Theatre of the Condemned: Classical Tragedy on Greek Prison Islands 9780199572885, 0199572887

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Title Pages New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York © Gonda Van Steen 2011 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2011 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose the same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Library of Congress Control Number: 2010940316 Typeset by SPI Publisher Services, Pondicherry, India Printed in Great Britain on acid‐free paper by MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King's Lynn ISBN 978–0–19–957288–5 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Page 2 of 3

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Acknowledgements (Athens, 4 January 2008) and subsequent correspondence (6 July 2008 and through May of 2010), which allowed me to reconstruct some of the key aspects of the 2003 production of Aris Alexandrou's Antigone and its immediate (p.xi) reception. Yannis Hamilakis has gone the extra mile and has prodded me with incisive questions and invaluable suggestions over many years. He helped me to develop new approaches and themes and generously shared research materials with me. Apostolis Papageorgiou kindly facilitated contacts in Greece and brought many useful sources and websites to my attention. Like him, librarian Vasso Androutsou went far beyond the call of duty to help me obtain a hard‐to‐ find copy of a retrospective study of the work of artist Hristos Danklis. Members of the international Network for the Study of Civil Wars chimed in with useful comments and suggestions. Tasoula Vervenioti and Daniel Palmieri, Historical Research Officer of the Historical Archives Unit of the International Committee of the Red Cross, kindly responded to my queries about official reports written by ICRC representatives following their visits to the Greek prison islands. Former and current colleagues, too, have given me constant encouragement and wise guidance. David Christenson, Frank Romer, and Cynthia White deserve special mention for always being generous with their time, intelligence, and grace, as do Robert Wagman and Tim Johnson. I am very thankful to these exceptional colleagues for the rich and diverse ways in which they have fostered my research. My teaching has always been a learning experience. My students, too, have made me see aspects of theatre and terror under a new light. I thank especially my graduate students for maintaining strong collegial links with me. I am particularly grateful to the Department of Classics at the University of Florida, to Leo Polopolus and Karelisa Hartigan, and to the Cassas family members who raised the funds to establish the Cassas Chair in Greek Studies. Without these generous funds, research trips to Greece and other extended visits to archives and specialized libraries would not have been possible. Over the years of writing, I had the opportunity to present my findings to diverse academic communities, learning much from constructive criticisms proffered by my listeners. I thank audiences at Northwestern University, at the IFK (Internationales Forschungszentrum Kulturwissenschaften) in Vienna, and at the Comparative Drama Conference organized by the California State University at Northridge. In 2001, I was the blessed recipient of a Laurance S. Rockefeller Visiting Fellowship from the Center for Human Values at Princeton University. This fellowship, along with a Margo Tytus Visiting Fellowship from the Department of Classics at the University of Cincinnati, allowed me to use two prime libraries with stellar (p.xii) modern Greek collections for extended periods of time. I remain indebted to the many librarians and staff members who graciously provided assistance. In Greece, I acknowledge the volunteers and staff at the ASKI, the Contemporary Social History Archive, at the Museum of Political Exiles of Aï Stratis, at the Democracy Museum of Aï Stratis, at the Athens Theatre Museum and Archive, and at the Gennadius Library of the Page 2 of 4

Acknowledgements American School of Classical Studies at Athens. I especially enjoyed the helpfulness and goodwill of Harilaos Sismanis and Aris Tsouknidas, both founders of the Museum of Political Exiles of Aï Stratis. My gratitude further goes to the Authors' Foundation, for supporting my research and honouring me with the prestigious Michael Meyer Award. I also benefited from a research leave supported by the Fulbright Foundation, and I express my indebtedness to the vibrant intellectual and professional atmosphere at the Athens Fulbright Office and at The Athens Centre. I thank Rosemary Donnelly and John Zervos, who have supported my every initiative. I am deeply appreciative of both their inspiration and continuing friendship. Shelley and Dan Carda must be singled out, too, among other good‐humoured and most patient friends, who offered me their resplendent hospitality on numerous occasions. I express my warmest thanks to Francesca Iakovidou, widow of Hristos Danklis, for giving me permission to reproduce the artwork that graces the cover of this book. Some material on theatre on the Greek prison islands has previously been published in the Journal of Modern Greek Studies (October 2005). I thank the journal and its editor for permission to reuse that material here. I have endeavoured to trace the copyright holders of the pictures reproduced in this book but have not been able to locate all of the actual photographers. I would be grateful for any further information. The colleagues who have helped me with the translation of Aris Alexandrou's Antigone deserve a special place in these words of acknowledgement. I owe much to Helen Dendrinou Kolias for giving me her expert guidance and unwavering goodwill and for lending her critical eye to every single word of both the Greek and the English text. I am indebted also to Anastasia Bakogianni, Eleni Bozia, Valentini Kalfadopoulou Mellas, Kostas Kapparis, Nikos Kontaridis, and Chrysostomos Kostopoulos for allowing me to bug them about minute details in the text and the translation, to which they always responded promptly and most graciously. The quality of the translation and its flow in English have been much improved by their (p.xiii) unstinting assistance, and they helped me to transform a translation into a script for performance. Anastasia Bakogianni has edited publication projects that sprang from my interest in Alexandrou's play, and I cannot thank her sufficiently for her professional expertise in those areas, too. All errors and infelicities, of course, belong solely to myself. I express my deep appreciation to those who have helped me put together this book: Lorna Hardwick and Jim Porter, coeditors of the Classical Presences Series for Oxford University Press, embraced the project from its inception, as did Hilary O'Shea, who provided help and support in many ways. Important, too, was the enthusiastic encouragement of the two anonymous readers, who offered insightful comments and helpful suggestions. I also thank Emma Barber, my production editor, Richard Walshe and Emma Tuck, my patient copy‐editors, as

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Acknowledgements well as David White and Rebecca Francescatti, who compiled the index to this book. Richard Burgi has been a guiding presence throughout. His example and advice have always stimulated my research projects. This book is my tribute to him. My family members provided the necessary reality checks whenever I became too engrossed in the details. Lastly, I will never entirely manage to acknowledge my debt to my husband, Greg Terzian, much less be able to repay it. I have been graced by his gentle humanity, and I thank him for his unwavering love and for his never‐failing confidence in me.

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island Greek inmate theatre demonstrates that the return to models from antiquity was not necessarily a reactionary move but was rather the beginning of a democratic turn: theatre became part of ‘experiments’ in new forms of social organization under the harsh conditions of internment. The case studies of the classical tragedies that some trained actors and many unschooled players performed on the Greek prison islands add new meanings and dimensions to the concept of democratizing or radicalizing the classics. Some exiles (such as Manos Katrakis, Tzavalas Karousos, and Kostas Baladimas, professional actors of the Left and drawing cards of the contemporary urban Greek theatre who deserve closer attention in these chapters) transformed others into experienced stagehands, leaving them baffled at what they were capable to accomplish (p.2) together. Radical revisionism of classical drama in the West has typically been situated in the 1960s (Hall 2004b: 1), but Greek prisoner theatre predated that trend. Unlike the Western productions of the 1960s and onward, however, these inmate stagings have lacked a permanent record and, instead, continued to belong to the unofficial, fragmentary annals of Greek theatre—and of Greek history. This book hopes to redress this black spot in the nation's memory. The understudied performance practice must also be situated against the sociopolitical background of the turbulent Civil War era: it highlights the underlying concerns of patriotism, victory and defeat, recognition and memory. Plays of classical theatre—a relatively thin but important selection from the vast array of ancient culture—were enlisted as ideals in the formation of an essential notion of Greek leftist identity. In addition to modern Greek and foreign plays, the exiles chose to produce Sophocles' Antigone and Philoctetes and Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound and Persians, for individual but mainly for communal reasons. These are the prime plays that invite analysis of the aspirations and anxieties that the detainees projected onto the broader myths in which they saw their own experiences mirrored. Not all of the inmates' intense preparations and rehearsals led to actual productions. When they did, however, the outcomes were impressive and effective: despite the constraints of censorship and constant surveillance, the occasional embedded protest statements went well beyond the script, setting, or act of any play. The productions became eye‐ openers on theatre and on wider issues of performance. The metatheatrical modes, too, deserve extensive attention and inform our analysis. ‘Showtime’ and many other formal occasions were conducive to the creation of a political metatheatre and of visual as well as verbal rhetoric. On Makronisos, the right‐ wing Greek government's showcase locale of island confinement, some of the detained soldiers were able to turn an all‐ and always‐controlling system in on itself through their performance act and art. This book aims to begin the study of the cultural forms in the history of the Greek Civil War and its aftermath and, in particular, the analysis of ancient Greek drama in the modern contexts of Greek (hyper)nationalism, history making, and memory. The complexity of the relationship between the political Page 2 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island process and the theatre stage has not yet been sufficiently emphasized. Few studies address the relation of mutual influence between the various regimes and their (p.3) symbolic practices such as performance. Also, recent discussion is moving away from rigid answers. The Civil War set in motion a new process of contextualizing classical plays that can and needs to be studied in all its nuances. This book adds the concrete example or close‐up of a classicizing Greek adaptation (here given in the original modern Greek accompanied by the first English translation): the thematically rich Antigone written by Aris Alexandrou (bellicose pseudonym for Aristotelis Vassileiadis, 1922–1978), a long‐ time victim of the repression of both the Greek Right and the Left. Thus the second component (Chapters 5–6) of this book answers the question of how ancient tragedy on the modern Greek prison island was conceived beyond the staging of the extant plays. At the same time, the figure of Antigone retains its kaleidoscopic value for the life of the marginalized political detainee, in Greece and elsewhere.

The ‘Archipelago of Punishment’:1 The Historical Context to the Productions of Ancient Greek Drama on the Greek Prison Islands of the 1940S and 1950S Iocaste: What is hard for exiles? Polyneices: One thing is most important: no free speech. Iocaste: A slave's lot that is, not saying what you think. Polyneices: You must endure the follies of your ruler. Iocaste: That too is hard, to join fools in their folly. (Euripides, Phoenician Women, 390–394) Any discussion about the Greek islands today tends to conjure up images of sun, sea, and fun. This idyllic picture of the Aegean islands is, however, a relatively recent phenomenon, which was spawned by the wave of mass tourism that hit Greece in the 1960s, or well after the Civil War era and the punishment of ‘internal exile’ that it exacted. During the Greek Civil War (1946–1949), conversations about the islands were most often conducted in negative or hushed tones by (p.4) sombre‐faced interlocutors.2 For the Greeks of the past generations, the historical reading of their islands has been different and difficult. The ancient Romans, too, associated the barren Cycladic islands with isolation and poverty, and they used these insular locations, and especially the dreaded island of Yiaros/Yioura (southwest of Andros and close to Syros), as places of exile for criminals, state offenders, and other undesirables.3 Yiaros became the imperial Romans' byword for abject conditions in utter desolation, or the place where mice took (p.5) to gnawing through iron.4 The prewar dictator General Ioannis Metaxas (ruled 1936–1941) ‘rediscovered’ Yiaros as a prison Page 3 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island island and instituted its dark legacy that lasted through the military dictatorship of 1967–1974. Thus, Greek island confinement not only acquired a notorious history marred by the repression of the Left, but it also made the metaphor of ‘containing’ the ‘enemy within’ painfully literal. Islands provide a most natural location for exile as an enforced separation of the victim from his or her normal private and public life. Islands are thus iconic locations for imprisonment and isolation. As Christy Constantakopoulou notes, ‘The “prison” island does take to an extreme the isolated characteristics of island life’ (2007: 134), and insularity can become tantamount to subjugation (2007: 136). In her view, a growing centralization of power (as was the case in prewar (p.6) and postwar Greece) has historically turned islands into prison islands, because such a power is keen to expel its adversaries to locations that render them ineffectual. Thus island life becomes synonymous with life far removed from the centre that holds the single authority. Yannis Hamilakis adds that, in Western thought, isolated islands have also functioned as ‘laboratories’: their topography and remoteness were deemed suitable for experiments in political or social reform, punishment or ‘rehabilitation’ (2007: 208). The island, too, became an ideal location to house the detainment camp or the concentration camp, where life was reduced to the ‘bare life’ or the ‘naked life’ which, according to Agamben, became a defining characteristic of the twentieth century (1998: 181; also Hamilakis 2007: 237; Panourgia 2009: 104). Theatre on the islands or in the camps then resocialized and repoliticized the detainees; it restored value and significance to the lives of the prisoners. Its spirit of communication reversed or annihilated the effect of the process of de‐ communization. Also, the creative life of performance counters the threat of torture and sometimes death. The exiles or prisoners who found themselves in such a humiliating state of groundedness typically received little support or sustenance from the outside world. Theatre was one way for the victims to help sustain one another and to try to construct a semblance of normality. The right‐wing Greek government of the Civil War era selected some of the Greek islands to serve as prison camps for large numbers of leftists and communists (whether real or imagined), men and women alike, civilians and army recruits.5 The Greek 1940s and 1950s saw, indeed, many distinctions and degrees of involvement, from mere leftist sympathy and intellectual engagement to communist rank–and–file activists and the party leadership cadres, but all were dangerous ‘suspects’ or criminal elements to the successive right‐wing governments that aimed to stem the tide of communism with the support of the United States.6 Only recently have scholars started to devote attention to the Greek political prisoners of the (p.7) 1940s and 1950s in books and articles that are accessible in English.7 Most scholars have explored the complex political, social, and historical aspects of Greek leftists' ‘internal exile’ on the country's prison islands in the aftermath of the Second World War. This study hopes to bring this regrettable chapter of modern Greek history into sharper Page 4 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island focus by examining some of the cultural aspects, and in particular theatre life, of the prison islands. However, before analysing the stage productions that were the—unexpected—products of some leftists' long years of internment, a fuller review of the historical situation and a brief assessment of possible cultural expressions are necessary. On 4 January 1947, Yeorgios Angelos Vlahos published a telling call in the Kathimerini, the conservative Greek daily paper that he owned: For our State to win this war [against communism], it must bit by bit cleanse the interior…of our army from the mass of people who… collaborate with the enemy. For that task, it [our State] does not even need to shed either its own blood or that of the enemies. It merely needs trusted and secure organs of the Public Order who will knock on some doors here and there at about three in the morning. Islands, thank God, our State has aplenty… Vlahos wrote and published at a time when the Greek political climate was set by successive Western‐assisted, right‐wing national governments (through 1963), which were preoccupied with containing communism. He presented himself as one of many spokespersons for the Right, or for the conservative to reactionary politicians who held power and enjoyed the support of those with vested interests in the political and social status quo: the monarchy, the upper classes, the army, the Greek Church, and also entrenched nationalists from among the broader Greek populace. These governments responded to (earlier) British and American aid with their professed determination to repress communism in Greece and thus to contain the ‘scourge's’ southward spread through the Balkans. Vlahos was not a policy (p.8) maker, and state anticommunism and island internment were not new phenomena in Greece. Polymeris Voglis, in particular, has documented the long history of state anticommunism in Greece since the Russian Revolution (1917). With his cynical New Year's note of 1947, however, Vlahos captured the spirit of the nefarious developments of the ensuing year. By 1947, war‐torn Greece was thoroughly ensconced in global Cold War politics, even though it was a weakened player on the international stage. The country's beholden position to the United States played a detrimental role in Greek politics of the next decades. In 1947, too, the Greek government made its pervasive mistrust more formal by introducing loyalty certificates (see Chapter 3). This insidious and damaging system was based on the example provided by the Truman administration (Mazower 2000: 216), which issued the Truman Doctrine in March through May of 1947 (Panourgia 2009: 244–249). The Greek Communist Party (founded 1918), which took its directives from Moscow, was outlawed in 1947 but remained active underground.

