them. They had been her students years ago when she was teaching at the Kastanos’s model school. They had not expected to find their teacher of old times in that house. The two young men were obviously touched and so was Theodosia. They all had good memories of the School of Work. They laid their guns down, took their jackets off, and reminisced about the old days, also recounting all their recent adventures. They stayed the night but the next day they left saying, “Thank you, Mistress, don’t worry we will find somewhere else to stay.” But before the end of the year others succeeded in usurping the Modis house. Theodosia had a colleague named Vetta. Her husband Vangelis, a rather unscrupulous character, came to the Modis house one day saying that he and his wife had been ousted from their house and they needed somewhere to live. He wanted to move into the good room. Theodosia did not like the idea at all and Paraskevi hated it. But he argued that if he did not, someone else—probably militia—would, as they had done with his house. With persuasion (Vetta was pregnant), and even threats (he had Bulgarian connections—in fact, he was later

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branded a collaborationist), he succeeded. The couple moved into the good room that autumn. Paraskevi couldn’t believe that they had gotten rid of the Germans only to have to put up with Greek occupiers. She made it her raison d’être to get rid of these people and she began by nagging them. But they stayed for almost a year. Vetta had the baby during the winter of 1944–1945. Vaggelis was involved in dark dealings with the black market. He was often away. He was away one night when the baby was not well. Vetta asked for Theodosia’s help. They warmed up some cotton impregnated with alcohol and tried to rub the baby’s cold feet. It took some time before they realized that the baby was dead. In view of their loss Paraskevi stopped nagging them for a while. But she put in place a more Machiavellian plan for ousting them. On the ceiling of the hall there was a trap door that led to the roof of the house. To access this door one had to use a ladder. Toward the end of the summer and at a moment when no one could see her, Paraskevi brought out the long wooden ladder from the bathroom where it was being stored and climbed up onto the roof. It was a delicate and dangerous operation because the ceiling was made of flimsy plastered chaume so that one had to be careful to step only on the wooden beams supporting it. Moreover, once outside on the roof, the slope was steep—to avoid accumulation of snow—so one risked tumbling down. Nevertheless, Paraskevi managed to dislodge a tile from the roof right above the good room. The first time it rained the ceiling in the good room began leaking. Vetta was upset, “Theodosia, can’t you get this repaired?” she asked. “I don’t know where to find a mason these days,” Theodosia was quite realistic. “The workers are either up in the mountains fighting or have left the town because they were scared. Maybe Vangelis can go up on the roof and fix it.” Vangelis was not the kind of person to undertake such a project. They decided to just put up with a leaking roof. But Paraskevi wasn’t going to sit around and wait. She repeated the operation and increased the size of the leak. With autumn showers more frequent, Vetta pregnant again, and Paraskevi who resumed her nagging, the situation became intolerable for them. Vangelis decided to take his family elsewhere. Despite her age, Paraskevi went up on the roof one last time and repaired the hole she had made. During Christmas of 1945 Giorgos summoned up enough courage to visit his family in Florina for a few days. The distance between

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Florina and Thessaloniki is only 190 kilometers but the trip had become dangerous with communist guerillas roaming the countryside. The trip by car involved travelling in a convoy preceded by a mine detector and took anywhere from six to twelve hours depending on the intensity of the belligerencies. It was the first time Giorgos had been to Florina since his arrest by the Germans. Among his luggage there were two large boxes. One was for Aglaïtsa, a big doll all dressed up. The other one was for Boulis, a wood-block set. There were many blocks of three sizes, 4x4x1, 8x4x1, and 12x4x1 centimeters. There was nothing fancy about these pieces. They were not colored, simply varnished natural wood in an unmarked box. But Boulis played extensively for many years with those blocks and even supplemented the set with other odd pieces as he grew older. In contrast, Aglaïtsa never played with her doll. When she received it, she was allowed to take it out of the box and look at it. But soon afterwards the doll was put back in the box and stowed away so that it did not get “ruined.” Theodosia would bring the doll out from time to time and let Aglaïtsa take it out of the box and look at it for a little while, but then it was again put back in its box and stowed in the closet. That doll remained in the condition it had arrived in for years, until Aglaïtsa was no longer interested in playing with dolls. Giorgos’s visit was a little awkward. He hadn’t seen his family for more than a year and had never lived in that house with Theodosia (they had spent only a few nights there together when Paraskevi was away). Now all four of them slept in the bedroom. Boulis was still a baby but Aglaïtsa was four years old and preferred to roam around the house rather than stay in the crowded bedroom. In fact, she did not feel comfortable around her father. The persistent calls, “Come, Aglaïtsa, and be with your father,” would trigger in her mind thoughts like, “Who is this man? I don’t know him. What do they want me to do? Oh, God, make him disappear.” Paraskevi nagged Giorgos about baptizing Boulis. “We should do it now that you are here. You don’t want to take the risk of going too long without a baptism.” She was religious. She went to church every Sunday, which wasn’t the case with Giorgos and Theodosia. The latter went to church sparingly and took communion even more rarely. She was religious, but had no overwhelming respect for priests or the church. Giorgos went to church only at Easter, when everyone else went. He did not feel the urgency to baptize Boulis. Moreover, he was neither prepared (they hadn’t decided on a godfather yet) nor was there

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time for such arrangements. He argued with his mother concerning religious upbringing. “You can be the way you are, but don’t interfere with the children. They will do as they please in their lives,” he said. He stayed in Florina only a few days that time and as it turned out he never came back again. During the winter 1945–1946 Boulis got sick often. He seemed to have a propensity for colds. By springtime he had developed a chronic cough that would seriously perturb his own and his mother’s sleep at night. When his temperature rose again to 38,7o Theodosia stopped by Doctor Loukas’s place on her way back from school and asked his opinion. “Go home and I’ll be there in a little while,” he said. Loukas examined Boulis carefully and said, “It is not the flu. These are remnants of an old cold, but this continuous cough is a nuisance and prevents him from sleeping. I would suggest that you ask for a few days’ leave from work and take him to a clinic in Thessaloniki. They will take better care of him there. Here it will be more difficult for him to recover with the care provided mostly by the grandmother. It will also make Giorgos happy!” The doctor’s words made Theodosia determined to give her baby the best of care. She was going to take Boulis to a clinic in Thessaloniki. Aglaïtsa would be all right with grandmother and Maria for a few days. She submitted her request for a few days’ leave and prepared her suitcase. But transportation wasn’t a trivial matter. Maria knew this man Joseph in Tsifliki (her mother’s neighborhood), who had recently brought an old truck from Germany to do transport business. “Maria, run and ask Joseph to take us to Thessaloniki as soon as he can. Tell him that I’ll be taking the baby too,” Theodosia instructed Maria. Early next morning Joseph showed up with his truck in time to join the convoy that would be leaving for Thessaloniki. Theodosia and Boulis sat next to him in the cabin. A young man, Joseph’s helper, was in the back under the tent. It was a gloomy cloudy day. The convoy consisted of three or four trucks and several cars. In front went the mine-detector vehicle that moved sometimes faster and other times slower. A couple of hours later it began raining. It wasn’t raining hard but the windshield wipers were not working and the rainwater on the dirty windshield soon formed a rather opaque layer of mud. Joseph shouted to the guy in the back, “Come and clean the windshield!” The guy stuck

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his head out of the tent and leaned forward above the cabin, stretching down with his hand to reach the windshield from the outside. He was holding his cigarette package, a thin rectangular hard box that opened like a briefcase. He dragged the flat part of the box on the windshield leaving a clear strip. He repeated the operation two–three times. Inside the cabin Joseph seemed satisfied. Of course, the procedure had to be repeated many times and Boulis kept coughing incessantly. Closer to Thessaloniki the rain stopped and the convoy picked up speed. They arrived at Thessaloniki in the evening. Theodosia directed Joseph to St. Sophia Square. An old classmate of hers, Nitsa, had married a doctor who had his own clinic across the street from the church. Nitsa remembered Theodosia and installed them in a large room where they could both spend the night. She also brought something for them to eat. The room had a big window with its top section half open. “That remains open all night,” Nitsa instructed Theodosia to her dismay. Popular thinking in cases of illness was to always eliminate all possible sources of cold air. “It is best that you both rest now,” Nitsa continued, “tomorrow you will see the doctor. Anyway, there is nothing urgent. Good night.” Boulis stopped coughing that night. Was it the open window? Was it the change of air? Or simply the end of his illness? Theodosia didn’t really care. She was just happy that the cough had stopped. The next morning the doctor came, examined Boulis, and said that he was fine and that they could go home. Nitsa brought them breakfast. Theodosia thanked her and promised that her husband would come and pay the bill. She rushed with Boulis to catch Giorgos at home before he left for work. Giorgos was thrilled to see them at his door unexpectedly. He took Boulis in his arms and danced around for a while. He then wanted to know everything about their trip. He decided to go to work only for a few urgent things in the morning and be back for lunch. Around 1 pm he came and took them in a taxi to the tavern he frequented. They had fresh boiled fish for lunch. Then went back home for a siesta. Theodosia spent her vacation days in Thessaloniki. Giorgos came early in the afternoons and they went out for food and walks. One afternoon they went to the Astoria café for coffee and pastries. The weather was nice, so they sat on a table outside and when a man passed by selling balloons with helium Giorgos bought one for Boulis. The child was excited to see the balloon pulling up on his hand, but not for long. He did not hold the string tight enough and the balloon

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escaped his grip and drifted upward. All three of them looked at it as it rose to the canopy and got stuck under it, way too high to be retrieved. Boulis seemed dumbfounded. Theodosia said, “It’s all right.” Giorgos kept looking around saying, “Where is that man? We’ll buy another one.” On leave for only a few days Theodosia couldn’t stay long in Thessaloniki. She had already arranged the return trip to Florina with Joseph. Back home she found a letter from Niki waiting for her. There was bad news. Niki’s husband Giorgos had died. His wounds had never really healed completely and he developed fatal complications including tuberculosis. Niki became another young widow and single mother in the long list of Greek wives having lost their spouses in the war. Her husband had been an officer in the Greek Army so she qualified to receive a widow’s pension. She moved to Athens and found an apartment in Tourkovounia, not far from where her brother Voulis lived. Theodosia wanted to have a good family picture taken but now she realized that with Giorgos away such a possibility would not arise any time soon. So she dressed herself and the kids up and went to Linaras’s photo studio in Florina to have a picture of only the three of them. He took a nice photograph. “Too bad Giorgos couldn’t be here,” he said. But Theodosia had an idea, “If I give you a picture of Giorgos, could you insert it here with us?” “Yes, of course, that’s a good idea,” replied Linaras. She gave him a picture of Giorgos and Linaras applied the tricks of his trade. The result was a family picture with all four of them. She asked him to blow it up and had it framed with a silver antique-replica framing. It was hung in the good room on the same wall, but respectably lower than the grand portrait of Paraskevi and Theodoros, which had gold framing. It wasn’t seen much. The good room remained generally closed and consequently it was cold in there. The Modises spent most of their time in the large semicircular room where Paraskevi had her bed; it served as a living room. There was a wood stove in one corner and a mangali (brazier) near Paraskevi’s bed. Theodosia, the kids, and friends gathered around the stove; they roasted chestnuts on it. At night Paraskevi would transfer leftover charcoal from the stove into her mangali before going to bed. Nouna and Nounos (Eleni and Dimos) stopped by often; they were like family. They were never ushered into the good room. “Don’t punish Boulis because he doesn’t know how to cry yet,” Nounos told Theodosia. He was referring to the fact that Boulis cried

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loudly, not as grownups do. Nounos liked the children very much. He had instructed Eleni to make sure the kids inherited something from them when they died, suspecting that, being older, he would probably go first. Indeed he died many years before his wife. He had a heart attack one night following a uniquely intense argument at work earlier that day. Nouna, faithful to his wishes, made her will accordingly, leaving a small apartment to Aglaïtsa and a store to Boulis. It came as a surprise to Theodosia when a messenger boy brought her a letter without specifying whom it was from. The letter was not signed. It was written with in pencil in somewhat formal Greek. 11.9.1946 My dear, It is rare that a woman’s physiognomy can produce such strong feelings. But if we look deeper, things become simple. You are well aware of the circumstances under which I have been posted here. From the first day that your glance fell on me two–three times—certainly under only natural curiosity—I recognized in your face, even from a distance, a kindness, a compassion triggered perhaps by that fateful person I came to replace. After this incident revealed your most noble soul my days went by peacefully and I was content to slowly become accustomed to this town. Two or three times I happened to see you on the street and I discerned on your face the characteristics of classical Greek beauty. And when that evening a few days ago, completely accidentally, as you know we sat across each other at the patisserie I had the opportunity to observe you from really close. You cannot imagine the thrill your sweet glances produced in me. I thought that your heart wanted to tell me so much that would console me in the situation I found myself in. So that I would have no other thought in my mind than the performance of my duties and the love of a woman with clear-cut Greek characteristics and a noble soul. I did not inquire in order not to arouse suspicions and still now I do not know who you are. I see you are the mother of two adorable children. I have been accustomed to respect the family and I wouldn’t like to interfere with your family duties. From your appearance and from hearing you speak, you seem to be educated, and I hope you well understand that my feelings are refined, idealized and spiritually driven so that I can feel you as an absolutely-close-to-me

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person. If you could also open your heart and let it speak to me … With infinite esteem and compassion.

Theodosia was flattered. She had a good idea who this judiciary official was and strongly suspected that he also knew who she was. But in any case, she was not available and wouldn’t even consider the possibility of responding to his letter in any way. And that was the end of that. It was a true Indian-summer day in autumn. Theodosia prepared a picnic for an outing to the out-of-town tavern The Acropolis. Her friends soon arrived—Angela with her helper Agapi, and Eleni. In early afternoon the sun was bright and many people took the half-hour walk to The Acropolis for drinks. They sat at a table in the sun and ordered coffees and orangeades. Angela had brought a piece of delicious pita for everyone. She had made it in the morning. Theodosia helped Aglaïtsa eat from the picnic and Maria ran after Boulis, who ran around on the grass exploring the surroundings. The women chatted and gossiped. Before sunset they began walking back. Aglaïtsa walked while Boulis was in the stroller. Coming down the gentle slope they ran into two brothers, relatives of Maria’s who were leaving town with their horses. They stopped to talk to Maria. They were going for wood in preparation for approaching winter. “We can bring up to five loads of burning wood at a time,” they said and advertised, “good oak trees.” “I am interested!” said Theodosia. “Bring me five loads but make sure it is dry wood and cut in reasonable-size pieces.” “Don’t worry, madam, it will be as you like it. I know the Modis house,” one of them reassured her. A little later the women said goodbye to each other and split in different directions. At home Grandma Paraskevi was concerned that the children might have caught a cold. She had lit a stove because the house was a little damp. Maria brought some dry wood and lit the stove in the kitchen as well. Theodosia prepared the milk bottles for the children’s bedtime. She lay down too. It had been a long time since she had been close to nature, walked on grass, or smelled the clean fresh air of the countryside. She felt peaceful. She was with herself and her children.

24 The Years of the Greek Civil War

During her last trip to Thessaloniki with Boulis, Theodosia noticed that Giorgos was not quite his usual self. He seemed preoccupied, at times uncomfortable with her presence in the small studio. It couldn’t all be attributed to their crowding in narrow quarters, or to professional concerns. He had told her that he shared an office with another lawyer, named Georgiadis, but there was also a woman lawyer in the picture on whose role he did not elaborate. In his recent letters, arriving less frequently than previously, the subject of his loneliness took more importance. He complained that he lived far away from his children, “Write to me about the children. I want details. What do they say? What do they do? I am longing to see them.” She replied, “Be patient for a couple more months. I will bring them to you at Christmas so that I won’t have to ask for leave from work. Don’t worry—time will pass quickly. Make sure you take good care of yourself.” Another package and letter from Giorgos arrived in mid-December delivered by a driver Theodosia had not seen before. “Is the transportation to Thessaloniki safe and well established now?” she asked him. “More or less,” he replied. “It is done with GMC military trucks in a convoy and is sometimes disturbed by the guerillas fighting in the mountains.” The next day Theodosia went to check the details of this kind of traveling and reserve a place. Large military GMC trucks were outfitted with benches for seats on each side, covered with a tent. “Where are 277

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the children going to sit? Not on the floor?” she wondered, “I’ve got to think of something safe.” She devised the best baby seat, safe and sturdy: a small tin trough that she used as the children’s bathtub! She lined it with a thick little blanket and two small pillows and placed the kids inside facing each other. They liked it. They took it for a game and did not want to come out. Two other little woolen blankets served as covers. On the day the trip was scheduled, the taxi came very early in the morning to load everything. Maria helped with the kids. Grandma gave her good wishes. Theodosia gave Maria last instructions, “Lock the door at night. There is some money in the drawer for shopping.” As the taxi started its motor, Theodosia made the sign of the cross. The taxi brought them to the town’s soccer field where many trucks and other vehicles were lined up waiting. Theodosia and the kids took their place in their truck. There were other older kids sitting on the floor. The convoy began moving slowly. There was apprehension among the passengers. They talked about communist guerillas fighting government forces in the mountains they were going to traverse. The convoy stopped often. They heard gunfire in the background. It took them several hours to reach Amynteo, a town only fifty kilometers south of Florina. There they stopped and decided to spend the night because serious fighting was reported in the mountains ahead, and it wouldn’t be wise to continue. The trip was scheduled to pick up again the next day. People scrambled out, looking for somewhere to stay. Theodosia knew a family—Giorgos’s acquaintance—and decided to go there. A man with a pushcart carried the luggage and Boulis sat on top of it; Aglaïtsa walked. The people Theodosia knew were nice; they were happy to lodge the Modis family for the night. But that night, despite the fact that Aglaïtsa had long been toilet trained, she had an accident. Theodosia was angry. “You are a big girl now,” she scolded. “How can you do such a thing and get other people’s sheets dirty?” The convoy took its slow-moving course again the next day. They arrived in Thessaloniki in the late afternoon. Theodosia did not feel up to going to Giorgos’s small studio with the two kids, the little bathtub, and everything else. It wasn’t only the lack of space where he lived. Her memories from the last visit made her think that he’d prefer it that way. She found a man with a pushcart again and gave him instructions for Aunt Marika’s place, which wasn’t too far. Once more Boulis sat on the

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pushcart with the luggage, and Aglaïtsa and Theodosia walked alongside on the sidewalk. Aglaïtsa was impressed with the city’s big buildings. She kept looking up, sometimes left and sometimes right. But not looking in front of her led to trouble. She was trailing behind Theodosia and did not see an open trap door on the sidewalk leading to an underground storage space. She fell in the opening, and no one noticed. When sometime later Theodosia turned around, she could not find Aglaïtsa. Alarmed, she shouted at the man with the pushcart to stop and began retracing her steps to the open trap door on the sidewalk. Aglaïtsa was standing at the bottom of the basement looking up. Miraculously she had suffered no injury. Some passers-by helped to pull her out, and Theodosia did not let go of her hand all the way until they arrived at Aunt Marika’s place. Aunt Marika lived in a basement apartment. The windows were high up on the walls and the lower half of each window was below street level. When you opened a window you saw only the legs of people walking on the sidewalk outside and an iron grid at half the window height protecting pedestrians from falling inside an empty space. Theodosia went to see Giorgos the next day and told him they were staying at Aunt Marika’s apartment. He was glad to see her but somewhat distant. He wasn’t the exuberant, enthusiastic Giorgos she knew. He said he was looking for a bigger apartment with enough room for everyone to stay in. He promised to come after work to see the kids. In fact, he came to Aunt Marika’s every day, sometimes at midday to take them out to eat. One afternoon after they came back from lunch he was going back to the office, but Boulis had gotten hold of his briefcase and wouldn’t let go. Giorgos finally said, “Okay, you can keep it!” and left. But a few minutes later he was bending down from the sidewalk outside, knocking on the window. Theodosia opened the window. Boulis was still holding the briefcase tightly. “Boulis,” Giorgos pleaded with the boy, “you can keep the briefcase; just let me have one sheet of paper from inside it.” Boulis wasn’t willing to cooperate, but Theodosia intervened. She repeatedly assured Boulis that she’d give the briefcase back to him. She finally took it and passed it to Giorgos through the upper section of the open window. Giorgos opened it, took out a single sheet of paper and handed it back to Theodosia, who gave it back to a befuddled Boulis. Across the street from Aunt Marika’s place stretched a big square, Platia Diikitiriou (Government House Square) entirely covered with

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polished white marble. Built on a sloping ground the large marble structure was chock-full of stairs, ramps, and flat areas. It wasn’t meant to be a playground, but kids of all ages enjoyed it immensely. With bright sunshine Theodosia took Boulis and Aglaïtsa there. They didn’t stay in Thessaloniki as long as they could have. Theodosia cut the trip short because she was convinced that Giorgos was seeing another woman. But she did not make a scene or say anything to him. She only said that she did not want to impose on Aunt Marika too much and that she would come back with the children when he moved to a bigger apartment. However, back in Florina she worked on Paraskevi to go to Thessaloniki and live with Giorgos for a while, “Giorgos has been alone for too long, Mother; he is tired and needs someone there. You should go for a few months to take care of him and keep an eye on him.” “I am not sure. Does he really want me there?” asked Paraskevi, fishing for more encouragement. “Of course he does. Who doesn’t want his own mother? I’ll write to him and say that because I cannot come I am sending your mother, and she can stay with you as long as you want.” Paraskevi did not argue. She seemed to like the idea. Theodosia summoned the carpenter, Uncle Dimitros, to make a safe for perishables outside a window on the staircase that opened to a cool shaded area behind the house. The space, enclosed by a thin metal mesh, would serve as some kind of “refrigerator” preserving such things as milk, meat, and other perishables longer. These were the days before even iceboxes became available. After Uncle Dimitros understood what had to be done, Theodosia invited him into Paraskevi’s room, “Come and have some coffee now,” she said. Uncle Dimitros and Paraskevi chatted in the Slavic dialect. She asked his opinion about going to Thessaloniki to spend time with her son. “You must do whatever Giorgos says; whatever he wants,” was his advice. Eventually Giorgos’s letters arrived. There were two of them, one for Theodosia and one for Paraskevi. The two women withdrew to their respective rooms to read their letters. Dearest Saki, As usual, you displayed wisdom. Thank you for your letter, short and to the point. I did as you suggested. I found a bigger apartment centrally located on Tsimiski

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Street. I even hired a real-estate agent for the sake of expediency. A woman will clean it during the next few days and then I’ll be ready to move in. Still missing is a bed, a mattress, and sheets for my mother. But it will all be there soon enough. Discuss things with her and fix the date for her departure. Kiss the kids for me …

The letter Paraskevi received was in accordance. She came into the kitchen to announce proudly, “My son is asking me to go stay with him for a while. I guess I’ll be leaving soon.” And so she did. With one grandmother gone, the other one took more importance. She brought fresh milk every morning and stayed until 1:00 pm when Theodosia with Aglaïtsa returned from school. She and Maria cooked and looked after Boulis. They also took advantage of Paraskevi’s absence to give the house a general cleaning. Kleanthi did the sweeping, and Maria did the heavier jobs, namely washing and scrubbing the unvarnished wooden floors and stairs. The United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA) distributed all kinds of supplies to the population of Florina: canned meat (SPAM), American cheese, peanut butter, powder milk, Coca-Cola, root beer, second-hand clothes, etc. Theodosia often went by the distribution center. One day she came home with a long brightgreen winter coat. It was an unusual color. She put it on and looked at herself in the mirror. Boulis watched her from the bed where he lay having one of his usual colds. She turned around in front of the mirror trying to see how it fitted her, and then she began singing along an improvised tune, “Come, come and see me, now that I have a green coat …” She obviously had Giorgos in mind. She seemed happy. Boulis took the opportunity to ask her for forbidden things. She had stashed her violin away in a safe place: up on top of the closet. She hadn’t been motivated to play it for years, not since the Kastanos days. In any case, she knew enough songs by now for her teaching needs at school. But Boulis, who knew of the violin’s existence, was intrigued by it and wanted to see it. His mother had always refused to let him be close to it, considering it precious. The instrument also had much sentimental value for her. “Mom, can I look at your violin?” he begged. She looked at him, gauging her response. He had lain in bed sick for several days, but he was better now. She took a chair and got on it to

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reach the violin in its case at the top of the closet. She brought it down, dusted the case, opened it and sat on the bed next to Boulis to keep close watch. He took it in his hands for a minute, looked at it on both sides, and then put it back in its case. He was allowed more freedom with the other items in the case: the bow, a tuning fork, and several coiled cords. That was the only time Boulis set eyes on that violin. Years later, Theodosia gave her violin to a promising pupil in the boys’ high school. Over the next few months packages and letters from Giorgos continued arriving but at a slower pace. Theodosia, however, always answered them promptly. When Paraskevi eventually returned in the summer of 1947 she didn’t recount much about her trip, only scant details. She said an enigmatic, “Sense has gotten into him,” which Theodosia interpreted the way she liked. It was only a couple of years later that she realized her interpretation of Paraskevi’s remark had been wrong. Talking to Giorgos’s partner Georgiadis she found out that during the months Paraskevi spent with Giorgos in Thessaloniki she met Antigoni, the lawyer woman friend of Giorgos, and gave her blessing to that relationship in a statement along the lines, “He has been with her [Theodosia] for so many years, he can be with someone else now.” HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

The Greek Civil War (1946–1949) was fought between the Greek government army, backed by Great Britain and the United States, and the Democratic Army of Greece (DSE)—the military branch of the KKE (Kommounistiko Komma Elladas or Greek Communist Party)— backed by Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, and Albania. The final result was the defeat of the Communist insurgents by the government forces. Founded by the KKE and funded by Communist nations, many of the insurgents operating within the DSE were partisans who had fought against German and Italian occupation forces. The civil war was the result of a highly polarized struggle between the left and the right, which began in 1943 in the wake of the power vacuum anticipated in view of the departure of the occupying forces. The first signs of the civil war appeared in 1942–44, during the Axis occupation. With the Greek government in exile unable to influence the situation at home, various resistance groups of different political affiliations emerged. Starting in autumn 1943, friction among members of the EAM (Ethniko Apeleftherotiko Metopo or National Liberation Front) and the other resistance groups resulted in scattered clashes, which continued until the spring of 1944 when an agreement was reached to

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form a national-unity government that included six EAM-affiliated ministers. The new government called for partial disarmament of the military arm of the EAM, known as the ELAS (Ellinikos Laïkos Apeleftherotikos Stratos or Greek People’s Liberation Army). However, the communists entrenched in the mountains of northern Greece around Florina and Kozani were not happy with this national-unity government and wanted to topple it. The civil war erupted in 1946 when forces of former ELAS partisans, controlled by the KKE, found shelter in mountain hideouts and organized the DSE and its High Command headquarters. The KKE, which had boycotted the internationally recognized government that was formed after the 1946 elections, backed the partisans’ endeavors because it no longer saw any way opposing the government politically. The Communists formed a provisional government and used the DSE as its military branch. The neighboring communist states of Albania, Yugoslavia, and Bulgaria offered logistical support to the provisional government, especially to the forces operating in the north. They had hopes for ultimately creating a new state, with Florina as its capital, which would eventually be recognized by the soviet-bloc nations in the U.N. For part of the Greek Civil War, the mountains around Florina were under communist control. The Slavic-Macedonian National Liberation Front had a significant presence in the area: by 1946, seven Slav-Macedonian partisan units were operating in the area and had a regional committee based in Florina. When they merged with the DSE, some Slav Macedonians in the region enlisted as volunteers. Still the DSE suffered from a shortage of manpower. Its fighters consisted mostly of adolescents (among whom were many girls) forcibly drafted from the regions that had recently come under DSE control. A forced removal of children by the Communists in the areas they controlled took place for two purposes: one was to liberate the parents from childcare, thus facilitating their draft; and the other was to bring up the children in Soviet-bloc countries and train them as communist fighters. The Greek government army defeated the DSE in the Battle of Florina on February 12, 1949. The subsequent flight to Yugoslavia of about 5,000 Slav Macedonians and the consequences of the Tito-Stalin split determined the end of communist aspirations in Greece. Tito’s persistence in helping the Greek communists angered Stalin, who had recently agreed with Churchill (in the “Percentages Agreement,” which divided Europe into spheres of influence) not to support the communists in Greece.

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Theodosia taught at the 6th Elementary school, which was at the southern outskirts of the town. She had to walk about twenty minutes to get to work. When Aglaïtsa began going to school, they walked together, if somewhat more slowly. The shortest way to school was to cross the market, which involved passing in front of the gendarmerie. One of the early atrocities witnessed by terrified Florina citizens during the communist-friendly regime was the display of the heads of six anti-communist security agents on poles in the yard of the gendarmerie. Theodosia and Aglaïtsa were shocked when they unexpectedly came in view of this gruesome spectacle one morning. From that day onward they modified their way to school so as to avoid passing in front of the gendarmerie. The situation in the villages on the mountains around Florina which were under communist control, saw more atrocities and of a different nature: the mass kidnapping of children. In his best-selling book Eleni Nicholas Gage describes his own dramatic escape as a child from the forced removal of children by the communists in Northern Greece, at the cost of his mother’s life. In Theodosia’s class there were several children who came from nearby villages. One day she asked her pupils to write a composition on a topic of their choice. Efthymia Bozinou, a smart ten-year old girl, wrote a composition that touched Theodosia profoundly. Efthymia described her recent experience when the communists came to her village forcibly removed all children between the ages of five and thirteen. When they came to her house she had the idea of hiding inside a half-empty barrel of wheat. She pulled the barrel cover shut over her head and waited in there for a long time, listening to screaming children and parents being torn apart. When all was quiet she came out to find that her brother and sister had been taken away. Theodosia developed a special bond with Efthymia, the more so after she realized how smart the girl was. In the years that followed, Theodosia kept in touch with Efthymia throughout her secondary education, encouraging her and guiding her all along. Efthymia eventually became a teacher and was appointed to a village not far from where she was born. Promptly, the village policeman asked her to marry him. Her family approved; after all, she was now twenty years old! But Efthymia wasn’t happy—neither with the prospect of marrying the village policeman nor with the prospect of spending the rest of her life in that little communist-relic village. She came to Theodosia crying.