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island The anticommunist clampdown waged by the Greek government was only a small episode of a larger, ugly war that raged in most European countries from 1918 through the mid‐1950s. While Joseph McCarthy's hatred of communism steered US domestic and international policies (with the ‘Red Scare’ or ‘McCarthy’ purges of the late 1940s and early 1950s), Greek right‐wingers attributed patriotic and nationalist value to their fierce attempts to stop the expansionism of the ‘menace from the north’. The interwar years had drawn sharp divisions among the Greeks along the political lines of Right versus Left; this divide only widened during the Civil War era. The Greek Left had led important patriotic offences against the Axis forces that occupied Greece during the Second World War (Nazi Germany, fascist Italy, and Bulgaria).8 However, the postwar right‐wing ‘oligarchy’ was quick to redefine this patriotic defence of the nation and branded leftists and communists as the new ‘traitors’ or ‘suspects’ (subjects ‘of suspect beliefs’), thereby camouflaging the record of right‐wing collaboration with the occupying forces.9 With the (p.9) institutionalized criminalization of leftist political convictions or opinions, right‐ wingers reinvented themselves as the new ethnikófrones, or ‘national‐minded’ patriots, and castigated communist forces for allegedly undermining not only their ranks but also the nation and Greek civilization at large.10 The Right's newfound ideology of ‘patriotism’ that included militarism against the Left indicated that, hence, the Greeks would reconceive the terms of patriotism and nationalism in the most essentializing ways and these modes would pervade cultural life of the 1940s and 1950s in its various expressions and affect also the remote locales of the island prison camps. Religious and family values, too, were co‐opted into the new postwar reactionary regime of the Right. The Right's claim to a messianic nationalism that would strengthen national security and fortify national interests and fragile public order made any charge of ‘diabolic’ antinational sentiment or activity a very serious threat. Even after the Civil War (p.10) was over, the right‐wing governments of Greece continued their fight against ‘internal enemies’, still defined as those ‘anti‐Greeks’ or ‘antinationals’ who, as proponents of the ‘Slavic dogma’ or as ‘Bulgarians’, lacked ‘patriotic spirit’.11 The main goals of the Greek Right from the 1940s to the early 1960s were to contain those who had fought the resistance against the Nazis under the communist leadership of EAM, or the National Liberation Front, and its military arm, ELAS (Mazower 2000: 220, 227).12 EAM and ELAS had expected to use their political leverage after the liberation to rise to power. By trying to stop this ‘nation‐destroying’ insurgency the Right also arrested the broad sociopolitical changes that the Left had spearheaded throughout the war years and to which it owed much of its popular support. Many conservatives in Greece and beyond saw a communist revolution as a plausible threat, which the leftist‐organized resistance during the Occupation had brought closer to home. The past of the Greek Left entailed many years of suffering institutionalized oppression, from 1936 through 1974, with some brief interruptions.13 By late Page 6 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island August of 1949, the Left's hopes of reaping the political rewards for its popular resistance struggle against the Nazi Occupation had irreversibly dwindled. Also, the Left never received the kind of aid that could have levelled the playing field against the Right and its American resources. During the next years and decades, Greek leftists and communists struggled to salvage their legacy of patriotic resistance from the failures of the political agitation in the (p.11) aftermath of the Second World War. However, this legacy remained overshadowed by the Left's record of atrocities and internal persecution (some alleged, some well‐documented, all contested), in which some of its cadres and rank and file had been involved, especially during the Civil War period. It was during this crucial phase of re-evaluation that theatre and cultural expression became singularly important for interned leftists. The Left's proud history of resistance against the occupiers was not formally recognized until 1982, at which time the designations of ‘national resistance’ and ‘Civil War’ became common political currency.14 I will, however, leave the political threads of this essentially Cold War conflict for others to unravel, as more historical facts and classified documentation become part of the public domain. The 1940s through 1950s left no side innocent and destroyed lives, families, and careers. In the welter of destructive Greek politics of the mid‐twentieth century, it was far from clear who could claim true patriotism and who owned the past. The right‐wing establishment monopolized ‘glorious’ Greek antiquity and historical continuity, and it controlled the classics, the Greek language, and the title to victory. Authoritarian patterns ruled the field of the government's cultural production; they also constructed moral and symbolic endorsements for its policies. The politically excluded Left, however, posited its own appropriation of the past and resorted to its own ideological rhetoric and cultural terminology. The Greeks still believed antiquity to render essential, innate qualities of Greekness unalterable. However, because the Right had traditionally acted with and on the authority of classical antiquity, some leftists shunned the classics as tainted by the establishment and conceded their domain. Their viewpoint was strengthened by the Marxist ambivalence toward the classics, which saw a canon of texts that had been produced under societal conditions (p.12) that were deemed incompatible with socialism.15 On the other hand, many interned intellectual and literary representatives of the left‐wing side sought to retain title to the classics and mined them for hegemonic as well as for discursive guidance. They defiantly celebrated their Greekness by performing tragedy, the literary hallmark of Golden Age Athens, in order to challenge the aristocratic authority of antiquity and the meaning of Greek patriotism in its single, reactionary definition. Tragic revivals also bore the distinction of having played a charged role in the nation‐building process throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth century. The movement spearheaded by the leftist ‘generation of defeat’ for losing the Civil War tried to instate a secularist, culturally focused

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island patriotism with a broader social platform and to present it as virtue‐laden without being moralistic.16 Makronisos, Trikeri, Aï Stratis, Ikaria, and several other Aegean islands were marred by the prison camps of the Civil War and its aftermath, to which the Right deported large numbers of political opponents.17 The theatre stage of these islands provided an unexpected locale in which ideological tensions and compromises were (p.13) acted out. Makronisos (literally, ‘Long Island’), situated off the east coast of Attica, was the most infamous of the prison islands. More than any other location, it stands as a symbol of terror and oppression to this day, with its sad history of use and reuse and of propagandistic display and dissimulation (Bournazos 1998: 206–207). Between mid‐1947 and the summer of 1950, Makronisos functioned mainly as a ‘re‐education’ camp for thousands of soldiers with alleged leftist or communist sympathies.18 Military committees screened army conscripts and sent those classified as left‐wing to Makronisos to be retrained and transformed into trustworthy soldiers, in camps that were placed under military supervision.19 On Makronisos, these army recruits or Makronisiotes (as they later often called themselves) were divided into three battalions, according to the degree of ‘supervision’ or indoctrination that they were thought to require.20 Most notorious, (p.14) however, was the ravine that held the barbed‐wired isolation ward known as ‘to Syrma’, ‘the Wire’, which, in the words of Hamilakis, was ‘a cage‐like structure for those inmates that were considered to be “unredeemable” ’ (2007: 210; also Voglis 2009; Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 60).21 This detainment lasted ‘for the duration of the rebellion’, that is, for the better part of the Civil War. The subsequent internment (from March 1949 on) of many civilians, however, was of a more outspoken political‐ suppressive or punitive nature and took place first on Makronisos and later in other locales as well (Margaritis 2001: 579–580; Voglis 2002: 104; Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 58–62). This explains why politically suspect women were forced to briefly join the male detainees of Makronisos in early 1950, and also why the emphasis shifted from military trustworthiness to ideological ‘rehabilitation’—to the Makronisos of the ‘Special Rehabilitation Schools for Civilians’ (Margaritis 2001: 580; Voglis 2002: 104). The purpose was to transform or ‘correct’ politically ‘dangerous’ recruits or citizens into politically ‘useful’ ones through any means that justified that end. Common terms used for the various forms of detainment have been ‘internal exile’ or the common ‘exile’ (exoria, which linguistically stresses the act of banishing a person ‘outside of the borders’), ‘preventive displacement’ (proliptiki ektopisi), or ‘disciplined living (conditions)’ (peitharhimeni diaviosi).22

The Cultural Phenomenon of Theatre on the Prison Islands—Some Reservations The theme of theatre on the prison islands is an usually rich, if neglected, seam in the cultural‐political experience of the Greeks of the twentieth century. I can only hope to sketch some of the salient features, which are moments in a much Page 8 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island longer and more detailed history of the mid‐century. In general, the theatre of the prison (p.15) islands favoured political over aesthetic effects to highlight moments that redefined patriotism or loyalty, and it opened up alternative perspectives on the struggles lost or won. Plays on the islands were staged in any translation at hand and in the open air—the dust, heat, or cold. These deprivations, however, strengthened the communal experience of the theatre. The forgotten stage practice occurred well before the Greek translation business started to expand rapidly and before the Greek summer drama festivals, inaugurated in the mid‐1950s, turned outdoor performances into regular and comfortable events of a massified spectacle culture. The various performance aspects of the inmates' classical productions differed widely, as did the tone, subtext, and actors' contributions. To be able to present real productions, the detainees were in need of many things but talent was not one of them. Their groups consisted of gifted artists and intellectuals, many of whom had played or went on to play important parts in Greek cultural life. It was their artistic inclination and left‐wing intellectual curiosity or radical‐mindedness that had raised the suspicion and provoked the retaliation of the repressive postwar administration in the first place.23 My choice of select classical plays is not to endorse that the Greeks constantly live in—or live—the paradigms of ancient myth, only that those paradigms are part of the building structures of a collective memory and of theatre. Other parts are modern Greek plays or foreign classics, on which I draw for a fuller picture of theatre on the prison islands. For all inmate players, the seminal model of the tragic hero, of Antigone, Philoctetes, and Prometheus, became a meaningful exemplum: they saw overwhelming force vanquish merely the body of the hero but not his mind. Thus the prisoner could continue to believe in personal and moral victory. Voglis observes that, in their personal and collective imaginings, political detainees gave meaning to their lives ‘along the lines of a drama: action in the past, hardship for the hero in the present, redemption in the future’ (2002: 174). The strained logic of sacrifice and redemption, however, pervaded the rhetoric of the camp wardens as well. Even though inmate players and audiences found fulfilment in the self‐identification with Antigone, Philoctetes, Prometheus, or other (p.16) victimized heroes, we, as a reading, seeing, and studying audience, must not content ourselves with such—ultimately reductive—interpretations and must probe into the much more complex ways in which their theatre practice was interwoven with prison life, reality, and illusion. Theatre on the prison islands sheds a different, more expansive light on classicizing performances and on the reception of particular plays: the inmate productions of ancient drama brought out the aspects and parameters not only of literal theatre (stagecraft; acting; audience profiles; textual, philological, and linguistic issues) but also of drama's metatheatrical or symbolic nature (and thus of issues of censorship, supervision, and the appropriation of classical tragedy as cultural capital by the officialdom). This theatre examined long‐running and Page 9 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island burning issues, not as much of the stage itself, but of the politics of nationalism and patriotism that steered the performances and their performativity. The broader perspective of performativity provides an entry point into the production of cultural and ideological meanings through performance and allows reflection on the complex, internal and external negotiation processes through which the classical stagings passed. The prison islands were theatres of operation—in multiple, sinister meanings of the words. The inmate stage seized upon dramatic illusion and large‐scale delusion, unmasked rhetoric and lies, and retained the memory of the real values of the performances, to reapply them in later receptive or contemplative contexts. On Makronisos, in particular, the prison authorities saw the classical productions as part of an experiment in ‘rehabilitation’, the nature of which lends itself to metatheatrical reflection, or to a further examination of the dynamics of performativity and the workings of the gaze.24 The prison officials, guards, and security forces contributed indirectly to constructing the meaning of the tragedies in question: they vetted the director, cast, and play, and they set strict parameters for performance. They monopolized—or thought that they monopolized—the performative setting and rhetorical potential of the stagings. Thus the Right's repeated acts of (p.17) framing as well as its densely moralizing discourse formed an important backdrop to the inmate plays. On Makronisos, detainees with a background in literature and the arts necessarily had to go through the camp administration if they wanted to realize their initiative to stage plays (Margaris 1980: 38; Vrahiotis 2005: 11, 36, 66, with credit to the actor Lakis Skelas and the playwright Vangelis Kamberos). The repertoire of Makronisos was not one singularly driven by a spirit of resistance. Many productions, however, still offered up moments that the performers or the audiences exploited as moments of dissidence. Former detainees tend to remember and glorify the plays of Makronisos as being uniformly about resistance, which they were not.25 This clarification is not to imply a value judgement: the conditions of violence and coercion on Makronisos were so horrendous that nobody should pronounce judgement, especially not many years later and from a safe distance. Do we expect the theatre to rise up bravely and, thereby, suicidally? No. What kinds of performances were possible then for actors and artists who, on Makronisos, lived under the constant threat of torture? These and other questions of the necessity and potential of theatre on the prison islands resist definitive answers but need to be closely considered. I concede the complexity of personal decision making under circumstances that most of us, honestly, have never had to face. Many interviewees were and still are reluctant to speak of the concessions that they, their family members, or their friends made, not merely to survive, but also to get away from Makronisos. In the face of inexorable time, many prisoners had no motive for showing unconditional loyalty to the (underground) communist leadership, which itself was not above blame. In retrospect, who can point the finger at them? It suffices Page 10 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island to say that the theatre of Makronisos was supported by attitudes that ranged from accommodation to plain passivity—not necessarily to cynical collaboration. Theatre there did not entirely operate in a one‐way, top‐down direction, and its hegemonic patterns were not simply those of seizing on underlings or naïves. The stage of Makronisos functioned more like a variant of a give and take. To be able to operate with any regularity, this stage reflected a moralizing and nationalist‐educational (‘ethno‐pedagogical’) bias, which (p.18) Chapters 1 and 2 will motivate. Many of the inmates felt that the moralizing dramas were inflicted onto them, and some went as far as to blame the ‘artsy types’ for letting themselves be co‐opted by the camp administration. Certain actors who ‘fawned’ on the guards met with the hostility of audience members, for whom they nonetheless continued to stage plays and who still stood to gain from the performances (testimonies by Vasilis Kyritzis, 19 June 2006, and P. S., 16 December 2009). The historian Nikos Margaris, too, mentions how some Makronisiot detainees were drafted into the authorities' project of ‘ethniki agogi’ or ‘national education’ and oversaw and/or organized many of the theatre productions, some of which—admittedly—benefited the rest of the prisoners.26 This happened with some productions that developed into well‐designed set pieces, on view for outsiders and visitors who saw an army camp populated by engaged actors and artists. These productions, staged for purposes of propaganda, masked the true, violent nature of Makronisos. I struggle with the thought that it seems preposterous to even discuss theatre and theatre choices on Makronisos, when so many other aspects of the detainees' predicament should take priority in any investigation. I do not wish to underestimate those aspects, but I hope that the study of the internees' theatre choices and their ‘cultural life’ on the prison islands may shed additional light on that—at times unspeakable—predicament. I realize the danger of creating an overly sentimental portrait of inmate existence by focusing on cultural activities. That theatre flourished on Makronisos does hardly diminish the horror of the place. In fact, given the propagandistic nature of much of this theatre, it adds to the horror. I will refrain also from value judgements about the artistic quality of the productions and find comfort in the words of Michael Patterson, who remarks in his study of drama productions and other performances staged by internees in the Nazi concentration camps, ‘[g]iven the context in which these actors had to perform, it would be an impertinence to attempt to assess the aesthetic quality of their work’ (1995: 164). ‘The exiles need the theatre’, Tsellos claimed confidently, and they showed a (p.19) deep understanding of the limitations that the stage (of Aï Stratis) necessarily encountered (2002: 90). A play's impact—any play's impact—was much more important than its artistic merits could ever be, and it resulted from patterns of courage and solidarity that were not related to aesthetics but that mattered above all else. Our analysis will gauge quality and appreciation, not from the purview of narrowly aesthetic standards, but rather from the angle of the prisoners' sense of mission and Page 11 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island resourcefulness. Especially the theatre of Makronisos demands a paradigm other than the purely aesthetic one: to establish Makronisos as a place with a normal sense of aesthetic purpose would be misleading and incommensurate with the many hypocritical roles that the island served.

Sources and Methodological Issues Theatre performance has long been recognized as a medium by which all sorts of complex identities are expressed and negotiated. But what if those identities can only be reconstructed by going against the grain of the master narrative and of official record keeping? The forgotten theatre of the prison islands tackled problems of patriotic expression that have preoccupied politically committed Greeks throughout much of the twentieth century, even though it did so in relative isolation and in the face of ideological imperiousness. The records of the inmate productions, however, and the memories of their metatheatrical richness appear to have been expunged from the canonical history of Greek dramaturgy, much like their actors and audiences were ostracized and exiled from Greek public life. Frustratingly little is known about the interpretation, staging style, or aesthetics of the long rehearsals and one‐time performances, even after extensive perusal of the detainees' newspapers, memoirs, testimonial writings, and other, scarce records. There are very few informative evaluations of the productions and even fewer that are not framed by—partisan—ideology. Also, the struggle for survival involved not only the inmates, the fragments of their memories, and the written records of their time on the islands (as the precarious existence and preservation of Alexandrou's script of his Antigone proves), but, in later years, the former prisoners' willingness or perseverance to see their personal records through to publication. (p.20) Periklis Grivas compiled a special Greek journal issue on the theatre of Makronisos thirty years ago (1980b, for a slim total of twelve pages), but then left his publishing project unfinished: to my knowledge, the scheduled second instalment of his special issue of Theatrika—Kinimatografika—Tileoptika never appeared. Many sources are of an unconventional as well as incomplete or preliminary nature. Works such as Natalia Apostolopoulou's (1997), for instance, present themselves as collections of both oral and written sources. Petros Vrahiotis, who completed his Master's thesis in 2005 and is currently preparing a PhD dissertation, provides a long‐overdue record of the productions staged on Makronisos (organized according to the internees' military divisions of the time) and also basic lists of the main players and contributors of the more important works (2005: 102–113). Often, however, the names of the inmate actors in a given production are impossible to retrieve, as are the objective data on these actors' standing with the authorities (especially relevant for the diverse groups of soldiers and civilians interned on Makronisos), which coloured their experience of staging and attending performances differently. By necessity, Vrahiotis draws largely on a problematic source: the propagandistic Makronisos journal Skapanefs, with its announcements, comments, and tainted ‘theatre Page 12 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island reviews’ that overflow with formulaic praise and stereotypical congratulations but skimp on dramaturgical and aesthetic detail (Vrahiotis 2005: 4, 22–23; skapanefs means ‘sapper’, or military specialist). The Skapanefs was certainly not an inmate forum of unredacted testimony, but rather a bricolage of voices that wrote in the tone that the administration wanted to hear: subservient.27 Katerina Hariati‐Sismani (1911–1996) left an exceptionally complete record of the names of the women, including the many chorus members, who participated in a Prometheus production staged (as a dress rehearsal only) on Trikeri (off the tip of the Pelion peninsula) in the summer of 1949 (1975: 25). Her listing is a purposeful effort to complete the record of the ‘history of theatre’ (1975: 25). Soon after the fall of the last Greek dictatorship (1974), Hariati‐Sismani understood that the time had come for ordinary readers as well as scholars to analyse the surviving materials (including artwork) from the prison islands to begin to comprehend the recent cultural history of (p.21) the Left. Another exception is Olympia Papadouka, an actress herself, who recorded a list of some ten theatre plays that the female detainees of the Athenian Averof prison staged (1981: 110–111). Such lists bespeak the prisoners' need to catalogue the cultural events above all else: their sense of record keeping attests to the importance of events in which they asserted themselves as exponents of an active cultural and political life and as harbingers of convictions for which the stage was seen as an apt public platform.28 However, our study is not an attempt to catalogue as many references to inmate theatre as possible, and the occasional comparisons with the stage of prisons in the urban areas or in the provinces of mainland Greece only serve a complementary role. Lastly, Tasos Tsellos (1920–1986) left a record from memory that, albeit very loosely compiled, allows for a micro‐historical reconstruction of the sequence of the theatre events held on Aï Stratis. This record, however, is again brief on aesthetic detail and longer on the question of ‘who did what’ (2002, with lists 89–93). Tsellos's text is a reconstructed diary that he composed in the early to mid‐1980s, after he had lost his original documents in the turmoil of the renewed persecution initiated by the military dictators of 1967 (Rodakis 2002a: 13). Aï Stratis is the common colloquial name for the small prison island that lies off Lemnos and Lesbos (Lesvos), which is also known by its more formal name of Ayios Efstratios. The record left by Tsellos, who kept remembrances alive for some three decades, answers questions about the capacities and incapacities of theatre in the absence of the basic conditions for performance (including the availability of a mixed cast and of a substantial audience). Few of my interviewees, in contrast, managed to reconstruct production data, whether dates, names, or specific circumstances. Without exception, memories and oral testimonies speak to the internees' sense of beleaguerment and to the heavy‐handedness of the Right's retaliatory practices. Recollections of prison life are often dominated by an overall picture Page 13 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island rather than by particulars of memory, whose diffuse and often contradictory nature means that we must carefully but selectively piece together the past. Many survivors (p.22) are still reluctant to talk openly about the Civil War years, and some informants struggle to drop their unease about the foreign questioner. Oral testimony is necessarily subjective both for the interviewee and the interviewer. Passing time and residual fears have affected or distorted the personal memories of survivors, whose number, by 2010, has dwindled significantly. For every actor or performer included and recognized in this book, there must be many others who have not been identified or acknowledged.29 The dearth of pickings on Greek prison theatre has compelled me to adopt a more historical and sociological approach: crucial is that the inmate performers marshalled a strong sense of the ideological benefits to be derived from mounting the classical plays together. This approach does justice also to the self‐ conscious historicizing in prisoner testimonies: in later writings and recorded memories, the internees present their theatre productions as if they belong to the documentary genre, to the record of survival in numbers and facts, and as if they themselves always wanted to document the communal performance practice and its politics more than its aesthetics. The lacunae (especially of the missing names) confirm that the prisoners perceived the ancient plays as ‘collective property’. They reasserted their leftist idealism on the stage of the various locations of internal exile: their rediscovery of classical theatre was an act of coming out for oneself, for each other, and even for the outside view of observance and surveillance. The detainees were not necessarily seeking to avenge or rectify particular wrongs—which would have been practically impossible—but to justify and come to terms with deeply felt convictions. (p.23) The impact of any play is not easily measured or quantified. Here, too, I had to do spadework in prisoners' memoirs, newspaper records, and oral or written interviews. The ephemeral nature of performances is just one of the reasons why the record of the inmate productions was never fully drawn up. More important, however, is that, through the late 1970s, the memory of the prison islands was considered to be undesirable, provocative, or dangerous, and the reality of Makronisos, in particular, was subjected to a commemorative blackout. In an atmosphere of public censorship and of scholarly reticence, Makronisos was effectively banned from the topography of the Right and from conventional historical perspectives or theories of national origins. Of course, to officially deny social and cultural conflict is in itself a political theme. After many years of strategic and enforced oblivion, however, a number of personal histories, memoirs, testimonies, and literary works started to unearth the multi‐ layered memories buried in the experience of Makronisos. The symbol ‘Makronisos’ even became a catalyst to the development of Greek first‐person narrative. Today Makronisos is a vital part of the broad scholarly reassessment of the Greek Civil War. On a more popular level, we may even speak of a Makronisos literature, which entails the Greek literature of memory and Page 14 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island imagination on related experiences of (island) exile or imprisonment.30 The Makronisos literature has taken on the duty of memory and remembrance and partly compensates for the decreasing number of informants willing and able to give oral testimony. The bulk of this literature, however, has never been translated into English. The memoir/novel written by Hronis Missios and (p.24) published in 1985 opened the floodgates to an outpouring of eye‐witness accounts of mainly male but also some female former detainees (Voglis 2007: 446, 450). Missios titled his account, which takes the form of a correspondence with a dead comrade, Well, You Were Killed Early on; it expressed his disillusion with communism and communist leadership and paved the way for a public—and often rancorous—debate about the chequered past of the Greek Left. It was the kind of debate that found fertile ground also because of its timing, preceding and coinciding with the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of Soviet communism. The 1994 publication of the historical novel Orthokosta by Thanasis Valtinos proved to be a lightning rod for a similar kind of controversy and helped to debunk a ‘lingering romance of the Left's noble struggle’ (Papailias 2005: 153). Papailias describes how some defended Valtinos and hailed the novel as a brave admission of ‘red’ violence by an author who identifies with the Left (2005: 139, 238). Others saw another ‘example of right‐wing historical revisionism’ (Papailias 2005: 258 n. 2). Papailias's apt characterization of the book as ‘an archive, turning inquiry into plot and informants into characters while making reading pleasure often feel more like historical labor’ may be applied also to the Antigone of Alexandrou, which did not, however, rekindle the debate when it was first published in 1960 and again in 1977. In recent decades, the Left has often gained from its former pariah status, if only because the experience of relentless duress under state‐managed hostility appeared to legitimize its colouring of the historical truth. The writing and rewriting of official Greek history, however, impacts the writing of official theatre history as well (with the continual assessment of what is deemed appropriate for that history). None of the recent comprehensive theatre studies has filled in the Greek collective memory on the gap of the theatre of the prison islands. This theatre may have—narrowly—fallen inside the boundaries of the state but has certainly fallen outside the scope of the formal study of Greek drama. Also, some inmate productions generated dismaying suspicion and spurred talk of servility. Many informants have spoken with conflicted emotions about the theatre activities on Makronisos that were organized ‘from above’. We will need to investigate issues of compulsion and collaboration, and must do so with caution given the conflicting ideologies as well as the unsatisfactory state of much of the evidence. The source problem pertains also to the fact that, on desolate islands, conditions may be hard to (p.25) reconstruct and so, too, the psychological experiences of many of the prisoners. The study of performance, however, helps to address some of the questions raised. Our examination of how the experiences of the internees were filtered through creativity, memories of Page 15 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island creativity, and resistance—but also of other inmates' acts of collaboration—will necessitate that we weigh what the right‐wing government asked the players to believe and perform and what they did believe and perform in what were, after all, conditions of terror and torture. But to weigh up the characters of the protagonists and to judge their motives when passions have not yet subsided is difficult and is also not my task. However, to deny issues of accommodation and collaboration when they tear at the claim of theatre as a pure form of prisoner resistance would be to distort the overall picture. The scarcity of the source material limits the degree of detail with which I can treat the individual stagings. I balance this disadvantage with a close analysis and translation of one particular play, the Antigone of the long‐detained author Aris Alexandrou, who completed the adaptation on Aï Stratis in 1951. This Antigone constitutes the only example of creative playwriting from the prison islands that was subsequently published. Alexandrou gave the play, set in the warscape of the Nazi Occupation and the Greek Civil War, a deeply democratic tenor and also attacked the dogmatism prevailing in the camp of the Greek Left. The author exposes how the Greek left‐wingers contributed their share of internal distrust, ‘newspeak’, and ideological spin, much of it in response to Greek and international stereotypes about Marxism and communism. Marxist theory, however, reached the deadlock of ideological determinism sooner than one might have anticipated. Communist doctrine, then, wielded a particularly tight rein in some regions of Greece. The exploration of Alexandrou's one and only play is an important source and vital component of this book for various reasons. Long before other leftists did, Alexandrou broke silences about the abuse of power and acts of cruelty committed by the Left. The Communist Party and ‘bureau’ cadres insisted on absolute self‐restraint in a concerted attempt to remove some of the anticommunist bias, but they also installed the principle of party infallibility and demanded uncritical loyalty of its rank and file. Voglis calls the paternalism of the communist cadres a mere ‘euphemism’ for abusive power relations and punishments doled out to those who broke party discipline (Voglis 2002: 125– 127, 211 [quotation], 217). The policing of lower‐ranking (p.26) communists by peers as well as by higher‐ranking party members engendered more disillusion than dissent among many strands of Greek society that had, in earlier years, been sympathetic to the fighters of the communist‐led resistance. This practice lasted well through the 1956 Destalinization and its revelations, which fractured an allegedly monolithic communism (when the Soviet Communist Party officially condemned the realities of power strife and atrocious exploitation that had characterized Stalinism). Long‐standing tensions led to the split of the Greek Communist Party in 1968.31 Alexandrou's play eloquently attests to the protracted psychological and moral effects of the communist regimen of

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island prescribing allegiance, suspecting insufficient loyalty, and retaliating against dissent.

Preview of Chapters I do not aim to provide a fully comprehensive coverage of postwar Greek politics and culture. I choose selectively from among the theatre productions staged on the prison islands and am compelled to formulate arguments and suppositions to make the best of the limited and at times unsatisfactory data. Therefore this study aims to deliver some mutually illuminating insights into key moments of Greek politics and culture of the 1940s through 1950s and begins to fill the gap of knowledge regarding theatre of the Civil War, which the relatively small body of existing scholarship has not adequately addressed. The first chapter of this book introduces the practical or organizational framework of classical tragedy staged on the prison islands of the Civil War (Makronisos, Trikeri, Aï Stratis). It also points to changes in the conditions of imprisonment in the various locales and over time and to differences in the treatment of men and women. This chapter also builds links forward and backward in time, which is essential for many reasons: the internees' classicizing performances of Sophocles' Antigone and Philoctetes and of Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound and Persians complemented other choices of works, such as the patriotic martyr‐drama Rigas Velestinlis of Vasilis (p.27) Rotas, well‐regarded foreign classics, and many native plays, comedies, and skits. Manos Katrakis and a few others who had gained professional expertise as actors in the 1930s revival tragedies staged by the National Theatre, Greece's theatrical powerhouse, put their talents to use on Makronisos and, more independently, on Aï Stratis. Others had been committed members of the National Theatre's institutional antipode, the resistance Theatre of the Mountains (such as Rotas and Tsellos).32 Others again followed international leftist or Marxist literary preferences (for instance, on the tragic hero Prometheus). Chapter 2 discusses the productions of ancient drama that were staged on Makronisos: it presents a diptych of two productions that reveal different levels of involvement on the part of actors, artists, inmate observers—and the camp keepers. Our analysis of the Antigone production that the authorities both encouraged and advertised is followed by a discussion of a more ‘genuine’ Philoctetes (both staged in 1948). Thus this chapter juxtaposes the Greek right‐ wing regime's performance of compulsion to the power of performance. Because this is a vast topic that is also currently being investigated by Greek scholars (Bournazos 2009a and forthcoming studies), I will concentrate on the regime's attempted monopoly on language and culture and on its fascist‐style use of the classics for propaganda purposes. The chapter unmasks some of the many points of contact among the different spheres that produced and performed the political speech of the time. These spheres reflect the dynamics with which the Page 17 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island Right manipulated the terms of political and moral ‘salvation’ and religious and civic restoration. Theatre became another means to the prison administration's end of ‘forging’ a public consensus about the ‘rehabilitation’ work that it was directing on Makronisos. Theatre on the island was both reality and window‐ dressing, in that it helped to create deceptive illusions. But how much and what kind of classical drama can we expect to have taken place in an exile location that was itself the object of theatre? For some professionals from the contemporary world of Greek theatre and cinema, such as Nikos Koundouros, the experience of the inmate productions of the (p.28) late 1940s through the early 1950s shaped their thoughts on metatheatre and memory theatre, on their mood, language, methods, and techniques—which demand further attention. This analysis will help us understand also how the Left's reappropriation of the classics was an effective antidote against the right‐wing usurpation of Greek antiquity (in its acts that ranged from churning out classical slogans to coercing ‘redemptive’ performances). The urgent need for this reappropriation becomes apparent from our brief study of how reactionary forces used Aeschylus' Oresteia as a nationalist proposition to advocate an authoritarian logic. The above prepares the reader for Chapter 3, which features what is clearly a more national but also an increasingly international dialogue and exchange of ideas (more than of philological texts) on tragic heroes like Prometheus, despite the remoteness of the prison islands. Chapter 3 focuses on the productions—or attempts at productions—of the female exiles of Trikeri and also on their alternative educational and cultural expressions, which tended to bring gender into the equation. The women's theatre on Trikeri contained both licensed and illicit stage activity. It presents an Antigone that was distinctly different from the one staged—and privileged—on Makronisos: it traced liberal and democratic ideals back to antiquity. This chapter also makes tangible, through the Prometheus myth and play, how the Right handled the tool of the notorious ‘declaration of repentance’, which it tried to wrest from the Left. Chapter 4 features the 1951 all‐male production of Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis. The production was mounted by an indomitable group of interned actors and artists, and it reconceptualized the nature of victory, its images, analogues, symbols, and celebrations. It effectively staged defeat, contemplation, and even the material poverty but proud resourcefulness of the forgotten place of exile. The inmate directors and actors of Aï Stratis placed a premium on the performance experience, which they valued as a professional experience. These are merely some of the factors that set the theatre of Aï Stratis apart from earlier forms of prison theatre. This chapter further examines the more autonomous working conditions of the stage of Aï Stratis. It also shows how this less strictly monitored stage (when compared to that of Makronisos) matured into a unique theatre driven by aesthetic perception, experience, and judgement