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The latter wasted no time. With her son already in America by this time, she urged Efthymia to go to America too. “Leave all this behind you, and go to America to study,” Theodosia advised her emphatically. The poor girl opened her eyes wide in surprise. She did not speak English and had no money or other connections. But Theodosia insisted and directed Efthymia to the Fulbright Scholarships program in Greece. Efthymia eventually secured a scholarship and went to the States to study. Theodosia gave her a small amount of money for the trip. Efthymia felt much obliged to Theodosia and often sent her little presents from America, stockings, slips, etc. Theodosia didn’t think she deserved presents. She told Efthymia that she’d send her mother their worth in Greek money. But Efthymia’s mother practically excommunicated her daughter when she learned that she had married a Jewish businessman in America. Years later when Theodosia visited her son in America, she was able to meet up with Efthymia again in Chicago. Efthymia had gotten a Ph.D. in Education and was now a professor at the University of Illinois. She had divorced her first husband, had remarried a Greek physicist, and had a child. But she didn’t live long enough to enjoy all this. She was still young when she died from cancer. Florina lies between two small mountains. The one with the little church of St. Panteleimon begins only 200 meters from the Modis house. The other one, containing the peak named 1033—probably indicating its altitude in meters—is a little further away, on the opposite side, but in full view from the long balcony stretching in front of the Modis’s good room and kitchen. The communists were entrenched in both mountains, and they often bombed and shelled the town with guns and mortars, terrorizing and also killing people. On one occasion a bomb fell on a crowd coming out of the soccer field following an event. Many people were killed and even more were wounded. Another time—it was early in the morning—a company of Greek soldiers that had gathered in the square adjacent to the yard of the boys’ high school (only 150 meters from the Modis house) was targeted. The cries of the wounded and dying were heard at the Modis house, to the consternation of the women and children inside. Two Slavic-origin artillery guns pounded the town from the mountain. They were eventually captured by the Greek army and are now exhibited in Florina’s central square named Giorgos Modis Square in honor of Giorgos Sr. The bombings took place mostly during the night.

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A powerful projector on the mountain searched targets in the town with full impunity. Unlike the bombing raids by airplanes during the war with the Italians and the Germans, there were no sirens to give warning now. There was some warning given by the bright searchlight from the mountain and, better yet, the sound of the first bomb. Florina inhabitants made it a habit to gather in shelters during critical nights. The Modis house—an officially declared bomb shelter—attracted several frequenters at night. Among them were Eleni with her husband Dimos, her sister Dimitra with her husband Vasilis, Ioulia (the highschool teacher), Olga (a kindergarten teacher), and the Typourkas siblings: Ilias and Eleni. Vasilis Boutzouvis was from the Peloponnese. A few years ago he found himself in the same school in Florina with Dimitra whom he liked. When Dimitra and Vasilis decided to get married, they asked Theodosia to be their witness, which she did with pleasure. The Typourkases—in their early twenties—were from the village Trigono some thirty kilometers west of Florina. They were Greeks with Slavic roots, but they opposed the communists. Ilias had been forcibly drafted by the communists and was stationed on the mountain with the other guerillas. One evening, pretending he was going to pee, he ran away, all the way down to Florina. Eleni’s and Dimos’s house lay closest to his downhill run and he sought refuge there (he had worked under Dimos’s supervision on a road-construction site). His sister also called Eleni joined him there later. They were utterly grateful to be hosted by Nouna and Nounos, but the Typourkases couldn’t stay with them long because it was too crowded there with Dimitra and Vasilis also living in the same house. So they moved into the Modises’s little room downstairs. A few months later they immigrated to Canada. Paraskevi was visibly disturbed by these nocturnal gatherings, but Aglaïtsa and Boulis were amused. There was no more of the usual routine, “You go to sleep now!” In fact, the atmosphere was rather joyful—people were laughing, telling stories and jokes. Aglaïtsa’s favorite book—at the age of eight she was reading now—was Tsihlibohlis and Kakarouka. Boulis loved the pictures and wanted to hear the story over and over again, about two shipwrecked siblings who find refuge on a little island that turns out to be a big turtle! Ilias Typourkas was indefatigable reading and rereading the book. Ioulia brought her nightgown. At some point she asked the children, “You kids now turn around so I can change.” The kids looked at her bemused and with, if anything, more curiosity about what she was

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about to do. Theodosia snapped, “Now you’ve got their interest. Had you said nothing, it would have been easier.” At the sound of the first bomb, everyone took the stairs all the way down to the basement, the last leg being on a ladder underneath the trap door on the ground floor. Theodosia carried both kids down herself, one child on each arm. She wouldn’t trust anyone else on that treacherous ladder. Aglaïtsa clung tightly to her neck, almost suffocating her. Paraskevi generally ignored the bombs and stayed in her room, disregarding the calls of Theodosia and criticizing the people that made such a fuss about nothing, until one night when a bomb fell right in front of the house. The windows made such a noise everyone thought they’d break. Paraskevi, with her pride compromised, slowly came down to the basement herself and joined the crowd. The next day there was a big crater on the road in front of the house’s iron gate. The hole in the ground remained there for years. Every time it rained, it was filled with water, and Boulis went out and used little pieces of wood as boats, moving them around with a long stick to mimic naval battles. He did this while eating his afternoon snack prepared by Grandmother Paraskevi: a slice of bread with a thin layer of sugar on it, some cinnamon, and a few drops of … water! The hostilities between the communists on the mountains and the Greek army culminated with the decisive Battle of Florina, which was played out mostly on February 12, 1949. The usual crowd had gathered in the Modis house the night before. But their sleep was disturbed by the sounds of the battle, which began at 3:30 am. At daybreak everyone came out on the balcony facing the 1033 peak where the main thrust of the communist attack took place. Nounos monopolized the Nazi binoculars that had long been unearthed from their hiding place. Apparently the communist partisans had secured two of the dominant hills during the night but crucially not the 1033 peak, which was key to accessing the town and was defended by only two platoons. At the height of the battle at about 9:30 am Nounos told everyone that he saw the Greek flag coming down and the red communist flag being raised at the 1033 peak. Gloom and consternation was evident in all faces except for Boulis, who kept raising himself on his toes to look over the balcony railing (a short wall with a castellation imitating Constantinople’s walls.) But shortly afterward with a fierce counterattack the Greek army reoccupied the peak. “The Greek flag is up again!” shouted Nounos.

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The national forces held on to their position. It became the turning point of the battle and of the whole Greek civil war. By the time the planes intervened later in the day the fate of the battle was sealed. With 1500 wounded, 600 dead, and as many taken prisoners, the communists withdrew, marking the beginning of the end of the Greek Civil War. But Florina did not immediately become a peaceful and safe place. A few days later a drunken partisan entered the garden of the Modis residence and knocked on the front door. It was late at night, after midnight, and he was wielding a knife in his hand demanding to be let in. Theodosia and Paraskevi woke up, alarmed. They opened the window right above the front door and told him to go away. But he insisted, pushing on the door that was secured only with a feeble latch. Paraskevi shouted at him in different languages to no avail. He sensed that the door was not very solid and kept pushing on it, wielding the knife. Theodosia, terrified, went out onto the semicircular balcony and began shouting for help. Across the street was the Peltekis household where everyone was asleep. Peltekis was a retired army officer. Besides being asleep, he was also hard of hearing. Theodosia’s desperate cries eventually woke his wife, Ermioni, who in turn woke Peltekis and told him that someone was trying to break onto the Modis house. He caught on quickly. He took his pistol, went out onto his balcony, and began firing into the air, shouting threats at the same time. The partisan at the Modises’ front door was taken aback by the pistol shots and the man’s voice. He turned around and walked away. The next day Theodosia summoned Uncle Dimitros again and had him install a crossbar blocking the front door from opening by securing it against the wall. From that day onward the locking procedure at night involved placing the crossbar on the front door in addition to its latch and key.

25 A Damned Nameday

The letters from Giorgos had not only become rare, they were also lacking the energy and warmth Theodosia had been accustomed to for the last twenty years. In an effort to revive their correspondence she decided to have Aglaïtsa write to her father. Aglaïtsa, now eight, could write words, but writing a letter was beyond her, so Theodosia dictated to her what to say. Naturally, those letters ended up sounding grownup-like. Maria spoke of a woman in Tsifliki, where her mother lived, who had the reputation of being a good fortune teller, particularly concerning personal relationships. In Greece, coffee-cup reading is a widespread method to tell fortune, with various degrees of seriousness. Some people do it as a joke, others take it seriously, and still others attribute successful readings to the ability of the reader to sense what the subject feels and then interpret the patterns in the coffee cup accordingly. But Maria spoke with such enthusiasm about this woman in Tsifliki that Theodosia decided to go see her. To her surprise the woman did not offer Theodosia coffee, but read the cards for her instead. And despite Theodosia’s question having to do with relationships, she spoke of bad news, “I see death,” she concluded reluctantly. That night Theodosia had a disturbing dream. Church bells were ringing loudly and joyfully while she climbed up many white marble steps in a rush to reach the bells. But then she found herself on the stern of a boat, and Giorgos was in the sea swimming behind the boat trying but not being able to catch up with it. She woke up, anxious. She couldn’t stop thinking of the fortune-teller’s verdict but also of Giorgos’s complaints about frequent headaches. He had mentioned 289

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persistent headaches in his letters, and he had also spoken to his mother about them, when she had visited him. Grandma Kleanthi came, bringing some freshly cooked cake. “What is the matter? she inquired, “you don’t look well.” “I had a bad dream, and I am worried,” Theodosia recounted the dream to her. “The marble stairs and the bells ringing are all very good. Stop worrying. It will all be fine,” was the encouragement from Kleanthi. Later in the day Grigoris Kotsopoulos came to visit. “Good to see you, Grigoris. It has been a long time; you’ve forgotten about us,” Theodosia tried to be sociable. “I am coming from Thessaloniki,” he said. “Did you see Giorgos? How is he?” she rushed to ask. “He is not very well. He has continuous headaches, and that’s why he does not write to you; he asked me not to tell you either. The doctor recommended that he enter a hospital to undergo tests. We went to the hospital together, where he will spend a few days. He took newspapers and magazines with him. He’ll write to you when he gets out. He wants you not to worry.” Not to worry was not easy for Theodosia. The awaited letter from Giorgos never arrived. Instead a telegram arrived from his partner Georgiadis: GIORGOS SERIOUSLY ILL IN THE RED CROSS HOSPITAL IN ATHENS STOP YOU SHOULD COME STOP GEORGIADIS

Theodosia hurriedly prepared to leave for Athens. Her biggest concern was the children. She didn’t know for how long she’d be away and did not trust Paraskevi with them for prolonged periods of time. She thought of Eleni, who after all was Aglaïtsa’s godmother. No longer needed at the hospital, Eleni had gone back to work teaching also at the 6th Elementary School. “Eleni, could you take care of the children in your house while I am away? I don’t know how long it is going to be. But Easter vacation is coming up and school will be closed for two weeks. And you keep track of all their expenses.” “I will do it with pleasure,” responded Eleni. “I will treat them as my own, the children I never had! Be reassured they will be fine. Dimitra and Vasilis are there too, and they work in the afternoon, so Boulis

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could stay home with them, if you are not back when school opens again. I can take Aglaïtsa to school with me. You just concentrate on Giorgos.” Theodosia left Florina with a heavy heart. She was abandoning her children and was moving into an ominous future. She did not want to put words to her fears concerning Giorgos’s illness, and what would come of it. She arrived in Athens late in the afternoon, and went directly to the Red Cross Hospital, a large new hospital in the Ampelokipi suburb. Giorgos’s room was on the third floor. It was big and had two beds. Everything was white and clean. Giorgos was glad to see her, but he did not look well. Not only did he have black circles under his eyes but also pronounced wrinkles between his eyebrows as if in a permanent state of worry. “They don’t tell me what I have. They don’t tell me what they’ll do,” he complained to her. “I’ll be staying with Niki and will be spending my days here with you. Tomorrow I will talk to the doctors. With God’s help, everything will be all right,” she tried to reassure him. Niki lived close to Voulis at Gyzi Square in the Tourkovounia region. There was a large open space next to her house. It was at the outskirts of Athens, and yet it was not very far from the hospital. The two sisters hadn’t seen each other for years, and much had happened in the meantime. When they met they embraced each other crying. Niki was dressed in black, having lost her husband only three years ago. Theodosia met Niki’s cute little girl Angela. More tears filled her eyes as she thought of Boulis and Aglaïtsa. “Do you think I’ll find a restaurant close to the hospital for lunch tomorrow?” Theodosia tried to regain her composure. “There are all kinds of shops in that area. You can have lunch there, and we will manage here with some yogurt and other dairy products in the evenings.” The next morning Theodosia got up early. At the hospital, Giorgos told her that they had been asking for her. She immediately went to the conference room where there were several doctors seated around a table discussing Giorgos’s case. She took a seat. She didn’t understand much of the details discussed, but it was clear to her that the diagnosis was brain cancer and that there was the possibility of a surgical intervention. When she tried to clarify the type of operation they had in mind, and what could be expected from it, the head doctor talked to

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her with an arrogant authority, “Mrs. Modis, if I am not mistaken your husband’s head is not a watermelon that we can open up to see what color it is. No, we cannot touch it. We will do some preparatory work and some analyses, and then we will make our decision. Each colleague here will have an opinion. Therefore you must be patient. And do not be influenced by know-it-all volunteers. Be assured that we will do what is right here.” Over the following days Theodosia’s routine consisted of going back and forth to the hospital mornings and afternoons. She rarely talked with the doctors, who kept mentioning the possibility of an operation. Giorgos was told that he had a cyst that should be removed. At the hospital Theodosia met Giannakopoulos, a lawyer and friend of Giorgos’s. The man felt bad about the misfortune of the Modises and tried to be of help. He noticed Theodosia coming and going alone, dipping into her purse with caution every time she had to pay for something. He told her, “Hospitals and surgery entail serious expenses. You cannot handle it all by yourself. You will need an important amount of money. Giorgos has savings, but they are somewhere in Thessaloniki. You should engage a person you can trust to bring the money to you. I’ll talk to Giorgos about it.” And he did. Giorgos asked Giannakopoulos to telephone Georgiadis in Thessaloniki and have him go by Antigoni’s house to pick up exactly 150 British gold sovereigns and bring them to him in the hospital in Athens. Giorgos had trusted all his savings to Antigoni’s father, apparently shying away from banks (a common practice at that time). Georgiadis came through with the money and brought it to Giorgos’s hospital bed. Theodosia had to continuously carry it all in her big leather purse with much anxiety. Of course, Georgiadis charged his time and expenses, but that was fair. He was less honest with more minor matters. For example, he took the little statue of Themis, Theodosia’s gift to Giorgos, who always kept it in his office. Themis was an ancient Greek Titaness; she has been described as “of good counsel” and is the personification of divine order and law. Georgiadis also took dictionaries and other items from Giorgos’s office, including a quantity of quality English fabric that Giorgos had bought long ago with the intention to having suits made for himself and Theodosia. There was no optimism among the doctors for Giorgos’s recovery. In fact, they now suggested that he be moved to the anticancer center of St. Savas. Theodosia wrote to Paraskevi:

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Dear Mother, Giorgos is not getting better and the doctors are not optimistic, even if they are talking of a surgical intervention. I think you should come and bring the children so he can see them one last time. Georgiadis will make the arrangements for you to fly to Athens from Thessaloniki. All you need to do is get in touch with Kyrkos and arrange that he brings the three of you to Thessaloniki in his taxi. Georgiadis will take it from there. You will find him in Giorgos’s office. I embrace you, Theodosia

Paraskevi understood the gravity of the situation. She made arrangements with Kyrkos for the trip to Thessaloniki and fetched the children from Eleni’s house. Maria went back to her mother’s. The house was locked. In Thessaloniki they went to find Georgiadis in Giorgos’s office, who had made arrangements to fly them to Athens. The whole process of air travel stupefied Boulis. The airport itself in Thessaloniki seemed extraordinary to him. He could hardly walk on the airport grounds. The grassy ground had been made flat by superposing a modular metal grid featuring a pattern of circular openings—the military way of quickly putting together a runway. Boulis demanded and obtained a window seat. The airplane, a Dakota DC-3, took off making a lot of noise and shaking disconcertingly. It didn’t fly very high, but high enough to make people on the streets hardly discernable. Boulis had a bar of chocolate in his hands and kept comparing its width to the width of the roads down below. He was also intrigued with a paper bag he found in the pocket of the seat in front of him. He was told that it was there in case he needed to throw up! When Giorgos saw his children, his face lit up. He got out of bed and took Boulis in his arms, “My son, give your dad a kiss.” He then took Aglaïtsa, “Come here, my doll, come to daddy’s lap.” He remained there with the two kids on his lap. He talked, he laughed, he was happy. “We’ll bring the kids here every day,” said Theodosia, “but today we must leave early because they had a long day, and everyone is tired. We’ll see you tomorrow.” It was convenient that Voulis and Niki lived close to each other. Theodosia took Boulis with her to Niki’s place, while Paraskevi with Aglaïtsa went to stay with Voulis. They all went to bed early that night. Everyone was tired and pained.

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The next morning they took a taxi to the hospital. Voulis came along to see Giorgos. The kids carried a little sac with paper, crayons, and their favorite book. Aglaïtsa could read it now, while Boulis knew it by heart. Next to the hospital there was a flower shop, and Theodosia bought two roses, one for each child, to give to their father. They took the elevator to the third floor. The kids remembered the room and directed themselves there. When Giorgos saw them he sat up on his bed visibly pleased. He asked them to sit on the bed next to him. Voulis chatted with Giorgos for a while and then left saying, “I’ll let you enjoy your kids and will see you later. I hope you feel better.” Aglaïtsa put some water in a glass, placed the roses in it saying, “They smell nice!” In a little while there was a knock on the door and the nurse brought lunch. “What is for lunch?” asked Giorgos “Roasted lamb,” answered the nurse. “We will also eat lamb at the restaurant,” said Theodosia. “After all, Easter was only a week ago.” Lamb is the traditional Greek Easter meal, but it is usually a whole lamb roasted on a spit outdoors. “Bon appétit!” said everyone. After lunch the Modises went to the pastry shop to have dessert and stretch on easy chairs. The kids fell asleep; the adults dozed for a while. Later in the afternoon they bought some more pastry to take out and a red cloth-covered egg-shaped box full of candy for each child. Back in the hospital, the kids sat on chairs next to Giorgos’s bed. Boulis’s legs could not reach the floor and were dangling in the air. Aglaïtsa read her book. “What is she reading?” asked Giorgos. “Tsihlibohlis and Kakaouka,” rushed to answer Boulis. “It is Kakarouka not Kakaouka,” explained Theodosia, “but he cannot pronounce the ‘r’.” The next morning Theodosia got up early. She wanted to go to the hospital alone. It would be easier to see the doctors and not only concerning Giorgos. Impressed by the clean new hospital, she thought it was an opportunity to have Aglaïtsa’s tonsils extracted. The prevailing thinking of the times was that many winter colds involving sore throats would be eliminated once the tonsils were removed. “We are in a hospital anyway,” she thought, “and it is only a minor operation.”

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She left money and instructions to her brother to shop and cook lunch for everyone. “Be patient, brother, we will not be bothering you for too long. In a week or so I will ask Georgiadis to come and take them back to Florina.” She had decided that there was no point having everyone stick around indefinitely. Paraskevi was old and got easily tired. And the children would be better off in Eleni’s care in Florina. She herself would stay in Athens attending to Giorgos for as long as necessary. At the hospital she found Giorgos talking with two young presentable and polite surgeons specializing in head surgery who had recently arrived from Europe. She overheard them saying, “Mr. Modis, we’ll stop here for now. We’ll continue our discussion next time we see you.” Giorgos seemed encouraged talking to the surgeons. His hopes were raised. Theodosia told him of her decision to have Aglaïtsa’s tonsils extracted, and he approved despite the fact that it was obviously a most inappropriate time for such an intervention. Maybe they both felt it was distracting from the gravity of his situation. She went downstairs and made arrangements with the otolaryngologist for Aglaïtsa’s operation to take place two days later. But there was an unpleasant surprise awaiting her back at Niki’s in the evening. Boulis was sitting in a corner sulking with a black eye and a fresh wound over his right eye. “What on earth happened?” asked Theodosia. “Well, he went out to play in the open space nearby, and some kid threw a stone at him,” explained Niki. “Do you realize he almost lost an eye?” Theodosia was practically screaming. Of course she realized, but there was nothing poor Niki could now do, other than feel guilty. Theodosia debated for a while whether to take Boulis to a doctor, but finally she settled for lighting a candle the next day at the hospital’s little chapel, thanking God for saving her son’s eye. Aglaïtsa’s operation turned out to be more traumatic for the little girl than anticipated. The anesthetic used in such operations was ether, inhaled through a facial mask. The experience is rather agonizing because the subject experiences suffocation. They knew this at the hospital, so the preparation involved tying down Aglaïtsa’s hands and legs before administering the ether. Before passing out she shook violently as if receiving an electric-shock treatment.

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The operation itself took less than half an hour, and Theodosia encouraged Giorgos to get out of bed and go down to the first floor to see Aglaïtsa recovering. He felt weak and dizzy, but he did put on his robe de chamber and took the elevator down to the first floor. All along the way Theodosia supported him with her arm under his. Aglaïtsa’s room was dark, lit only by electric lights. She was lying in bed in the middle of the room with the door open. Giorgos and Theodosia slowly walked up to the open door. They stopped at the door and waved to Aglaïtsa, who looked at them unresponsive. She wasn’t allowed to talk anyway. They didn’t go in. They turned around and went back to Giorgos’s room. It was more than he had walked for some time. Aglaïtsa recovered rapidly. In fact she left the hospital the next day. Preparations began for the trip back to Florina. Georgiadis came from Thessaloniki with air tickets for everyone. They said goodbye to Giorgos and they all went to the airport including Theodosia, who was again heartbroken to be separated from her children for an undefined period. At the airport Boulis was again preoccupied by aviation. This airport was more serious than the one in Thessaloniki. Its ground was covered with concrete instead of a metal grid placed on top of the grass. Theodosia went back to the hospital with a heavy heart, but found Giorgos in a good mood. “I heard the airplane take off,” he told her. “How are you sure it was ours?” wondered Theodosia. “It made too much noise. My mother’s big ass must have put a strain on the engines!” he said laughing loudly. It lifted her spirits to see him laugh like this. During the following days Theodosia moved into the hospital and slept on the empty bed next to Giorgos. After a while the nurses even brought food for her at the same time they brought Giorgos’s food. Several people came to visit. Among them were Giorgos’s good friend Takos Makris and a delegation from Sophianopolos’s Agricultural Party—Giorgos had sent them a note saying that he was ill in hospital. Also Giorgos Sr. came with Tegos Sapountzis (father of Athina) from Florina. They chatted with Giorgos Jr. for a while. Tegos tried to cheer him up, “I almost made you my son-in-law, but you didn’t want to.” Giorgos Jr. smiled a little. Giorgos Sr. was surprised that they were considering going to the St. Savas Anticancer Center for the operation. “You have the best surgeons here—why go elsewhere?” he asked. But Giorgos Jr. was convinced that Doctor Iliadis, the surgeon freshly arrived from Germany,

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who operated in St. Savas, was the best choice. So they scheduled the operation for 26 May. “When the doctors come to see you, tell them we are leaving on the 25th so they should prepare our bills,” suggested Theodosia. The St. Savas Anticancer Center was in an old building, dark and rather sinister looking. “Gone is our beautiful environment, Saki,” lamented Giorgos. “Never mind,” she tried to console him, “it is only for a few days. If you get better, that’s all that counts.” Iliadis asked to be paid 60 gold sovereigns in advance. On May 26 at noon Giorgos was taken to the operating room. Theodosia accompanied him up to the final door. “You wait in your room. We will bring him there,” the hospital staff told her as they closed the door on her. She went back to the room, took an icon of the Virgin Mary into her hands, and spent the next three hours praying and crying. When finally she heard noise in the corridor she opened the door. They brought him and put him in his bed. He was still under anesthetic with a circular bandage around his head. “He will soon come out of the anesthesia,” they told her. She cried some more while waiting. She felt as if she had already lost him. “Saki, where are you? You left me with those murderers. They butchered me. They kill people and they get paid to do it.” “Do you want some water?” “No, I just want to rest. Sit here by me and hold my hand.” Giorgos was right. The operation was unnecessary. In fact, it wasn’t much of a medical intervention. All they did was open up his head, take a look at the widespread tumors, and close it again. Nevertheless, the next day Giorgos felt better. He said, “It may have been the right decision to have this operation done.” It didn’t last long. On May 29 he woke up early feeling very weak. “Saki, wake up. Today is St. Theodosia Day, your nameday. Go buy some pastries and Xino Nero. We must celebrate.” Namedays are more important than birthdays in Greece, even today. Xino Nero, meaning sour water, is naturally carbonated metallic water bottled in a village close to Florina called Xino Nero. It is the Greek equivalent to the French Perrier.

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Neither Giorgos nor Theodosia was about to be reminded of another anniversary, a sad one. May 29 is also the day when Constantinople fell to the Otomans back in 1453, a sour memory in the mind of all Greeks. She got dressed in a hurry and went out. It was Sunday and everything was closed. She went to a coffee shop and bought soda water and some pastries. “Good, you were fast! Let me have a drink,” said Giorgos when she got beck. He took a sip of water without saying anything. He did not want to eat. He was slowly dying and he understood it. When the doctors came he refused that horrible injection in the spine. He did not even want to look at them. He only wanted Theodosia to hold his hand. He remained still and quiet until noon. Every now and then he opened his eyes, looked at Theodosia and gently squeezed her hand. When he died, she thought, always holding his hand, that she heard a soft breath like the flight of a small bird. And he was gone. At fortyseven years of age he did not get to see his dreams realized. Among them was to see both his children finish law school, to have his son as a partner in his office, and to see his daughter as a juvenile judge. Long ago he had instructed Theodosia to safeguard his law-school textbooks because the children would need them. The funeral took place a couple of days later. He was buried at the centrally located 1st Cemetery of Athens on the understanding that his remains would eventually be transported to Florina. Owing to an obituary announcement in the papers, which Theodosia managed to get out in time, there were people at the funeral that Theodosia had never met. Another delegation from the Agricultural Party came and brought a huge wreath. Giorgos had not taken part in the political activities of that party since 1936 when Dictator Metaxas declared it illegal, together with all leftist parties. Nevertheless, after the funeral they contacted Theodosia requesting suggestions for replacing Giorgos’s place in the party. She thought of his friend Takos Makris, but he was not interested in politics then, and when he did become a politician many years later he ended up on the right, the opposite side of the political spectrum from where Giorgos had been. Another possible candidate was Florina businessman Siamkouris—he ran a hardware store in town—only because he wanted it and made it known to Theodosia. But Giannakopoulos, whose opinion Theodosia valued, did not approve of him and advised her to simply not propose anyone.