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island that, through Aeschylus' Persians and other classics, deepened moral understanding and reinvigorated audiences' sense of Greek selfhood. (p.29) The Island, the famous play of Athol Fugard (first performed in 1973), reminds us that scholarly interest in ‘political’ Antigones is long‐lasting. This is confirmed by the forthcoming volume, Mobilizing ‘Antigone’ on the Contemporary World Stage, edited by Helene Foley and Erin Mee (Oxford University Press, in press). There have been many other Antigone productions that were staged in situations of political crisis, but very few nuance the portrayal of the heroine as left of the Left. Chapter 5 of this book offers a close reading of a Greek precursor to The Island: the Antigone that Alexandrou wrote while pushed into near‐solitary confinement on Aï Stratis in 1951. The playwright mentally resisted such isolation by adapting one of the most widely appreciated classics. His relatively short but ideologically complex play deserves to receive a more accessible edition in Greek and a twenty‐first‐century translation into English (Chapter 6). Alexandrou's political views positioned him, too, on the left of the Greek Left, which made him suffer exile within ‘internal exile’. Our analysis and translation of his work must bring the author's ideology to life. Also, his play has more than an academic or ideological relevance since it was staged as recently as 2003 by director Victor Arditti. Therefore, it is imperative that we briefly examine the 2003 production and its reception, even though they took place more than half a century after Alexandrou first conceived the work. While many of the inmate plays prove to be leftist appropriations of mainstream material from within the dominant cultural legacy, Alexandrou's Antigone is different and most interesting as a free adaptation of Sophocles' original tragedy, seasoned with elements of Anouilh's Antigone and Brechtian techniques of performance and demythologization. The refashioned character of the 1951 Antigone unmasks a number of contradictions that nag at the accounts of the heroic resistance of the Left. The play's complexities, however, surpass the state of the written and published text and come to life, as theatre has it, on the stage alone. Alexandrou's play and its 2003 production deliver the darker side of the radical resistance that inspired most of the cultural activities described in the preceding chapters. This darker side is, however, a necessary complement to Chapters 1–4 of this book, and it helps this study to strike a better, more objective balance. Moreover, the pervasive suspicion that steers almost every action of the play and creates its plot and plots is recognizable and transferable to the broader Cold War climate—and to the workings of ruthless politics at large. Notes:

(1) I owe this apt expression to Voglis (2002: 2). (2) Recent studies on the Greek Civil War include Carabott and Sfikas (2004); Close (1993 and 1995); Fleischer (2003); Hatzivassiliou (2006, with focus on the Cold War); Iatrides and Wrigley (1995); Iliou (2004 and 2007); Koutsoukis and Page 19 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island Sakkas (2000); Margaritis (2000–2001); Nikolakopoulos et al. (2002); Panourgia (2009: 81–116, or her chapter 5); and Van Boeschoten et al. (2008a). On the social and ideological aspects of the early through mid‐1940s, see Margaritis (1993). Historians such as Mark Mazower (2000 and the edited vol. of 2000) and Polymeris Voglis (2002, 2004, and 2007) have studied the legal and structural framework of the Greek right‐wing retaliation against the Left. They represent a younger generation of scholars who have brought renewed attention—and ample debate—to the topic of the Greek Civil War and of the historical role of the Left. This generation also includes Yiorgos Antoniou, Stathis Kalyvas (especially with his ‘firebrand’ chapter of 2000, titled ‘Red Terror: Leftist Violence during the Occupation’), and Nikos Marantzidis (2010). The debate continues to play itself out in newspaper columns, readers' letters, and book reviews, as in The Athens Review of Books. For a recent history of the Greek Left, in English, that takes issue with the scholarship of the names mentioned above, see Panourgia (2009, especially 12–14 and 117–122, for her view on the historiography of the history of the Left; 15–16, for a definition of the Greek Left and Right; 22–23, 114, on the creation of the notion of the ‘internal enemy’; and 23–29, on the legal framework that made persecution of the Left possible). Studies written in Greek speak, of course, only to specialists who master not only the language but also the multiple historical, political, and linguistic layers of the disputes. Recent reflections on the state of the scholarly research into the Civil War and the decade of the 1940s at large include Antoniou and Marantzidis (2003 and 2008, especially part 2, 171–285); Kalyvas (2009); Margaritis (2000: 25–33, with a sharp critique of the conspirational rationale that blames the dark foreign forces of both the British‐American West and the Slavic and Soviet East for interfering on the side of the Greek Right and Left, respectively, 32; 2001: 571–572, 580– 581, on how the experience of Makronisos shaped the later history and memory of the Civil War); and Panourgia (2009: 32–33). Kalyvas emphasizes the opening up of Eastern European state archives, the expansion of comparative work on the conditions of civil war, and the influx of regional Greek sources and data (such as Kalyvas 2006, in which the Argolid figures, 246–329). On the publishing activities of the Greek communists in the aftermath of the Civil War, see Matthaiou and Polemi (2003). On the shaping of the Greek collective memory and political speech of the 1950s through mid‐1960s, see Paschaloudi (2010). (3) Herzfeld claims that Yiaros was once used by the Roman general Sulla as a safe dungeon because of its minimal survival conditions (1997: 122). Servos ups the numbers to 80,000 political opponents whom Sulla may have sent to Yiaros to wipe them out (2003: 157), but these numbers are likely exaggerated or apocryphal. Panourgia points to the lack of sources to confirm the information on Sulla's actions (2009: 5, 79, 89, 91–92, 94, 96–101, 103, 257–258). See also Tacitus, Annals 3.68 and 4.30, or passages in which prominent Romans or senators of the early imperial period propose exile to Yiaros as a—dreaded but not uncommon—punishment. Some of them tried to influence the emperor Page 20 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island Tiberius, who, in the case of the alleged conspirator Serenus, decided against exile to waterless Yiaros, which was regarded as one of the cruellest penalties. Tiberius' rationale was that, ‘if you were to grant a man his life, you should also allow him the means of living’ (Tacitus, Annals 4.30). Tiberius settled for exile to Amorgos, instead, which ranked higher in the pecking order. The Stoic teacher Musonius Rufus seems to have made the best of his exile on Yiaros (under Nero through Vespasian), where, reportedly, many Greek followers went to visit him (Philostratus, Life of Apollonius of Tyana 7.16). He cheerfully worked the soil of Yiaros and may even have discovered a spring, all while discussing philosophy with disciples and visitors (Dillon 2004: 6–7, 49, 86, who states hyperbolically: ‘These were veritable pilgrimages [of large groups of young people] and they turned unlikely Gyara into a world centre of philosophical study’ [2004: 7]). Plutarch doled out similar advice in his treatise on exile, encouraging the deported to assume the right attitude of equanimity toward their island seclusion (Moralia 602c). The emperor Domitian may have banished the Greek philosopher Epictetus (ca. 55–135 CE), who was a disciple of Musonius, (back) to Yiaros. On Roman destinations of exiles, and on the whims of those who pronounced the verdicts, see further Bingham (2003) and Constantakopoulou (2007: 129–136, 221). Cohen claims that Augustus' notorious banishment of his adulterous daughter Julia and her lovers (who may or may not have been political conspirators, 2 BCE) lies at the root of the legal development and (Roman imperial and hence also Byzantine and Western) standardization of deportation or exile to penal islands (2008: 215–217). On the Byzantine institution of political prison islands, see Constantakopoulou (2007: 133) and Malamut (1988: 1:175–178). (4) Pliny, Natural History 8.82.222; also 8.43.104: Yiaros is infested with mice. Deane stressed that prisoners on Yiaros under the Greek dictatorship were plagued by rats (1976: 128–129). On the—surprising—educational and cultural life of prisoners detained on Yiaros in the late 1940s and 1950s, see Kamarinou (2005: 214–222), who, here and elsewhere in her book, briefly mentions theatre initiatives (of the early 1950s). (5) Even though I use the broad categories of the Greek Left and Right as umbrella terms, I do not intend these categories to be reductive, and I allow for many nuances and changes over the course of the twentieth century. See also Panourgia for a long list of what the umbrella term ‘the Greek Left’ can possibly cover (2009: 218–219). (6) Mazower warns against the rather paternalistic model that portrayed well‐ meaning but ill‐informed rank‐and‐file Greeks who had been led astray by ‘un‐ Greek’ party members (2000: 227).

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island (7) Thus Hamilakis (2002 and 2007, chapter 6); Panourgia (2008a and 2009); and Voglis (2002, 2004, and 2007) have delved into this subject in the past few years. Panourgia assigns a distinctly political and philosophical objective to her recent book: ‘It establishes a history for the notion of indefinite detention that appeared as a legal innovation with the Bush administration. Part of its roots…lie in the laboratory that Greece provided for neo‐colonialism after the Truman Doctrine and under the Marshall Plan’ (Fordham University Press website). (8) Mazower (1993) remains an important study of the dynamics between the Greek Left and Right under the Nazi Occupation. See also recently Koliopoulos and Veremis (2010: 111–126, or their chapter 9). (9) Voglis situates the emergence of the Greek Left as a new political player in the late 1920s. The first legislation that penalized communist activities, ideas, and intentions was issued in 1929. It marked the beginning of Greece's excessive state and parastate anticommunism (Voglis 2002: 34–36). The Right regularly typed political enemies as communists, regardless of their actual position within the political and ideological spectrum. Metaxas was not the first —or last—Greek politician to play up the menace of a communist subversion. During his dictatorship, new definitions of Greek patriotism and nationalism set the Greeks apart along the lines of the—by then—polar opposites of Right versus Left. The nonnegotiable standard of patriotism, around which the Right tried to establish a consensus of a moral‐religious nature, became a reality of threat and violence. Anticommunist harassment ran the gamut from buggery to outright assault with heavy‐handed torture techniques (some of these methods were exacted by ‘converts’, with the notorious vigour of converts, because these converts had to demonstrate that they dared to torture their former comrades). When prosecution ensued, it was often with insufficient regard to hard evidence. For a more detailed discussion of the Greek Left's political exclusion, imposed by the right‐wing establishment of the Civil War ‘in defence of the nation’, see further Voglis (2002: 63–64, 66, 74–75, 102; Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 51–54). A less institutionalized form of repression was the so‐called ‘White Terror’, when, in the aftermath of the war (1945–1946), a rightist gendarmerie, security forces, and paramilitary gangs continued to assault leftists, and their actions went unchecked by the right‐wing government. See, most recently, Panourgia (2009: 32, 57–59, 76, 78–80). This Terror coincided with a period during which the former collaborators of the Right suffered minimal prosecution for war crimes, whereas leftists continued to be prosecuted in a grossly uneven measure. See further Mazower (1997: 129–132, 143–149; 2000). Most of the ideological categories and terms in this book (many, though not all, set off in inverted commas) are drawn from the various studies by Bournazos (1997, 1998, 2000, and 2009a), in which they appear on multiple occasions. More specific references to Bournazos's studies follow below. See further Breyianni (1999) and Carabott (2003).

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island (10) For a detailed study of the Greek political culture of the postwar period, which also engendered a strong anti‐American sentiment, see Stefanidis (2007: 27–54, or his chapter 1). (11) See Poulantzas for a broader context in which to situate the term ‘antinationals’ (2000). See Bournazos for a detailed introduction to the Greek terms (linguistic as well as ideological) that defined this ‘antinationalism’ (2009a: 17–19, 21–22; also Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 65–69). (12) There were, however, several leftist resistance organizations that were not necessarily communist in orientation but that represented a ‘massive cross‐class movement’ (Voglis 2004: 149). (13) It must be noted that the tenor of the repressive Karamanlis government of 1955–1963 differed from the same politician's more liberal government of 1974– 1981 and his presidency of 1990–1993. Mazower confirms that the interwar period saw a Greek state apparatus develop that aimed at ‘the surveillance and repression of large sections of the population in the name of anti‐Communism’. These objectives, he claims, stayed the same for the following forty years (1997: 139). See also Bournazos (2009a: 9). From the 1920s through the mid‐1970s, too, suspicion of engaged intellectual activity and of pluralist criticism ran deep within the Greek reactionary establishment. The domain of criminality expanded to include crimes of opinion and mental commitment, which was indicative of the long‐standing government frustration with the (domestic and international) support that communism enjoyed from intellectuals, artists, and ‘fellow travellers’. (14) Papailias (2005: 141–142, 260, 264 n. 34, and passim). Voglis draws attention to the prisoners' claim to the title of ‘people's fighters’ or ‘fighters of the National Resistance’, which would validate their demand that the government bestow on them the status and rights of political detainees and thus distinguish them from the category of criminal prisoners. Voglis explains that, for the regime of postwar containment of communism, the category of political detainees did not exist: it repeatedly denied that Greece had any political detainees. Along with the prisoners and most historians of modern Greece, I use the classification of political detainees as one that legitimately applies to the inmates of the prison islands of the Civil War (Voglis 2002: 5, 8, 11, 54, 64–68, 188–189, 202–203, 219, 231; also Close 2002: 19, 142–143). (15) The Marxist tenet held that art should express its social context and should not be perceived or practised in purely aesthetic terms. Art production should be linked to its sociopolitical roots and should not be severed from the ‘proletarian’ base of Greek society. In the opinion of the vocal Left, the bourgeoisie's manipulation of classical drama production was therefore yet another act of the superstructure's exploitation of the lower class. More comprehensive research Page 23 of 27

Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island remains to be done, however, on the cultural meaning and function of antiquity for the Greek Left (but see now Hamilakis 2007: 29, 191–195, 224–225, 229, 230, 231, 236). For a radical rejection of the ‘ideology of the nation based on antiquity’ voiced by the communist leader Nikos Zahariadis, see Hamilakis (2007: 191). (16) During and after the Civil War, Greek communists tried hard to eradicate attitudes of defeatism and passivity from among its cadres and rank and file. Being called ‘the defeated’ was a particularly emotive issue, which tended to isolate the ‘defeatists’ for many years of their lives (Voglis 2002: 174, 214, 217, 218, 227–231, 232–233, 234). In his insightful discussion of Greek Civil War poets, Vangelis Calotychos further explains the prominent meaning of ‘loss’: ‘Their poetry was, in defeat, founded on a metaphor of loss. The totality to be regained is to be found not in the absence of a past (Seferis), but in the projection of a lost future—a kind of reverse nostalgia’ (2003: 209). See also Calotychos on the term ‘poets of defeat’, which was coined in 1963 by the poet and critic Vyron Leondaris (2003: 202–203). On the broader topic of the Civil War and Greek poetry, see, for instance, Ricks (2004) and Theodoratou (2004). (17) For contemporary images of the many island prisons and camps, see Panayiotou and Dimakopoulos (2009). Elena Mamoulaki is continuing her research on the Civil War exile community of Ikaria (northeast of the Cyclades cluster of islands). I thank her for sharing her preliminary results with me (Mamoulaki 2008). She confirms: ‘Many informants, both exiles and locals, mentioned theatre plays performed by exiles (sometimes local men and women acted or attended, too). During the interviews, I asked what sort of plays they performed or watched but usually most informants didn't remember well. Mostly, they said, ancient and “traditional” plays.…Some of them [her informants] remembered funny stories such as that of a lady of the village who intruded upon the stage in order to keep an actor from murdering someone as it was written in the play’ (Mamoulaki, e‐mail communication with the author, 31 August 2009). In her unpublished research project, Mamoulaki quotes one of the locals of Ikaria expressing enthusiasm for the ‘newly discovered’ world of theatre: ‘I learned the magic atmosphere of theatre from the exiles. I will never forget that. I had never watched a theatre show before. It was amazing. Big actors and writers, women and men’ (Mamoulaki 2009: 24; the interviewee remains anonymous). Mamoulaki's preliminary results, however, also reveal how many more questions can and must be asked of the surviving informants, and how much more work remains to be done, for the study of the theatre of the exiles to take its well deserved place in the scholarly literature on the prison islands. On the educational activities organized by the exiles of Ikaria, see further Kamarinou (2005: 208–214).