PART FOUR Family “To maintain a joyful family requires much from both the parents and the children. Each member of the family has to become, in a special way, the servant of the others.” ―POPE JOHN PAUL II

26 Boulis

Back in Florina Theodosia went directly from the train station to Eleni’s house to pick up the children. Nouna had taken meticulous care of them. Her primary concern had been the children’s health, which in her mind translated to making them gain weight. She kept a logbook with all expenses, but also how each child’s weight evolved. This necessitated frequent visits to the pharmacy where there was a scale she could use to weigh them. The children’s diet involved an afternoon snack, which consisted of two biscuits with a thick slice of butter in between. Boulis had a hard time swallowing this concoction. He generally went out in the garden and tried to distract himself from the task. Nouna encouraged him to do so as long as it helped maintain the diet. One day she gave him the butter sandwich and said, “Go out in the garden and tell me what new things you see.” Boulis returned saying that all he saw were several bricks laid down in rows. “Ah ha!” exclaimed Nouna, “you see, these are the bases on which Uncle Vasilis is going to place his beehives.” Indeed, a few days later Uncle Vasilis—Nouna’s sister’s husband— installed eight beehives in the garden because he had decided to take up beekeeping as a hobby. In the days that followed it was amusing to watch him with his white uniform and the smoke-generating device in his hand attending to the bees. But the beehives were right under the berry tree Boulis liked to climb to eat the sweet berries. While he was doing so one day he slipped and fell. On his way down he instinctively grabbed a branch with his two hands and began swinging over the beehives. He eventually stabilized himself on the tree’s trunk and got down safely. Had he fallen on the beehives, the situation would have been 301

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seriously dramatic. He got a scare, perhaps not as much as he should have, but he never told anyone about it. Aglaïtsa and Boulis were thrilled to see their mother again. They all went home, where Theodosia took them one at a time into the good room, closed the door behind her, and with a voice cracking with emotion solemnly explained to them that Father had passed away. It was a moving scene, but more so to the mother than to the children, who could not really see what it was that would now be different in their lives. With Giorgos Jr. out of the picture the family ties between Theodosia and Giorgos Sr. improved markedly. She asked him to be Boulis’s godfather and he accepted. Boulis was six years old and his baptism was way overdue. In fact the boy declared he was embarrassed to go to church and be stripped down naked in public. So it was arranged that the priest would come to the Modis house and perform the sacrament there. It all took place one Sunday at noon in the good room. The verger arrived first, carrying the font in which Boulis would be immersed. Then came Giorgos Sr. accompanied by his mother Atta and sister Ioulia. The last one to come was the priest. The good room was filled to capacity. The ceremony took place without a glitch, other than the fact that Boulis was too big to be completely immersed in the font’s water. The priest asked Giorgos for the name to be given. Giorgos proudly and loudly replied, “Theodoros!” After the ceremony Theodosia offered everyone coffee, pastries, and other sweets. The older ones mentioned the name of Paraskevi’s late husband—Dodos as she used to call him—several times. Giorgos gave Boulis a British gold sovereign, which the latter hid in the little pocket of his short pants and carefully kept it there for … years! Boulis finally had a name, but no one was about to use it. They had all been accustomed to call him Boulis for such a long time that everyone without exception continued to do so. It didn’t seem to bother him. Life went on as it had before his baptism. One night during the middle of the night Theodosia was awakened by Boulis, who had got out of bed and was slowly directing himself to the balcony door, which opened onto the small balcony without a railing. He opened the door, walked out to the edge of the balcony, and began peeing. He did all this with a steady determined pace that left his mother aghast. By the time she realized he was sleepwalking it was too late to intervene. She held her breath agonizing and trying not to make

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any noise to scare him. When he finished and came back to his bed she grabbed him in her arms and held him tightly, sighing with relief. She then got up and locked the balcony door. The next day she went to find Uncle Dimitros and asked him to construct an iron railing for the little balcony. The original plan of the house had included a fire-escape staircase to the garden downstairs, but that was beyond her means. Even the balcony iron railing was something she had not budgeted for. Theodosia was more concerned about money now that Giorgos was not around. She tried hard to accumulate some savings for her peace of mind. She began receiving some pension for herself and smaller amounts for each child from Giorgos’s pension plan, but she was glad she had not quit her job, something Giorgos had often urged her to do. “I like working,” she had then objected. But now she was doubly thankful for it. Her new life as a widow impacted more than just her wardrobe, which turned entirely black. She became available in the eyes of single men. One day, Timoleon Liakos, the high-school headmaster, visited her to express his condolences. It was a cordial visit but somewhat uncalled for, she thought. When a few days later he visited her again with a lesser excuse she began questioning his intentions. But Paraskevi, who noticed the visits was more forward, “What is this man coming here for?” she complained. “He has no business here. Tell him to go away,” was the stern instruction to Theodosia. In any case, Theodosia was anything but inclined to become involved with him. Liakos eventually married Lefki, a pretty young lady, who unfortunately could not have children. He wasn’t the only one that expressed interest in Theodosia. Several men courted her over the years that followed. Economidis, a colleague and director of the school, declared his interest, but stopped short of formally proposing to her when he saw her reaction. A judge wrote stylish letters to her, finishing them with such phrases as, “Live your life!” Even Pavlidis, Giorgos’s close friend, made it clear that he was fond of her. But in all cases, Theodosia kept her distance. She felt that her two children, the house, the mother-in-law, her reputation, and the Modis name were all things she couldn’t abandon or compromise. Boulis was often sick with colds. He spent much of his time in bed. Aglaïtsa was each time sent to fetch Doctor Beikos, the family doctor. Boulis’s situation was aggravated by the fact that Beikos had earlier diagnosed a heart murmur, which he attributed to a valve problem, a septal defect (also called hole in the heart). Even though over the years

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Beikos reiterated that, “The little hole is getting smaller,” his recommendation was that Boulis avoid all exertion. As a consequence, Boulis never walked up the house stairs; his mother always carried him upstairs. As he grew in size and weight she had to carry him on her back. A cruder doctor she once saw in Thessaloniki put it rather bluntly to her, “You are young; you will have more children.” He may have thought that he was giving her encouragement, but that was not what she wanted to hear. She never went back to that doctor. All this rendered Theodosia extremely sensitive to Boulis’s health. She’d put him to bed with the slightest fever or just a few sneezes and send Aglaïtsa to bring the doctor. Up to the age of eight Boulis didn’t go to school when it was snowing or cold, which was the case for most of the winter. “He has a teacher at home,” argued Theodosia. Of course, he regularly received his term reports with grades of 10 out of 10 in all subjects. Once he received a report with grade 9 in religion. Theodosia laughed, “Here you are, you’ve got a 9. Your teacher must have been very conscientious!” she said sarcastically. During the summer of 1950 Theodosia decided to take Boulis to Athens and have him checked out by two doctors, one a generalist and the other a cardiologist, who had been highly recommended to her. Transportation by train was now quite reliable and she could stay at Niki’s again. Her medical expenses were covered by her social security insurance. They went to see the generalist first. His office was in a hospital at the end of an open-space area full of desks with secretaries, nurses, and other personnel. The doctor asked Boulis to take all his clothes off and examined him carefully. He then proceeded to deliver a discourse on heart malfunctioning, which hardly clarified things for Theodosia. For the visit not to be a complete waste of time, she asked the doctor to examine her too. He agreed, but asked Boulis, still naked, to step out of the room while he did the examination. Boulis complied, but he was utterly embarrassed. He walked out the door, stark naked, facing the crowded open space. He pushed his back against the door and tried to make himself as small as possible hiding his shoulder under the door’s handle. He waited in that awkward position for what seemed to him too long a time. He couldn’t believe that he had successfully avoided being seen naked in church for his baptism only to expose himself indecently now in front of all those men and women, who threw curious glances at him. When the doctor finally

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opened the door, the door handle struck Boulis’s shoulder hard, but the pain was sweet considering that it signaled the end of his ordeal. The next day mother and son left Niki’s home again in the pursuit of medical advice. This time it came from Doctor Maroulis, a wellreputed cardiologist. He worked at the Evaggelismos General Hospital on Vasilissis Sophias Avenue. They took a bus and got off at the stop named Vasilissis Sophias. Theodosia looked for the numbers on the buildings and saw Number 2. “Let us walk,” she told Boulis, “number 30 cannot be very far.” They began walking, but the numbers increased very slowly. Then there was a park where there were no numbers at all. They walked for more than half an hour in hot weather. Exhausted, they finally reached Evaggelismos General Hospital and Doctor Maroulis’s office. Doctor Maroulis was a good-natured older man with white hair and a triangularly trimmed white beard. He examined Boulis, but he also wanted to make an electrocardiogram, the new technology he was proud of. He had Boulis lie down on a bench as he slowly walked around him wiring him up and impressing Theodosia. It took him the better part of an hour to complete the electrocardiogram. But once again, what Boulis and Theodosia would mostly remember afterward was that ritualistic ceremony rather than any useful findings. Back in Florina Theodosia talked to her friend Ioulia about her rather frustrating experience with fancy doctors in Athens and how she really wished she could find a good doctor for Boulis. “I’ll talk to my brother about it,” Ioulia said. Her brother Takos was studying medicine in Vienna. When Ioulia went to visit him at Christmas she found out that his friend Polynikis Economou was finishing his specialty in cardiology in the medical school there and was planning to return to Greece and open a medical office in Thessaloniki. “Economou is very good,” Takos said to Ioulia. So next summer Theodosia was again traveling with Boulis in search of medical advice, this time from Doctor Economou. She also took Aglaïtsa. The weather was pleasant and they went for a walk along the seaside by the White Tower. The kids looked cute. Aglaïtsa wore a white dress with flowers printed on it, a fake wristwatch made out of cheap plastic, and a barrette in her short hair. Boulis wore white short pants, a white shirt, and a white cap. They had their picture taken by the sea. There were big and small boats on the water. A fisherman on his small row boat saw them looking at him and suggested, “I can take you for a boat ride around the bay for 5,000 drachmas?”

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“Oh yes, Mom, let’s do that,” pleaded Boulis. Theodosia agreed. They climbed down the stairs and got into the man’s boat. They sat down and he began rowing. As they moved away from the shore the view of the city became spectacular. But clouds took the sunlight away and a gentle wind made waves appear on the sea surface that rocked the boat alarmingly. Theodosia began having dark thoughts. She did not know how to swim, and if this boat got water or, worse, turned over, who was going to save them? They were so far from the land that even if people tried to come to their help, they’d arrive too late. “Can we please go back now?” she asked the man. “Don’t worry, my lady, there is no danger in my boat,” he said without managing to reassure her. He turned around and began rowing toward the shore, but the waves were getting bigger. She prayed quietly. By the time they reached the shore the waves were rocking the boat so much that it became a real challenge to disembark. Once on firm ground she paid him and took her children away from the seafront, thanking God for not running into more trouble. “What business did I have listening to a little boy’s wishes?” she scolded herself. They slowly walked to Anastasia’s apartment, where they were staying. Anastasia Zampetas was a beautiful woman in her forties, blonde with blue eyes and a firm body. She was uneducated, energetic, cheerful, and exuberant. Whenever she saw the Modises appear at her doorstep unexpectedly she uttered a loud cry that resonated throughout the three-story building, “Maaaari! The little Modises are here!” Anastasia was the niece of Kleanthi. She lived on the second floor of a three-story building with her four children—three boys and one girl—their ages ranging from 12 to 20. Her husband, who had died a few years earlier from a heart attack, must have also been handsome because the four kids were all gorgeous. However, when her husband died he left her debts. With no breadwinner in the family she found herself in a dire financial situation. When the Modises came back from their walk most of the Zampetas family was sitting at a round table making paper bags. There was a pile of brown paper sheets in the middle of the table and everyone took a sheet and folded it according to the instructions to make a sac and put some glue on key areas. The finished bags would then be taken to the grocery store for 100 drachmas a piece (because of continued inflation after the war, 500 drachmas now barely bought a single piece of chewing gum, the cheapest item sold). The Modises were excited to get their place around the table too.

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Despite the financial hardship, Anastasia was a joyful generous person. She lived some 200 meters from the sea and even though there was no beach—there were only some rotting poles, ta poloukia, where boats could be tied—she often went there to take a quick swim between cooking and other house chores. She also disappeared every now and then to go to the third floor where the old bachelor landowner lived. “I am going to see the Jonah,” she’d say referring to him with the derogatory name for someone who brings bad luck. But Anastasia had a remarkable achievement to her credit. A few years earlier when her second son Antonis was fourteen, she was frying fish in the kitchen when suddenly she felt extremely anxious. With dirty hands and still wearing her apron she went out of the house not knowing why or where she was going. On the sidewalk she saw some neighbors running toward her shouting, “Come quickly! Your son’s been run over by a tram.” Indeed Antonis had fallen under the tram whose rear wheel went over his left leg above the ankle. Stunned Antonis was lying on the ground looking at a piece of his leg, almost completely detached, undergoing spasms on its own. Many people were gathered around him, but no one came close. Anastasia arrived at the scene screaming, “A taxi, get me a taxi.” A taxi stopped, she put Antonis and his broken leg inside the car, and ordered the driver to rush to the hospital. At the hospital the doctors administered first aid, but quickly concluded the leg had to be amputated at the level of the lower shin. Anastasia went hysterical. She did not want to hear anything about amputation. The doctors tried to argue with her in vain. She was adamant, “No one cuts my son’s leg off,” she screamed. She was impossible to deal with. The doctors inquired whether there were other relatives and found that she had a sister Erifili and an older brother Spyros Arvanitakis, who was a high-school headmaster. They summoned the brother and easily convinced him that the boy’s leg had to be amputated. But Anastasia intervened again vehemently, “Get away from my son! No one can decide to cut off his leg I am his mother.” They gave up. They finally told her, “Do whatever you want. We can do nothing more for you here.” She asked to have her son transferred to a private clinic. They were glad to comply and get rid of her. At the clinic the doctor said that it was very critical and that he could guarantee nothing, but he was willing to work on the boy’s leg. Many hours later he came out of the operating

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room saying that only time would tell if the operation had been successful—they had to wait forty days to find out whether the leg had been saved or not. Forty days later it became clear that the leg was saved. Antonis did not lose his leg, thanks to his mother’s stubborn refusal to be “reasonable.” He regained full use of his leg and a few years later he no longer limped. He was left with a big scar that he showed to people with a certain pride. Doctor Economou received Theodosia and Boulis in his new office and smiled when he heard the name Theodoros (the name Boulis was not mentioned to him at all). “My late father was named Theodoros,” he said nostalgically. To Boulis’s astonishment he kept calling him “Mr. Theodoros.” He examined Boulis for more than an hour, doing all kinds of tests including a lengthy radioscopy, but no electrocardiogram. At the end he had strict directives for Theodosia. “Mrs. Modis, you must treat Theodoros like a normal child. No more carrying him on your back. He will go up and down the stairs by himself but not more than twice a day,” he specified. “He will do everything, other kids do, but without trying to become a champion. He should not overexert himself.” Economou’s words fell like music on Theodosia’s ears. When Theodosia mentioned that Boulis kept putting his fingers in his nose in an effort to breathe better, Economou said that he did not like all those frequent colds and sore throats. He said that, “Mr. Theodoros should avoid all sources of infection, be it a sore throat, a rotting tooth, or even adenoids.” When Theodosia told him that Aglaïtsa had had her tonsils extracted, he agreed, “We should do the same thing with Mr. Theodoros.” So mother and son began visiting various doctors for various extractions. They began with a dentist because Boulis had a molar tooth that was moving and was about to fall out. He wouldn’t let his mother try to get it out, fearing that it would be painful. Even in the dentist’s chair a panicked Boulis, seeing the dentist approaching with a pair of pliers, said, “You know best how to do it so that it doesn’t hurt, doctor, don’t you?” The dentist laughed and reassured him, “Yes, I know best!” and proceeded to pull the tooth that was about to fall out anyway. Boulis didn’t feel a thing. “What do we owe you, doctor?” asked his mother.

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“Fifty thousand drachmas.” Theodosia bit her lips and dared say, “That much!” “It is the price of a tooth extraction, madam.” As they left, Boulis was relieved, but Theodosia was angry. “That wasn’t an extraction. The tooth practically fell in his hands. And you wouldn’t let me take it out for nothing!” Next was the extraction of the adenoids. Economou had recommended an otolaryngologist saying, “He is very good. He is German married to a Greek lady. He speaks Greek.” The appointment he fixed for them was for Wednesday afternoon. The doctor practiced in the large apartment on Tsimiski Street— Thessaloniki’s main street—where he lived. When they entered his huge living room they saw a grand piano on which a cat bandaged was sleeping. The doctor explained to them in a German accent that the animal was recuperating following an operation. He then led them to his medical office and had Boulis sit on a chair that ominously reminded him of the dentist’s chair. The doctor then left the room in what seemed to be preparation for the operation. He returned a little while later in odd-looking attire. He wore short leather pants suspended by wide ribbons on his naked torso. Boulis and Theodosia looked at him in awe. “So we have adenoids to take out,” he began. “But first I must examine him,” and asked Boulis to open his mouth. He inserted his finger deep in the kid’s throat causing him to gasp and choke. But it was the doctor, who cried out, “NEIN! I see no adenoids.” Then turning to Theodosia, “Who said this kid has adenoids?” “Doctor Economou, as you know,” she replied. “I need to check again,” he insisted and asked Boulis to open his mouth again for a repeat of the ordeal. This time he was categorical and annoyed. “There are no adenoids to be taken out and I have missed my afternoon walk for no reason,” he complained. But everyone else was rather happy. Fortunately for Boulis, the procedure for the extraction of the tonsils had been simplified in the short time that had elapsed between Aglaïtsa’s operation and his own. They went to a different otolaryngologist this time. He worked alone without even the help of a nurse. He used local anesthetic, two simple injections one on each tonsil. Then he cut them off with a wire scissor. The whole operation took a little more than half an hour. Boulis did not suffer particularly. In fact he was thrilled when the doctor prescribed … ice cream for him over the next

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few days, Boulis’s favorite but hitherto forbidden dessert (it was thought to cause sore throats). Impressed by how easy the operation had proved to be for Boulis, Theodosia decided to have her own tonsils extracted. The memory of her sore throat last winter was still vivid in her mind. At some point during that illness she had to insert her fingers in her throat and squeeze her swollen tonsils in order to be able to breathe again! So she underwent the same surgical intervention by the same doctor a few days later. But adults do not recover as easily as children. Not only did she suffer from pain for several days, but she also had some hemorrhaging, which gave her a real scare. In the meantime, Takis, Anastsasia’s youngest child, was becoming unhappy with the prolonged visit of their guests and expressed it one day. Still, that evening he came home running urging Boulis to come out and follow him to the seafront in order to witness a rare phenomenon, ta phosphoria, as he referred to it. It was a dark moonless night with the sea black and quiet. When they reached the seaside Takis picked a small stone and threw it into the water. A bright ring glowing in the dark appeared around the spot where the stone splashed, with lots of smaller bright spots around it from all the droplets produced by the stone’s immersion. The ring’s diameter increased for a few seconds as the brightness of the light faded away. Boulis watched in awe. He followed Takis’s example, again and again with amusement. He then had the idea of throwing in a handful of sand instead of a stone. The effect was even more phantasmagoric because a large area of the water was lit up for a second with hundreds of little tiny “lights.” Boulis wished it’d rain so that he’d watch the surface of the entire sea light up like this! Theodosia invited Anastasia’s children to Florina, “You may be close to the sea, but we have beautiful mountains. Come visit us and smell the clean fresh mountain air,” she advertised. They did. Antonis came for a week that summer and Takis came for a couple of weeks the following summer. Takis—four years older than Boulis—was rather entrepreneurial. When he saw a couple of Karagiozis figures among Boulis’s toys, he tried to get Boulis to stage a Karagiozis show and have the neighborhood kids come and pay an entrance fee to watch the show. (Karagiozis is shadow-puppet theater originating in Turkish shadow play.)

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“We will charge very little,” suggested Takis, “just 500 drachmas,” the smallest-denomination bill available. “But if ten kids come, we will make 5,000 drachmas!” he concluded. They began by making a big sign, featuring letters painted with glossy brown oil paint on a piece of plywood: KARAGIOZIS SHOW At the Modis House Entrance: 500 drachmas Boulis wanted to test the waters with potential clients. Across the street from the Modis house, on the main-street side, right above Iordanis and Efraim’s grocery store, lived Efterpi with her two sons, Bebis and Bebekos. Suffering from the same syndrome as Boulis— namely, not having been baptized yet—the two boys still answered to names like Bebis for the older one (from baby), and Bebekos (a diminutive of Bebis) for the younger one, who was Boulis’s age. Efterpi was a beautiful young woman whose Bulgarian husband Toumbidis was now continuously absent. He had provoked the neighborhood with his arrogant behavior when the Germans had brought the Bulgarians, but he had to disappear when the communists lost the war. So Efterpi was now a good-looking, effectively single, mother and she lived next to the gendarmerie, whose fat chief from the Peloponnese ogled her on every occasion. Boulis went to check with Bebis and Bebekos whether they’d be willing to attend the planned Karagiozis show. He hesitated crossing the street when he saw a car coming. It was a three-quarter-ton military truck modified as an ambulance with a large red cross on white background painted on all its sides. When the truck reached Efterpi’s house the front door of the house suddenly opened and Bebis came out running onto the street. There was no time for the truck driver to stop or for Bebis to realize that he should not be on the road. The truck hit Bebis, who fell on the ground, and the vehicle went right over him. Boulis watched in horror. The truck eventually stopped and the terrified driver leapt out and ran back toward Bebis, who miraculously had not been hurt. The vehicle had gone over him without any of its four wheels touching him. The kid was in shock, but got up and walked, staggering, toward his house. Boulis watching the scene thought that it would be most appropriate that the ambulance truck picked up Bebis to give him first aid and take

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him to the hospital. But no, once the driver verified that Bebis had suffered no injury, he got back in his vehicle and drove away. Bebis disappeared into his house and Boulis, forgetting all about the shadowpuppet show, ran home to tell everyone, “I saw a miracle!” Efterpi was fortunate that day with Bebis’s mishap. But in the remainder of her life she was rather unfortunate. With her husband away, she was vulnerable. The chief of the gendarmerie forced his way and rented a room in her house. It was inevitable that he’d force his way on her too, which became known in Florina and beyond. Her husband abroad heard the news and prepared his move. One night when the policeman bully was away, Toumbidis made a clandestine descent to his home in Florina, beat up his wife really badly, and took the kids with him to Canada. Efterpi was broken physically and emotionally. She had a brother, but he did not support her. On the contrary he also punished her physically for her infidelities. She ended up having a nervous breakdown from which she never recovered. She finished her days in an asylum in Thessaloniki where her children from Canada came to visit her from time to time. The resurrection of Christ at Easter in Florina—like everywhere else in Greece—is celebrated at midnight on Saturday with a grand ritual and much fanfare. People arrive at the church all dressed up carrying candles at around 11:30 pm or later. Because of the enormous crowd many cannot make it into the church, filled beyond capacity. At around 11:45 all lights are turned off and the bishop brings out one candle whose flame is supposed to have arrived from Jerusalem. The light is given to the congregation and in a little while everyone is holding a lit candle. A grandiose procession consisting of young boys carrying crosses or big candles on scepters followed by chanters, deacons and priests, and finally the bishop carrying a heavily ornamented gospel, begins at the altar and proceeds outside the church to the town’s central square where a stage has been outfitted with lights, a lectern, microphones, and loudspeakers. The whole congregation from inside and outside the church follows the procession to the stage. The bishop reads from the gospel and when he pronounces, “Christ is Risen!” joyous sounds erupt. The church bells ring, fireworks fill the air from all directions, and everyone joins the bishop in singing the traditional Christ-is-Risen chant.

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Boulis was always fascinated with the fireworks and at some point insisted on buying one. Theodosia felt very apprehensive about it so when the moment came she took it from his hand and lit it holding it away from the children. It was a sparkler emitting colorful sparks, but a more substantial one than the familiar hand-held ones often found on a birthday cake. As a consequence lots of sparks landed on her hand at the back of her palm. By the time they returned home the skin on her hand was peeling off in shreds. Alarmed, she sent Maria to fetch Doctor Mirtsos even though it was around 1 am. She knew that the doctor and his family would be sitting around the table eating mageiritsa at that time, as custom requires. Mageiritsa is a substantial soup containing the chopped internal organs (liver, lungs, spleen, and intestines) of the lamb to be roasted on the spit the next day. The soup is supposed to ease people who have been fasting for forty days into eating meat again. The doctor came and attended to Theodosia’s hand. He cleaned and disinfected the wound, then used tweezers to reposition most of the skin in its place, and wrapped the whole hand in gauzes. She kept marks on her skin for the rest of her life and Boulis never asked for fireworks again. Boulis and Aglaïtsa, however, did not hold back from asking to go see movies at Florina’s only movie theater. In fact, they asked too often for Theodosia’s taste. Once they insisted on going even though the movie was not for children by arguing that there were always cartoons at the beginning. She took them to the theater, they watched the cartoons, and when the movie started she took them out of the theater and back home, to everyone’s frustration. Things were more pleasant when they went to see The Wizard of Oz. But this time it was Theodosia’s turn to have a little challenge. On their way home after the movie they passed by the house of Dramis, a rather naughty boy in Aglaïtsa’s class. There Theodosia very carefully explained to the parents of Dramis that it was not right for their son to hit the girls in the class and in particular Aglaïtsa, all this in full view of Aglaïtsa, Boulis, and Dramis. When they saw the film Lassie, Boulis expressed a desire to have a dog and Grandmother Kleanthi heard him. A few days later she showed up at Theodosia’s with a little white puppy. “What is this?” asked Theodosia with aversion. “The kid said he wanted a dog,” answered Kleanthi candidly. Theodosia got angry.

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“The kid may say and want many things; he is only a kid. But you are an old lady. Can’t you make adult decisions?” It was too late. Boulis had seen the puppy and utterly excited, was already making friends with it, “I’ll call her Lassie,” he declared not even bothering to check for its gender. The next few weeks Boulis was completely taken by the dog. He’d spend all his free time with it. One morning while leaving for school he closed the iron gate rapidly to make sure Lassie did not get out, but in so doing he caught the dog’s paw. The dog yelped and ran back limping. Boulis was heartbroken. He went to school but could not concentrate in class all day. After school he ran home to see Lassie walking perfectly straight. His day was finally made. Lassie was supposed to live in the external washhouse facility and have access to the garden. There were several trees in the garden but also Theodosia’s roses and other flowers. As Lassie grew she began digging out the flowers. Theodosia didn’t like that at all. She never liked the idea of having a dog anyway—it brought back to her painful memories of the dog poisoned by the Germans—so she arranged for someone to take it away. Boulis came home from school one day to find that Lassie was gone. He was inconsolable. His sorrow was aggravated further when Nouna—who hadn’t been informed of Lassie’s disappearance—came back from Thessaloniki a couple of days later and brought him a dog’s leather leash and muzzle as a present. They were placed in the good room’s showcase dresser as a curiosity. To console Boulis, Kleanthi told him lots of fairytales. He liked listening to her fairytales. They weren’t known stories. She improvised simple plots about the wolf that ate the sheep, the king whose beautiful daughter needed to be married, and the pirates that went from island to island finding treasures. When Boulis heard, “… and they lived happily ever after,” he’d invariably complain. “No, don’t stop! More, more!” he’d insist. And Kleanthi would add some more to her story. One evening when Paraskevi was babysitting the kids Boulis tried her on fairytales, “Grandma, why don’t you tell me a fairytale?” he asked. “I don’t do things like this,” Paraskevi answered gravely, “ask your other grandmother, that sorcerer, for such stuff.” Boulis was not happy when his mother was away. He was attached to her emotionally and physically. He followed her everywhere and had to hold her hand at night in order to be able to fall sleep. He generally accompanied her when she went out to visit her friends. He preferred

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to be close to her and tried to quietly amuse himself with whatever object would be at arm’s reach during the long hours of mouabetia (prolonged chatting and gossiping) his mother and her friends would indulge in, rather than stay home being babysat by Paraskevi. On the rare occasion that his mother would go out without him—for example, when it was too cold—he played a mental game to bring her back. He visualized her leaving the house of the friend she visited and walking the streets to come home; he knew well the trajectory she’d follow. If by the time his mother arrived home in his mind she was not home yet, he went back to the friend’s house and began afresh saying to himself, “Suppose she leaves her friend’s home now.” He replayed the tracing of her trajectory over and over again until she really came home and then he was happy.

27 The Stefanakises

In the spring of 1951 a new seamstress from Athens arrived in town, Mrs. Lula Stefanakis. She came to Florina because her husband, Kostas Stefanakis, was a civil engineer and was appointed there. The word quickly spread around how she’d be bringing the latest Athenian fashion to this remote town. But Theodosia was not about to take advantage of this opportunity. She was preoccupied with tightening her belt in an effort to build up some savings. She saved for months in order to have the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom whitewashed. Paraskevi did not contribute even though she knew that Theodosia had to squeeze pennies to do it. But later in the winter when Theodosia mentioned that she wouldn’t be attending a social event because she didn’t have a good coat to wear, Paraskevi highly unexpectedly gave Theodosia one British gold sovereign and told her, “Buy some material from Soua and have the new seamstress make you a coat.” Theodosia went to Mrs. Lula Stefanakis for her new coat. Lula’s husband worked in the same office with Dimos, Eleni’s husband. The Stefanakises, in their early thirties, did not know anyone in Florina. They were glad to meet and make friends with Dimos, Eleni, and the Modises. In particular, there was a quick “click” between Boulis and Mr. Stefanakis despite a difference of twenty-four years in age. Stefanakis found a smart kid eager to learn and Boulis found someone who could give a scientific answer to any question he might come up with. Theodosia was happy to see in Stefanakis the father figure that Boulis had lost. 317

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Mrs. Lula hired a few girls and set up a seamstress shop in the biggest room of the house they rented. There was a big table in that room with two enormous drawers, one of which contained Stefanakis’s tools all thrown inside in a disorderly manner. Boulis developed a new daily routine. He went to the Stefanakis house after school in the afternoon. He rang the electric bell continuously until the door opened (he got a kick out of ringing such bells, which were rare in Florina). He could hear Mrs. Lula inside shouting to the girls, “Quickly! Someone run and open the door, it’s Boulis!” Boulis then went in, sat at the big table, opened the tool drawer, and examined the various items. He took them out one at a time and put them back exactly where they were, keeping the disorder unaltered. Mrs. Lula marveled at the fact that her husband never realized that Boulis had been in his drawer, whereas he always complained after she had taken even one pair of scissors out. “Who messed around in my drawer?” he’d say. Boulis kept busy with the drawer until Mr. Stefanakis came home from work and then the two of them played chess. Stefanakis had a beautiful chess set with the pieces made of sculpted varnished wood. From the very beginning he had decided that Boulis must learn how to play chess, so he taught him. Stefanakis was patient teaching Boulis, who was a quick learner. They played two games every day. Of course, Boulis lost every single match. Theodosia also went to visit Mrs. Lula many afternoons. When she saw Boulis setting up the chessboard right after Mr. Stefanakis’s arrival, she said, “Boulis, let Mr. Stefanakis rest a little. He just got back from work.” “Don’t worry, Mrs. Modis,” Stefanakis replied, “a change of work is as good as a rest.” But she was also worried to see Boulis always losing twice a day over a period of months. “Mr. Stefanakis, don’t you think you should let him win sometime?” she dared suggest. “He’ll win when he is able to do so,” Stefanakis replied, somewhat embarrassed to give a lesson to an older lady and a teacher at that. Indeed the time came when Boulis won the day’s second game. While Boulis was thrilled, Stefanakis seemed less so. “We’ll play one more game today,” he said, and reset the board. He wanted to finish the day with winning. However, he congratulated Boulis and made a point of letting Theodosia know. The bond between the Modises and the Stefanakises grew stronger with time. The latter were young and had no kids of their own as yet. Stefanakis found an excuse with Boulis to relive his childhood, construct

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and fly kites, go on excursions, unearth tricks (there was a store in Athens specializing in tricks and Stefanakis always brought some tricks to Boulis when he came back from visiting his family). At carnival the Stefanakises prepared the kids for the children’s masquerade dance. Aglaïtsa dressed up as a Hawaiian girl with a skirt made out of straws, a garland of flowers around her neck, and flowers in her hair. Boulis dressed up as the devil. He wore black tights and a black jacket, a black hood with horns on it, a red cape, and a spear. Mrs. Lula made the costumes. Mr. Stefanakis made the three-pronged spear. When Boulis came back the next day and told Stefanakis that other kids told him it was Poseidon the god of the sea, who had a three-pronged spear, Stefanakis immediately cut off the middle prong and said, “Now you have a two-pronged spear good only for devils!” Stefanakis was knowledgeable and ingenious, which made Boulis ecstatic. Boulis knew that he could ask Stefanakis anything and that he would get a correct scientific answer. So he did ask him questions incessantly. It made Boulis feel that he could become omniscient! Only once was he frustrated—when he asked Stefanakis how an atomic bomb was made, “You will learn this when you go to the university,” was Stefanakis’s unusual evasion. The electric doorbell Boulis loved to ring had been put together by Stefanakis without proper electrical components. Instead of a transformer or step-down resistor circuit he had introduced a glass of distilled water with a judicious amount of salt, in the power line. The more salt he added, the louder the bell rang, and from time to time he replaced the water that evaporated. Stefanakis had also built his own radio, but without the vacuum tubes because they were expensive. To try it out, he had to wait for his wife to be away and then borrow all the tubes from their proper radio to listen to his home-made radio—all this under the observing eyes of Boulis. At that time Florina’s water-supply resources underwent major improvements and water was brought to many houses. Theodosia took the opportunity to have running water installed in the house. This operation required digging long channels on the sidewalk to lay down the water pipes. At the end the sidewalk needed a facelift, which was overdue anyway. To keep expenses down it was decided to make it all concrete and simply draw tiles on it instead of buying tiles. Boulis kept a close eye on all these operations. The sidewalk curved around the house featuring a circular corner. The worker finishing the sidewalk had a long straight board that he

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used as a ruler and a thick rounded wire that he used as a drawing instrument to press lines on the still-wet cement surface. He began at the sidewalk’s long end and drew long straight lines parallel to the house, and then short perpendicular lines to make little squares that looked like tiles. But things became complicated when he got to the circular part. He instinctively began tilting the perpendicular lines to “accommodate” the curving sidewalk. Boulis didn’t like that. “How is he going to get out of this mess?’ he wondered. He didn’t! When he realized that the “tiles” he was drawing did not resemble squares at all but increasingly narrow rhombs, he stopped and began again drawing short lines perpendicular to each other. The result was a ludicrous discontinuity. An exasperated Boulis looked around for help and rewardingly saw Stefanakis, who happened to be passing on the main road. He ran toward him shouting, “Mr. Stefanakis come and see, come and see what this man has done.” Stefanakis was dismayed and became furious at the man, “What have you done here?” he scolded him. “You have screwed it up! Why, this eight-year old child could have done it better.” But it was too late. The concrete had gotten hard. The sidewalk remained with the strange grid drawn on it for as long as the Modises lived in that house. Boulis went to the same school where Theodosia taught, but he was never in her class and not by accident. He did have Eleni as teacher, however. One day when Eleni was ill, her class was moved into Theodosia’s class. Boulis felt funny having his mother in front of him as Mistress. He turned around laughing to the other kids. Theodosia responded quickly, “Boulis, you go to the corner of the room,” she ordered. Boulis smiled awkwardly not knowing what to do. “You understood me correctly,” she clarified, “you go to the corner for the rest of the hour.” He did so, somewhat confused! When he was in fifth grade his teacher, Mr. Panidis, sometimes made mistakes in mathematics that Boulis invariably caught. On one such occasion Mr. Panidis, annoyed with Boulis’s endless interjections, told him, “No, Boulis, you are wrong!” Boulis jumped, “That’s not fair. We should bring a mathematician here,” he demanded. At recess Mr. Panidis went to talk to Theodosia. “Your son wants to bring a mathematician to class,” he complained. “He is only a kid,” Theodosia tried to smooth things over, having a good idea whom Boulis had in mind. That afternoon Boulis couldn’t

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wait for Stefanakis to come home from work. He explained to him the math problem and Panidis’s reasoning. Stefanakis laughed, “Of course he is wrong,” he agreed with Boulis, “and he is supposed to be one of the better teachers at your school!” Panidis at his home that evening rethought the problem and realized that he had been mistaken. The next day in class and with a condescending smile he admitted to the pupils that Boulis had been right the day before. Life with the Stefanakises involved frequent get-togethers, evening outings, picnics, and excursions. The core group consisted of the Stefanakises, the Modises, Nouna and Nounos. On summer nights they regularly went out in the evenings. They’d walk up and down the main street a few times before sitting at an outdoor table in Thomakis’s tavern. Walking up and down the main street was called doing the volta and it was something everyone did. Florina’s main street between Modis’s house and Rompapas’s house—beyond the other end of the central Square—was reserved to pedestrians on summer evenings and became very crowded. People dressed up, strolled leisurely, keeping to the right so as not to interfere with the flow, women often linking arms, chatting (mostly gossiping), and looking at those going in the opposite direction. In rows, they all moved at the same slow pace and made a U-turn at the end of the several-hundred-meter-long designated trajectory. Weird as it may seem, volta felt utterly natural and was repeated after dinner before going home. Memorable were the New Year eves. The group gathered at the Stefanakis house around 9 pm. There they ate, drank, and played games of luck (small-scale gambling using beans as chips) until midnight. A few minutes before midnight Mr. Stefanakis lit the candles on the Christmas tree and everyone gathered around it. Exactly at midnight, the lights went out for a few seconds while the electric company switched generators. At that moment Mrs. Lula showed up in the dark carrying a flaming tart and singing the new-year song. More lucky games followed afterward because everyone had to check how his or her luck changed with the coming of the New Year. Stefanakis had bought one of the very first extremely simple record players (a pick-up turntable) and had connected it to the radio. He had a few long-playing discs one of them with Johann Strauss waltzes. The food, the wine, the music, the lateness of the hour, all contributed to send Theodosia into a fantasy world, “Oh! They are so nice those

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porthole windows of the boat!” she exclaimed, and then began laughing as she came back to reality. Theodosia brought Boulis to Doctor Economou for regular checkups. She was so impressed and happy with this doctor that when Stefanakis announced that he had been diagnosed with a stomach ulcer and that he had to undergo surgery, she suggested to him to go see Economou first. “But he is a cardiologist,” Stefanakis objected. “He is a good doctor,” Theodosia insisted, “if he cannot treat you, he will at least direct you to the most appropriate doctor.” Stefanakis respected Mrs. Modis and appreciated her judgment. He also feared the surgical intervention, so he went to Thessaloniki to see Economou. “Mr. Stefanakis, I treat heart ailments, not the stomach!” Economou said articulating slowly. “I know, doctor, but Mrs. Modis insisted that I see you before I decide to have an operation.” Economou smiled. “Let me examine you,” he said. He put on a heavy lead apron and examined Stefanakis’s stomach with a long radioscopy. At the end of the examination he told him, “If you are capable of following the strict diet that I’ll prescribe, you will not need an operation.” Stefanakis had much will power and he knew it. “I will do whatever you say,” he committed. “Well, it is very simple. For three weeks you have nothing but milk. You will lose some weight and you may feel weak and need to stay away from work. Do you think you can do it?” “I will do it,” Stefanakis promised. “Then come and see me again in three weeks.” Stefanakis survived on milk alone for three weeks and even went to work. He then traveled again to Thessaloniki to see Economou. After examination a triumphant Economou declared, “Your ulcer is gone! You need no operation. But you should pay attention to what you eat. You must not put in your stomach acids or alcohols.” Stefanakis was all too glad to comply. And yet, when he met with Boulis some fifteen years later they drank whiskey together. “What about your ulcer?” Boulis asked. “What ulcer?” he replied, “that went, thanks to Economou.” Economou must have been either very good or very lucky, because it has since been established that milk can cause ulcers. But Theodosia’s

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confidence in Economou was reinforced. She solicited his advice on any health issue, although she did not always take his advice. When he suggested a nine-day treatment with aspirins for Boulis, she did not take him up on it. The idea of gradually increasing the daily number of aspirins she gave her child to five and then slowly decreasing them back to zero did not go down well with her. She never stopped thinking that Economou was a good doctor, but she had a fundamental attachment to what she considered to be common sense. Lula Stefanakis finally had a baby girl in 1955 and named Antigoni, called Andy for short. Theodosia was delighted—she had wished the Stefanakises a baby with every glass she had ever raised to her lips. In fact, once she had jokingly given them as a present a little toy baby that could be wound up and crawled on all fours, and wished them to have a real one. But all was not rosy in the Stefanakis family. A young secretary named Chryssa worked in Mr. Stefanakis’s office. Her name was mentioned often at home and not without good reason. Stefanakis had become involved with her. Lula sensed that something was going wrong. She did not need to press him hard before he admitted it. She was devastated. While he was at work, she packed her suitcase, put the baby in the stroller, and sent for a taxi. She had decided to leave Florina and go to her mother in Athens. She asked the taxi driver to go by the Modis house to say goodbye to Mrs. Modis. As soon as Theodosia took a look at Lula’s face she knew there was tragedy. She took her and the baby into the good room and closed the door on interested onlookers, Boulis and Aglaïtsa. “Mrs. Modis,” began Lula crying, “I am leaving him. I cannot stand this situation any longer. I’ll go to my mother in Athens.” “You will do no such thing,” Theodosia became as serious as the situation called for. “Don’t be silly, dear. You have your home here, your child, your job, your clientele. You will go nowhere. It shouldn’t be you, who gives up. Let him go, if he feels up to it. But he will come to his senses, believe me. I will go and talk to this woman’s family,” she volunteered. Theodosia’s words had an impact on Lula. She gathered the pieces and went back home. Theodosia searched and located Chryssa’s home. Apparently, the young woman had no father. Theodosia told her mother, “You need to restrain your daughter. She is about to break up a good home and it is not fair.”

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Chryssa’s mother was not impressed. “She [Lula] was with him many years. Why not let my daughter be with him for a while?” she remarked impertinently. “That’s not how things are done. We are not playing games here. There is a child involved. Would you wish it to grow up without a father? It is a sin that God will not forgive,” insisted Theodosia. Despite Theodosia’s efforts there was no change of heart in Chryssa’s mother. But when Theodosia left the other lady seemed somewhat shaken. With time Stefanakis gave up his relationship with Chryssa. His energy was diverted toward building a house of his own for his family in Florina. “The kitchen door will open automatically with a photocell,” he told Boulis, “so that Mrs. Lula can carry plates for the guests with both hands without having to open the door!” It was the first time Boulis heard about photocells. Later Stefanakis sold that house and moved his family to Athens, where he built a bigger house. But his vision concerning Boulis was never realized. He never saw Boulis become a civil engineer by graduating from the “Big” polytechnic school in Athens (he himself had graduated from the “Little” polytechnic school) or work together, possibly even see him married to his daughter. In any case, the Stefanakises lived happily ever after and Theodosia may have had something to do with it.

28 The Early 1950s

While Eleni and Niki worked as fulltime nurses on a volunteer basis throughout WWII (Eleni also during the following civil-war years where she distinguished herself and rose to the grade of head nurse), Theodosia went to help at the hospital only a couple of nights at the peak of the civil-war hostilities. Giorgos had discouraged her from registering as a volunteer nurse. “There is no need for you to become involved with all the wounded,” he told her when she brought up the subject. But in 1950 she decided to join The Soldier’s Singlet, an organization that supported the soldiers at the country’s borders with clothes and other supplies. The organization had been created in 1939 by women concerned with Greek soldiers being ill equipped while fighting the Italians on the mountains. The women knitted socks, vests, undershirts, etc. for the soldiers. A year later Queen Frederica took the organization under her auspices, raised funds, and succeeded in mobilizing women around the country to join on a volunteer basis. Teams of women, sometimes accompanied by the Queen, regularly visited the country’s frontiers to deliver packages to soldiers at outposts. The packages now were more substantial and did not consist of homemade garments but of commercial clothing instead. Together with Theodosia several other ladies from Florina joined the local chapter of The Soldier’s Singlet when it was created. The activities involved receiving the supplies, making the packages, and getting them to the soldiers. Boulis as usually followed his mother on many of these activities. He mostly enjoyed traveling in all sorts of military vehicles over mountains and countryside. 325

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It was through such activities that Theodosia came again into contact with Georgios Papandreou. When he visited Florina—he was the deputy prime minister now—he met the ladies of The Soldier’s Singlet. Theodosia had the opportunity to shake his hand. She reminded him of their encounter twenty years earlier in his house in Kastri, “I am indebted to you for a great favor you did for me back in 1931 when I visited you in your house in Kastri while you were sick.” “Ah! Back then when I was young and beautiful!” he reminisced remembering the incident, or so he implied. In any case, Theodosia felt pleased about having made a more meaningful contact with him than just a simple handshake. More glamorous was her meeting with Queen Frederica through the same organization much later. The Queen came to Florina and spent one night there in the house of the National Bank’s director (the other Byzantine-style building in Florina). Preparations for the Queen’s accommodations reached a zenith concerning her dinner. She indicated that she wanted a very simple supper, possibly a soup. The ladies scrambled and argued between themselves to eventually come up with water-boiled vermicelli with a little butter and a few small pieces of feta cheese in it. The Queen liked it so much that the recipe was henceforth labeled, the Queen’s soup. The next day a long convoy went to the village Antartiko up in the mountains where the Queen personally handed packages to the soldiers. The ladies from The Soldier’s Singlet wearing their khaki military uniforms brought the packages. One by one the soldiers paraded in front of the Queen. Theodosia handed the Queen the packages one at a time and she passed them on to the soldiers, who bowed, kissed her hand ceremoniously, and received their package. Paraskevi babysat for these and other outings of Theodosia. Her attitude toward Theodosia became more tolerant and mellow with time, but the old lady had been amply pained and embittered. “You may see me dark on the outside,” she used to say, referring to her all-black clothing, “but I am even darker inside.” Her moiroloï now took place more frequently and included a whole new chapter—the loss of her son, the last remaining bastion of her family. Prompted by minor events such as the presence of the other grandmother in the house, she withdrew in her room and began her moiroloï. At dinnertime she sometimes sat at the kitchen table with the others, but refused the plate Theodosia offered her, pushing it back ostentatiously. She’d rather eat plain bread and water. But it should be her own bread. She didn’t make

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the bread, but she made her own yogurt with whatever milk was leftover. She maintained her independence by having Petros buy her bread once a week. Petros was a retarded man that Paraskevi met while going to church. She went to church every Sunday. She went early in the morning. “When you go to church,” she told Theodosia, “you just breathe the farts of the people who went there before you.” (In the Orthodox Church it is not strictly enforced to attend mass from beginning to end. People can come for only a portion of the mass.) Paraskevi took pity on Petros and asked him to come once a week and buy her bread. She paid him for the bread and his work, which also fitted her notion of philanthropy. Petros would show up at the Modis house unexpectedly and go directly to Paraskevi’s room. He wore a long dark coat and a cap. He had a bony face, a short moustache, and a glance with overtones of a disturbed person. Walking slowly and articulating poorly he’d ask, “Mrs. Modena, shall I buy bread today?” The answer would be either “No, come next week,” or “Yes, here is 5,000 drachmas,” in which case he’d go and come back later with a round loaf of whole-wheat bread (white bread was considered expensive). He kept the change. Paraskevi’s only other income—beside the small pension that she began receiving in 1935 as the widow of an officer killed in action— was the rent from her late husband’s store in Monastiri. But collecting the rent was irregular and the situation was precarious because the store was in another country and relationships between the two countries were not always friendly. She generally went to Monastiri, collected the rent, and came back the same day. On one occasion when Theodosia went with her the man asked to buy the store from Paraskevi. He offered her sixty British gold sovereigns. She refused, insisting on one hundred. Theodosia tried to convince her, “Mother, we may lose it all. Take what this man is offering.” But she was stubborn. Somewhere in the back of her mind lingered a forlorn hope that one day she might regain access to her land. As it turned out, Theodosia proved right. Eventually it was all lost. No more rent was paid and the ownership titles became worthless. Boulis began going to school regularly only in September 1951 when he was eight. He went to the 2nd Elementary school, which was much closer to home than the 6th where Theodosia taught. His mother made him wear an apron, a garment worn as an overall that protects the kid’s clothes from getting dirty. But he hated it. It made him look like a girl

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and other boys did not wear one. In fact he didn’t feel good not even in his fancy suit. Theodosia took him to Giannis Sapountzis, the tailor— Grandma Kleanthi’s relative—for a jacket-and-pants suit. There were no ready-made clothes, or shoes for that matter, to be found in the stores. Everything was custom-made and involved first having one’s measurements taken and then going for fittings. Boulis’s suit would have been fine if the pants were long but no, at his age the suit had short pants. He felt funny wearing a fancy tailor-made jacket with short pants. The only long pants he had were the type that gathered tightly around his ankles to prevent air and snow from coming in, which he hated even more because again other kids did not wear them. One day Fotini—Maria’s mother—came to Theodosia for help. The two women saw each other mostly on house-cleaning day when both Maria and Fotini helped Theodosia clean the house. A major part of the cleaning process was scrubbing the floors and the stairs—all made of non-varnished natural wood—with green soap and an iron brush. But Fotini came to Theodosia this time with a social concern. Her daughter, Maria, was secretly seeing Joseph. Maria was in her early twenties, but the fact that Joseph did not have marriage in mind made Fotini’s life miserable. Tsifliki was a close-knit community, even more so than Florina proper. Maria would never be able to get married afterward. Theodosia knew Joseph and not only from that time when he took her and Boulis to Thessaloniki in his truck. She promised Fotini that she’d talk to him, which she did. Among other things she told him was, “Maria is a good girl. She will make an excellent wife. Her family has been striving without a father for so many years. Believe me, I know what it’s like to survive without a man’s support. You do not want to mess up this family. The two of you must get married and enjoy people’s respect. Otherwise, how are you going to look at other people in Tsifliki? How are going to look your own friends in the eyes? Unless you also plan to disappear like her good-for-nothing father.” Joseph felt his filotimo (a particular way Greeks refer to their sense of honor) was at stake. And so Maria and Joseph were married and they eventually had three children. They all moved to Australia, including Fotini, in pursuit of more work opportunities. They did well in Australia, but one cannot say that Maria and Joseph lived happily ever after. He often cheated on her and beat her to the point of permanently damaging her jaw.

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When Maria got married she left the Modis House. Theodosia looked around for some in-house help again. The house was big and ill equipped. Before running water was brought to the house, it had to be carried in water-carrying flasks called gioumia from the fountain on the street. Maria carried the water most of the time. When Theodosia had to do it, she waited for nightfall. She didn’t want to be seen carrying water. It wasn’t a task appropriate for a lady like Mrs. Modis. A lot of water had to be carried for washing day, which took place every two weeks. Theodosia heated up water and washed the children one after the other in a tin trough at the external washhouse downstairs. She’d wash herself afterwards. On cold winter days the whole operation took place inside the kitchen upstairs with the stove burning. Asking around, she located a family with many children in the village Aetos forty kilometers south of Florina that was willing to let one girl go. Eftyhia was twelve years old. She was joyful with rosy cheeks. She took Maria’s place in Paraskevi’s room. She carried water from the fountain and helped with other jobs in the house. But she also played with Agla and Boulis who were about the same age and treated her as part of the family—not true of other people in Florina. One of the good families in Florina was that of Mrs. Siakos. She was a snobbish lady who had a grand piano in her good room. Doctor Siakos had seen her play the piano in the tavern The Acropolis at night and had fallen in love with her. She had agreed to marry him and give up her life as an entertainer in nightspots. Theodosia with Boulis ran into her one day on the street. As customary, the two ladies stopped to chat. Mrs. Siakos noticed Boulis and made some remark in his direction. Theodosia explained to Boulis, “Mrs. Siakos plays the piano,” and then turning toward her, “Boulis likes Chopin’s Polonaise very much.” Mrs. Siakos immediately responded, “You come to my house one day and I will play it for you.” Boulis had indeed been fascinated when he heard Chopin’s Polonaise Op. 53 in A flat major on the radio (he did not know then that Chopin wrote many Polonaises). But when he took piano lessons later in his life and realized the extreme virtuosity required to play that Polonaise, he concluded that it would have been a miracle if Mrs. Siakos had been able to play it for him. In any case, they never went to her house to find out. But she once came to theirs. “Welcome, Mrs. Siakos,” said Theodosia when she saw her entering the house. “Good morning, everyone,” Mrs. Siakos said, looking at

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Aglaïtsa, Boulis, and Eftyhia all lined up. “You are Aglaïtsa, and you Boulis, and you must be the little slave,” she said addressing Eftyhia. “A foster daughter,” rushed to correct Theodosia. Boulis was shocked. He was reading now and had recently read Uncle Tom’s Cabin in a Classics Illustrated format. He had understood slave as a bad word, and little slave didn’t seem to him appropriate for Eftyhia. His consternation was later reinforced when Aglaïtsa told him that she had seen Mrs. Siakos make Greek coffee in the fireplace of her good room where she also burned the used paper from her toilet! Eftyhia didn’t have to carry water anymore after running water was installed in the house. During that installation people had to work in the basement of the house where the water pipes went through. Paraskevi had a metal box hidden there with her gold pieces and other valuables, but it didn’t cross her mind that the workers would find it. She suddenly thought about it in the middle of the night and got out of bed, panic-stricken. She ran to the basement to find the box intact, but the workers had seen it and a new rumor began circulating in Florina that Modena has cans full of golden coins—a real treasure—in her basement. Despite denials from the Modises it was embarrassing for Theodosia. She had been saving for a long time in order to be able to pay for the installation of the running water. Theodosia built her savings slowly but regularly. Once or twice a year she went to see the moneychanger and buy one British gold sovereign. She’d bring it home and have Boulis—the man of the house—put it together with the other gold coins. Boulis liked to count and recount the dozen or so gold coins. He liked their weight and the sound they made. But Boulis was not happy with the coin she once brought home. “Look, Mom, it is thinner than the others,” he said as he demonstrated that the coin slid too easily under a ruler supported by two of the older coins. She brought the coin back to the moneychanger with Boulis’s argument. “Nonsense,” burst out the shrewd man, particularly upset to be challenged by a nine-year-old. “All my gold pieces are the same. But to make you happy, I’ll change it for you,” he said and gave her another one. That evening Boulis talked to Stefanakis about it. “They use aqua regia,” Stefanakis explained. “They dip momentarily a gold coin in this mixture of acids, which is capable of dissolving gold. Afterward they collect all the crumbs at the bottom of the acid jar.”

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It was the first time Boulis heard about this chemical called aqua regia with the unique capability to dissolve gold. But Stefanakis also had a surprise for Boulis: a wooden bucket with a smaller circular metal recipient inside that could be turned with a crank. It was an ice-cream making machine! Boulis became ecstatic. Stefanakis and Boulis began making their own ice cream in the absence of refrigerators and freezers. They filled the bucket with crushed ice and the recipient with their favorite ice-cream mix made of milk, sugar, egg yolks, and butter or fruit juice. Then they added salt to the crushed ice and turned the crank for an hour or so. The dissolving salt lowered the temperature of the crushed ice considerably below zero thus freezing the mix to the desired consistency. Ice-cream wasn’t the only exotic item in Florina at that time. Many simple household things that today are taken for granted fell in that category. Even running water in the kitchen and the bathroom had been one of them a little while ago. But other things such as mayonnaise, mustard, whipped cream, ice cubes, or even simply icy water remained special treats. It was difficult to keep food from going bad for more than a matter of a day or two. Butter kept well when continually immersed in water and so did feta cheese immersed in salty water. Florina is up in the mountains—on a plateau 700 meters above sea level—and its climate is continental with cold winters but also hot summers. Cool water was achieved and appreciated during the summer with the use of clay pitchers. These recipients were porous and became wet. Kept in a shaded outdoor spot, the moisture evaporating on their surface cooled the water inside. But really icy water still remained to be desired. The next improvement to the Modis house came when an icefabricating factory was built in Florina. Theodosia bought an icebox outfitted with a small water tank and a faucet. They called it the bouzi— from the Turkish word buz meaning ice. During summer she bought a piece of ice every morning from the man going around town cutting large cubes of ice from long square ice columns and selling them to housewives. Ice water from the icebox was cherished and consumed with parsimony. Boulis had found an excellent older friend in Stefanakis, but otherwise he had no friends. He never left the house, other than to take short walks around it while eating his afternoon snack. Theodosia was happy to have the “man” of the house always around, but as he grew older

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she became concerned to see him permanently “attached to her skirt.” So she set out to find him friends. She knew which families in Florina had a boy of Boulis’s age and she asked them to send their kids to play with Boulis. It was a little awkward in the beginning, but Boulis’s selection of quality toys usually saved these get-togethers. One kid was Christos, the son of Siamkouris, the owner of a major hardware store. They played well together when he came to the Modis house. But it was Lefteris, the son of the army officer Antonios Pettas that rubbed Boulis up the wrong way. This kid at the age of twelve behaved and thought like a grownup. His family had recently moved to Florina from Katerini, which was a much bigger town. The day he came to the Modis house he went up the stairs and seeing Boulis with his mother said, “Good morning, Mrs. Modis, how are you this morning? I am Lefteris, the son of Officer Pettas.” Theodosia was impressed. She later told Boulis, “Did you see how well he behaved? How well he has been brought up? That’s how you should be too.” Boulis was not impressed. When it was his turn to visit the Pettas house, he did his usual minimal and shy-greeting entrance. Then the two kids sat on the steps in front of the house talking and looking at the people passing by. When a boy on a bicycle passed, Lefteris said, “You see this kid on the bicycle. He does not really know how to ride a bike. I can tell because he keeps the rear pedal down when he coasts.” Boulis, who was still not very comfortable riding a bicycle—he had picked up the bicycle belatedly, at the age of eleven, and against his mother’s wishes—thought that if what Lefteris said was true, it would be easy to fool people and show off as an expert cyclist by simply not keeping the rear pedal down while coasting. Too easy to be true! Boulis decided that Lefteris might have impressed his mother, but was probably full of shit. Later that summer Niki and her little daughter Angela came to visit the Modises in Florina. Lena Houvarda, the young lady who rented the little room in the Modis house while attending Teachers College, saw Angela and exclaimed, “Sweet little girl, what’s your name?” Before Angela had a chance to answer, Niki, who watched the scene volunteered, “Angela sugar!” “Is Sugar your last name?” Lena asked surprised. “Come now!” replied Niki. “No, it is because she is so sweet!” and proceeded to recite the limerick, “Angela sugar, Angela honey, Angela sweet water that angels drink.”

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Angelic as Angela looked she was already into mischief at that age. She had noticed that the loud sound of the old gramophone when they played scratchy vinyl records on it annoyed Grandma Paraskevi. “Stay away from me with this thing,” the old lady said as she withdrew to her room. But Angela persuaded Boulis to carry the playing gramophone by holding it with two hands from opposite sides into grandma’s room and even chase the old lady with it around the house. On April 9, 1953 Spyros Markezinis, Minister of Finance, surprised everyone by announcing on the radio a 50% devaluation of the Greek currency (the drachma) vis-à-vis the US dollar and other currencies. The move aimed at, and succeeded, in boosting exports and consumer demand as well as curtailing inflation and the balance of trade deficit. But people with their savings in foreign currencies or in gold coins saw their savings double. “If only I had managed to save some more gold sovereigns,” lamented Theodosia. A little later the currency was reset by renaming 1,000-drachma bills as one drachma. Henceforth, one dollar was worth thirty drachmas. It was a year later that Voulis wrote to Theodosia with his latest concern. He had been working in a printing shop, but the pay was poor and the chances for advancement nil. His ambition was to open his own printing shop and run a family business employing his two sons. The stumbling block was the printing press, which cost a small fortune. “If you help me out now, sister, I will pay you back little by little as my business grows,” he wrote. Theodosia did not have much savings and moreover, she was reluctant to part with her money, but once again she sent him the sum he needed to buy the printing press. This time the sum was significant, and was clearly specified to be a loan to be repaid, in contrast to other frequent helping gestures from Theodosia to Voulis. His financial situation had never been very good. One winter he had asked her for money to buy petrol because they were freezing. She sent him money and a flokati, the longhair heavy blanket that Westerners later preferred to use as a rug. Voulis set up his printing shop in Athens and later paid back his loan for the printing press. In fact, one of the very first jobs Voulis ran on his new printing press was a set of visiting cards for Theodosia. They were very simple, just her name, but printed in calligraphy italics, making a rather elegant card. She cherished those cards and used them

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with care. That box lasted for some fifty years! She used the last card in 2003 for her grandson’s (Yorgo’s) wedding present, barely being capable of writing some wishes on it. It was a few months before she died.

29 Anatolia College

As Aglaïtsa approached the end of primary school, Theodosia looked around for better alternatives than Florina’s high school. She long had a desire that her children learn foreign languages, something that she herself did not have the opportunity to do and always regretted. She had heard that the daughter of the high school’s cleaning lady attended a good American school in Thessaloniki. She found out where this cleaning lady lived and went to see her. The cleaning lady told Theodosia an interesting story. She spoke of an expensive and exclusive American School in Thessaloniki called Anatolia College. Envoys from this school had come to Florina looking for smart kids to support. Never acknowledged as such, this strategy essentially amounted to brain drain, because the best of those kids inevitably ended up in America after graduating from Anatolia. Her daughter Kaiti had been an exceptional student in elementary school and was selected by the Anatolian “headhunters.” She was offered a scholarship, was now close to graduating, and was making plans to go study in America. Theodosia was impressed. She began by asking Kaiti to give Aglaïtsa English lessons during the summer. Then she inquired about the entrance procedure and requirements of the school. She knew that the stumbling block would be finances, but she left that for later. The word spread around in Florina that Modis’s daughter was preparing to go to a fancy school in Thessaloniki. Giorgos Anagnostopoulos, whose daughter was in the same class with Aglaïtsa, was immediately mobilized lest his daughter fall behind. But he also had two younger daughters and the prospect of sending three children to an expensive school daunted him. 335

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He talked to Theodosia, “Theodosia, why do we have to send our children to this school?” “You don’t have to, Mr. Anagnostopoulos,” she replied. “I just want the best for my children.” And soon another rumor began circulating that Agathi, Anagnostopoulos’s daughter, was also preparing to go to the same fancy school in Thessaloniki. Giorgos Anagnostopoulos was a lawyer in Florina. He had been an assistant to Giorgos Jr. in the 1930s but in the latter’s absence he thrived. When recently he went to Katerini for a case, the court secretary Manos walked up to him and asked, “Do you know someone in Florina named Theodosia Panagiotidou?” “You mean Mrs. Modis, the widow of Giorgos Modis? Yes, I know her.” “Well, tell her hello from Manos, her friend from Bogazkoy. Tell her I’d like to see her sometime.” During a social gathering later in Florina Anagnostopoulos took the opportunity to publicly announce, “Theodosia, I bring you greetings from your boyfriend, Manos.” She was embarrassed and didn’t understand, “What are you talking about?” “Manos, from Constantinople, the priest’s son,” he clarified. She finally figured out whom he was talking about. “I wouldn’t recognize him, if I saw him,” she tried to put things in some perspective. “He is very handsome,” Anagnostopoulos rubbed it in, clearly enjoying himself. The damage had already been done. People began asking all kinds of questions, and the gossip included even the possibility of an imminent engagement! Liakos, the headmaster, heard the rumors about Aglaïtsa and Agathi going to Anatolia College and became furious. He had a grudge against Theodosia anyway from the time she had rejected him. When one day he ran into her on the main street, he made a scene using a loud voice so that other people could hear, “What do you think you are doing undermining our institutions here? I have worked hard to make Florina’s high school a first-class institution and you are boycotting it and inciting others to do the same! What is the matter? We are not good enough for you? Are you better than your fellow citizens in Florina?”