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island (18) According to numbers given in September of 1949, Makronisos then held about 12,000 detainees (Voglis 2002: 92, 100–101, 105, 223, 224). Many aspects of Makronisos remain contested, such as the actual numbers of exiles that passed through the island. The Greek Ministry of Defence has not yet disclosed all the files (Hamilakis 2007: 235 n. 23). See further Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 75–76). On the (Greek and later international) Left's campaign for the abolishment of the Makronisos camps, which started as early as summer 1947, see Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 73–75). (19) Close (1993: 174). See further Margaritis on the history and organization of Makronisos, where the American‐supported Greek Right was able to establish ‘military’ camps at a time when, elsewhere in the West, camps were dismantled and abhorred (2001: 571–587). (20) Margaritis (2001: 577–578). Voglis further discusses the division of the soldier inmates in three battalions, which was based on the perceived extent to which they ‘deserved’ certain measures of ‘reform’ and methods of ‘re‐ education’—commonly used euphemisms for various forms of pressure and torture (2002: 101–102; Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 54). (21) A man named Vonklis was called ‘the torturer of the hanging gardens’, according to Kavvadias (2003: 594). Some of the most horrendous torture practices indeed took place in the more secluded ravines of Makronisos. See also the title of Loundemis's partly fictional chronicle, ‘Abyss Road Number 0’. (22) Panourgia offers more background information on these various terms, their usage in common parlance, and their official and legal connotations (2009: 26, 94, 107, 226–229). (23) Avdoulos (1998: 299–300). See also the personal testimony of Efthymiou on his talented theatre troupe, which drew from the Second Battalion of army recruits on Makronisos (1980a: 40). (24) On Makronisos in light of the dynamics of Foucauldian power and knowledge, control, surveillance, and the spectacle of bodily punishment, see Hamilakis (2002: 326–328, 329; 2007: 232–234, 236) and Voglis (2002: 6–7). For Foucault's chapter on panopticism, see Foucault (1995: 195–228). (25) I have tempered or changed my own views on some of the plays since I published a first article on this subject (Van Steen 2005). (26) Margaris (1966: 2:546); confirmed by Aris Tsouknidas, 18 June 2006. The official term for the hour‐long educational programme to which the internees of Makronisos were subjected twice on a daily basis was Ithiki Agogi (‘Ethical Education’) (Floundzis 1984: 210; Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 56). Margaris's

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island ironic depiction of this programme as a platform for nationalist indoctrination is not coincidental. (27) Bournazos (1998: 223–224, and passim); Hamilakis (2002: 314; 2007: 215– 216); Lazaris (2003: 716); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 63–64, 71, 72). (28) The same sense is eloquently expressed by the artist Hristos Danklis (1994: 255–256), who left a spectacular pictorial record of his various stints in exile which lasted through the summer of 1956 (published by the Municipality of Ioannina 1994). See further Kastrinaki (2005: 453–454). (29) For further notes on the significance of oral histories relating to the 1940s and for the relevant methodologies, see Hart (1996); Panourgia (2009: 16–21, and passim); Papailias (2005: 260–261, and passim); and Van Boeschoten et al. (2008b: passim). Hamilakis expresses due reservations on the use of sources specifically related to Makronisos and on the survivors' reliance on a number of ‘mnemonic topoi’ (2007: 212–214). See Kenna for reflections on the same problem of the emergence of ‘codified accounts of experiences’ among surviving informants (unpublished manuscript). In other words, a fixed collective ‘script’ emerges that draws from the ‘collectivization of the memory of persecution’ (Panourgia 2009: 160). Kenna admits: ‘The researcher's attempts to have the story told differently or from another perspective may be met with puzzlement or even hostility [on the part of the interviewees]’ (unpublished manuscript). I encountered many of the same reactions when interviewees realized that I was asking probing questions about theatre and cultural activities on the prison islands and not, for instance, about the practices of torture and ideological indoctrination. (30) Floundzis (1984) and Vasilas (1982) provided some of the earlier accounts that remain important. See the section on literature related to Makronisos (which contains nothing on theatre) in Bournazos and Sakellaropoulos (2000: 225–270) and, in particular, the chapters by Papatheodorou and Argyriou. See also Kastrinaki (2005, especially 445–451); Nikolopoulou (2008); and Vasilakakos (2000). The recent collective volumes, Makronisos: Historical Site (2002–2005), however, do not feature much discussion of prisoner identity and cultural life. See also Hamilakis (2007: 211 n. 8); Panourgia (2009: 101–102); and Voglis (2007: 453). On the wave of war‐related autobiographical accounts that started in the early 1980s and on the ‘rediscovery’ of the Greek Civil War, see Margaritis (2000: 25–33); Papailias (2005: 260–261 n. 14); Poulos (2009: xxiv); and Van Boeschoten et al. (2008b: 18–22). Vervenioti (2008a and 2008b) studies the accounts written by the female exiles, prisoners, and guerrilla fighters and notes, in particular, the somewhat distorted picture that emerges from those women's records, which privilege the contexts of the Athenian prisons and those

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Introduction: Collectivity within the Confines of an Island of the interned leadership cadres of the Left over those of the female guerrilla fighters, whose accounts were the last ones to break the silence in the 1990s. (31) The party split into the Communist Party of Greece of the Interior and a second camp that remained loyal to the Soviet Union. See further Panourgia (2009: 265–266) and Voglis (2002: 230). (32) See Grammatas (2002: 1:289–290); Kalaïtzi (2001: 84–123); Kotzioulas (1976); Mazower (1993: 283); Myrsiades and Myrsiades (1999); and Rodakis (2002b: 17, 19). On Rotas, in particular, see Delveroudi (2003: 387–388) and Kalaïtzi (2001: 66–73, 85, 88, 90, 119–123, 160, 172 n. 90). See also the special issue of Diavazo (November 2002) and the volume edited by the Centre for Marxist Research (1981). See also Koutounkos (1987) and Sakellariou (1995).

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives the government transferred the more than 3,000 ‘incorrigible’ male detainees from Makronisos to Aï Stratis, where, in September of 1953, they were joined by the female exiles who had still not recanted their leftist political opinions (Floundzis 1986: 79, 86, 147; Tsellos 2002: 57). For practical purposes, we do well to distinguish a first period, the theatre of Makronisos from January 1948 through the spring of 1950, from a second period centred on the theatre on Aï Stratis, with its first signs of cultural activity on the occasion of Christmas 1950 through the camp's closure in 1962 (even though the number of cultural activities rapidly decreased after the mid‐1950s). The commune of Aï Stratis changed prisoner theatre and elevated it to a qualitatively and morally higher standard. In this new location, talented individuals had more control over the selection and production process. Also, the presence of female amateur performers encouraged the exiles to think more (p.31) boldly about choices of plays and production styles and thus opened up options for a broader repertoire, leaving the moralizing selection of Makronisos far behind. I will delve into the details of theatre life on Aï Stratis at the end of this chapter and in Chapter 4. But, as Chapter 5 shows, this new forum of artistic liberation within captivity was not available to all. Alexandrou made his contribution to the theatre of Makronisos by translating Eugene O'Neill's ominous miracle play, Days without End, for the Easter performance of 1949 (Efthymiou 1980b: 34). Once he, too, was transferred to Aï Stratis, he completed his adaptation of Sophocles' Antigone, which he either did not or could not share with the group, or which was never solicited for a performance by the theatre people among the exiles there. Voglis distinguishes three main cultural components of the inmate theatre plays, songs, and musical events: (1) traditional Greek folk culture, such as folk songs, dances, and pastoral dramas; (2) ‘high’ culture, such as the works of Shakespeare, Molière, Ibsen, ancient Greek tragedies, and classical music; and (3) the leftist or more broadly committed culture, under which category some of Rotas's plays fall and also those by Soviet playwrights such as Anton Chekhov (2002: 207; 2004: 153). Papadouka's short list of the ten plays performed by the all‐female casts of the Athenian Averof prison exemplifies Voglis's breakdown: Rotas's Hail to Mesolongi and his Rigas Velestinlis; some older and popular plays of native Greek dramaturgy, such as The Flower of the Levant by Grigorios Xenopoulos, The Lover of the Shepherdess by Dimitris Koromilas, and My Little Own Self (Eaftoulis mou) by Dimitris Psathas. More thought‐provoking were the women's productions of the Greek social satire titled If You Work You'll Eat, by Nikos Tsekouras, and the popular Block C by Ilias Venezis, a dramatic reflection of the author's experience of Nazi imprisonment (and the pressure that the constant threat of execution placed on the socially diverse group of the condemned) in the death cell of Block C of the Averof prison.1 Among the productions of foreign classics were Molière's Miser and Chekhov's famous social drama, The Cherry (p.32) Orchard (Papadouka 1981: 110–111). It was Page 2 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives the balance, however, among those various components that differed depending on the prison locale and its sanctioned activities from early 1948 on through the early 1960s. The Greek playwright Rotas (1889–1977) was a staunch communist, journalist, and translator, who was also interned during the Civil War. He contributed several plays and translations to the cultural ‘flourishing’ on the prison islands, and his name and the titles of his plays recur in subsequent sections of this chapter. He was a prime exponent of the hybrid cultural profile that the Greek Communist Party sanctioned and that was reflected in the three main components of the detainees' collective cultural activities, as outlined by Voglis above. The ideal personal profile integrated Greek folk and popular culture, the broad interests in books, plays, and music of the intelligentsia, and the products of an international leftist or committed culture. Rotas embodied the productive coexistence of those various pursuits. He translated many plays of Shakespeare, whose reception could have been seen as a bourgeois pursuit. Shakespeare symbolized, however, European culture and especially that of the allied British people (Krontiris 2007b: 13, 209–210). Rotas also adapted several comedies of Aristophanes, with whose ‘leftist revolutionary spirit’ he identified (Van Steen 2000: chapter 4, passim; Vasileiou 2004: 63–64). In 1959, the same Rotas finished writing a Marxist Prometheus play, which he published in 1966 under the title of Prometheus or The Comedy of Optimism (Hasapi‐Hristodoulou 2002: 2:887–891). Even though the play is quite unremarkable, the hero still incarnates indomitable strong will (Hasapi‐Hristodoulou 2002: 2:891, 1136). His ‘optimism’ is the proclaimed optimism that, in the Marxist worldview, stands opposed to bourgeois pessimism. Marxists saw a bourgeois society in decline and, in some bourgeois art forms, (p.33) they saw a misuse or abuse of their emblem Prometheus, who had to champion the working class (‘proletariat’) in its struggle against the capitalist establishment. Even Rotas, who created his own Prometheus, only occasionally joined the Marxist rejection of classical antiquity in its bourgeois appropriation.2 As with many Greek Marxist and communist artists and intellectuals, the Greek tradition seems to have taken priority over the foreign‐imported ideology, especially in the final balance of their lifetime achievements and contributions to literature and the arts. This is one of those historical peculiarities that deserves a far more extensive exploration than what space constraints allow me to deliver here.

Theatre Selections on Makronisos, from January 1948 through the Spring of 1950 The professional actor Nikos Efthymiou served as stage director of the Second Battalion of Makronisos and kept a list of the plays and other show events performed from Easter 1948 on through the end of 1949, or during the months of his own detention on the island (1980b).3 Efthymiou's list fills in some of the titles of the playwrights mentioned above, albeit in a schematic and cut‐and‐ dried way: Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice was performed in May of 1949 (cf. Page 3 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives the 9 August 1949 date and repeat performance on 21 August 1949 in Vrahiotis 2005: 40, 107; also Krontiris 2007b: 180–181, 184); Molière's Miser was staged on 27 January 1951. Efthymiou's catalogue further reveals that leftist play production, or the third component of Voglis's more general data, was barely represented under the abject conditions that reigned on Makronisos during 1948 and 1949. Instead, the most prominent part of the island's repertoire consisted of patriotic‐didactic to moralizing plays that formed the legacy of the Metaxas era (see below, pp. 46–50). The Makronisiotes did have a chance, however, to enjoy folksy Greek comedies such as those by Dimitris Psathas and Bambis Anninos and also some written by (p.34) Efthymiou himself. The latter's works, composed for the purpose of instant entertainment, soon passed into oblivion despite their attempt to copy the flavour of the popular revue or epitheorisi, a staple of contemporary urban Greek spectacle with its characteristic blend of satirical skits and inset songs (Vrahiotis 2005: 33, 104, and passim). With a fair number of the (often anonymous) skits included, almost half of the works in Efthymiou's catalogue belong to the lighter, farcical, or escapist forms of entertainment. The more extensive record compiled by Vrahiotis, which, by necessity, lists a large number of mere titles, confirms the same ratio of ‘high‐ brow’ versus ‘low‐brow’ shows (2005: 102–113). Unfortunately, Efthymiou's bare list, a primary source, makes little hard information available. Some titles from his catalogue leave us to tantalizing speculation: was the anonymously listed comedy, Bandit from Washington, anti‐ American—and how so? Did Efthymiou's own one‐act play No, performed on Ohi Day of 1948, allow some tinkering around the edges of the official line on Greek patriotism? Or was it a straightforward celebration of the heroic Greek defence against the invading Italian forces after 28 October 1940? Efthymiou's programme opened with a drama with traditional Christian subject matter, The Sacrifice of Abraham of Vitsentzos Kornaros, which was performed to celebrate Easter of 1948 (1980a: 40, 41, with a reproduction of the playbill). Was it a year of ‘good work’ (from Easter 1948 through the spring of 1949) that earned Efthymiou the privilege of casting his wife, an actress, who had come to visit, in a lead female part of O'Neill's play, Days without End, performed for Easter 1949 (Vrahiotis 2005: 37, 39, 105)? For Voglis, the interest in Christian themes stemmed from the Greek communists' professed respect for popular culture (2002: 207, 221 n. 29). While I do not reject this motivation, I see the Greek Easter productions as deliberate choices on the part of the theatre troupe to court the goodwill of the ‘Christian’ prison authorities with, for an inaugural performance, a well‐known Greek religious play from the seventeenth century: The Sacrifice of Abraham dates back to the cultural heyday called the Cretan Renaissance. The actors selected a quality play that did not compromise their own convictions but that also passed muster for belonging to the biblical and traditional Greek dramaturgical heritage. Several of the choices of native plays confirm that many of the Greek leftists and communists were eager to affirm Page 4 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives their allegiance to traditional faith as well as culture. The Greek communists did not necessarily reject Orthodoxy, even when some of their leaders did. Besides, for those who read the story of (p.35) Abraham critically, it told of lack of freedom. This staging of The Sacrifice of Abraham predated the 1948 Antigone and Philoctetes productions, which were performed by fellow Makronisiotes. There is not a single ancient tragedy—or ancient comedy—among the approximately fifty performance events catalogued by Efthymiou, who preferred not to stage any. The productions of Sophocles' Antigone and Philoctetes were likely the only classical dramas staged on Makronisos (Vrahiotis 2005: 47). Significant, however, is that the concept of revival tragedy as an aristocratic art is belied by its more democratic reception on the prison islands. Oral and written sources of former detainees draw attention to the productions of the classical dramas and often only to the classical dramas, at the expense of details on the native Greek or foreign works. Their persistence confirms that the exiles —in hindsight—still sought to prove that they did not exile themselves from ‘genuinely’ Greek (high) cultural ties, ideals, and legacies but valued them deeply. The renown of the classics was seen to add to their renown as talented actors and artists and to the dignity of their audiences. But while suffering the conditions of their imprisonment, they rather welcomed the lighter genres that temporarily broke the bonds of their physical and political isolation. We, classicists, like to think that the production of an ancient play was likely to make a more enduring impact than a show of humorous skits and songs. That was not necessarily the case. The magnetic appeal of humour, for instance, was far greater than that of classical tragedy, no matter how transient the skits were. Many informants were happy to please me, as it were, by briefly mentioning the ancient plays to then promptly revert to the jokes of Thanasis Vengos, a fellow prisoner on Makronisos who went on to Greek stardom as a comic actor (Kersanidis 2004; Soldatos 2000). Nonetheless, most of the former exiles agreed that references to myth and the classics allowed them to reconnect with basic plots of politics, society, and family that are recognizable to most Greeks through the long cultural hegemony of the ancient legacy. They confirmed their understanding of classical tragedy as the genre par excellence to shed light on great public themes as well as on some of the oldest ideas, conflicts, and character types in existence. With tragedy, they could participate, at all levels, in a mode of collective recall. Panourgia has illustrated this point with the powerful analogy between Oedipus and the inmate subjected to physical and psychological torments (2008b: 111–112; 2009: 55, 113–114, 161–173). Detention on Makronisos was notorious for its methods of (p.36) Sisyphean toil that had to break the victims' morale. Menelaos Loundemis, the novelist and playwright, invoked the mythical Sisyphus to depict the duress of the Makronisiotes, who were compelled to haul stones from one place to another for no purpose. Sisyphus was, for Loundemis, the first martyr‐like stone carrier, and the strength of the myth helped him to make sense of a nonsensical predicament Page 5 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives (Loundemis 1972: 210; Panourgia 2009: 92–93). In tragic characters with anti‐ authoritarian connotations such as Antigone, Prometheus, and Philoctetes, the exiles found embodiments of their own moral stance—as well as a vision of the fate of Greece, which encompassed humbled heroes, devastated families, and a nation shaken to its foundations. But if the classical plays suggested a web of affinities between ancient and modern Greek cultures, so did the famous modern Greek plays that related back to the prerevolutionary and revolutionary years. Like ancient tragedies, older Greek patriotic dramas, especially those that featured the Revolution of 1821, provided a platform on which to present contemporary Greek history with obliqueness. The strength of this interaction among theatre traditions afforded the exiles a stage of the most complex resonances. That ancient tragedy was a pagan venue that could be pitted against the religious‐nationalist regime of the Right was less prominent on the detainees' minds. Because of the Greek Left's common belief in the Hellenic patrimony, broadly defined, the mechanics of a consensus could inspire the selection of a particular classical play, as when the inmates of Makronisos performed Sophocles' Antigone with the support of the right‐wing camp authority and then reperformed the show at the latter's urging. I will revisit this production (in Chapter 2) to explain how this tragedy's cosmic conflict could remain impervious to the Left–Right polarity and how the play ‘worked’ for both the Antigone‐like prison population and the Creon‐like camp keepers.