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He was ready to continue, but Theodosia cut him short, “I haven’t incited anyone to do anything. I just want the best for my kids. That’s all. Good day, Mr. Liakos,” she said and walked away. It took several years before social relations were reestablished between Liakos and the families who sent their kids to Anatolia College. But eventually he came around. He couldn’t break permanently with several good families in Florina that followed Theodosia’ example. Five years later he was photographed during a social gathering entertaining the very kids who went to Anatolia College. He posed with a stick in his hand from which hung a pealed hard-boiled egg. With this contraption he teased Agla (no longer Aglaïtsa), Theodorakis (no longer Boulis), Agathi Anagnostopoulos, and Thomaïtsa Aggeli, all teenagers at Anatolia, challenging them to bite the egg. Anatolia College is built high up at the foot of Mountain Hortiatis, ten kilometers from Thessaloniki’s center. It overlooks the city and the whole of Thermaïkos Bay, giving the location its deserving name, Panorama. At that time the boys’ school was on the left side of the road as you went up the mountain and the girls’ school was on the right. Each school counted a handful of stone buildings hidden among pine trees. Some buildings included dormitories with dining rooms for all those who lived in the boarding school as well as the three-times-as-many day students commuting every day from Thessaloniki. The most imposing main building, Macedonia Hall, was the biggest and served also as a venue for examinations and ceremonies, such as the commencement. It sat majestically on top of a hill and was built with large irregular white stones meticulously matched so as to minimize the amount of cement that held them together. It had six columns linked with arcs at its entrance. Despite being mostly financed by American benefactors, the tuition fees at the school were high. It had an American president and some American teachers in its faculty. A few courses were taught in English and there was an English-speaking rule, i.e. students were required to speak in English during recess and lunch breaks. Such command of the English language necessitated a preparatory year of intensive courses in English up front. Studying at Anatolia College required a total of seven years—instead of the usual six—unless one already knew English well enough upon entrance. But the astute scheme of having the students police each other in order to enforce the English-speaking rule never worked in the boys’ school. As a consequence, girl graduates spoke better English than boy graduates.

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In June 1953 Agla passed the entrance examination—an aptitude test—with no difficulty. And that brought Theodosia face to face with Mr. Empeoglou, a shrewd businessman in charge of the school’s finances, himself a refugee from Asia Minor. She pleaded with him for financial assistance, arguing that she was a schoolteacher, widowed with two children, and had a mother-in law to care for. But Empeoglou had apparently done some homework on the background of the parents applying for financial aid. “You also have a big house and a pension from your late husband,” he corrected her. “The house has expenses of its own, and the pension is small,” she protested. But she was clearly not in the same category as Kaiti’s family. He took pencil and paper and calculated monthly tuition fees tailormade to Theodosia’s financial situation. She had wished they’d be smaller, but there was no room for maneuver, so she agreed. That summer in Florina there were intensive preparations for Agla’s upcoming one-way trip to Thessaloniki. She needed clothes and school supplies; a small dowry. Her clothes for laundry plus a laundry bag had to have her initials and assigned number sewn on them. Agla was excited, but Boulis seemed rather confused and worried. The two of them had been very close. He may have followed his mother everywhere more unfailingly than Aglaïtsa, but he always asked for a second candy explaining, “To bring to my sister at home,” which he did. Theodosia was strict with Aglaïtsa, while she pampered Boulis. It was partly because of his propensity for illness and his heart condition, but also because he was a boy and she had lost her man. In any case, the invariable refrain for any mishap in the house was a scolding for Aglaïtsa, “You, the old one! It is your fault.” And if that was not enough, Paraskevi was also hard on Aglaïtsa who stood up against her. Aglaïtsa’s noncooperation stemmed from Paraskevi’s mean attitude toward Theodosia and Kleanthi. “Your sister, that snake!” Paraskevi often told Boulis. The poor girl took it all rather stoically and never had a grudge against her brother. On the contrary, she was full of affection for him. But she was generally not happy in Florina. The big mountains, one on each side of the house made her depressed. Anatolia College promised to merit its logo: a rising sun behind the elegant outline of Macedonia Hall and mountain peaks in the background. Come September the Modises and the Anagnostopouloses arrived at Anatolia College. At the girls’ boarding school Theodosia was pleasantly

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surprised to find out that its director was Mrs. Theohari Bella, an old acquaintance of hers from Florina. “Theohari, I am so glad to find you here. I feel reassured,” Theodosia told her. “You have been through such separations yourself and you know what it is like. Agathi and Agla have been in the same class for many years. Can you put them close to each other in the dormitory until they make new friends?” “Don’t worry, Theodosia, bring their luggage in my room for the time being. I will arrange things later. Come now, I want to introduce you to Miss Ingle, the dean of the girls’ school.” Miss Mary Ingle in her sixties was a calm, soft-spoken, slender, older lady with gray hair and light-blue eyes. She had a permanent benevolent smile on her face characteristic of religious people, which she was. Her faith did not prevent her from being strict, however; on the contrary. “Glad to meet you, Mrs. Modis,” she said in good Greek with an English accent. “I brought you my daughter,” said Theodosia, “and in a couple of years I’ll also bring my son to this wonderful school.” In the short time they met, the two ladies seemed to appreciate each other. In fact at a meeting between them a few years later Miss Ingle asked Theodosia whether she would be interested working at the girls’ boarding school because Theohari was planning to leave. Theodosia was flattered, but declined, “Thank you, but I cannot. I have a motherin-law in Florina, whom I cannot abandon,” she replied. Life at Anatolia College followed American standards and traditions. Chapel Morning took place every day before classes. It was a gathering of all students (and some of the faculty) for a prayer (mostly American hymns) and a ten-minute talk on a variety of topics, or listening to classical music. After school in the afternoon there were clubs of all sorts. The school choir named The Choral was run by Tassos Papas—who had been one of Theodosia’s students in Florina—and gave concerts every year also outside the school environment. A bazaar was organized once a year for philanthropic purposes. Agla or Modis (no longer Aglaïtsa) thrived in her new environment. Following a short period of adjustment she emerged as a popular figure and was elected class president, a post she kept every year until graduation. She was strong-willed—a typical fire sign—and was appreciated as such by her classmates. She joined the choir and became involved in other extracurricular activities. She had her own way of dealing with the insidious English-speaking-rule scheme. Instead of trying to catch and

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report violators, when it was her turn as monitor, she would simply accept the small punishment at the end of the day for not having caught anyone who broke the rule that day. She was missed in Florina, however. Boulis began counting the days until Christmas when Aglaïtsa would come home for the holidays. Those holidays became doubly sweet. Theodosia made baklava, Boulis decorated the little pine tree Stefanakis procured for him, and one evening a couple of days before Christmas Theodosia and Boulis went to the train station to wait for Aglaïtsa’s arrival. The railcar was always late. It took forever, or seemed that way to Boulis, who kept putting his ear down on the rails, impatient to hear something, as he had read it was done. When Aglaïtsa was finally there, excited, full of new impressions, and endless stories to tell, Christmas had already arrived. One spring afternoon Theodosia received a written convocation to the post office for an incoming phone call. It was from Theohari at Anatolia College. “Theodosia, Agla cut her arm at the elbow and we took her to the hospital where she had fourteen stitches,” said Theohari on the telephone. “What! How did that happened?” gasped Theodosia. “She was running and a glass door closed on her. Her right hand went through the glass.” “How is she now, where is she? Shall I come to Thessaloniki?” “She is back here in the boarding school and she is fine. There is no need for you to come here, unless it is only for your peace of mind.” Theodosia did not go to Thessaloniki, did not even speak to Agla on the telephone. She trusted Theohari. But she was filled with remorse for deciding that the trip was not justified. She never opened her heart to anyone about it, but her guilt feelings became manifested in her autobiography that she wrote some fifty years later. She had a number of inaccuracies in that book. Among the most flagrant ones was that she traveled from Florina to Thessaloniki with Boulis to see Agla every single weekend during Agla’s first year at Anatolia College! In fact, she traveled to Thessaloniki only once, at the end of that school year. Parents were invited to Anatolia for the 1954 May Day gymnastic demonstrations. Theodosia planned to go and take Boulis with her. But a few days before the trip, she read in the papers that a couple of polio cases were discovered in Thessaloniki. She became alarmed (no vaccine existed yet) and to her disappointment she decided to go alone and leave Boulis in Florina with Grandmother Paraskevi and Eftyhia.

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The May Day show turned out to be spectacular. It took place outdoors in the evening with lighting and sound effects. A select number of older girls performed a long and varied program of exercises and dances. Theodosia watched it with Agla. She came back full of impressions, which she recounted to Boulis in great detail—and he was all ears. In 1955 it was Boulis’s turn to go to Anatolia College. He passed the aptitude test in June with flying colors, which gave some leverage to Theodosia when she bargained again with Empeoglou. But there was no way around the fact that she now had two kids at the school and what she paid for one could not suffice. Following more pencil-andpaper calculations, Empeoglou gave her a new increased monthly bill, but far less than twice what she paid for Agla alone. In September Theodosia with her two children arrived in Thessaloniki a few days earlier for shopping and a visit to Doctor Economou. Among other things she took Boulis to an optician because she suspected he needed glasses. It turned out he needed glasses with important corrections, 4 diopters on the right eye and 3.5 on the left. She felt ashamed. She didn’t expect it to be so bad. How could she have let him go without glasses for so long? No wonder he always went to the front row of the movie theater and copied from his comrades in class rather than directly from the blackboard. On Sunday afternoon she dropped both children at Anatolia and with a heavy heart returned to Florina. Boulis was overwhelmed with his new environment, his new ability to see well with glasses, and his new name. No one knew about Boulis here. His name was Theodoros—or Theodorakis as his mother and his piano teacher called him, or Thodori as Agla called him—but mostly Modis because teachers and students used only last names. During the first afternoon he explored the grounds. Some kids were playing soccer and asked him to join. He did even though he had practically never played soccer in his life. At some point he received the ball on his head. His glasses fell down and one of the lenses cracked. He despaired. He ran to the girls’ school across the street—something forbidden—to look for his sister. Asking around the girls he found Agla and began crying. She was reassuring, “Come on now, that’s nothing. You can use the glasses as they are for a while and then we’ll fix them.” How and when they’d be fixed was not obvious. School started and he got used to the crack in his right lens, even forgetting about it. Until one day the English teacher Spyros Lekkas, a

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Greek-American who spoke Greek well, said in class, “Modis, you need to repair your glasses.” “He can’t because he lives in the boarding school,” volunteered an outspoken student before Modis had a chance to answer. “In that case one of the day students should take his glasses to town and have them repaired. How about you?” he said pointing at the boy who spoke out of turn. Both girls and boys used the same theater building on the grounds of the boys’ school for Chapel Morning, separately of course. When the girls came they passed in front of Theodoros’s classroom. It was before classes began so he found an opportunity to see and talk to Agla for a few minutes. It was one of those “forbidden” meetings between boys and girls. One teacher, Mr. Frangos—he taught modern Greek but also psychology to older students—noticed these morning meetings and brought up the subject with Theodosia on the first yearly teachersparents meeting. “Mrs. Modis, I believe that Theodoros does not need to talk to his sister every day. He must become independent and stand on his own two feet like all the other students.” Frangos’s interest in psychology was not superficial. After teaching several years at Anatolia he became a professor of psychology at the University of Thessaloniki. Studying the psyche, however, did not necessarily help him in his personal life. He missed the fact that his daughter got into drugs as a teenager, which eventually led her to commit suicide. Theodosia did not necessarily agree with Frangos because she knew how much Theodorakis was missing his mother, and she considered these morning meetings between the two siblings were an opportunity for Agla to play mother to him. But to everyone’s disappointment Theodorakis stopped meeting Agla in the mornings. They met only once a week, on Sundays, after mass. Mass was mandatory for the boys and the girls of the boarding school. It took place in a specially arranged room at the basement of Macedonia Hall. The only redeeming feature most boys and girls saw in that activity was that it gave them an opportunity to look at each other across the aisle. Life at the boarding school was very different from what Theodorakis had been accustomed to. He slept in a large room with eleven other kids from his class and an older kid who acted as dormitory chief. A pecking order was quickly established, according to each kid’s physique and willingness to fight. Modis found himself somewhere around the middle.

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To his surprise, not all of the kids in the dormitory came from remote regions of the Greek countryside. Some children belonged to well-to-do families, sporting expensive residences in downtown Thessaloniki. Their parents considered it good education for their children to spend one or two years in a boarding-school environment with other kids of the same age. Later, these students became day students. When the dormitory’s cleaning lady heard him being called Modis she approached him and asked if he was the son of Giorgos Modis. “Yes, I am,” he answered. “The big Giorgos Modis or the little one?” she wanted to clarify. “The little one,” he answered. At that moment she looked around inconspicuously, came closer, and whispered in his ear, “Your father was one of ours!” with a triumphant smile on her face. Theodorakis didn’t understand what she meant, but later he figured out that she was a communist and to his surprise, that she considered his father to be one too. His mother told him later that his father had helped this lady with legal matters years ago. In Florina Theodosia found herself living in the big house alone with Paraskevi. The two women had to cohabitate while they hardly had warm feelings toward each other. But Theodosia kept up appearances. She was always courteous to Paraskevi and patiently tolerated her outbursts triggered mostly by Kleanthi’s visits. She empathized more with the old lady now that she also found herself without a husband and having been distanced from both her children. She kept busy with her work, the activities in The Soldier’s Singlet, and regular letter writing to her children. In the spring of 1956 she decided to take advantage of the coverage she had from the social health-insurance plan and went to Athens, entered a hospital for a few days, and had a complete checkup. It was also an opportunity to get together with her brothers and sister. The four siblings hadn’t been all together for decades and Theodosia had soft and sad feelings for Tilemachos with whom they had never lived. He had been practically adopted by Aunt Xanthipi when he was a baby. He called her Mom and her two children were like a brother and sister to him. When the four siblings finally met, all dressed up, they wanted to have their picture taken. Both ladies wore black (widows continued wearing black for years in Greece). The men wore gray suits with ties. Tilemachos was the tallest and the most handsome; he gave the impression of being in his own world. Niki, smiling, was the shortest, most joyful, with her chin up. Voulis had a grave look on his face as if business

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was not good. Theodosia was serious and most elegant, obviously in a group-leader role. Some fifty years later Dionysis—Voulis’s younger son—shared with Theodoros on the telephone, “Aunt Theodosia represented 80 percent of the collective human potential of the four Panagiotidis siblings; the other three together represented the remaining 20 percent.” But in the meantime trouble was brewing at Anatolia College. In her perpetual worry about Theodorakis’s well-being, Theodosia had given him a food supplement: crackers and individually wrapped pieces of processed cheese. They were kept under key in a dining-room closet, which was opened for him and other kids like him during the big recess at 11:00 am. The trouble is that the closet was not refrigerated and the soft cheese remained there for weeks. One morning Theodoros was not well. He had high fever. The school nurse moved him to the infirmary on the third floor. But when the next day he developed rashes all over his body she was alarmed and called Economou, who had been designated as the family doctor. He came up to Anatolia and examined Mr. Theodoros. He diagnosed an intestinal infection with a rash. “You must come to the clinic,” Economou told him. Later in the day a white ambulance with a red cross on it arrived and picked up Modis under the astonished eyes of his classmates. In a few days word got to Theodosia in Athens that Theodorakis was being treated in Economou’s clinic. She immediately decided to cut her trip short. But before leaving Athens she wanted to buy something for the sick boy. Theodorakis had been taking piano lessons at Anatolia, which he did not particularly enjoy in the beginning. But six months later he began having fun playing on the piano in the Common Room of the boarding school. His piano teacher, Miss Koutroumba, encouraged him. Miss Koutroumba was a nice-looking, top-heavy lady in her early forties. She was steadily moving into spinsterhood mainly because she was … over-endowed for matrimony. She was pretty, knew languages (English, French, and German), played the piano, and owned an apartment on Tsimiski Street, Thessaloniki’s main street. All this put her at the top of the scale of candidate wife and no man had been good enough for her. Now she was flirting in vain with the faculty at Anatolia College. When she met Theodosia she told her, “Mrs. Modis,

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Theodorakis is making good progress with his piano lessons. You should buy him a piano.” But buying such an instrument was beyond Theodosia’s means and it was hardly justified. A compromise was an accordion for which the right-hand keyboard was similar to that of a piano. So Theodosia bought an accordion—of respectable size: 80 registers on the left hand—in Athens and carried the cumbersome instrument all the way to Economou’s clinic in Thessaloniki. Theodorakis was delighted. He took it out of its case every now and then and just looked at it in the clinic, where he stayed for a total of two weeks.

30 A Promising Writer

Agla distinguished herself in her class not only by being elected president but also in writing. The students often wrote a composition in Greek in class. Their modern Greek teacher, Miss Stefanidou, read the best compositions aloud in class afterwards, as means of example. Miss Stefanidou—who later got married to Mr. Frangos from the boys’ school and became Mrs. Frangos—was initially hard on Agla. Nevertheless, she read Agla’s composition aloud in class almost every time. In spring of 1956 Mrs. Frangos praised especially Aglaïa’s composition with title “Bird in a Cage.” When Theodosia found out about it, she thought this composition could be published. Giorgos had long published articles in the Annual Journal Makedonikon Imerologion (Macedonian Calendar) to which Theodosia still subscribed. So she decided to submit Agla’s composition to this journal. To her surprise, the editor, Nikolaos Sfendonis, not only accepted the piece for publication in the 1957 issue of the journal, but also preceded it with an eloquent introduction: BIRD IN A CAGE BY AGLAÏA MODIS

(It is with great emotion that the Makedonikon Imerologion publishes for the first time a contribution by a very young writer, Aglaïa Modis, this year. This emotion stems from the fact that with these pages she is succeeding her father, Giorgos Th. Modis, unforgettable literary man from Florina. A good friend and short-story writer he supplied the Makedonikon Imerologion with his priceless contributions for many years. And now we see his daughter, at the daybreak of her youth, to mark her presence on the pages of our book with a real piece of literature worthy of her father.)

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FORTUNE FAVORS THE BOLD It was raining and for some time all one could hear was the monotonous song of the rain. A short springtime rainfall. Black clouds momentarily shut the gates of light. But little by little they began opening up again letting gentle rays of sun caress the nature down below. A new nature, cool, shining-clean, with brighter colors following a beneficial rainfall. As I stretched my gaze over this beautiful nature I felt sadness without knowing why. I tried to locate the origin of this feeling and listening carefully I heard a melancholic song nearby. A melodic song that filled me with sadness and nostalgia, which I had been listening to all along without realizing it. Next to me there was an elegant cage with a little bird inside. A tiny little creature, standing on his frail legs next to the bars of his jail, watched the nature outside. The more nature became sublime, the harsher became his confinement. He inhaled rapidly the clean air, the only remaining freedom, and let it out with a profound and sweet sigh that made you share his feelings. Every now and then he left his window post that put him in touch with its old kingdom and crisscrossed his cage. He touched halfheartedly the dry food we had given him with no appetite to eat anything. He shook a little the cup with water that had collected a thin veil of dust and returned his sad gaze to the nature outside yearning for the green fields and the crystal-clear mountain sources. Everything had been lost to him. He had only this little house with walls made out of bars and his old joyful memories. The sun moved lower and began to dip behind the high mountains. A thin golden fence along the mountain crest separated our earth from the magical land the sun was heading for. The sad song close to me began fading away until it was completely gone never to be heard again! The day’s big star also went out leaving behind it a simple rainbow. A long bridge that permitted the enslaved little soul to reach a free, beautiful, celestial world.

Everyone in the Modis family was proud of Agla’s publication. She was only fifteen years old when she wrote it. There was feedback from people who read it and stopped Theodosia on the street to congratulate

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her. “How true it is, and how nicely she presents the metaphor,” were comments that embarrassed Agla, who had no metaphor in mind when she wrote it. Someone went as far as to interpret the piece as a hymn to Cyprus, which was suffering under the British yoke at the time. In her enthusiasm Theodosia began planning follow-ups. “Aglaïtsa, why don’t you write something for the Makedonikon Imerologion?” became a daily refrain. But as easy as it was for Agla to write a nice composition in class, so difficult it turned out to be when her mother demanded it. Frustrated, Theodosia decided to write it … together! She sat down and wrote a little story about a large mechanical toy doll that could walk and talk. A man and a wife that could not have children saw it in action and thought of it as a child, which shook them emotionally. Theodosia’s intention was to have Aglaïtsa polish it up and send it to Sfendonis. But before doing so she wanted to try it out on some audience, so when Eleni came for coffee, she read it to her. Eleni was left cold. “Well, I do not have children of my own, and yet I am not particularly touched by this story,” she said, to Theodosia’s disappointment. Theodosia never submitted it to the journal, but under her continued pressure Agla eventually put something together. She did so reluctantly and she did not like the result. Theodosia sent it to Sfendonis anyway. To Agla’s surprise he again decided to publish it, with no introduction this time. Nevertheless, Agla was not proud of the piece and shied away from showing it off or taking credit for it. It was a tradition at Anatolia College that the graduating class took an important trip during its last year. Agla’s class went to visit the ancient site of Delphi. It was right after Easter and visiting this remarkable site with nature in full bloom turned out to be a rich experience. Back at school she wrote down her impressions in a travelogue, as her father did when he climbed Mt. Olympus thirty-two years earlier. She did a better job than he had done. Theodosia again submitted it to the Makedonikon Imerologion. This time Sfendonis asked for a picture from all the authors. Theodosia didn’t feel right sending a picture of Agla. She thought it was more appropriate to send a picture of Giorgos instead. Agla agreed, she couldn’t easily do otherwise and in any case it was not in her character to seek visibility. So the piece was published under Agla’s name and a picture of Giorgos, young and handsome, which prompted Sfendonis to write another introduction.

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(Our young littérateur Aglaïa Modis presents here a sacred pilgrimage, her impressions from the ancient site of Delphi. But together with her sacred pilgrimage she performs another sacred duty. She chose to precede her work with a picture of her father, Giorgos Th. Modis, old collaborator of the Makedonikon Imerologion, from whom she inherited her literary talent. Thus this noble gesture of his cherished daughter gives the opportunity to the Makedonikon Imerologion to perform in turn its own sacred duty in memory of the prematurely lost exceptional literary Macedonian, who left important literary and historical work, and his most significant achievement, our young-lady collaborator.)

The following excerpt shows the ending of the piece. (Phoebus is another way to refer to Apollo.) … Coming out of the museum we look for a place to rest, collect our thoughts and clear up our impressions. But in Delphi no matter where you are, your eyes can reach beyond the slopes of Mt. Parnassos, beyond the turquoise sea of Eleona to the gleaming mirror of the Corinthian bay. At that moment you stop thinking and you just absorb the beauty passively. The faint sounds of a flock of sheep reach our ears, while in the stillness some shepherd, like another Pan, says farewell to Phoebus in a fiery sunset by sending a simple prayer, the notes of his flute, up high in the sky. And in the midst of immense serenity lingers a force inside us, the radiance of a dream, in a final luminous libation to the God we just worshiped.

Following this publication Theodosia became convinced that Agla had a literary talent and could become a writer. However, “A Sacred Pilgrimage” turned out to be Agla’s last publication. The university environment that she frequented after Anatolia College was not as conducive to prose writing, despite the fact that she was in a humanities section. She did write for herself almost daily in the form of diaries. But she did not pursue publishing her writings and Theodosia did not have access to them. In fact, at some point her brother gave her as a gift a diary outfitted with a little lock and key! There was one last public appearance of her writings. It was in the graduation yearbook of her high-school class, the Anatolian 1960. As

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class president she wrote a piece addressing the graduating students, which began as follows: Once I almost got lost with a stubborn wish I had to stop time and feel the present to its fullness. The present, what we call now. Does it exist? Did it ever exist? I wanted to find it; I wanted to search for it. But it always slipped through my fingers and disappeared before I ever got to it. …

31 Thessaloniki 1958–1962

In 1957 the movie Blackboard Jungle was shown in Greek movie theaters. It was about an English high school of diverse ethnic backgrounds where many of the pupils frequently engaged in anti-social behavior. The film’s release a year earlier in London coincided with and fueled the British subculture Teddy Boys. When it was shown in south London in 1956, the teenage Teddy-Boy audience began to riot tearing up seats and dancing in the cinema aisles. Teddy Boys made their appearance in Greece the next year when some teenagers threw yogurt at an old lady in Athens. More such incidents triggered the passing of a law to punish teenagers that committed such insults, and have their parents prosecuted as well. Not long afterward Theodosia received another plea for help from Voulis concerning his younger teenage son, Dionysis: Dear Sister, Dionysis is misbehaving and may get us all in trouble. He has left home and is sleeping in the park. I don’t know what to do. Please help!

With both children at Anatolia College Theodosia had no restrictions in her movements. She asked for a few days’ leave from work and got on the train to Athens to take a closer look at the situation. Dionysis had long displayed a typical second-born syndrome, namely being rebellious and differentiating himself from his older brother, who was groomed by the father to take over the printing-shop business. But now things had gotten out of hand. Theodosia tried to talk with Dionysis, who just said, “Yes, yes,” unconvincingly. So she decided to take him to a psychiatrist at the hospital. It must be said that 353

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psychiatrists were considered appropriate only for insane people at that time. Voulis was alarmed, “But my son is not schizophrenic. Is he?” “We will only have a talk with the doctor,” Theodosia assured him, not being sure herself of what to expect. Dionysis saw the shrink for a while. This so-called therapy didn’t seem particularly satisfactory to anyone, although it did have some sobering effect on Dionysis. Theodosia felt that she had done all she could. Back in Florina a new turn in life awaited her. The first local radio station had recently made its appearance regularly broadcasting daily programs. One of the programs featured interviews with prominent personalities, and the radio staff wanted an interview with Paraskevi Modis, the surviving widow of national martyr Theodoros Modis. Paraskevi was eighty-six now and had grown old and weak. As she grew older she witnessed the disappearance of many of her friends and acquaintances one by one. In the beginning the bad news would shake her and sometimes make her cry. But as the decades piled up her reaction to bad news became more and more concentrated around one central question: Did the person who died become aware that death was imminent? She wanted to know whether she’d be given a warning when her time came. It was as if she had things that needed to be done at the very last minute. It was an odd premonition of what was in store for her. The Florina radio-station staff showed up at the Modis house for the interview with some cumbersome equipment they called tape recorders. They were interested in the life of Paraskevi’s husband. During the interview they asked Paraskevi to sing for them the folkloric grassroots song that emerged spontaneously when her husband was assassinated. She did; they recorded it, and then played it back to her. But the old lady was not ready for something like that. When she heard herself on the tape recorder, she panicked about “the devil machine that took my voice,” and the next day snapped into a fantasy world. Theodosia became Aspasia, Paraskevi’s sister. Boulis became Giorgos, her son. And Florina became Monastiri, soon to be liberated by the advancing Greek army. This went on for weeks! Theodosia was initially bemused, but she became worried when Paraskevi’s health deteriorated. She called Doctor Mirtsos to examine her. Traïanos Mirtsos was born in Antartiko, finished high school in Monastiri, and medical school in Athens. He was four years older than Giorgos Jr., and his mother, who died a few years earlier, had been a

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good friend of Paraskevi’s. But when Paraskevi saw him at the door of her room she brushed him off saying, “You let your own mother die. Do you really think you are going to save me?” Paraskevi’s excursion into her fantasy world lasted for a couple of months. Suddenly one morning, she came back to reality as abruptly as she had snapped out of it. She became lucid and clear-minded, and asked to see, out of all people … Kleanthi! Theodosia went and fetched the other grandmother. When she got to Paraskevi’s bedside, Paraskevi unbelievably asked for forgiveness. “I’ve been mean to you,” she said, “please forgive me.” It was a poignant scene. Paraskevi, this strong and dynamic woman was lying on bed weakened by the approaching death. She had remained beautiful in her old age with her white complexion and only sparse wrinkles on her face. Next to her stood Kleanthi feeling significant; the dark skin of her face was chock-full of deep wrinkles. The former had stood up and defended husband, family, and country fighting like a man. The latter had compromised and accepted life’s adversities one after the other with the attitude, and so what? Now in another manifestation of strength Paraskevi was asking Kleanthi for forgiveness. Kleanthi smiled and said, “I forgive you; I have done bad things in my life too. I hope they will also forgive me.” A little later Paraskevi asked to see Ioulia, the sister of Giorgos Sr. Another asking for forgiveness took place when she arrived. In the afternoon Paraskevi looked very tired. “Give me a drink from the bouzi,” she asked, meaning the icebox. Theodosia dissolved some sour-cherry syrup into a glass with cold water and brought it to her. She took a good sip. She pulled out the keys to her trunk—where she kept her valuables—from under her pillow and pushed them toward Theodosia. Then she reached for Theodosia’s two hands and kissed them saying, “A better daughter-inlaw than you has never been!” Theodosia was profoundly touched. It was more than she could have ever expected from her because the expression of gratitude was not in her nature. A little later Theodosia went out and brought the priest, who gave Paraskevi communion. Paraskevi died quietly that evening. She did not suffer. Up to the previous day she had gone to the toilet by herself. But Theodosia asked Fotini, who was around helping during the day, to stay the night. It wasn’t for any concrete help. Theodosia was afraid to be alone in the