When or on Which Occasions Did the Prisoner Productions Take Place? A Leftist Genealogy of Revolution and Resistance The Makronisiot stages put on plays or skits once or twice a month on average and typically on Sundays, so that visitors could attend as well (p.37) (Vrahiotis 2005: 66).4 Religious and national holidays were perfect occasions for more elaborate performances of the commemorative type (Floundzis 1979: 120–121; Vrahiotis 2005: 28, 47, 53, 60), as they had been for generations of traditionally trained Greek school children and for the occasional amateur troupe or professional stage company. Takis Benas staged his production of the Rigas Velestinlis of Rotas on Independence Day of 1950, with inmates of the Itzedin‐ Kalami prison on Crete (1996: 159–162 [see the quotation below]; Voglis 2002: 170). Benas briefly mentioned another production of Rigas that women staged in the Averof prison on the same occasion one year later, on 25 March 1951 (1996: 162; also Papadouka 1981: 110). Independence Day, or the annual celebration date of the anniversary of the 1821 Revolution, coincides, of course, with the Christian feast of the Annunciation, which was important to many of the prisoners. The title character of Rotas's Rigas, a historical and poetic tragedy of 1936, is Rigas Velestinlis or Feraios (1757–1798), a precursor‐champion of the revolutionary struggle and an advocate of radical‐liberal nationalism. Rigas's imprisonment led to his death at the hands of the Turks.5 For the detainees, that meant that this native Greek symbol of integrity and of the struggle for the right Page 6 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives cause was murdered by tyrannical power holders (Myrsiades and Myrsiades 1999: 82, 86, 115; Puchner 2000: 220–224). By the late 1940s, not only the play Rigas and its eponymous hero but also Rotas, its activist author, had become ‘classics’ of the leftist Greek resistance. In celebration of Independence Day 1948, female exiles on Hios produced Hail to Mesolongi, Rotas's prose drama of ca. 1928 that seized upon the emblematic value of the Turks' siege of the town of Mesolongi in 1826 and the defence of its pious inhabitants. Mesolongi stood for heroic and unified Greek resistance and ultimate martyrdom for the sake of the country's freedom and (p.38) faith.6 The popularity of Hail to Mesolongi as a patriotic school play or didactic anniversary play remained unchallenged for many years. In 1933, Rotas's Mesolongi was first adopted and performed by the Greek National Theatre (under the directorship of Fotos Politis) for the 25 March celebrations. Rotas's plays were valuable to both the Left and the Right as long as they expressed an accessible and attractive conception of the War of Independence, its nation‐driven patriotism, and its sacrifices as well as its victories. Rotas himself intended his didactic plays to appeal to children (see the title of his edition). The right‐wing authorities, however, used his and other educational plays as vehicles for indoctrinating adults into the officially sanctioned nationalist tradition, with all the infantilizing connotations inherent in this process.7 Greek parents, teachers, and school administrators encouraged and applauded children performing these patriotic plays and, similarly, some prison wardens let detainees mount the very same plays on days of religious or national celebrations. Of course, what some inmates made of the potential of these patriotic dramas was a different—and unexpected—story: ‘Impossible’, I said to the others, ‘this play [Rotas's Rigas] calls for more than fifty actors. Add on the necessary technicians, and that makes for absolutely all the detainees of our wing. It remains to be seen whether there would be a good ten old guys left to act as the spectators’. We all laughed at this thought. Imagine, really, that we would play and that nobody would watch us…But…why not? Was it not for ourselves that we would stage the play, to take our minds off our worries and to escape from the unbearable weight of death? Whether they watched us play or not, we in any case would ‘live’ it. At the end [of the actual performance]…, Rigas raises his hands to the sky and envisions freedom, while he loudly cries out the phrase: ‘I see the walls of this dark prison fall and collapse’.…[T]he guard who, almost like a police organ of censorship, had been watching the play all (p.39) along and even held a copy of the book in his hands, lost his cool.… [The] spectators…applauded the finale most passionately.

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives (Benas 1996: 160, 162, on his Rigas production, staged on 25 March 1950 in a Cretan prison) The episode above conveys a rare sense of the drama of prisoner theatre in the making. The detainees used the performance to display their own ideological position and to shame the attending guard for keeping the fighters for freedom incarcerated. The guard perceived a direct challenge to his authority and was no longer able to control the script in the process of its production. The inmate players exploited the untameable aspects of spectacle, which condemned the jailors and expressed a longing for freedom and justice. They upstaged the rules and conventions of the prison and also its dynamics of surveillance and control. Moreover, they subverted the long, boring, and infantilizing tradition of the conservative appropriation of this particular martyr‐drama, which had also severed the play from Rotas's own ideology and experience. The detainees proved that they had adopted the long tradition of the regime's endorsed choices of patriotic and nationalist themes to then break with that tradition, producing the effect of a rebellious youth disenchanted with the indoctrination that it had suffered during its early school days. For the resistance fighters of the 1940s, Rotas's Rigas and Hail to Mesolongi symbolized their own historic struggle, persecution, and self‐sacrifice, measured by the widely acknowledged grand stature of the proto‐martyrs and martyrs of the Greek War of Independence. This explains why some prison administrators banned productions of Rotas's plays, which by the late 1940s belonged to the popular Greek subconscious, while others allowed or even welcomed them (Apostolopoulou 1984: 31, 32–33, 34, and 43, on an emotional production with which the female exiles of Trikeri celebrated 28 October 1950). The Greek Right emphasized national holidays but the Left responded by celebrating some of the same national holidays with its own festivities, performances, and forms of protest. The Left, too, placed itself in a long and impressive tradition, which spotlighted popular Greek revolution, resistance, and the struggle for freedom especially on Independence Day. It related aspects of the Greek past to its own political identity and created a nationalist genealogy of its own revolutionary movement (Liakos 1994: 195; Papailias 2005: 264 n. 34). This lineage predated the historical roots of the communist (p.40) ideology and reached as far into modern Greek history as Rigas's life and unjust death (even though Rigas did not live to see the outbreak of the Greek Revolt). Voglis remarks: ‘The war for the independence of Greece was represented as an unfinished project that the communists undertook to complete’ (2002: 171; also Koufou 2008: 301, 302, 304; Poulos 2009: 134, 150). Also, the mythification of 1821 had made of Greek patriotism a widely understood symbolic construct and an unquestioned moral code.8 Rotas himself saw the Greek popular resistance against the Nazis effectively repeat the heroic revolutionary struggle for autonomy fought before and throughout the 1820s. His work thus spawned elements of a myth of continuity and unity in resistance. This was an Page 8 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives increasingly common leftist and communist viewpoint that the Greek reactionaries tried hard to curtail or banish. The battle was on with stakes vested in the classics and in the Greek War of Independence. Through theatre, Rotas and those inspired by his work gave a highly charged new meaning to the national holidays and the celebratory performances, and they appropriated the Revolution and its heroes for the Left. Their initiatives re-enacted Greek theatre's historical role in raising a broad patriotic and militant (p.41) awareness (Van Steen 2000: 46). The older exile community of Anafi (off Santorini) may serve as a test‐case. The Metaxas government established the camp there prior to the Second World War and sanctioned inmate performances with nationalist themes on the appropriate holidays. Thus the commune of exiles celebrated 25 March of 1941 and the 120th anniversary of the proclamation of the Revolution with a production of Rotas's Rigas, which they considered to be thematically closer to the occasion of Independence Day.9 With this patriotic drama, they also responded to the threat of the impending German invasion (April 1941). To my knowledge, the prisoners of Anafi never performed ancient drama, however. Generally spoken, it was only in the later years of the Civil War (from 1948 onward) that the detainees' more symbolic conception of the principles of liberty, democratic speech, and human rights facilitated their turn to classical tragedy.