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house with Paraskevi dead. She kept seeing the old lady in front of her every time she opened a door and entered into a room. Fotini helped the next day and the following days. While cleaning Paraskevi’s room she found two small gold pieces. She told Theodosia, “I found two golden pieces. It must be my lucky day!” “You keep them,” replied Theodosia, even though Fotini was getting paid for the work she did. Fotini was happy. She immediately went and bought fancy earrings that she wore with pride. There was much to be done in preparation for the funeral. Fotini and Maria helped and so did Kleanthi. Paraskevi was buried at the St. George Cemetery on the outskirts of town together with Giorgos’s remains that Theodosia had recently brought to Florina. Mother and son rest next to Domniki—mother of Giorgos Sr.—who was buried together with her other son Captain Alexandros Modis. A full-length statue of old Domniki decorates their tomb. Giorgos Sr. had commissioned it with a local sculptor. Florina had a long and important tradition of local artists, painters, sculptors, and musicians, who distinguished themselves often on the world stage. Following Paraskevi’s death not much was keeping Theodosia in Florina—other than the house, which she held dear to her heart. It was a house of contradictions; built by Giorgos on Paraskevi’s demand but in Theodosia’s honor, so that he and his beloved wife could live in it, something they never did. Instead, mother and daughter-in-law lived in it for almost twenty years with no warm feelings for each other but with decency. Moving to Thessaloniki was now the obvious thing to do, but selling the house was too much for Theodosia even if she realized that such a move would eventually become inevitable. The house was meant to be Agla’s dowry. Theodosia had long explained to her children that some day, when Agla got married, she would get the house. “And me, what am I going to get?” asked Boulis. “You will get the silver spoons with your initials on them,” she answered referring to a set of twelve beautifully laced silver spoons with the letters Θ. Μ. engraved on the back of each one, the initials of Paraskevi’s husband’s name. The spoons were kept in a prominently visible spot in the showcase in the good room. They hung on individual slots of a silver carrousel support. They were rarely used, not more than once or twice a year, and always to serve glyko (fruits preserved in syrup) to guests, who invariably remarked on the delicate craftsmanship of the spoons. On one such

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special occasion the Elenes were there and Dimitra broke her spoon trying to cut into a fig with it. It must be said that the figs used for the fabrication of the syrupy preserves were small, unripe, and tough. Embarrassed, Dimitra looked at the broken spoon in her hand and said, “Did I do this?” Theodosia was distraught. She picked up the broken pieces with an expression on her face that indicated internal pain. The next day she brought the pieces to a goldsmith whom she implored to do a good job welding them together. The division of the heritage seemed lopsided to Boulis, but he didn’t really mind. His mother brought him up with the understanding that he didn’t have to worry about missing anything in his life. She finally decided to rent out the house in Florina for the time being and move to Thessaloniki. But emptying it became an emotional upheaval. Every item in the house brought back painful memories. “People leave us; material things remain with us,” is a phrase she often repeated to her children. Many things had to be discarded. Other things simply got lost, for example, Giorgos’s cameras, his cane/gun combination, and the green flag—symbol of the Agricultural Party—which years later was adopted as the flag of the PASOK party that ruled for any years. It was also a question of space. Theodosia went to Thessaloniki and found a house to rent at the edge of the city close to Harilaou Square from where the Anatolia school buses left in the morning. This way it would be easy for Agla and Theodorakis to become day students and quit the boarding school. The house had three rooms and a kitchen but no basement or other storage space. The move was hectic. Fortunately, she had much help. The two brothers at the grocery store across the street, Iordanis and Efraim, practically closed down their store to help her move, particularly with the heavy things. Fotini and Maria helped with the packing. Joseph made his new truck available. Other friends of Giorgos’s came and helped on a volunteer basis. But the real burden was emotional. For years afterward she’d get misty eyes every time she recollected those days. It wasn’t difficult for Theodosia to obtain relocation of her job close to the house she rented in Thessaloniki. The task was facilitated by the fact that Takos Makris, Giorgos’s friend, had finally gotten into politics and was now minister of the interior. She wrote him a letter. Dear Takos, You probably heard that Paraskevi passed away recently. There is no longer a reason for me to stay in Florina. I want

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Takos did not answer her letter, but within a week she received notice of her appointment to the 88th Elementary School. In fact, he did not have to go out of his way. She had remained teaching in Florina and the surrounding area for more than thirty years. She had also achieved the highest rank. Therefore her demand would have been accepted, if less expeditiously, without his intervention. In any case, she had only a couple of more years to work before completing 33.5 years of employment and thus qualifying for full-pension retirement. Moving from Florina to Thessaloniki was typical behavior for all teachers—and not only teachers—who reached retirement. Nouna took early retirement, at 25 years of service. She came to Thessaloniki before Theodosia and bought an apartment; and so did her sister Dimitra with her husband Vasilis. (The third sister of the three Elenes—Philipini— had died from cancer in Florina.) Urbanism had slowly transformed Thessaloniki into a megalopolis. The arrangement in the new house was similar to that of the house in Florina. Theodorakis took one room. They put his father’s desk in it. Another room became the good room, and the third one was the bedroom where Theodosia and Agla slept. Beginning in September 1958 Agla and Theodorakis walked fifteen minutes every morning to Harilaou Square, where they took the school bus to Anatolia; no more boarding school for them. Theodosia walked twenty minutes to the school where she taught. Life was low key at this extremity of Thessaloniki. The neighborhood where they lived seemed more provincial than Florina. Grandma Kleanthi came to visit for Christmas 1958. For that occasion Theodosia bought a live turkey. But somebody had to slaughter it. In Florina they always bought live chickens and she’d ask a man from the café across the street to slaughter them for her. Boulis had always watched the gruesome ceremony. In fact, a year ago when he was fourteen she had asked him, “Theodorakis, do you think you can slaughter the chicken this time?” Once again Theodosia tried to see her son as the man of the house.

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“I am sure I can,” he took the challenge. “I’ve seen it done so many times.” He did it as he had seen it done. He folded the chicken’s two wings outward and stepped on them with one foot, and he stepped on the chicken’s legs, tied together, with his other foot. Then he cut the head while holding down the chicken’s shuddering body. But the chicken’s throat was hard to cut and the whole event disturbed him more than he had expected. Theodosia must have noticed it because she later complained that he had crushed the wings with his foot, which was reason for him not to do it again. However, this time with the turkey there was no way Theodorakis would be considered for the job, and there was no café across the street here. Kleanthi volunteered to do it, and she did. Neither Theodorakis nor anyone else wanted to watch the horrific operation. Amazingly, the frail old lady had no particular difficulty slaughtering that big animal for their Christmas dinner. The passage of time hardens people to an impressive extent. The house and life in general in this insignificant suburb of the big city left things to be desired. Theodosia began looking around for nicer living quarters closer to the city center. She wanted to buy something anyway. She had some savings, she’d be getting a lump sum upon retirement, and she was willing to take out a short mortgage (matter of months not years) for a small and consequently not very expensive apartment. She found a place in the heart of the city, Aristotelous Street, and in a high-standard building. It was small, within her budget—two and a half rooms—but had no frontage. All rooms looked onto a narrow courtyard serving as skylight for the kitchens and bathrooms of other buildings. She wasn’t convinced. Then one day Anastasia Zampetas told her of a new building being built in her neighborhood by Mr. Kotsou, a contractor she trusted. It wasn’t as central as Aristotelous Street, but it was only fifteen minutes walk from the White Tower, Thessaloniki’s landmark. Theodosia went to see it. The building had seven floors. At that time only the concrete skeleton had been completed. The apartment within her budget was sixty-five square meters and on the seventh floor—a penthouse. It consisted of three rooms and a kitchen. She walked up the seven flights of stairs and was dumbfounded by the view. The apartment had a big terrace facing south with 270 degrees view including the entire Thermaïkos Bay!

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She fell in love with it. Mr. Kotsou was there and he warned her, “This magnificent view you see will not be here forever. High-rise buildings will be built across the avenue and will block your view of the sea.” “I don’t see any buildings being built,” she objected. “It will take time; maybe ten years or more. But buildings will eventually be built,” he insisted. But there was no way to stop her. “If I can have all this for ten years, it is good enough for me,” she said, “and then, they’ll never take away the sun, the fresh air, or the view of the city skyline on the right and the left side of the building.” Her decision was taken. Theodorakis began visiting the construction site regularly to supervise the works. His mother had made it clear that he would inherit this apartment given that the house in Florina was destined to become Agla’s dowry. In autumn 1959 there was another move. Soon afterward a telephone was installed in the apartment. It was the first time the Modises had a telephone in their home, to the delight and pride of everyone. A new relocation for Theodosia’s job became necessary. This time she was relocated to the 1st Model School situated right behind her new-apartment building without even involving Takos. But there was a snag. The acting director in that school was inferior in rank to her. He immediately insisted—if unenthusiastically—that he must step down and that Theodosia must become the director of the school. The image of Giorgos urging her to become school director came to her mind. But she did not agree, “I am here for only a few months, because I am approaching retirement. On the other hand, you’ve been directing this school for a long time and will continue doing so after I go. Please remain in your function and I will put my signature wherever required. We don’t have to inform anyone about this.” This arrangement made everyone happy. When Anatolia College opened in September, Agla and Theodorakis had to get up much earlier—at 6 am—in time to have breakfast and walk up to where they’d catch the city bus that would bring them to Harilaou Square for the Anatolia buses. School began at 8:30. But they did this together only for one year. Agla graduated from Anatolia in 1960. Commencement—the graduation ceremony at Anatolia—is one of the most spectacular, emotional, and solemn events of the school year. It takes place in June in the evening in front of Macedonia Hall. The

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weather is invariably most agreeable and there is a permeating smell of pine. Invited parents and VIPs sit on rows of chairs in the yard surrounded by pine trees while graduating students, all dressed up—boys in dark suits, girls in white dresses and shoes with moderately high heels—stand on the few steps in front of the building. There are speeches, songs by the choir, and finally the march of the students. The two class presidents (in this case Agla for the girls’ class) light their torches from the flame on the altar and walk away from the building through the audience to the sound of real trumpets. The next fall Agla entered university with a different schedule and daily itinerary. She now went out to taverns on weekend evenings with friends and had sophisticated discussions. She brought home tapes of classical music to play on the tape recorder Theodosia had bought. Theodorakis looked up to Agla, whom he admired for her wisdom and maturity of thought. Sitting at the dinner table was the central meeting point for the family. Theodosia maintained that it was a sacred moment. She said a short one-sentence grace before and a shorter one after dinner indicating the beginning and end of eating. Eating was not rushed and was often accompanied by discussions. Agla once uttered unexpectedly, “I’ll be forever indebted to the person who will tell me what the purpose of life is.” The question landed like a bomb and froze all conversation. Theodosia felt called upon to take up the challenge. Theodorakis beamed with anticipation. “The purpose of life is to grow up, get married, and have children, who themselves will do the same thing later,” she slowly articulated as she verbalized her thoughts. “What else can it be?” she added almost to herself. “Well, if that’s it ...” Agla left her phrase unfinished, visibly unsatisfied with the answer. Theodorakis felt that the purpose of life couldn’t be that simple. He stashed the question away in a corner of his mind and let it be retrieved from time to time with stimulation of a philosophical nature, for example, when he came across the apple-tree metaphor. Apples are generally eaten, or rot away to become fertilizer, but occasionally one apple may fulfill a greater purpose in life by giving rise to a whole apple tree. Could something similar happen with people? Another evening Theodosia asked them out of the blue, “Will you cry when I die?” It was a rare request for an expression of love, but was received as a rhetorical question by somewhat embarrassed Agla and Theodorakis, who simply didn’t give an answer. There were strong

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feelings of love and affection between the three of them, but these feelings were rarely expressed verbally or physically. A variety of actions specific to each one served the purpose of expression, not always effectively. The scant expression of affection had cultural roots and was not related to the fact that the children spoke to their mother in the plural, as later insinuated by some of Theodore’s friends in America who were prone to psychoanalytical thinking. After dinner Theodosia generally did the dishes and withdrew to the bedroom while the children stayed longer talking. More than once Agla became involved in narrating to Thodori a film that she recently saw in full detail. An hour or so later he would exclaim, “It is as if I saw it!” They all enjoyed the new place of their own with the gorgeous view. When Niki came to visit, she walked out onto the terrace to take in the view and exclaimed, “My God! What palace are we at?” In spring of 1960 Theodosia retired from her work as an elementary-school teacher at the age of 52. She had completed 33.5 years of service and received a full pension, which in Greece at that time was greater than one’s salary had ever been! “How come?” Theodorakis was surprised. “That’s because I have no more payments to make toward my pension, and so I receive my entire salary,” was the answer. Theodosia also continued receiving smaller pensions from Giorgos’s retirement plan for herself and for the two children. Theodorakis’s part would stop when he became twenty-five; Agla’s when she got married. Theodosia had no particular expenses now and the new apartment would soon be completely paid for, so she was able to save. In her mind this translated into buying something again. She kept an eye open for a smaller—and less expensive—apartment in the neighborhood and sometime later she did embark on another short-term mortgage commitment. Eventually she became a landlady again renting the small apartment in addition to the house in Florina. It was around that time that Theodosia was offered the directorship of the Housekeeping School of Florina. Housekeeping schools were boarding schools for girls of the countryside with a two-year curriculum that was strict but pleasant. The girls were taught all that is useful for a village housewife: home economics, household keeping, agricultural work, and some language classes. The purpose of the schools was to give Greek-based education and domestic knowledge to future mothers and rural housewives. The Florina Housekeeping School had around one hundred girls.

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Theodosia was flattered and weighed her decision. “I could put that school in good order,” she told Theodorakis. But she had just retired to her nice new apartment in Thessaloniki. Going back to Florina seemed a step backward. Also she did not feel particularly well physically. She was undergoing menopause and was experiencing serious and persistent headaches. So she declined the offer and never really regretted it. Theodoros did well at Anatolia College. He managed to be first in class every single year, which helped him become elected class president more than once, despite the fact that he was not particularly popular among the students in the way Agla had been. During the last two years he was also charged with playing the piano every day during Chapel Mornings. He accompanied the students singing a hymn and also played while they walked in and out of the assembly hall. He was a little nervous playing in front of such a large audience in the beginning, but doing it every day he eventually became rather blasé about it. Anyway, it wasn’t like a concert performance, because the students talked to each other and made other noises while coming in and going out. One day a classmate, Gemenetzis, came to him asking, “What was the piece you were playing this morning? I thought I recognized it, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.” “You wouldn’t be able to,” Modis laughed, “I made it all up.” He had improvised continuously for more than five minutes! In early 1962 Dr. Carl Compton, who had retired as the school’s president four years ago, came back for a visit. During Chapel Morning Modis caught him whispering something in the dean’s ear on stage. At the end of the event, Compton came down to meet Modis, who had just finished playing the piano, and said, “Hello, George, how are you? It is so nice to recognize somebody here after all these years.” The dean of the school, a historian, had always identified Modis with the first name Giorgos instead of Theodoros, for “historical” reasons. Modis had never corrected him. When Compton on stage had asked the dean for the first name of the boy playing the piano, he had answered, “George”. It wasn’t the first time that Giorgos’s name was spontaneously associated with members of the Modis family. A few years earlier Theodosia with Theodorakis had been shopping in a goldsmith shop in Thessaloniki when the shop owner, who was from Florina, recognized Theodosia’s face and wanted to keep a tone of familiarity. He tried to remember her first name but the only name that came to his mind was

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George so he said, “Hello, Mrs. Georgia, come here I will find what you need.” The name Giorgos Modis is well known not only in Florina, where the central square is called Giorgos Modis Square and a street is called Captain Modis Street, but also in Thessaloniki, where there is also a street called Modis. They were proud of their last name in the Modis family while there was frustration in the family of Giorgos Sr., because he never got married and all descendants in that family were women who lost the Modis name when they got married. Theodosia had several opportunities to remarry after Giorgos Jr. passed away. The last one was in 1973 when she was sixty-five and Mahairas, a successful lawyer from Athens in his early seventies—a relative of the Stefanakises— expressed interest in her. She turned them all down, and a major reason for her rejections was parting with the name. On the contrary, she cultivated the respect around the name Modis. She never missed an opportunity to praise her husband. She had succeeded in having him admired in her family for the kind of man he had been, and the many things he had achieved during his short life. But in a strange way, Giorgos Jr. was admired in the family even more for all the things that he would have achieved had he not died young. Theodorakis knew that he would have little difficulty winning a fellowship to study in America if he wanted to. But in practical terms that decision was more his mother’s than his own. It was another difficult decision for Theodosia. America was far away. If he went there to study, she would be seriously separating herself from her much-loved son for a very long time. And yet, she felt it would be to his advantage to study in a first-class university in America. When he won a full scholarship to study physics at Columbia University in New York City she gave her consent, undergoing another heartbreaking separation under the strict condition that he’d write to her every single week. “If you don’t write to me every week, I’ll simply get on the airplane and come right there,” she threatened, and she meant it. On August 1, 1962 Theodorakis took a TWA Boeing 707 jet from Athens to New York. He had won a Fulbright scholarship through the mediation of the Institute of International Education (IIE), which besides tuition and room had also secured for him travel expenses and residence for a month with an American family for orientation purposes. A weekly 10-hour job at the university’s cafeterias was to cover his meals.

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The separation scene at Athens airport was painful, tearful, and emotionally distressful. It had always been difficult for Theodosia to separate herself from her son. But seeing him going away so far for so long established a new standard of anguish that was to be manifested each time he departed again in the future following visits back home. As hard as it was emotionally for Theodosia, financially the new situation was easier than at Anatolia College. She gave him $150 for pocket money and afterward she’d send him a $50 bill in a letter once or twice a year, but she essentially had to pay very little for his higher education. The hardship was only emotional. She found herself, like Paraskevi, lamenting—if not in the form of moiroloï—separation from all the men in her life. The separation from her son began as early as when he was twelve years old and got much worse when he became nineteen. So much for her second chance at having a man always around—and it was all her own doing. It seemed like there was a spell on the women in the Modis family to have long lonely lives full of drama and emotion invariably centered on one or two male figures.

EPILOGUE Forty Years Later

Theodore’s new cell phone rang in the car, “Thodori, it’s me Agla.” She had a worried voice. “Mother was sick with a cold, and we went to the hospital, where a blood test showed a high white blood-cell count. The doctors were concerned and suggested that we go see a blood specialist to test for leukemia.” “Leukemia at her age! She is ninety-four for Christ’s sake,” Theodore was ready to dismiss it. “It must be an infection or something.” “I went to see a hematologist, Professor Garipidou. She was a student of Ioulia [Theodosia’s friend] in high school. She told me to bring Mother to her medical office for a bone-marrow sample. I saw no nurses or other personnel there and told her that I couldn’t be of assistance with such a procedure. She said that she didn’t need help; she can do it all by herself.” “It sounds like a rather invasive test. Did you talk to Ioulia? What did she say?” “She said that when Garipidou wanted to do such a test on her once, she had responded with, ‘No, my dear child. I don’t do things like this.’” Theodore was driving to Lyon in France with Maria for tourism. It was just one hour fifteen minutes from Geneva, where he now lived. He and Maria took turns visiting each other twice a month and it had been Maria’s turn to come from Lugano to Geneva for Christmas of 2002. They had met in the airplane coming back from Greece the previous year. Theodore had gone to Greece for the Greek Easter of 2001. On his way back via Athens he met Maria Terzopoulou, who was also returning to Switzerland. They were taking the airport bus to the aircraft when her suitcase fell on his. Picking it up, she excused herself and asked him in English, “Do you speak Greek?” “Yes,” he answered in English, “do you?” “Of course, I’m Greek,” she replied. 367

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“So am I,” he said and quipped, “what a coincidence, two Greeks in Greece who both speak Greek!” The airplane had many empty seats and he arranged to sit next to her. He talked to her all the way to Athens. There they went in different directions, because she was flying back to Lugano via Milan, while he had decided to spend a couple of nights at Angela’s—his cousin—who was now working as a radiologist in Athens and lived in the upper-class Paleo Psychiko suburb. When he went back to Geneva he called Maria and later went to visit her in Lugano. They began seeing each other despite the 500 kilometers that separated Geneva from Lugano. In a phone call to his mother he announced his new relationship. “How old is she?” was Theodosia’s first question. “She is thirty-three.” “Oh, the poor girl!” was Theodosia’s spontaneous response. But then she wanted to know more details, and finally to sum it up, “Is she good?” “She is good, Mom, but she has no higher education.” Theodosia who considered Switzerland to be the most civilized country in the world replied, “If she has lived in Switzerland for fifteen years as you say, she’s got substantial education right there.” It is true that getting to know other cultures is educational, and that the Swiss standard of living is higher than that of Greece, but Theodosia was also trying to eliminate reasons to object to her son’s new involvement. Maria met Theodosia that summer when she came to Mikiverna, where Theodosia had bought a summer house by the sea. Theodosia for her part moved her sheets and pillow to the other room so that Maria and Theodore could enjoy the more comfortable bedroom. But Theodore did not agree. He considered his mother more important than Maria and did not think there was reason for her to give up her bed and cozy corner that she traditionally occupied. He clashed with her on that issue, both arguing with loud voices. Each one wanted to be nice to the other and insisted to such an extent that an unpleasant atmosphere resulted. They both regretted it afterward because they had only the best of intentions. It was pent-up expression of affection between them that given the opportunity got released almost violently over a minor issue. Agla took Theodosia to Garipidou’s office and the latter punctured Theodosia’s thigh with a thick needle to take a bone-marrow sample.

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Surprisingly, Theodosia hardly felt it. Agla thought that osteoporosis must have facilitated things significantly. The test confirmed the suspicion of leukemia, and a rapidly advancing one at that. “There is no therapy, not at her age anyway,” Garipidou told Agla. She gave Theodosia two, three months at the most. As with Giorgos more than half a century earlier, the diagnosis was not communicated to the patient. Not that this practice prevented the patients from knowing what they had, even if they went along playing the game and not verbalizing their disease. Garipidou’s advice was to make regular blood tests and whenever the platelets count fell below 20 to take her to the hospital for a blood transfusion. “There is nothing else to be done,” she concluded. Theodore went to Greece in mid-January. He wanted to be there when his mother would go for the first blood transfusion. An ambulance came to pick up Theodosia in a wheel chair. Agla went with the ambulance, and Theodore drove the VW to Ippokrateio General Hospital. By the time he found a parking spot for the car, Agla and Theodosia in the wheel chair were already waiting in line for admission. Ippokrateio General Hospital is the biggest hospital in Thessaloniki. It is always very crowded, noisy, and chaotic. There are long lines everywhere, and people with numbered tickets in their hands are waiting for their number to come up on the board. In the meantime, patients on stretchers are ferried across the corridors, and every now and then an accident victim may walk in the main entrance, bleeding or limping, and asking for help from the first person he or she falls upon, invariably another patient. Theodosia, Agla, and Theodore waited in line for more than an hour. Men and women in white coats walked in and out the door of the reception area, but the numbers on the board changed very slowly, and there were many numbers still ahead of theirs. Theodore got irritated and impatient. He opened the door without knocking, walked in, and directed himself toward a counter behind which a lady in a white coat was leafing through papers. “Excuse me,” he said, “we have been waiting for an hour, and we don’t need a standard admission to the hospital anyway. Doctor Garipidou asked us to bring our mother here for a blood transfusion.” “Just wait in the line outside,” was the lady’s firm response without taking her eyes off the papers she was shuffling. Theodore looked around in despair. A man in a white coat, who watched the exchange, got up, came to Theodore and said, “Come with

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me.” He seemed to have some authority. He took Theodore to another man in a white coat at the back of the room—who looked older but seemed to have less authority—and told him, “Take this man and his mother to Room 520.” The second man took Theodore out through the back door, walked around to the front and grabbed Theodosia’s wheel chair. They took the elevator to the fifth floor. Room 520 had only two beds, both unoccupied. They put Theodosia on one bed and gave the guy a folder with her documents. Theodore also slid a 10-euro note into his hand. He took the folder and the money and left not having said a single word. Was he mute? A nurse came into the room later, hung a plate containing a sheet of paper with Theodosia’s name on the bed’s footboard, and asked loudly, “Panagiotidou?” “That’s me,” replied Theodosia. The nurse turned to Theodore and said, “Panagiotidou needs a transfusion of three flasks. You must bring the equivalent blood here.” A flask—a unit of blood—is half a liter, a little more than a pint. Only major hospitals were equipped with blood banks, but even there someone who needed blood should arrange for blood donations of the equivalent amount. Theodore looked at Agla. He knew that his friend of old times Nikos Tsinikas was in town. “I can ask Nikos. Between the three of us we can come up with the three flasks required.” But Theodosia, who overheard them, objected, “Theodorakis should not give blood!” She said still being protective of her sickly boy. Theodore called Nikos and they all showed up at the blood-donation section at the ground floor of the Ippokrateio Hospital. They had to answer questions about their state of health and have their blood pressure checked. All three were disqualified—Nikos because he was taking medication to lower his blood pressure, Theodore because he had taken an aspirin the night before, and Agla because her blood pressure turned out to be an alarming 17. “Bring some blood donors that are young,” was the stern message of the medical staff. Theodore asked Laura—the young girl from Georgia who came in the daytime to do errands, some housework, and to look after Theodosia—if she knew anyone who’d be willing to give blood for 50 euro. “Yes, I can find such people,” Laura promised. He was in front of the blood bank when Laura brought two girls who seemed like university students. He waited for the blood donation

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to be completed and then discreetly gave a 50-euro bill to each one of them. Blood was not supposed to be sold! One of the girls indeed turned out to be a student at the university, as Theodore found out three years later. In 2006 Theodore was invited by Professor Theodoros Economou (son of Theodore’s late cardiologist) to give a talk at a Symposium on Globalization organized by the University of Thessaloniki. The university amphitheater where the event took place was full of students, professors, and other guests. After Theodore’s talk, a young female student in economics came to him and said, “Professor Modis, you may not remember me, but I gave blood for your mother three years ago under circumstances that make me ashamed. I feel very bad for what I did, which has been hanging over me all these years.” Theodore recognized her, and even though he was convinced that her guilt feelings emerged only after she saw him on stage that morning, he gave her the absolution she was asking for, “At that time you did something helpful and as such it was a good thing. We all felt grateful toward you. But now it is time to put all this behind us.” The transfusion made Theodosia feel much better. Back home she was able to get out of bed and walk around in the apartment, go to the kitchen to sit at the dinner table with Agla and Theodorakis. When the telephone rang, she answered it. It was Mrs. Malamatinas who wanted to find out how she was. Ioanna Malamatinas was the daughter of Kastanos, the founder of the model school in Florina, where Theodosia had worked with zeal and satisfaction back in the late 1920s. Theodosia had met Ioanna through her friend Eleni, whose mother Mistress Katina—also a teacher—had worked closely with Kastanos in Silivri before the 1923 exchange of populations, and had become the godmother of his firstborn Ioanna. But Theodosia and Ioanna became close only after an event organized in memory of Theodoros Kastanos at the University of Thessaloniki in 1996. The event had been triggered by a new book by Kastanos, published posthumously titled Apology of the School of Work. Theodosia was invited to the event as the last surviving collaborator of Kastanos and was asked to give a talk. Theodosia had taught young children for more than thirty years, but had little experience in public speaking. In fact, she had once addressed the parents of the students during a national holiday—usually the job of

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male teachers—and had gotten the pages of her written discourse mixed up; it took her a long embarrassing moment before she found the right page and was able to continue reading her speech. But she had now accepted the invitation to the Kastanos event at the university because her experience with the School of Work had always remained close to her heart. Giorgos Jr. had publicly criticized that innovative experimental teaching method. He had considered such approaches over-the-top for children who did not know how to say “good morning” in Greek correctly. “He was right too,” Theodosia had consented. But she couldn’t forget the pleasure and satisfaction she had obtained from working in an environment, where children were happy to do whatever the teacher asked of them. She went to the event at the university and gave a short talk in the big amphitheater. She read from her notes and there were no mishaps. She finished her talk by quoting Kastanos’s advice to teachers: “Love the pupil, come down close to him, put your hand on his heart, and listen to his pain and joy.”

Ioanna wrote to Theodosia afterward thanking her for her talk and the good things she had said about her father. She later paid her a visit and brought a three-prong silver candlestick holder as a present. More presents followed; Ioanna was married to a successful Retsina producer called Malamatinas and they were well to do. She was driven around in a fancy chauffeured Mercedes. The two women got along well together despite the seventeen years that separated them in age. Ioanna was particularly touched by the fact that Theodosia knew some of the songs that she knew as a child. Theodosia had deciphered them with her violin from Kastanos’s German books in Florina. She still remembered one song that Ioanna hadn’t heard since her childhood. In the meantime Yorgo—Theodore’s son—had been engaged to Louise and planned to get married in April in Ireland. “If I feel good like this, maybe I can go too,” said Theodosia without really believing it. A few days later Theodore went back to Geneva. He told Agla that he’d be coming again for the next visit to the hospital whenever that became necessary. Blood transfusions for Theodosia became necessary every few weeks. On each occasion Theodore came from Geneva and with Agla they took their mother to whatever hospital was on duty that day. During

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the following five months they visited most of the hospitals in Thessaloniki and some of them more than once. The most difficult problem was finding blood donors, who had to give blood specifying it was “for Theodosia Panagiotidou.” Theodore and Agla exhausted all relatives including distant ones, friends, and old classmates. In the end, Laura would procure donors for a fee—the standard 50-euro per flask—from her underground black-market network. Theodore’s friend Dimitri—Yorgo’s godfather—had by now become a well-established spiritual guru! He led a large group of Gurdjieff followers in Athens, but he also led a smaller group in Thessaloniki. Gurdjieff was an influential early-twentieth-century Russian mystic, philosopher, and spiritual teacher, of Greek descent. Theodore asked Dimitri for help. Dimitri was reticent. “I can’t pass down such a directive from my position,” he told Theodore, “it wouldn’t be ethical.” But later he called Theodore to say that he discovered a “fanatic” blood donor in his group, who volunteered to do it. The hospital visits varied significantly from one hospital to another. The Papanikolaou General Hospital on the outskirts of the city was calm, quiet, and rather welcoming. Theodosia found herself in a six-bed room with only three beds occupied. A young doctor who noticed her black hair remarked, “Grandma, I see you don’t have a single white hair!” Theodosia, who had long been dying her hair replied, “Why have white hair, if it is so easy not to have it?” A middle-aged man in the bed next to hers asked her why she was at the hospital. She simply answered, “My blood is not good.” It turned out that he was also from Constantinople. He had come to Greece in the 1950s. He talked with Theodosia, sharing fond memories from Poli, as Greeks often abbreviate Constantinople. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Throughout history Constantinople came to be known by prestigious titles such as Vasileuousa (Queen of Cities) and Megalopolis (the Great City). In colloquial speech Constantinopolitans and provincial Byzantines referred to it as just Poli (η Πόλη) “the City”. In 1930 Constantinople was officially renamed to Istanbul in the fallout of the general Turkification movement that took place in the 1920s. The new name derives from the Greek phrase is tin polin (εἰς τὴν πόλιν), meaning “to the city”. In 1953—on the 500th year anniversary of the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans—a swing-style song was written by Jimmy Kennedy (lyrics) and Nat Simon (music). The lyrics humorously refer to the renaming of the

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city of Constantinople to Istanbul. The song’s original release certified as a gold record. … Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople So take me back to Constantinople …

Theodosia’s home had been not far from the patient’s whose bed was next to hers in the hospital. “You are young and may not have seen the Poli I knew,” she told him. But they converged on many reference points. “Do you remember the writing Yalan Dünya carved on the wall by the entrance of the park?” she asked him. “Ah yes, I remember that sample of Turkish popular philosophy meaning ‘phony world’.” “Have you been back after all these years?” he asked her. “Oh, yes,” she said but didn’t feel like going into details. Theodosia had gone back to Constantinople for a visit in 1981. She had been talking about such a trip for years and eventually organized it with her brother Voulis—whose expenses she covered to make it possible— and Barbara, the daughter of Aunt Xanthipi. Niki had not wanted to go with them, and Theodosia criticized her for being unjustifiably stingy. The trip had turned out to be a deeply emotional experience, particularly for Voulis. They arrived in Istanbul on a bus with other tourists, after a 10-hour ride from Thessaloniki. But Voulis and Theodosia didn’t at all share the dispassionate thirst for attractions that typically characterizes tourists. Voulis had left the city at the age of fifteen having worked at Uncle Spyros’s grocery store for many years. Unlike his siblings, he had learned Turkish. As they entered the city Voulis became very pale and quiet. Theodosia noticed it and asked, “Are you feeling all right?” “Ah, Theodosia,” he replied, “this repatriation is getting me in my stomach.” At the hotel he had to lie down for a while. Theodosia and Barbara were worried. “We all feel the sadness,” they said, “but pull yourself together now, because we must go see what remains of our old house.” Not much was the answer. They could hardly locate where their house had been. There was a little hut now in its place. But other things were still there, the churches, the Patriarchate, the Great National School (Megali tou Genous Scholi), where Theodosia went to school, and

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the Keratios Gulf. She was able to retrace the trajectory she took when going to school every day. A Turkish policeman stood guard at the entrance of the Patriarchate. “He is here for the protection of the visitors,” their guide explained. They stayed in a good hotel centrally located at Taksim Square. They shared a large three-bed room. A minaret stood across the street in front of their window. Theodosia lamented, “What a shame we can’t see the sea.” “This is better,” argued Voulis, “we’ll be hearing the calls to prayer!” In fact, Voulis surprised everyone the next morning when he woke up at five, opened the window, and patiently waited for the muezzin to come out on the minaret and recite the first call to prayer of the day. When he did, Voulis joined him, reciting the words that he apparently knew well. This woke up Theodosia and Barbara, who were at first bemused with Voulis’s show, but took him more seriously when he repeated the seconding of the recitation at other times of the day, whenever they happened to be close to a minaret at prayer time. The call to prayer takes place five times a day—dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, sunset, and night— in principle to make available to everyone an easily intelligible summary of Islamic belief. Voulis was very glad to have visited Constantinople. He kept thanking Theodosia for making it possible and went out of his way to look after her. Before leaving he bought a few records with Turkish songs for himself but also for Lakis’s (his son’s) wife, who had requested them. He didn’t offer any to Theodosia, because he knew she wouldn’t appreciate them. Hospitals in Greece do not have strict visiting hours. In fact, visitors are tolerated at all times. Some patients have relatives stay by their bedside day and night, which is what happened to Theodosia. Agla and Theodore took turns sitting on a chair by their mother’s hospital bed twenty-four hours a day. When the night shift became too hard on them, they hired an exclusive nurse for the hours between midnight and 8 am. She stayed by Theodosia’s bed all night and gave her a wash before leaving in the morning. Amazingly, Theodosia’s social-health coverage had a provision for such a nurse. But it was by far Agla who took on the lion’s share of caring for Theodosia. She had always done so; from the days she ferried her mother back and forth to Mikiverna in the VW beetle, to more recent times when she brought her a cooked meal every day. Now Agla found

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a narrow wheelchair that passed through all doors in the apartment, and brought her mother to and from the bathroom and the kitchen table. Theodosia, who had spent her whole life favoring her son rather shamelessly—beyond the framework of a natural Oedipus complex— was perplexed with Agla’s devotion. She no longer had to ask, “Will you cry when I die?” to find out whether she was being loved. Lying sick in her bed she now asked Agla more than once, “Why do you love me so much?” “What a question!” Agla answered, “Because you are my mother!” Theodosia did not kiss Agla’s hands the way Paraskevi had thanked her before she died. She wasn’t like Paraskevi that way. And then, Agla didn’t need to be thanked, because hers was true love and not a sense of duty. Of course, true love and sense of duty intermingle to some extent, but the admixture had inverse proportions in these two situations. Leukemia is not a painful disease; not the type Theodosia had. She’d become weaker and weaker as the time for the next transfusion approached, and lay in bed most of the time with her eyes closed. But after four or five days in the hospital and three flasks of blood in her veins, she’d get up and walk around the house, or watch some television despite her failing eyesight. Her appetite progressively diminished, however. At the end, she only ate a few salty biscuits. Infections are particularly menacing for people with leukemia because their organism cannot fight them. So whenever her temperature rose, doctors immediately prescribed antibiotics. High fever made Theodosia enter a state of delirium talking, singing, reliving old memories, or venturing into new fantasy ones. The name of Giorgos invariably came up. She probably meant her husband, but considering the circumstances, Theodore or even Yorgo could not be excluded. On a better hospital day—right after a transfusion—with Theodore and Agla on each side of her bed, she looked at them with a smile and said, “How nice we are here, the three of us all together!” Being the three of them together had been an anchor for her existence from the moment her husband had disappeared. She had held on to this togetherness despite long distances and long periods of separation introduced between them. Agla and Theodore cherished it as well. On another such occasion she asked Agla, “How are we doing for money? Do we have enough?” “Don’t worry, Mom, we’ve got money,” Agla reassured her. But she came back pressing the point, “How much do we have?” “Mom, you have lots of money in the bank, remember?” said Agla.

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“If that’s so, maybe we should buy something,” said Theodosia surely having some piece of real estate in mind. The old fear of seeing paper money lose its value through war had never being entirely put to rest in her mind. But her advanced age proved detrimental. Not because her organism was too old to fight the disease, but because doctors and hospital staff became prone to resignation when they saw, “Age: 95.” At one hospital a woman doctor took Agla and Theodore aside and informed them that “grandma has finished her cycle,” and that there was no point in doing anything. They got furious, “We are here for a blood transfusion,” they told her, “and you have an obligation to do it.” Garipidou herself was surprised to see Theodosia make it to the end of April, “Grandmother seems to be hanging in there,” she told Agla. “Maybe we can try some cortisone therapy on her.” Agla was distraught. Couldn’t this “professor” have thought of such a therapy five months earlier? Yorgo and Louise’s wedding took place in Clifden, Ireland on April 26, 2003. People from all over Europe traveled to Clifden for the event. Agla sent her children, Grigoris and Tania, but she stayed back to attend to her mother. The Modises prepared a present for Louise. They put one of the last golden coins (doublas) remaining from Paraskevi’s dress—the one salvaged during her flight from Monastiri—in a little velvet-covered box. It was meant to be used during the wedding ceremony in accordance with Irish tradition. Theodosia used the last of her visiting cards—the ones Voulis had printed for her decades ago—to write her good wishes for the wedding. It proved a daunting task because her eyesight was failing her and her hand was shaking. Carole Gene—Theodore’s ex-wife—came to Ireland for the wedding. Angela came from Athens with her new husband Tony. Thea— Theodore’s daughter—brought her boyfriend Niko. It was a joyful and lively event. In church Yorgo played the flute accompanied by Theodore on the organ, while people took communion. Afterwards, friends and relatives took turns at the pulpit giving their good wishes to the happy couple. More than once Theodosia’s name came up wishing her well and regretting her absence. Among Carole Gene’s friends who traveled to Clifden for the wedding was Eleanor Anderson. Carole Gene and Eleanor had become close friends in Geneva when they were neighbors, and both had young children. Later Eleanor went back to Scotland, and by now she had

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already done good work as a psychotherapist specializing in bereavement and palliative care. At the reception she joined a group of relatives around Theodore, who was talking to them about his mother’s illness. When he stopped talking she stepped in to say that in situations like this it is best to help the patient face and accept the coming end. “Patients at that point generally want to let go anyway, but they can’t publicly admit it,” she concluded. Theodore had objections. “It is not the case with my mother. Last week I was by her bed while she was delirious, and I heard her saying, ‘Dear Lord, let me not die quite yet. Let me live a little longer.’” There was a moment of silence. Then Yorgo looked at everyone and his gaze stopped on Eleanor. “This makes it clear. Doesn’t it?” he said. Eleanor smiled uncomfortably and began, “Well …,” but she did not finish her sentence. A little later she walked away. Dinner was in the town’s banquet hall, and Theodore, among others, gave a short speech. Early in his talk while addressing the 130strong audience, he said, “It is wonderful to be here and feel a member of such a grand family. I wish I had all of you with me in Greece last week.” Few in the audience understood the full meaning of his words. Back in Thessaloniki, Theodosia’s condition was deteriorating. The beneficial effects of the transfusions were becoming progressively short-lived. In early May Theodore was again in Thessaloniki participating in another hospital routine. When they were finally back home he produced a video from Yorgo’s wedding that he had made especially for her. Theodosia was helped out of bed and walked very close to the television screen. With her eyes wide open she tried to recognize Yorgo, who was talking to her in a voice cracking with emotion. Yorgo was her favorite grandchild. Not only he was a clever boy, son of her beloved Theodorakis, but also he had her husband’s name. She had often called Theodore Giorgos by Freudian slip; she’d smile at her mistake afterward. But now with Yorgo she did not have to worry about Freudian slips. She could let go and call out the name of Giorgos to her heart’s desire. Yorgo and Theodosia had seen each other last time a year ago in October while Yorgo was a post-doctoral researcher at Harvard. On the occasion of a trip to Europe for a conference he took the opportunity to squeeze a stopover in Thessaloniki. He knew how much Yaya (grandma in Greek) loved him and he wanted to see her once again fearing that she wouldn’t be around for much longer. Theodore was

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working for himself now and was flexible with his time, so he met Yorgo in Milan airport, and the two of them flew to Thessaloniki together. With both Yorgo and Theodorakis in the house Theodosia found herself in seventh heaven. She wanted to have her picture taken on the terrace with each one separately. She posed holding them tightly; she was happy, and it showed on her face. She got up extra early in the morning to make kreatoprassopita one more time. She had learned how to make the famous Vlachian pies from Paraskevi even though she never tried to make one in her presence. But after Paraskevi died Theodosia became an expert. It took many hours to prepare the dough. The kreatoprassopita was her own variant with a filling based on leaks and ground veal; it was the kids’ favorite. They took the pie, filled the VW beetle again to capacity—with Agla and Grigoris—and drove to Mikiverna. It was off-season so there was practically no one there in sharp contrast to the usual lively summer crowds. The weather was warm, and Yorgo went into the sea, alone in the water, with the sea utterly calm, the sun just setting, and the colors presaging nightfall. Later they lit the fireplace in the house and ate the pie around it. Two days later Yorgo and Theodore left Greece, plunging Theodosia into melancholy. She spent much of her time in Mikiverna, as long as the weather wasn’t too cold. She and Agla drank their afternoon coffee on the balcony looking at the sea. There was a pine tree by the seaside with crooked branches that in Theodosia’s blurring vision looked like a crucifix. She gazed at it in a contemplative mood. In the off-season stillness the serene setting with pastel colors had overtones of an ending. “Now, what is the point for me to be alive?” Theodosia unexpectedly asked Agla in a soft voice. “What is the point for me to be alive?” retorted Agla with a loud voice. “What is the point for anyone to be alive?” Neither of them remembered their exchange on the subject of the purpose of life four decades earlier over the dinner table. Or if they did, they simply didn’t bring it up. By mid-May Theodosia had become very weak. On her birthday—May 13—they moved her again to Ippokrateio General Hospital. She was transferred from the wheelchair to the hospital bed by the medical staff. She had her eyes closed. The nurse came in and with a shrieking voice she asked, “Panagiotidou?”

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“That’s me,” answered Theodosia with a clearly audible voice, opening her eyes but closing them again afterward. Those were her last words. The nurse turned toward Theodore and said, “They want to see you at the blood bank down on the ground floor.” Theodore and Agla looked at each other. “What is the point now?” said Agla. “I’ll be damned if I go there,” said Theodore. They left her with Laura and went for lunch. When they came back in the afternoon, she had quietly passed away. She was exactly 95 years old. Theodore and Agla felt bad not to have been there when she died; they had left her with a stranger. That’s not how things were done in the family. Theodosia had held on to Giorgos’s hand up to the last minute, very much the way Paraskevi had done with the hand of mortally wounded Dodos. But things were different now. Theodosia hadn’t been communicating with the environment since morning. Laura, sitting by her bed, became aware of her death only later when the nurse came in to check on her. Angela came from Athens for the funeral but also Tilemachos—the only one remaining from the four siblings—with his son Apostolos. Theodore hadn’t seen Tilemachos and Apostolos for almost half a century. The five close relatives went to a restaurant for lunch before the funeral, which was scheduled for the afternoon. It quickly became evident that Tilemachos’s mental ability was waning. “What’s happening is incredible,” he said at one point. “I came here because Theodosia said her legs hurt, and now, look at what I am confronted with!” The nails of his little fingers were grown (and groomed) to several millimeters. They looked like little shovels. Angela could not restrain herself from teasing him, “Uncle Tilemachos, what are the little nails for?” He smiled awkwardly. “Excavations,” he replied, jokingly. At the funeral, there was a small crowd of an odd assortment of people. Distant relatives that Theodore had rarely seen or never met; Lena Houvarda, the lady who had rented the little room in Florina while attending Teachers College in the 1950s; a couple of ladies from Theodosia’s building, who were not particularly close friends of hers; a classmate of Theodore’s from Anatolia College; and others. Most of the significant people in Theodosia’s life that should have been there were either dead or too old to make it.

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She had lived through almost a complete century full of turbulence and remarkable events. She had rich experiences throughout her life and had benefited from a certain amount of good fortune that she was the first one to acknowledge. But it was mostly the kind of fortune that favors the bold. Interlaced with hardships and catastrophes she had found love, made a family, enjoyed the respect of others, and had always strived to do what she thought was the right thing, to be “normal”. In Switzerland she had resonated with, and had found comfort in the local mentality reflected by the often-heard saying, “c’est pas normal!” meaning it is not normal, used as a criterion for good common-sense judgment. But a normal person is not easy to come by. It is frequent to encounter a person normal in one aspect—for example, a person’s weight may be normal in that it is not far from the average. It is less frequent to come across a person who is normal in two aspects, say both in weight and in intelligence. By the time you require someone to be normal in ten different aspects you have eliminated most people. The person who is normal in everything doesn’t exist. In that sense, c’est pas normal to be normal! Theodosia had been normal in many ways, but in some respects— for example willpower, self-motivation, drive, and good common sense—she had been above normal. She was buried in the new cemetery of the Lord’s Holy Resurrection Chapel in Thermi outside Thessaloniki. Mr. Tsingros who ran a funeral home—his daughter Katerina had been Agla’s student and had typed Theodosia’s autobiography a few years earlier—had arranged for everything: priest, church, burial spot, tombstone, etc. But he specified, “It is not advisable that she stay here too long. At this cemetery what you have to pay per year increases progressively with time. The scheme is designed to stimulate recycling of precious real estate in the cemeteries of megalopolises. Once decomposition is completed in three to five years from now, you could envisage moving her remains to a less expensive place.” In any case, Agla and Theodore had in mind putting Theodosia’s remains with her husband’s at the scenic cemetery of St. George on the outskirts of Florina. Not that Theodosia had ever expressed her wishes on this matter. Particulars around the subject of death had not been a topic for discussion in the family.

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It had been many years since anyone had paid respects to the grave of Giorgos Jr. Modis in Florina, in which his mother had also been buried eight years after he died. Theodosia had been disappointed at Agla and Theodore for not passing by the cemetery to see how the tomb was doing when they visited Florina in 1998. She hadn’t gone with them at that time; she had just celebrated her ninetieth birthday and wasn’t sufficiently mobile. Her absence, plus the changes Florina had undergone in all these years—many new people from the surrounding villages had moved into town, and most of the locals had moved on to Thessaloniki or Athens—had resulted in zero flamboyant encounters for Agla and Theodore, as they strolled down Florina’s main street. It was nothing like Theodore’s “glorious” homecoming with Carole Gene and Theodosia in 1973. When Theodore and Carole Gene left America in 1973 to come and settle in Geneva, they stopped by Greece for a while and visited Florina with Theodosia. It was an emotional experience for Theodorakis, who hadn’t been there for seventeen years and even more so for Theodosia, who had lived most of her life—all turbulent years—in that town. The three of them paraded the town’s main street, with Theodosia in the middle, stopping every few meters to greet acquaintances. “How are you, Mistress Theodosia? Welcome back!” was a frequent greeting. Having spent decades as a teacher in Florina, Theodosia was known to many as Mistress Theodosia. “This is my son and his wife,” … “Yes, she is American.” “Son of Giorgos Modis! Why don’t you come back and we’ll vote for you,” was another typical remark they heard as they moved from one encounter to the next. Carole Gene was stunned by such celebrity treatment, which left neither Theodosia nor Theodorakis indifferent. By the time they reached Giorgos Modis Square at the center of the town—named after Giorgos Sr.—the sequence of encounters culminated in an embarrassment. “Oh, Theodorakis, do you remember me?” asked a lady of Theodosia’s age looking at Theodore pointedly. There was no chance he would remember her and the sorry event she was about to unearth from the depths of his Freudian forgetfulness.   

Boulis must have been less than ten years old when inspired by cowboy movies, he set out to improve his aim. He made himself a dart out of a cylindrical piece of wood, at the end of which he inserted a nail

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backwards—not an easy task for a kid. Then he attached some chicken feathers at the other end and was ready to show off to the other kids. His first throw was aimed at the trunk of a tree across the street. There was a breeze, however, which made the dart drift and get implanted in the leg of one of the kids sitting on the sidewalk nearby. Boulis was shocked and so was the kid. He pulled out the dart whose nail had deeply penetrated. The hole was tiny and seemed innocuous. But they were both in shock so they walked into the kafenio in front of which all this was taking place and showed the bleeding hole to the owner. “That’s nothing,” he decided “here, let’s put some ouzo on it.” Over lunch at home Boulis was brooding. “What is the matter?” asked Theodosia. “Nothing,” he refused to say. But she knew him better and insisted. He broke down and told her everything. She was alarmed. The death of Anagnostopoulos’s son— Agathi’s older brother—from tetanus had been indelibly written in her memory. She grabbed Boulis’s hand and they went out looking for the kid’s residence. With some effort they located the boy and took him to a first-aid station for proper treatment, which included a tetanus shot. Still, a week later the kid’s mother showed up at the Modis house saying that his leg had become infected and there had been doctor’s and pharmacy bills. Theodosia reimbursed her for everything with apologies. Theodorakis had never seen that kid or his mother again until now.   

The unfortunate encounter with that lady did not blunt the euphoria of the three Modises, not even later when another lady made a snotty remark to Theodosia, while Theodore and Carole Gene walked ahead, “Ah! Mistress Theodosia, you’ve learned how to call the bitter sweet.” She was referring to an apparent misfit: Theodosia’s son married to a foreigner, an American woman, who was even taller than him. Paraskevi came to Theodosia’s mind; how she must have felt when her son married a refugee instead of the mayor’s daughter. But then another image came to her mind, as if in a defense mechanism: Paraskevi on her deathbed kissing her hands and telling her, “A better daughter-inlaw than you has never been!” They went to see their old house. The pine tree had now grown taller than the house, but it looked “indecent” with its lower part heavily

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trimmed. Theodore was touched to see a cord sagging at the top of the open front door, evidence that the scheme he had devised twenty-five years ago for opening the door from the first floor by pulling on a cord was still in operation. But the visit in 1998 had been a less memorable experience, and Theodore had concluded that after a certain time one should no longer seek to go back. And yet, in 2008 a new trip to Florina was imposed on Theodore and Agla. The progressively increasing rent for Theodosia’s grave at the solicited cemetery of Thessaloniki rose to 1000 euro for one more year, so they decided that the time had come to undertake the painful operation of finally putting their mother with their father in Florina. An added source of worry was the fact that the small St. George Cemetery in Florina had long been closed to the public, because a larger new one had opened on the other side of town. There were rumors that people who had tried to do similar operations had been rejected. Agla wondered whether they should first call to find out. But Theodore was adamant, “I’ll talk to the bishop,” he said. “If needs be, I’ll go see the mayor. There should be a weak spot somewhere for the name of Modis in Florina,” and he quietly stashed away a copy of his mother’s unpublished autobiography in his suitcase. It was he who had encouraged his mother to write her memoirs, “Mom, why don’t you write a book? You’ve had such an amazing life. You have lived almost through an entire century and have witnessed so many things. It could have as title, One Century, One life. What do you think?” Theodosia had taken him up on his idea but the book she ended up writing described mainly the dozen or so idyllic years she had spent with “her Giorgos” leading up to World War II, so its title was changed into One Love, One Life. It would now constitute his ultimate card when arguing with the mayor about her right to join her husband in their final resting place. However, if nothing worked out, he was determined to pay an illegal immigrant (most likely an Albanian) to dig up the grave under cover of darkness and secretly put his mother’s remains where they belonged. “Wouldn’t I love to be there,” snapped Carole Gene when she heard of his intentions. Agla was alone at the gruesome process of unearthing Theodosia’s remains. Agla had often been the one who got the snake out of the hole, as the proverb goes. Two days later Theodore arrived in Thessaloniki and went to the cemetery with Agla and Grigoris to receive the

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varnished box with Theodosia’s officially disinfected bones. The man at the cemetery did not let anyone touch the box. He put it himself into the trunk of Agla’s VW beetle, which was now thirty-seven-years old. The box would fit under the curved hood only on its side. Fortunately, it had a locking mechanism. They put no other luggage around it and immediately set route for Florina. They took the new Egnatia superhighway bypassing the town of Edessa with its picturesque waterfalls. They were too preoccupied with other things to indulge in tourism. While driving, Agla kept verbalizing her worries. There were no friends or relatives of theirs left in Florina, whom they could possibly contact for help. And then she thought of Maria. “Maria may still be there,” she exclaimed. “Do you know where she lives? Do you remember her last name?” Theodore asked, doubting. “I can probably locate her house,” she said, “but in any case, I’m sure people around there will still remember Joseph.” The VW beetle with its odd cargo pulled into Florina around noon. Theodore was in no mood to go searching for Maria, so they went straight to the cemetery. It wasn’t hard to locate the grave of Giorgos Jr. because it was next to that of Giorgos Sr. and his mother, both of which have been decorated with sculpted-on-demand marble statues: a fullbody one of Domniki seated, in actual-size, and a bust of Giorgos Sr. Theodore remembered an incident his mother had recounted to him. When Giorgos Sr. died in 1975 he was supposed to be buried in a spot next to where his mother Domniki and his brother Alexandros were buried together. But Doctor Hatzitasis, who had died earlier, had been buried next to them, and his tomb had been decorated with a marble bench for visitors to sit on, which took up all the space between the tomb of Hatzitasis and that of Domniki. Ioulia, Giorgos Sr.’s sister got mad. “This is not right. There should be space here for three tombs,” she argued and hired a worker, who removed Hatzitasis’s marble bench to make room for the tomb of Giorgos Sr. By some kind of serendipity the three men that had been imprisoned together by the Germans ended up buried next to one another, even though they had not been particularly close friends nor died at the same time. Agla, Theodore, and Grigoris found the tombs of Domniki, Giorgos Sr., and Hatzitasis, but they still couldn’t see that of Giorgos Jr. Not only had it been entirely covered by wild bushes, but also there was no longer a cross with names on it. They were heartbroken. Removing the bushes, Theodore saw that the cross was broken into three pieces and

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the pieces scattered around; the heavy marble plate was darkened with mold stains. It was obviously the result of vandalism because a second marble plate with a flat black-marble cross on it was missing. They looked around for help, but the church was closed on Saturday. They walked out onto the street, hoping to find someone connected with the church. There was an Albanian worker cutting the grass that grew wild on the sides of the road. “Is there anyone from the church around here?” Agla asked him. “I don’t no. Church closed,” he said in broken Greek. “Is there anyone who can help us clean a grave?” Agla insisted. “I do it,” he said and immediately stopped what he was doing, picked up his heavy equipment, a chain saw and a weed whip (grass cutter), both gasoline powered, and followed them to the grave. He worked for half an hour cutting down the overgrown bushes. Theodore gave him 10euros. He said nothing and walked away. Theodore gathered the pieces of the broken cross and placed them on top of the marble plate. The tomb looked pathetic. They went back to town in search of a marble mason. Minos, the marble cutter, was a young man who had obviously taken over his father’s business. He drove with them to the cemetery, took measurements, and jotted down the names to be carved on a new, heavy-duty cross. He agreed to bring and install the new cross, and also bring the necessary machinery to clean the marble plate. The only question was when the new cross would be ready. Tuesday afternoon would be the earliest he could do it by. Theodore and Agla had to agree. “Actually, we also want to put in our mother’s remains,” Theodore ventured timidly, when he saw him test-lifting the heavy marble plate. “That would be no problem,” he replied, “we can do it on Tuesday when I bring the cross.” “But until then do we drive around with the bones in the trunk of our car?” Agla objected. “Oh, you have them here?” He seemed surprised. “Why don’t you bring them over, and we can put them in right away,” he continued. “That would suit us just fine,” Theodore thought to himself as he rushed to the car. The varnished box was actually quite light. As he carried it up the stairs toward the grave, it crossed his mind that they had not seen what was inside. It would have been easy to do it right there, because the box’s locking mechanism was not locked with a key, but Theodore had

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a good excuse: Agla and Minos were waiting for him to do what they had feared would be most problematic, so there was no time to waste. Minos and Agla raised the marble plate high enough for Theodore to place the box inside, but the space underneath was littered with rocks and concrete, and he was forced to lean forward, getting his head and shoulders inside the grave. As he struggled to wedge the box in the space available he heard Minos and Agla talking but was unable to make out what they were saying. Eventually, he surfaced to the sounds of Minos laughing and Agla screaming. In a split second, Theodore realized that Agla’s finger had been caught under the heavy marble plate. “RAISE THE PLATE,” Theodore shouted at the guy, “don’t you see her finger is caught under it?” Minos complied, embarrassed. Agla’s finger promised to soon become blue. “I thought she was laughing at my joke,” Minos said awkwardly. Apparently, when Theodore was half inside the grave Minos had winked at Agla making a wisecrack of the sort, “What if we closed your husband inside!” People also took them for husband and wife with Grigoris their son later at the hotel, even after Theodore specified a room with three separate beds. But despite the mishaps, they felt euphoric. There were no more obstacles in their trip’s mission, and they had three days until Tuesday afternoon to tour the region. Agla pointed out that they had visited the Prespa lakes more than once, but they had never visited nearby Monastiri, their father’s hometown. Agla’s suggestion left Theodore cold. He had not been excited to come back to Florina in the first place, much less to visit a town he had known only through his grandmother’s stories, many of them in the form of moiroloï lamenting and recounting all her misfortunes with a fair amount of detail. How much of that world would he be able to crosscheck with a visit to Bitola today? The Former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia no longer referred to this town as Monastiri. Grigoris too had an effective objection. “They’ll stamp my passport with ‘Has been in Macedonia,’” he complained, “me who has been born and raised in Macedonia.” Grigoris and Theodore would rather go to Prespa again. HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Following an economic and political crisis in the 1980s, and the rise of nationalism, Yugoslavia progressively broke up into its constituent

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republics. Its southern-most province, which had been known as Vardarska before World War II, declared independence in 1991 and wanted to be called Macedonia, something Greece opposed. Greece’s objection to the use of the name Macedonia by the new state was in part due to the fact that Greece’s northern province, called Macedonia, represents over 90 percent of Ancient Macedonia, but also to the fact that the new state had openly declared its ambition to annex the northern Greek province in order to create a grand Macedonian state with Thessaloniki as its capital. To that end the new state printed maps describing this enlarged Macedonian vision, adopted a flag with the Star of Vergina on it, and allowed the circulation of unofficial souvenir banknotes with Thessaloniki’s White Tower on it. The Star of Vergina is a rayed solar symbol appearing in ancient Greek art from the sixth to second centuries BC. It came to prominence following archaeological excavations in the small town of Vergina in northern Greece during the late 1970s. It was depicted on a golden larnax found in a fourth-century BC royal tomb belonging to Philip II of Macedonia, the father of Alexander the Great. Greece responded with an economic embargo, blocking the access of the new state to the port of Thessaloniki and the Mediterranean. As a result of the dispute with Greece over the use of the name, the new state was admitted to the United Nations in 1993 under the provisional name of the “Former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia” (abbreviated as FYROM). Since then, this is the term with which the state is referred to by international organizations such as the European Union, the Council of Europe, NATO, the Olympic Games, Eurovision, and a number of countries around the world, even though many other countries refer to it simply as Macedonia. The understanding was that the two parties would eventually reach agreement on a mutually acceptable variant for a name for the new state sometime in the future. Following negotiations under the auspices of the United Nations, an interim agreement was finally signed between Greece and the new state on September 13, 1995 covering the following points:  Existing borders will be respected.  Greece will recognize the new state with the name Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (FYROM).  The new state will eliminate the Star of Vergina from its flag.  Both Parties will refrain from using symbols constituting part of the historic patrimony of the other Party (an allusion to the souvenir banknotes depicting Thessaloniki’s White Tower on it.)