From Which Traditions Could the Theatre of the Prison Islands Draw? Three strands of Greek theatre impacted directly on the evolution of theatre on the prison islands, and the three could not have been more different. The first was the resistance Theatre of the Mountains, which consisted of both guerrilla soldiers and recruits from the sympathetic local population.10 The second was the ‘official’ stage represented by the Greek National Theatre, whose repertoire was the only one to regularly feature classical tragedy. The third strand was the boom in native Greek patriotic drama, which the Metaxas regime devised for the purpose of educating youth in the spirit of Greek continuity, or of a kind of centralized and authoritarian nativism. The latter two underlaid Metaxas's foundation of the ‘Third Hellenic Civilization’, which, modelled after Hitler's Third Reich, posited continuity and consanguinity from ancient through Byzantine times (p.42) through the Regime of the Fourth of August (1936).11 But, to strengthen the above working hypothesis, let me unpack all of the components in greater detail.12 In 1944, following the disbanding of his Athenian drama school, Rotas organized one of the small mobile troupes of the Theatre of the Mountains and, in the process, developed strong ideas about what theatre for the people should be like: theatre was to be created by people who did not belong to the elite and who were united in a community spirit of resistance. The need for the united national community to take centre stage—literally and politically—was one of the ideals that inspired Rotas's work with committed theatre through the 1940s. Rotas's own plays and theatre techniques link the prison productions to the agit‐prop Page 9 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives and didactic performances staged in the mountains. Even though the partisans' resistance theatre did not revive classical tragedy, it left the important legacies of clearly defined political objectives and also of well‐organized stage practices despite rudimentary conditions. It also left a body of experienced and amateur contributors, who found each other again and joined forces anew on the prison islands (testimony by K. S., 31 May 2005). Tsellos was one such organizer on Aï Stratis. Before the prison stages introduced classical Greek drama, many of the exiles might have seen this genre as a museum piece or artefact from the past. Revival tragedy was not likely to make the general public gasp with emotion—and deservedly so, based on the traditionalist (p.43) styles that had, until then, conditioned its modern Greek reception. For more than half a century, Greek revival tragedy was housed in public, well‐equipped, and more conventional locales (such as school and academic stages, enclosed playhouses, Italian‐style proscenium stages, and, occasionally, excavated and restored outdoor settings). After preliminary endeavours proved to be rather short‐lived, the National Theatre was (re)founded in 1932, and it was renamed the Royal Theatre for the years under Metaxas. For the first years of its existence, this ‘theatre establishment’ built a repertoire of foreign classics and of what it saw as their Greek equivalents, the ancient Greek tragedies. Espousing an (often unimaginative) neoclassicism, it steered away from producing contemporary Greek plays and especially those written by politically progressive authors. By the onset of the Second World War, the National Theatre had grown into the privileged medium of a state‐sponsored national culture and aesthetics under directors such as the conservative, German‐trained Dimitris Rondiris (Krontiris 2007a: 198–207; Roilou 2009; Van Steen 2000: 196; see also Chapter 4). In 1936, Athens had inaugurated the Classical Greek Drama Festival, which was the brainchild of Rondiris, who opened the festival at the Herodes Atticus Theatre with a solemn, formalistic production of Sophocles' Electra. In September of 1938, Rondiris took the same production to the theatre of Epidaurus, where he demonstrated the viability—and the draw—of the ancient setting for modern revival tragedy. Nearly twenty years later, in 1954, he inaugurated the summer Festival of Ancient Greek Drama at Epidaurus, which was unfortunately based on some of the same conservative premises of the Hellenic‐patriotic stamp (Van Steen 2000: 194, 196). Metaxas had been promoting ancient drama in the form of mass open‐air spectacles, and he had received the public endorsement of writers such as Yeorgios Theotokas, a politically moderate intellectual, and others with more conservative political agendas who stressed the value of classical literature.13 Under Metaxas, too, the chauvinist presumption grew that revivals of classical tragedy had to uphold this treasured legacy as Greece's national, ‘monumental’ (p.44) poetry. Metaxas further subjected theatre to state censorship and control of thought. He tried to ban, in particular, a National Theatre production Page 10 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives of Sophocles' Antigone, because the heroine proclaimed disobedience to the self‐ serving laws of tyranny. Unable to cancel the scheduled performances, the government had certain ‘inappropriate’ lines cut from the script (Hamilakis 2007: 178; Van Steen 2001: 141).14 Such an act issued a stark warning to any writer tempted to produce something that would undermine the administration's agenda. But Metaxas saw the genre of the satirical revue as the greatest cultural nemesis. Kostis Bastias, a prominent author and opinion maker and the National Theatre's director under the regime, lauded, with a distinct tone of elitism, Metaxas's achievement of ‘cleaning up’ the theatre in his first two years in office (by July 1938)—like a latter‐day Heracles: When he [Metaxas] watches the enthusiasm of the masses who attend the performances of Shakespearean and other great plays [typically mounted by the National Theatre], he smiles and states with delight: ‘Those people up there in the upper circles are the true critics of every real poet's work'. …Until yesterday the Greek working masses were squeezed in the galleries of abject revues and were fed on damaging toxins, detestable issues and scenes of repugnant homosexuality.15 This (p.45) was the reason that Ioannis Metaxas, like a new Hercules ‘mucked out the Augean stables’ into which the so‐called light musical theatre had plunged. This is why after the imposed censorship on the revues and their deliverance from ‘filth’, theatrical performances achieved a cultural elevation that ensured their greater popular success.16 The Metaxas regime expanded its control over theatre by organizing formal competitions and instituting prizes for the best Greek plays, in an effort to build a repertoire of new native dramas with nationalist tenor (Petrakis 2006: 137, 139, 142). Given the regime's public maligning of the lighter genres, the pendulum of native Greek dramaturgy swung in the opposite direction, to favour the ‘serious’ patriotic plays intended for the ‘national edification’ of Metaxas's youth (as per the title of Angelis 2006). This youth was organized in EON, the National Youth Organization, which was involved both in producing and in digesting (often with some resentment) the plays that the government promoted.17 Some works were commissioned, others were contributed by ideologically committed but not necessarily talented playwrights, to be produced on the occasion of the regime's self‐congratulatory celebrations or of the rituals of the Metaxas state, with its emphasis on (fascist‐style) outdoor and mass spectacle (including grandiose athletic events). Theatre now served the guiding principles of state control, youth discipline, and nationalist celebration. Some of the guerrilla shows and of the prison island productions offered up a progressive mode of protest against a deeply moralizing, fascist‐style regime that, since Metaxas, had been promoting the ‘aestheticization of politics’, in the definition and proposed ‘politics of art’ of Walter Benjamin, the ‘Frankfurt School’, and their development of the 1930s mass culture debate (Benjamin Page 11 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives 1968: 243). Dramaturgy on the main urban stages of the National Theatre or more commercial venues gained an aestheticized function when the reactionary state politics started to overlap with spectacle and illusion. (p.46) Greek right‐ wing political predominance transformed art—transformed into art—and claimed to ‘better’ or ‘heal’ the ‘individualistic’, ‘childlike’ Greeks, who had grown ‘estranged’ from their own rich past. Patronizing politics conflated cultural, ethical, and social rectitude with patriotic righteousness, and this political self‐ righteousness with ground for cruelty. Metaxas made moral and aesthetic persuasion part of anticommunist political and patriotic credentials. The watchful state rendered aesthetic creativity subservient to absolute nationalist values.18 Correspondingly, the more formal theatre productions of the late 1930s expressed the regime's exalted ideals of respect for the fatherland, religion, and family (patrís, thriskeía, oikoyéneia, πατρίς, θρησκεία, oικoγένεια), and some stagings promulgated anticommunism in the name of this ideological triptych.19 These ‘higher’ goals made the Right near‐immune to public objections, while its political rhetoric was increasingly permeated by moral impulses in the guise of invocations of the classical legacy and historical continuity. Many of the native plays favoured by the Metaxas regime obsequiously glorified Greek civilization from antiquity through the Byzantine millennium and through the War of Independence in sequences of set pieces that illustrated collective sacrifice and patriotic victory. These scenes oscillated between tableau vivant and allegorical or symbolic theatre, but all centred on strong role models selected from among Greece's historical military or religious leaders. To support the theme of Greece's regeneration under Metaxas, the dramatic sequences typically focused on three ‘illustrious’ periods: antiquity, Byzantium, and the struggle for independence (in a populist reincarnation of the continuity model embedded in the History of the Hellenic Nation, the seminal nation‐building work of Konstandinos Paparrigopoulos).20 (p.47) The names of Spyros Melas (1883–1966) and Dimitris Bogris (1890– 1964) recur with greater frequency among the favourite playwrights of the Metaxas regime. Both wrote patriotic dramas in the nationalist tradition and built up a didactic repertoire of school plays that continued to be tapped on the prison islands. The nationalist agenda and thematic appeals to tradition, authentic or otherwise, left Melas and Bogris impervious to—justified— reservations about the quality of their works.21 It was from this established didactic legacy, however, which was intended to enlist ordinary people's conservative sympathies, that many of the amateur players among the exiles drew. This does not mean that performances of these works represented choices that the players had made voluntarily. Often it merely meant that approval to stage a particular production was more easily secured because the plays and their recent reception history were known to meet nationalist criteria—or that the scripts were more readily available, or that they had remained in the young players' memory, with familiarity outweighing standards of quality. Melas was an Page 12 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives influential journalist, author, and stage producer, who had also been elected to the Academy of Athens in 1935.22 From 1948 through mid‐1954, he published the conservative periodical Elliniki Dimiourgia (‘Greek Creation’), in which many opinion makers on the subject of art's subservience to nationalist politics found a willing venue (Bournazos 2009a: 17, 20, 21). The recruits of Makronisos produced Melas's historicizing drama of 1937 named Papaflessas, after the lead character of the archimandrite Papaflessas. This play, which credits the clergy's —purportedly—heroic role in the Greek Revolution, was staged on two occasions (15 October 1948 and 3 April 1949).23 In other words, the production saw a repeat performance. Repeat (p.48) performances were uncommon: there was no need to redo the same play for a public that did not see much of a turnover. Thus the chance for a Makronisiot troupe to stage repeat performances was slim, unless the camp officials saw a chance to impress new visitors. Another measure of the administration's promotion of this particular work was that it arranged for the performers to borrow the costumes designed by Andonis Fokas for the National Theatre's production of the same play in April of 1940 (Vrahiotis 2005: 50, 109). The inmates of Makronisos also produced older moralizing social dramas written by Melas, such as the three‐act play To kokkino poukamiso, The Red Shirt (28 February 1949; Vrahiotis 2005: 52, 110), and a family drama in the naturalist style of Ibsen, To halasmeno spiti, The Broken Home (published 1909; performed 22 October 1949; Vrahiotis 2005: 57, 111), about a tyrannical father whose alcohol addiction and abusive behaviour ruin his family. Many of Bogris's works (artificially) revive the nationalist ideals of nineteenth‐ century Greek Enlightenment and Romanticism. The playwright published didactic scripts for many years and, (probably) in 1951, brought out a collected volume of patriotic school plays and acts, which included one‐act plays, skits, folk songs, and ideas for tableaux vivants (Bogris ca. 1951; Puchner 2000: 215– 216). Bogris may well embody the dramaturgy of virtue that the Greek establishment force‐fed to schoolchildren for decades. Also, his plays, more akin to morality plays than to historical dramas, typically ignore or deny Greek social conflict, which is in itself a political theme. Characteristic of Bogris's rather jarring works are the linear narrative patterns, the narrow themes and political pointing, the deliberate alignment of—patronizing—narrators' sympathy with certain heroic figures, the denouncing of ‘evil’ behaviours, the potboiler repartees and coarsely delineated characters (especially of the stereotypical villain Turks), and—last but not least—the cliché nationalist slogans, which were repeated through the next decades to then descend in ignominy. Bogris's works almost invariably incorporated or ended with a rendition of a canonical Greek patriotic hymn or with the national anthem, to certify the probity of players and audiences. Several of his scripts for patriotic school theatre came with instructions (in footnotes) for teachers on how to stage them. In the theatre practice of the prison islands, however, such normative blueprints infantilized the inmates who were made to feel like child performers (p.49) all over again: Page 13 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives on them rested the expectation that they show themselves to be good students and obedient followers. Works such as Bogris's I ieri floga, The Sacred Flame, did not ring true and failed to convey a sense of the living stage. This pompous play, which thinks in nationalist slogans, was performed on 11 August 1940 and was intended to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the Regime of the Fourth of August (anon., To Eleftheron Vima, 13 August 1940). Its director, Thanos Kotsopoulos, orchestrated a cast of more than 600 members of EON who performed in the organization's newly built theatre on Lycabettus Hill. The production was advertised as a ‘hymn to Greek youth’, which was called upon to carry the eternal flame of Hellenism to glory through the ages (Petrakis 2006: 149). By 1940, Bogris had increased the glorious epochs of Greek history to six, each captured in one act of the play: the ancient Spartans, the Persian Wars, the coming of Jesus Christ, Byzantium through the Turkish Occupation, the Revolution of 1821, and the inception of the Regime of the Fourth of August.24 The recruits of Makronisos staged Bogris's older and more popular ethographic work, Ta arravoniasmata, The Betrothal (1924; Bogris ca. 1951: 431–490), which was also given a repeat performance (18 July 1948 and 25 September 1949; Efthymiou 1980b; Vrahiotis 2005: 53, 55, 111). Other plays by Bogris that were mounted on the island were Kainouria zoi, New Life (Bogris ca. 1951: 749–816), a rather deflective work of 1936 that may be called a Greek‐style comedy of manners (16 August 1948; Efthymiou 1980b). Bogris's family drama, I drakaina, The Ogress, was set in a provincial Greek town and treated, in dark tones, the subject of a domineering matriarch (1927; Bogris ca. 1951: 273–327) (performed 2 October 1949; Vrahiotis 2005: 29, 103). Bogris's play To bourini, The Squall, a (p.50) moralizing work of 1934 set on an island (Bogris ca. 1951: 677–748), saw an inmate production both on Makronisos (15 May 1949; Vrahiotis 2005: 25, 102) and on Aï Stratis (probably in 1952–1953; Tsellos 2002: 90). Clearly, the plot of ethical conflicts playing out in an insular or—literally—an island setting held some appeal for the inmate troupes. Many of these plays, however, affirmed a conservative consensus on a social status quo.

Theatre on Aï Stratis, from Christmas 1950 through the Camp's Closure in 1962 Tsellos (2002) listed from memory the cultural activities of the political exiles on Aï Stratis from 1950 through 1962. He was an active contributor to many of the productions staged by the group or ‘commune’ of island detainees (omada symviosis), which organized various cultural events and proudly called its theatre troupe the ‘Thiasos of the Exiles of Aï Stratis’ (Mahairas 1999: 331).25 After prior leaders had been released on ‘furlough’, Tsellos became a member of the ‘stage directors’ committee', a subcommittee founded in 1953 that was advisory to the ‘artistic committee’, which coordinated the commune's entire programme of cultural activities and aimed to present stage performances every five to six weeks.26 The artistic committee ensured that especially national and Page 14 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives religious holidays were properly celebrated with cultural events, whether with concerts (featuring classical music, excerpts from operas, folk music, etc.), folk dances, choir sessions, poetry evenings, skits, or plays. The artistic committee was itself overseen by the board of the commune, which consisted primarily of the hardened fighters of the resistance and the (p.51) Civil War, who boasted a military and party record acceptable to the underground Communist Party leadership (Tsellos 2002: 28, 58). Tsellos listed some of the criteria that the stage directors' committee upheld to make its final choices from among the proposed plays: could an amateur director make the play in question work on Aï Stratis and who would be the best person to undertake the directorship? Could the director ensure that all the parts would be covered and especially the female roles? How viable would the play be as a performance? For the first few years, the committee selected works with as few female roles as possible, and Aeschylus' Persians, with the single female part of the Persian queen Atossa, fit the bill (Tsellos 2002: 83, 90, 92, 93). Sophocles' Philoctetes is entirely free of female roles and thus offered the same practical advantage to the all‐male troupe of Makronisos (an additional advantage was that this tragedy's choral parts are severely reduced and are not overly demanding; the chorus members more often enter into the very action of the play). It was hard to find men willing to play the female roles, and the Thiasos of Aï Stratis was thrilled to welcome female amateur performers into its midst in 1953. The large majority of the women were, however, soon released (Tsellos 2002: 91, 92). Significantly, Tsellos invoked his prior theatre experience with one of the guerrilla troupes of EPON, the United Panhellenic Youth Organization or the youth wing of EAM, which included a substantial number of young women (Myrsiades and Myrsiades 1999: passim; Poulos 2009: 130): he had presented cultural events (including some four to five plays) in rural areas of Greece and a couple more productions after the liberation (Tsellos 2002: 83; also Rodakis 2002b: 17, 19). However, Tsellos did not invoke any earlier contributions to the theatre of Makronisos, where he had been held before his transfer to Aï Stratis. Only very few names of actors and artists active on Makronisos recur in the listing of events organized on Aï Stratis. It confirms our hypothesis that many of the exiles who made theatre on Makronisos work also improved their individual standing with the camp officials, who may have cleared them from the transport lists to Aï Stratis. However, the detainees' signing of the notorious ‘declaration of repentance’ (see Chapter 3, pp. 119–125) would have been the more decisive ground for their release. The theatre of Aï Stratis was, therefore, the theatre of the ‘incorrigibles’, who were keen to show what they themselves could make of plays and performances, once the constraints of coercion and compliance had been loosened.

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives (p.52) Tsellos embraced the commune's dual mission of delivering education and entertainment to its members. He also conveyed how practical conditions skewed the choice of material for performance in the remote location of Aï Stratis. Most choices, for instance, were determined by the range of books that the commune was able to procure. Tsellos described the library of Aï Stratis as ‘terribly necessary but dreadfully poorly stocked’ (2002: 48). The books and selected plays still had to pass the censorship rules laid down by the camp authorities, who targeted leftist and progressive content (Floundzis 1986: 79, 82; Tsellos 2002: 86). However, as Tsellos and interviewees were and are always eager to point out, the censors were not educated enough to make informed decisions about books and especially not about books and journals in foreign languages. The guards, too, realized their weaknesses, which prompted erratic acts of paranoia about the printed word (Rodakis 2002a: 14; Tsellos 2002: 48, 86–87). The exiles themselves made handwritten translations of foreign works into Greek. Texts written in a good handwriting offered the advantage of passing censorship more easily, and the inmates also tried submitting the scripts to the most flexible guards at the most opportune moments (Tsellos 2002: 87). The wardens of Aï Stratis attended the performances of the early 1950s and would occasionally be seen applauding at the end of the shows (Tsellos 2002: 87). From 1950 on, the Greek Ministry of Justice also had a hand in exacting censorship, which only led to bad delays in—equally inconsistent—decision making (Rodakis 2002a: 14). The above pertains to censorship in the pre‐performance stage of the play productions. A climate of censorship controlled also the actual performances but was harder to sustain. Another recurring theme in Tsellos's memoir is the generous dose of praise and self‐congratulation especially for the troupe's resourcefulness. Tsellos keeps lauding the ability of the Thiasos to collectively deliver both variety and quality with the most basic means—far fewer means than what the camp officials of Makronisos had bestowed on some of their favourite nationalist plays (Tsellos 2002: 29–30, 39–40, 41, 65, 71, 74–75, 90). This insistence also reveals Tsellos's unspoken tenet: so much devotion had to strip the theatre of Aï Stratis of any allure of untruth, with which it might have been associated by those who saw it as an extension of the theatre on Makronisos. Tsellos wanted the reader to credit the stage of Aï Stratis with starting from a clean slate—and to a large extent it did. Tsellos's record further paints a picture of cultural trends, or fashions, in the entertainment genres (p.53) and, in the later phases, in the wave of Greek and international classics presented on Aï Stratis. This pattern challenges the pattern of the theatre experience on Makronisos, where moralizing and ethno‐ pedagogical plays kept well apace with the entertainment options and the ‘serious’ works. Tsellos insisted that the stage of Aï Stratis was ‘interwoven’ with the life of the exiles there, who also voluntarily kept refurbishing their physical theatre structure, which involved arduous labour (2002: 65, 67–69).