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 The new state will make sure that no articles in its Constitution can be interpreted as claims to Greek territory or intervention in Greek internal affairs.  Greece will retain its right to veto the inclusion of the new state into international organizations with a name other than FYROM.  Greece will lift its economic embargo.

Theodore, Agla, and Grigoris checked in to the King Alexander Hotel, located some way up on one of the two mountains that flank Florina. It commanded a panoramic view of the town and the opposite mountain. It was also close to the part of town where Maria’s house used to be. Following the afternoon siesta and Greek coffee on the balcony of their hotel room they began asking around for the house of Maria and Joseph. A man in his forties, who did not entirely conform to the image of a local, volunteered to bring them to where Maria was. He brought them to the large two-house complex right across the hotel where they stayed. The estate was a cross between a spacious summer residence and a farm. A couple of dogs accompanied them across the yard barking but not menacing. There were more animals (chickens and geese) at the far end of the long yard. The young man shouted, “Mom, you have visitors.” Maria came out and looked at the three of them with suspicion. “It’s me, Agla, the daughter of Mistress Theodosia,” Agla rushed to clarify. “God Lord!” Maria exclaimed, “Is it really you Aglaïtsa and Theodorakis?” Theodore hadn’t seen Maria since he was a small child. The woman in front of him bore no resemblance to what he had retained in his memory. She also bore the marks of the passage of difficult times. Despite her eighty years her hair was all black and she maintained a straight posture, but she obviously had false teeth that moved disconcertingly as she spoke. Her chin trembled intermittently, but not the way it does with old people. It was the result of a nervous breakdown of some sort. She shouted at her other son, Kostas, to come out from a nearby shack. He was in his undershirt, fat, unshaven, and with a pain in his neck. He looked old. They pulled some chairs, and they all sat in a shady part of the yard. Maria brought out refreshments.

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“When I was fourteen you were a baby, and I was carrying you in my arms,” Maria told Agla. “Now I have four children, eight grandchildren, and one great-grandchild,” she continued contemplatively. Kostas explained that with the money he made in Australia he had built these two houses here to reunite the family even though some family, like the younger son Manolis, who had brought Agla and Theodore to Maria, lived permanently in Australia and came only visiting for the summer. They sat in the shade chatting calmly for a while. There was an atmosphere of harmonious contradiction. They felt like friends, but Agla and Theodore hardly knew them. They felt like relatives, but Agla and Theodore had nothing in common with them. What was there to talk about? Agla made a remark about the dogs and mentioned her experiences with her dog. “I had a big dog once,” picked up Kostas, “no pure breed or anything, which got along extremely well with the three little kittens of the house. All three of them slept on him regularly, savoring his body warmth. He never complained. One day, however, the dog must have seen something suspicious because he suddenly jumped up and ran toward the gate. The three kittens instinctively clawed themselves into his back. And the dog kept galloping for some time with the three kittens wobbling around attached to him. It was hilarious!” Theodore had his camera with him and thought of taking pictures, but he was afraid it would embarrass them; or, rather, it would embarrass himself. Adjectives like picturesque, photogenic, or touristy seemed out of place here. A young lady and her boyfriend all dressed up came by to meet them as they went out for an evening ride to Prespa. She was one of Maria’s granddaughters. Theodore wondered whether it was her mother that Theodosia had fixed up. Fotini and her daughter Maria had provided Theodosia with house help from the day Aglaïtsa had been born. Fotini had been thankful to Theodosia for this work opportunity for herself and her daughter. Theodosia, for her part, had appreciated and trusted Fotini. The many hard years in Florina with the long cold winters had resulted in a bonding between Fotini and Theodosia, two otherwise incongruent women. Fotini had come to Theodosia asking for advice and help with every serious problem she ever had. From Australia, which she did not like

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very much, Fotini had frequently returned to Florina for prolonged vacations. On one such trip, she had come to see Theodosia in Thessaloniki with another serious problem. Maria’s young daughter (Fotini’s granddaughter) in Australia had met a young man who wanted to marry her, but there was a snag. In the tightly knit immigrant community of Greeks in Australia there had been rumors that Maria’s daughter was not a virgin. The young man had refused to believe them, arguing that they were motivated by jealousy. Maria and Fotini, however, had good reason to be worried. When plans for a wedding had begun, Fotini had come to Theodosia for help. “You arrange to bring the girl to Thessaloniki as soon as possible,” Theodosia had instructed her. “We can take care of things here.” Within a couple of weeks Maria had brought her daughter to Theodosia’s and the three of them had gone to see a gynecologist. Theodosia had explained the situation to him emphasizing the cultural traits of Greek immigrants in Australia. He had proved understanding. “It is a simple intervention and there is nothing illegal about it,” he had added. Several weeks later Theodosia had received a thank-you letter from Australia, which told about a great wedding that had taken place and culminated the next day—according to the custom—by the public display of the wedding sheets stained with blood. They heard a rooster crow, which prompted Kostas to tell another story. “In Australia, where we live, people complained about the crowing of too many roosters, which disturbed their sleep. A law was passed and all henneries were equipped with very low ceilings. It appears that if a rooster cannot stretch its neck, he won’t crow!” “Tomorrow we are going to have a barbeque. There will be thirty people here. Please come and join us,” continued Kostas. “Oh, yes, please do,” repeated Maria and proceeded to elaborate on the invitation and insist Greek style. “Mom,” interrupted her Kostas, who had obviously been more affected by Australia’s Anglo-Saxon culture, “stop pestering them. They know we want them to come. They will, if it suits their program.” As they prepared to leave, Manolis, who had been very quiet up to then, approached Theodore and said. “I live in Adelaide. I am in the phone book. If you ever find yourself on Australian soil, no matter where, give me a ring, and I will come pick you up and show you the country.”

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Agla, Theodore, and Grigoris drove back to the town center somewhat overwhelmed. They had expected to come across no one they knew in Florina. The people they had just met were more than simple acquaintances. Passing in front of their old house, it seemed sad to them. It had now been officially declared a Florina landmark, but the tile-covered canopy all around the house at the base of the balconies was gone, and there were green shutters installed on all the windows. “How can they do such things to a landmark?” complained Theodore. They parked downtown not far from Modis Square. The VW beetle certainly made an impression among only modern cars. As Theodore came out of the car in front of a group of young men drinking summer coffee concoctions, one of them asked him: “Would you sell it?” “No, it is part of the family,” Theodore said, “we’ve been growing old together.” “Where are you from?” he continued obviously alluding to them looking as strangers. “From right here,” Theodore responded, “we are from Florina.” The young man at the coffee shop looked at them in disbelief. Theodore volunteered a clarification, “The name is Modis.” “Like the Modis Square?” he wanted to better understand. “Exactly,” Theodore replied. “Huh!” he exclaimed surprised, if anything at the coincidence of someone being named the same as a square. Dinnertime was approaching and Theodore repeated his desire to taste once again the famous soutzoukakia that they used to eat when he was a child on summer nights in the many taverns spread around the central square (not named Modis at that time). The permeating smell of those sausage-looking spicy meatballs grilled on charcoal was indelibly imprinted on his sensory memory and was affectionately associated with his childhood summers when they used to go out with Mr. Stefanakis, Mrs. Lula, Nouna, and Nounos. But now the central square was surrounded with fancy coffee shops and bars crowded by young ladies exposing their shoulders and thighs, little interested in soutzoukakia. He even tried sniffing his way toward the delicacy—emulating how they did it when he was a child—only to find himself in front of a hotdog-and-hamburger stand. Disappointed and tired, they sat at a rather chic restaurant off the main street. The waiters, all young men, were untraditionally attentive, polite, and softspoken.

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“May I suggest a local delicacy?” asked one of them as Theodore read the menu. “It is called soutzoukakia and consists of … “I know what it is,” Theodore interrupted him. “I’ve been looking for it all over town.” The next morning it was Sunday and Agla suggested going to St. George Church—now that they had nothing to fear—to ask a priest to do a trisagio (short memorial service) on the grave. In preparation Theodore wrote down the three names—Giorgos, Theodosia, and Paraskevi on a piece of paper, confident that the priest would not cross check them against the only two names barely readable on the brokencross pieces. This time the church was not only open, but also packed with people. They timed it so that they wouldn’t have to wait long before mass finished to present the priest with their request. Working their way toward the priest in the crowded church, Agla bumped a well-dressed lady. Looking at each other they both burst out with exclamations. “Tasitsa!” “Aglaïa! What are you doing here?” “We came to put our mother’s remains in the grave with our father. And you? I thought you had moved to Thessaloniki?” “Our children live there, but Giorgos wants to finish his days in Florina. He has retired, of course, but he likes it here.” Tasitsa was a cousin of the Modises, whom Theodore had practically never seen. Her grandfather and Theodore’s grandfather were brothers. Her husband Giorgos was a gynecologist, and his sister had been a colleague and friend of Theodosia, who entered the picture once again (probably the trip’s karma). Back some sixty years ago Theodosia had mediated for Tasitsa, who lived in Kozani, to meet Giorgos Lalagiannis, who lived in Florina, with the intention of what they called an arranged marriage. The union turned out to be successful, and they lived happily ever after in Florina. Theodosia had often played an instrumental role in the formation of generally successful marriages. Once she had complained to her son, “I have fixed many people together, but had no luck with you.” His reaction had been, “Mom, doctors cannot cure themselves!” Tasitsa was very religious, knew all the priests in Florina, and when a trisagio was mentioned she took Agla by the hand and walked over to the priest. “Father, would you please do a trisagio for us?” she asked and continued on to share information with the priest “… but you also need to

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go to that other thing.” Apparently she had planned more activities for him. “We can do the trisagio right here,” answered the priest, finishing with “it is as good as if we went to the grave.” He immediately began reciting religious text at a rate so rapid that it seemed miraculous he was not getting tongue-tied. He suddenly stopped, jolting everyone into reality. He needed the names. Theodore handed him the paper with the three names, and as soon as he read them Tasitsa added, “And Nikolaos and Chrysavgi.” The priest repeated the two names after her and off he went again continuing his frantic recitation. A few minutes later there was another pause for him to read the names again (obviously he could not read at that speed), “And Nikolaos and Chrysavgi,” added Tasitsa again, and the priest repeated after her again. When the ceremony was over, Tasitsa wanted to go for coffee, and Theodore suggested that they drive to the small coffee shop up on the mountain. Driving up the steep mountain road five of them in the Volkswagen, they passed in front of a hotel perched on that picturesque spot. “This is the Xenia Hotel,” Theodore said having more memories come to the foreground again, when back in 1974 he had come here with his mother to ask Giorgos Sr. how he could secretly cross the border out of Greece and into Yugoslavia.   

In July 1974 Theodore had come to Greece with Carole Gene and four-month-old Yorgo for the latter’s baptism. But on July 15 the junta—established in Greece with the colonels’ coup seven years earlier— instigated a coup d’état in Cyprus in order to unite the island with Greece. Five days later, in response to that coup, the Turkish army invaded the island triggering a general mobilization in Greece. All airports were closed and traveling abroad was suspended for all male Greeks. Theodore didn’t really worry about being drafted, because he hadn’t been trained, but he could be stuck in Greece for an undetermined amount of time. He didn’t like that. He had just managed to extend his research work at CERN for two more years through a contract with a French lab and didn’t want to jeopardize the early phases of that appointment.

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Theodosia had an idea, “People used to secretly cross into Yugoslavia to go to Monastiri all the time. Why don’t we go and ask Giorgos how such a thing can be done?” Giorgos Sr. had often gotten in and out of Greece by secretly commuting between Florina and Monastiri when he was active as a Makedonomachos (Macedonian fighter). So Theodosia called Ioulia’s home. “Giorgos is vacationing in Florina. He is in the Xenia Hotel up on the mountain,” Ioulia said. So Theodosia and Theodore decided to drive to Florina and go find Giorgos. It involved the same trip they had taken the previous year under more agreeable circumstances. Giorgos Sr. had withdrawn from politics seven years earlier when the colonels came into power. He was now eighty-seven and went to Florina during the hot summer days. He liked the new hotel that had been built up on the mountain, not far from the little church Theodosia and Giorgos Jr. used to visit in their clandestine night outings forty-five years earlier. They found him at the hotel visibly preoccupied with the events in Cyprus. “I don’t understand,” he told them “why Greece couldn’t send some airplanes, boats, or intervene in some way. Crete is not that far from Cyprus.” Theodosia hesitated before revealing the purpose of their trip, but when she did, he seemed troubled. “It is very easy to cross the border,” he said and then added, “but for a Modis to sneak out of the country like this wouldn’t be right.” “Yes, of course, Giorgos, you are right,” said Theodosia and she immediately dropped the subject. Mother and son drove back to Thessaloniki more ashamed than disappointed but with a concealed pride nonetheless.   

“No, the hotel is not called Xenia anymore,” Tasitsa brought everyone up to date, “they have renovated it and renamed it.” At the mountain café, Tasitsa seemed to know everyone and be highly respected. The lady café owner greeted her joyfully and came out to personally wait on them. “On hot summer days we used to drink visinada,” Theodore reminisced again. “Do you have it?” It was a drink made out of black-cherry syrup. In those days Theodosia used to make black-cherry glyko to offer guests in small quantities with a spoon and a glass of cold water. The children drained the syrup

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from the jar and diluted it with water into a summer drink, dangerously undermining their mother’s ability to play proper host to visitors. “Of course we do,” said the lady and brought three of them, one for Agla, one for Grigoris, and one for Theodore. Later Tasitsa insisted on inviting them to lunch with her husband at a nice new restaurant they now frequented. She wouldn’t take no for an answer so they made an appointment for 2:30 pm. She gave them instructions on how to find it. They’d all meet there. On the way to the restaurant they stopped by St. Nikolas, the church outside the town diametrically opposed to St. George. It was a spot where they used to go for family picnics but also with the school when in elementary school. Theodore distinctly remembered lots of water, even a small waterfall. Despite being prepared now for disappointments, he was taken aback to see only dry water channels, sadly attesting to previous running waters. Tasitsa’s favorite restaurant consisted of a house where the owners lived and its large garden, where tables were set up in the shade of a vine arbor. Her husband, Giorgos Lalagiannis, now eighty-eight, had been a gynecologist in Florina, where he practiced for many decades. Lunch lasted for more than a couple of hours. They talked about relatives and events in Florina in older times. Nostalgia reigned in this midsummer garden spot. Later in the afternoon Agla, Theodore, and Grigoris walked around the town taking pictures. As with people, they were again interested only in old “stuff,” buildings that they could recognize, sometimes in ruins. The two-story house across the street from the Modis house had a kafenio on the ground floor frequented by older men playing tavli (backgammon) all day. It is in there that Boulis went to for first aid—namely, ouzo—when he had nailed the poor kid’s leg with his dart. On the first floor lived Peltekis whom a distraught Theodosia had tried to wake up the night a drunken partisan had tried to force their front door with a knife in his hand. Both the house and the kafenio seemed deserted now. Another house with a story was the house of Tegos Sapountzis, father of beautiful Athina, who back in the 1920s had been “betrothed” to Giorgos Jr. There was a light on in this house. “Do you suppose Athina is in there?” asked Theodore. “If anyone related to her is inside, it is probably her children,” Agla set things straight.

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Passing by the river in front of the school that Theodore attended for a year, he saw a tree where there shouldn’t be one! So he began telling the story of coming out of school one day and seeing a bunch of people trying to cut down an enormous tree. They had cut a wedge on the river side of the tree’s trunk and were trying to pull the tree down with ropes into the river. But the tree eventually fell on the opposite side landing on the roof of a small house. The owner of the house came out screaming in despair for the great damage the tree had caused to her house. Theodore was talking in a loud voice in a quiet neighborhood. An older lady close to the house he was pointing at asked, “When were all these things happening?” After a moment’s reflection he answered, “About 55 years ago.” “Where are you from?” was the usual next question. “We are from here. Modis is my name,” the usual answer. The lady came closer. “Are you the son of Giorgos and Theodosia Modis?” This time they were recognized! “Yes, I am.” “I had the good lady as a teacher, God bless her soul,” she continued nostalgically. They chatted for some time and found out about the whereabouts of several people they knew in common. One thing Theodore did not want to miss seeing again was the railroad station. He had fond memories of Florina’s railroad station. He used to go there with his mother on cold winter evenings to wait for Agla’s coming home for Christmas and other holidays from Anatolia College, where she had gone to school two years ahead of him. Waiting for the invariably late train to arrive, he used to put his ear on the tracks to detect the coming train. The next day, Monday, they began early for their trip to the Prespa lakes. The region includes two lakes and a large national reserve rich in bird and vegetation species. The Great Prespa Lake is split among Greece, Albania, and FYROM with FYROM claiming the biggest part. The Small Prespa is almost entirely in Greece. The island of St. Achilios in the Small Prespa has now been connected to the shore with a 600meter long floating footbridge. The most striking highlight from their Prespa excursion was a visit of a remote little church up high in an enormous cave on the inaccessible shore of Great Prespa. They hired a boat taxi to go there. It is the most impressive one of several such shelters that Christian monks used during the centuries of Ottoman occupation and persecution.

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They came back to Florina in the afternoon. It was their last evening in town, and there were still a few places they had not visited. Agla wanted to see the old market. It was still there, right next to the nicely renovated house of the pediatrician, Doctor Loukas. As they walked by his house Theodore asked Agla, “Do you realize we are on another street named Modis?” Agla knew about the square, of course, but had forgotten about Captain Modis Street. “In fact, it is on this street that you and I were born,” Theodore added. It all came back to her. This was the house Theodosia and Giorgos lived in as a couple. It was from one of those windows that Theodosia, pregnant with Boulis and holding Aglaïtsa in her arms, looked down on the street at the German convoy taking her husband away. It was getting late and they were hungry so they directed themselves toward the central square again. Theodore was getting overdue for some more soutzoukakia, even if they were not nearly as tasty as those he had eaten in Thomakis’s tavern more than half a century earlier. Tuesday morning was devoted to cultural activities, namely Florina’s museum, which had not existed the last time they were there. Trying to find the museum, they drove through different parts of the town. Around a sharp turn Theodore exclaimed, “The Sentezy House!” surprising himself for recognizing it so easily. He pulled up in front of the house, which was in ruins but seemed to be undergoing renovation. When Theodore was fourteen the Sentezy family consisted of two spinster-looking women living in a fairytale-like dark house buried inside a jungle-like garden. His only visit to that house was in the summer of 1957. He had a summer class assignment to prepare a herbarium for a botany course at Anatolia College. His mother knew exactly where to take him for inputs. At the Sentezy house Theodosia made small talk with the two ladies and explained to them the reason for their visit. The ladies were eager to put their plants—and their knowledge of them—into an unusual use, and do Mrs. Modis a favor at the same time. Theodore still has this herbarium with entries such as cactus tricoloris and jasmine pasquale. His visit to that house and its garden as a teenager left a lasting impression in his mind. It was a taste of what it would be like inside a classic novel of the sort Wuthering Heights or Great Expectations. Minos with his helpers showed up at 5:30 pm at the cemetery with the new cross and some heavy marble-polishing machinery. They cleaned

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the marble plate and cemented the new cross. Theodore asked them to also cement the covering marble plate. “They are usually just sitting on the grave,” Minos told him, “but we’ll cement it, if you want.” He wanted to. He wasn’t going to take any chances of someone lifting it in curiosity and fancying the varnished box inside. When all was done, he noticed that the old broken-cross pieces were lying around with names still visible on them. He picked them up not knowing what to do with them. Minos saw his perplexity and said, “Let me put them inside too.” “But the plate has been sealed,” Theodore objected. “The cement hasn’t set yet,” he said, “I can lift the plate slide them in and seal it back.” Theodore did not like the idea. He had supervised the cementing process to his satisfaction. The plate would never seal as well afterward. “No, it’s all right,” he said, “I’ll think of something,” and carried the two pieces to the trunk of the Volkswagen. Finally, it was all done. One hundred years after she was born Theodosia joined Giorgos and his mother. Mother and son had both played an important role in Theodosia’s life, and she had lived fifteen years with each one of them but separately. Giorgos had been the love of her life. His mother had been the woman who had antagonized her so much, but also the woman with whom she had unwittingly identified and sometimes even resembled. The three of them lay next to Giorgos Sr. and his mother. In the latter’s grave were also the remains of Captain Modis (Alexander). A final meeting place for this family’s three men, their mothers, and one spouse. The return trip to Thessaloniki was uneventful and even though it had been an intense weekend full of emotions they did not feel the low that generally comes after a high. It was night when they arrived. They parked by the sea close to Agla’s apartment and were about to say goodbye when they both thought of the marble pieces in the VW trunk. “What shall we do with those?” They couldn’t easily dispose of them in a garbage container. Scripta manen and even more so when they are engraved on marble! Not to mention exposure to the possibility of voodoo and other magic, in case such things can be effective. Looking around, Theodore saw the sea. “Tomorrow night we have a little ceremony here whereby we throw these pieces into the sea,” he said.

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Twenty-four hours later Agla took the smaller piece, Theodore took the bigger one, and they walked to the seafront. She was embarrassed and threw her piece close to shore hurriedly. Theodore backed up, picked up speed, and threw his heavy piece deep in the sea, almost being carried along with it. They were close to the place where Theodosia and Giorgos had their picture taken some seventy-five years earlier. In the picture she wore a white pants suit, a white sun hat with a dark ribbon around it, and white pumps with moderately high heels. He wore a light-gray suit with a small white flower on his lapel, a striped tie, and black-and-white shoes. They looked beautiful, elegant, and happy. And so, the chapter on the final reunification of Giorgos and Theodosia closed on a spot not far from where they had spent some of their most idyllic moments. Two years later Agla called Theodore in Geneva. She sounded distressed. They had been looking for a piece of land where her husband could set up his own machine shop fabricating water pumps. “We found this place in Chalkidiki,” she said, “not far from Mother’s house, which is suitable and even has seventy olive trees on it. But we do not quite have the cash required. Would you be able to lend me 15,000 Euro and I will pay you back little by little.” She was obviously embarrassed; asking for money was something she had never done before. Theodore sent her the money and assured her that he would not be missing it, but it wasn’t necessary. Two months later she called him again in a joyful mood, “I discovered a bank account Mother had—on which was also my name—with 30,000 Euro in it. Either she never told me about it or I must have forgotten it. In any case, it seems that she was able to rescue us from her grave! Her departure from this world did not prevent her from running to our assistance when in need, the way she had always done.”

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR The people and events described in this book are all real. I have tried to stay close to the truth as much as possible. Contextual text of my own fabrication has been kept to an absolute minimum. My sources listed below and cited in the bibliography permitted an extensive amount of cross checking. Each source’s relative importance—approximately reflecting the number of pages in the text—is shown with a percentage in the parentheses:        

Memories and writings of mine and my sister’s (25%) My mother’s never-published autobiography and letters (25%) About twenty hours of recordings that I had made over the years with my mother recounting her experiences (20%) My father’s published and unpublished writings and letters (10%)—letters without a date come from my mother’s autobiography My uncle’s—Giorgos Sr.’s—publications (5%) Publications by Fistas, Raptis, Bonis, Athanasiadis, Tsamis, and Zarkada-Pistioli (5%) Discussions and recordings with my aunt Niki and my cousins Angela Mitrokondi and Dionysis Panagiotidis (5%) Internet (5%)

The first two-thirds of the book are largely based on my mother’s contributions, either from her autobiography or from the tape recordings I made of her. The remaining relies more on my memories and those of my sister. Details for the sections labeled “Historical Background” have been found mostly on the Internet—mainly in Wikipedia during 2015— sometimes from text in Greek. The section “Instead of Prologue” has been translated and adapted from a publication in Greek by Tsamis (1970), reproduced here with permission from the publisher. The description of the assassination of Theodoros Modis and related events—Chapter 3—have been translated and adapted from the book by historian Raptis Ιστορία του Mακεδονικού Αγώνος (1925), and 401

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from the book by Giorgos (Sr.) Modis Αναμνήσεις (2004), reproduced here with permission from the publisher. Tracing the design of Modis’s house to Le Corbusier’s Villa Schwob was made possible thanks to research published by Architect Christina Zarkada-Pistioli (2004). The excerpt on extrasensory perception in Chapter 15 has been translated from Fistas’s book Το Νυμφαίον (1988), reproduced here with permission from the publisher. The description of the imprisonment in Pavlou Mela prison— Chapter 19—has been based on two publications in Greek: largely the short story by Giorgos (Sr.) Modis “Πενήντα Θρεφτάρια” in Μaκεδονικές Ιστορίες: Πενήντα Θρεφτάρια (1954) and to a lesser extent the short story by Giorgos (Jr.) Modis “Να Εκτελεστούν Πενήντα Έλληνες,” (1947). The description of the liberation of Thessaloniki from the Germans—Chapter 22—has been translated and adapted from two publications in Greek by Giorgos (Sr.) Modis: the short story “Ταξίδι με Ταχύτητα και Ενημέρωση” in Μaκεδονικές Ιστορίες: Τα Δύο Στρατόπεδα (1958), and the book Αναμνήσεις (2004), reproduced here with permission from the publisher. Descriptions of clothing and people are largely based on pictures. The reader can go to the book’s webpage: www.growth-dynamics.com/default.asp?page=bookfortune and use the password FFTB to see pictures relating to the story. Each picture points to the relevant page. Theodore Modis

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aglaïa: Αγλαΐα Μόδη, Μακεδονικόν Ημερολόγιον, Θεσσαλονίκη, Ν. Σφενδόνης, issues: 1957–1960. Arvanitakis: Σπύρος Αρβανιτάκης, Τετράδια Μνήμης: Η Βιογραφία Μου – Κείμενα Miscelanea, University Studio Press, Thessaloniki, 2009. Athanasiadis: Ανδρέας Αθανασιάδης, Φλώρινα 1926–1946 στη σκιά του Βουλγαρισμού, Επίκεντρο, Thessaloniki, 2017. Bonis: Κωνσταντίνος Μπόνης, Η Φλώρινα κατά την Κατοχήν: 1941–1944, Thessaloniki, 1982. Fistas: Νικόλαος Γ. Φίστας, Το Νυμφαίον, Private publication, Thessaloniki, 1988. Giorgos Jr.: Γεώργιος Θ. Μόδης, Μακεδονικόν Ημερολόγιον, Ν. Σφενδόνης, Thessaloniki, issues: 1938–1950. —— Γεώργιος Θ. Μόδης, Περί Μακεδονίας, Growth Dynamics, Lugano, 2015. —— Γεώργιος Θ. Μόδης, Στα Μπουντρούμια, Α. Ι. Ράλλης, Athens, 1930. —— Γεώργιος Θ. Μόδης, unpublished manuscripts and letters, 1926– 1949. Giorgos Sr.: Γεώργιος Χ. Μόδης, Αναμνήσεις, University of Macedonia Press, Thessaloniki, published posthumously in 2004. —— Γεώργιος Χ. Μόδης, Μaκεδονικές Ιστορίες, Πάπυρος and Αετός Α.Ε., Athens, 17 volumes: 1954–1975. Paillarès: Michel Paillarès, L’imbroglio Macédonien, Stock, Paris, 1907. Raptis: Σταμάτης Ράπτης, Ιστορία του Mακεδονικού Αγώνος, Αναγνωστόπουλος & Πετράκος, Athens, 1925. Theodore: Theodore Modis, Short Stories, in website: http://www.gro wth-dynamics.com/default.asp?page=extra1 —— Theodore Modis, Street Science, to be Published. Theodosia: Θεοδοσία Μόδη, Μια Αγάπη, μια Ζωή, Private publication, Geneva, Switzerland, 1999. Tsamis: Παύλος Λ. Τσάμης, Ιερή Γή, Εκδόσεις Εταιρείας Μακεδονικών Σπουδών, Thessaloniki, 1970. Zarkada-Pistioli: Χριστίνα Ζαρκάδα-Πιστιόλη, Μνημείο και Περιβάλλον 8/2004, University Studio Press, Thessaloniki, 2004. 403

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Several members of my family have contributed to the realization of this volume. First and foremost my sister Aglaïa Vavouri, who’s memories complemented mine. My cousins Angela Mitrokondi and Dionysis Panagiotidis gave me details that I didn’t know concerning the early part of the book. Carole Gene Modis not only went over the entire text carefully correcting the writing but she was also instrumental in shaping the final document, not least of which was its title. Monica Chaplain edited the manuscript often going beyond the call of duty by looking things up in the Internet and thus contributing interesting details to specific parts of the main narrative. Nicholas Gage read the manuscript and made critical comments that resulted in the book’s restructuring; he also formulated the book’s final title. Finally, Valerie Lange at ibidem Press has been most helpful and friendly from the very beginning of my collaboration with them. Theodore Modis Lugano, Switzerland June 2018

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2

3

This chapter has been translated and adapted from a publication in Greek by Tsamis (1970), © 2018 by Society for Macedonian Studies. Reproduced here with permission from the publisher. The description of the assassination of Theodoros Modis and related events— Chapter 3—have been translated and adapted from the book by historian Raptis Ιστορία του Mακεδονικού Αγώνος (1925), and from the book by Giorgos (Sr.) Modis Αναμνήσεις (2004), © 2004 by University of Macedonia Press. Reproduced here with permission from the publisher. The description of the liberation of Thessaloniki from the Germans has been translated and adapted from two publications in Greek by Giorgos (Sr.) Modis: the short story “Ταξίδι με Ταχύτητα και Ενημέρωση” in Μaκεδονικές Ιστορίες: Τα Δύο Στρατόπεδα (1958), and the book Αναμνήσεις (2004), © 2004 by University of Macedonia Press. Reproduced here with permission from the publisher.

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