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives When the prisoners of Aï Stratis first took theatre in their own hands, its emphasis shifted to entertainment partly in reaction to their experience on Makronisos, from where they had been transferred. According to Tsellos, cultural activity on Aï Stratis commenced with a small, clandestine Christmas concert in 1950, soon followed by comic skits or events that, in his words, expressed the ‘thirst of the exiles for entertainment’ (2002: 26). By the time of Carnival 1951, the prisoners of Aï Stratis could enjoy their own first full‐blown satirical revue or epitheorisi (Floundzis 1986: 82–83). This genre then became a regular feature, whose success spurred some, including Tsellos, to write their own skits or revues up until 1956, when the camp population had dwindled too far down to keep theatre life viable (Tsellos 2002: 27). Part of the attraction of the epitheorisi was that the genre, by nature, tolerated a certain degree of satirical licence. Many of these shows took a humorous look at the camp conditions and personal annoyances and helped to relieve the stress of the exiles' close coexistence with people whom they had not chosen (Tsellos 2002: 29–30). In other words, the prison turned into theatre. The bulk of the revues from 1951 through 1953 was directed by Kostas Baladimas, a professional actor who specialized in the musical scores and inset songs (Tsellos 2002: 28, 83). Baladimas assumed additional tasks as a stage director after the government released Manos Katrakis (1908–1984) and Tzavalas Karousos (1904–1969), the better known leftist professional actors, by the end of 1951 (Tsellos 2002: 65, 76, 90, 91).27 Also popular on Aï Stratis were Greek ethographic and social comedies (such as those of Psathas) in current editions, which the commune could more easily obtain and pass by the censors (Tsellos 2002: 86–87). (p.54) Another early 1950s phase of popular entertainment consisted of the local and regional dances and songs that the exiles performed. They also managed to either acquire or build a growing number of musical instruments (Tsellos 2002: 35–38). The selection of the ancient Greek plays on Aï Stratis dovetails with a programme of more ‘high‐brow’ stagings of foreign classics, which included some memorable Shakespeare productions. Tzavalas Karousos, the ardent leftist who long aspired to bring quality to broader audiences, opened the ‘programme’ of Aï Stratis with a production of Aeschylus' Persians (September 1951) before turning to Shakespeare.28 He presented The Merchant of Venice as early as November of 1951.29 Karousos preferred to stay with Shakespeare and produced Othello in 1953 (Tsellos 2002: 76, 91). He played the part of the chorus leader in the Persians but assumed the protagonist role in both of Shakespeare's works. Subsequent productions of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, Twelfth Night, and Hamlet may well have taken a more basic form (perhaps that of staged readings) but maintained the legacy that Karousos left on Aï Stratis.30 Among the other classics were adaptations of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment and The Idiot, Ibsen's A Doll's House, and Schiller's William Tell, Intrigue and Love (aka the anti-authoritarian Luisa Miller), and Don Carlos (Floundzis 1986: 80; Tsellos Page 17 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives 2002: 91–92). Baladimas, whose penchant for comedy was strongest, staged several comic dramas of Molière: The Imaginary Invalid, The Bourgeois Gentleman (in Greek: Arhontohoriatis), Tartuffe, and The Miser (Floundzis 1986: 86; Tsellos 2002: 76, 91, 92; Vournas 1983a). The Thiasos also added The Barber of Seville of Beaumarchais to its increasingly impressive repertoire (Tsellos 2002: 91). Among the ‘serious’ modern Greek plays was Vyzantios's Babylonia, which the exiles staged in 1951 under the directorship of Katrakis (Diafonidis 1994: 26; Floundzis 1986: 80, 85; (p.55) Tsellos 2002: 73, 76, 89). Noteworthy, too, on Tsellos's long list are O Vasilikos, The Basil Plant, by Andonios Matesis and an adaptation of Kazantzakis's Captain Mihalis, as well as that staple of prison theatre, Rotas's Rigas (Tsellos 2002: 90–91, 92; Kamarinou 2005: 319). Tsellos claimed that, in the fourth season of the theatre of Aï Stratis (probably 1953– 1954 or even somewhat later), the exiles mounted Prometheus Bound, Oedipus Rex, and Antigone, but there are no traces of substance on any of these productions in other sources (Tsellos 2002: 91). With the above selection of foreign and native classics arose an unprecedented theatrical culture of high quality that would have won acclaim anywhere in Greece. Significantly, the stage directors' committee of Aï Stratis followed the repertoire of established urban theatres, mainly of the National Theatre. It was a factor of pride for the isolated exiles to try to rival the ‘official’ theatre companies of Athens and Thessaloniki (Tsellos 2002: 87). The performers boasted that their shows measured up to the standards set by the professional theatre (e.g., Avdoulos 1998: 300, 302; Efthymiou 1980a: 40). Even though they lacked advanced technological aids, they still produced sets and costumes that would have done credit to any theatre of national standing. Moreover, plays that the National Theatre had recently mounted stood a better chance of being approved by the censors (Tsellos 2002: 86–87). Tsellos's list also reflects the scheduling in consecutive ‘seasons’ that imitates the season structure of the programmes of the established Greek theatres of the time (2002: 89–93). Some of my informants were reluctant to admit to this link, mainly because the National Theatre's reputation was far from being progressive, let alone experimental or radical. Others explained the overlap in repertoires as the exiles' attempt to implement mainstream norms and deadlines for their theatre. While there is truth in all of the above, the missing link appears to be Karousos, whom the National Theatre had hired in 1932, when he was only 28 years old. Karousos had played lead roles in the National's repertoire of classics and especially in its Shakespeare productions (The Merchant of Venice, 1932, 1939, and 1945; Othello, 1933; but also Aeschylus' Persians, 1934 [directed by Fotos Politis]; Bogris's The Betrothal, 1939 and 1944; and Schiller's Luisa Miller, 1942).31 Karousos brought that (p.56) expertise to the theatre of Aï Stratis. He may even have brought along the actual scripts, some of which he had studied in progressive Demotic translations, such as the translations of Shakespeare published by Rotas or those by Alexandros Pallis. Karousos was ready to engage Page 18 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives in stage directing on the island, and his prior experience accounts for many of the choices of plays. The career path of Katrakis was shaped by similar patterns and also by remnants of his love‐hate relationship with the National Theatre. Katrakis performed, for instance, in the same early 1930s Shakespeare productions of the National Theatre as Karousos had done (The Merchant of Venice, 1932, and Othello, 1933), in Bogris's The Betrothal and in The Barber of Seville of Beaumarchais, both of 1936, and in Rondiris's Persians of 1946 (see Chapter 4). Katrakis also played a lead role in the National Theatre's Babylonia of 1932 and in its repeat production of 1947, and then went on to stage the work himself with the exiles of Aï Stratis in 1951. Through his work in northern Greece with the State Theatre of Thessaloniki, Katrakis had also gained firsthand experience of plays such as Rotas's Rigas, Schiller's Luisa Miller, and— again—Vyzantios's Babylonia (Kalaïtzi 2001: 36). The path is less distinct for Baladimas, who appeared in only a couple of roles for the National Theatre. These actors did not just emphasize or polish one or a few favourite roles but, rather, they embraced the challenge of acquiring a multiplicity of stage lives and sociopolitical lives during their terms in exile. The quest for continued training, recognition, and the attending self‐worth on the part of some of the lead actors and directors was, undoubtedly, a concern that dictated many choices of plays on Aï Stratis. The Thiasos's preoccupation with sets, costumes, music, choreography, lights, playbills, seating arrangements, etcetera further reminded the professionals of the better days of the past and helped (p.57) them deal with the anxieties that ensued from the long years of banishment from the regular stage. With fewer male and especially female performers, it became harder for the Thiasos of Aï Stratis to follow the goal of emulating the National Theatre. Tsellos's memoir ends with a poignant reflection on the evolution and quality of the prison theatre that he helped to build, that rose to become the exiles' shared obsession, and that he then saw vanishing by the late 1950s: ‘For us to return to the first season, when men played the female roles, would be as if we were returning to a primitive state, without any hope of anyone being understanding or willing to give it all’ (2002: 93). Here, Tsellos recognized the constructive spectatorship of his fellow prisoners as an active contribution to the success of the commune's theatre. He strongly believed that this theatre defined the lives, entertainment options, the popular education, and also the democratic experience of a forgotten audience. He was excited to see a new Greek theatre and also a new Greek public being shaped. Tsellos was so vested in the cultural activities of Aï Stratis that he never once mentioned sources or incidents of friction in the commune, which could easily have affected the workings of the Thiasos.32 The stage of Aï Stratis presented the best of the community that was performing itself and that was uplifted to discover new working and social relations (including gender relations)—even if some community members, such

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives as Alexandrou, were still excluded. The integrative and democratic forces of theatre still worked somewhat selectively.

Why Did Theatre Work on the Prison Islands? The above overview and constant reminder of the limitations of ‘insular’ theatre beg for nuancing the motivations behind the cultural life of island locales. Quality theatre flourished on Makronisos, (p.58) Trikeri, and Aï Stratis for a variety of reasons, which unified psychological, entertainment, educational, and physical concerns. First, the inmate stage had the drive and the appeal of a political theatre, even though it could not be straightforward, because the administration forbade works with an outspoken political content. Efthymiou recalled a few brushes with the censors of Makronisos (1980a: 42; also Krontiris 2007b: 182–183). Telling was Benas's snapshot of the guard who followed the lines of the Rigas performance in a book copy of the play. Once performances were underway, however, censorship was harder to implement. Some players continued to live life on the edge, but detection of incendiary messages could, at any time, lead to instant and brutal victimization. Audience members, in turn, were reluctant to pay the high price set for provoking a mass protest. Nonetheless, the inmate theatre was a political balancing act and exhibited elements of subtle resistance, mainly because the prisoners let public performance operate according to its own special laws, which the administration could not control (Vrahiotis 2005: 3, 69–70). Even the officers and guards, who were bent on censoring anything subversive, necessarily missed some nudges, gestures, double meanings, or sting messages. They knew that the mass public sat in rapt attention to receive those with prompt and loud applause (Margaris 1980: 38; Raftopoulos 1995: 44; Vrahiotis 2005: 66, 67). Play production is notoriously unpredictable, as is the reaction of a large audience and especially of a repressed audience. Performance time freed the politically silenced actors and spectators, if only for the duration of the show. Even on Makronisos, some incidents of the inmates' unforeseen satire or laughter and unscripted applause at visual or auditory cues undermined the tight control on leftist politics or sympathies. Theatre on the prison islands was a zone of symbolic combat, a political ‘arena’, not of defeat or submission, but of ‘relentless struggle’, after the model of the tragic hero. Grivas concluded that the battle of the stage was ultimately won by the detainees and not by the administration (Grivas 1980a: 33; Vrahiotis 2005: 66). A second reason why theatre ‘worked’ on Makronisos and other prison islands was that it functioned as a platform for education, entertainment, and consolation (Vrahiotis 2005: 11–14, 66). The stage presented a highlight in the exiles' lives of quiet desperation and helped them to keep their sanity, while they remained aware of the illusionistic quality that theatre represents. Prisoner‐ organized theatre that addressed practical and psychological needs was the (p. 59) direct expression of a vision of cultural renewal that the resistance movement had fostered (Apostolopoulou 1984: 42, 58; 1997: passim; Efthymiou Page 20 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives 1980a: 40, 42; Margaris 1980: 38). It was truly uplifting for internees to display their talents at events or in lessons to which their fellow inmates looked forward and that were far from makeshift affairs. Cultural and educational activities restored dignity, individuality, and self‐assertion, no matter what the conditions or outcomes were. Didactic and escapist theatre helped to dispel the institutionalized isolation and segregation from the free community, however briefly. It told of ideals and reasons to survive and forged a collective identity of pride and resilience among the detainees. It trained them in dramatic literature and play production and deepened the process of their self‐discovery. Worn down by brutal treatments and wretched living conditions, some inmates felt that they could retain their sense of humanity by selecting and preparing quality plays, preferably with a sizeable dose of Greek history and myth, ancient or modern (testimonies by Zoe Petropoulou, 22 June 2005, and Nitsa Gavriilidou, 24 June 2005). ‘Performing in prison was testing whether I could still consider myself to be a human being, whether my self‐worth was still strong enough to carry me through’, testified K. S. (31 May 2005). This theatre of self‐ preservation allowed the exiles to construct a memory of themselves as active, creative, and contributing individuals, as sensitive and accessible intellectuals, and as brave and morally superior former combatants of the resistance. The internees could begin to deconstruct the negative labels of ‘antipatriots’, ‘losers’, or ‘the defeated’ of the Civil War, as official commemoration would cast those who had ‘failed’ in their patriotic role. On Makronisos, they did so before a public partly made up of right‐wing power holders and visiting opinion makers. Their stagings were effective examples of theatrical work and theatrical activism converging. Grivas explained the ‘ultimate struggle’ of the Makronisiotes: It will be a struggle to preserve their most basic dignity and self‐respect, a struggle for the preservation of their memory, which equals a people's memory of its most recent battles.…The theatre becomes a drive that they can use to defend themselves. (1980a: 33) Theatre, Grivas asserted, is what kept the flame of the struggle of and about the resistance alive. Theatre restored a semblance of balance and offered a strategy for survival (to use a tired metaphor). His (p.60) characterization typified the Left's concerted effort to equate the recent battle of the Civil War with the struggle of the early 1940s, the celebrated one of the ‘people's fighters’. Repeatedly, left‐wingers and communists reclaimed the glory of the widely supported resistance but remained reticent about their involvement in the Civil War, which threw long shadows over the prior years. Grivas transferred the struggle and the memories of old to the new arena of the prison island, realizing full well what an insular stage it was.

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives In the physical confines of the various island prison locations of the Civil War and afterward, the didactic and consciousness‐raising mission of theatre kept adapting itself to new external conditions: the constituencies of the audience, space, and time became relatively fixed but the repertory of plays changed rather rapidly. The list of plays performed on Makronisos shows that the authorities tried to turn the theatre of solace and enlightenment into an anticommunist propaganda instrument but, in the overall count, did not succeed. Anticommunist stagings, or stagings driven by the regime's animosity, did not necessarily separate politics from self‐expression, or propaganda from entertainment or edification. Makronisos produced several antileftist skits and one‐act plays in addition to many moralistic historical and patriotic plays (such as those of Melas and Bogris). Efthymiou himself staged the full‐blown anticommunist work The Storm (I bora), which was written by Kostis Velmyras and the brothers Aimilios and Theodoros Velimezis (Vrahiotis 2005: 41–43, 67, 107; see also Chapter 2). Many ex‐detainees remember the anticommunist theatricals and recall the pain that they felt at their comrades' ‘betrayal’. They are quick to call all the stage productions of Makronisos acts of ‘collaboration’ or of ‘selling out’ (testimonies by Y. D., 27 May 2005, and M. V., 18 December 2009). We must acknowledge their viewpoint and the rawness of their experiences as well (see Chapter 2). A third and tactical reason contributed to theatre's popularity on the Greek prison islands and has often been overlooked or silenced. Rehearsing a performance, training a cast and a chorus, designing and sewing costumes, building sets, all these activities took up tremendous amounts of time. If, for different reasons, the stage directors and the prison authorities of Makronisos had come to a mutual understanding that producing a play was a good investment of some volunteers' time and energy, then the many hours spent on the necessary and related activities would be hassle‐free and torture‐free. (p. 61) The theatre tended to relax the regulations of the otherwise gruelling days. The volunteers were given a daily break from the excessive and aimless manual labour. A play production was a welcome exercise in collaboration on a worthwhile project. No wonder, then, that theatre and also music, dance, and choir performances grew so popular among the inmates. The more time, training, and people they required, the better. Even the poorly done plays might have attracted and repulsed their audiences at the same time, for giving them something to react to during a few hours of rest. Efthymiou testified that his troupe in its heyday counted more than 50 Makronisiotes, who were granted plenty of time off from the pointless forced labour duties. He recalled how some inmates, lured by the promise of that kind of ‘special treatment’, came to beg him for a part, no matter how minor, in any of his shows (Efthymiou 1980a: 40– 41; Raftopoulos 1995: 44–45). If rehearsal and preparation time spent would still not safeguard the prisoners of Makronisos from torture, then they must have felt empowered by being able—at the very least—to show to an attuned public the Page 22 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives violence done to their bodies. Actors and spectators make physical contact with a play and exploit messages that sting. Theatre feeds off corporeality: it displays bodies. For the camp authorities of Makronisos, these bodies had better be free of recently inflicted bad bruises or injuries, especially before the eyes of official visitors. Which additional reasons then made the exiles turn to ancient Greek drama? There was both risk and safety in the tragic mask or foil of classical theatre. Performers of radicalized classical tragedy could hide, as much as necessary, behind the screen of ‘sacrosanct’ antiquity to pass relevant messages of protest or resistance, in ways similar to their use of the widely acclaimed War of Independence for cover. The texts of classical tragedy allowed directors and players to bypass the censorship rules and to reflect on contemporary political reality with greater immediacy while sustaining the safe distance of the past to confound the guards. The spectators in turn understood much more than the actors could safely say. Also, tragedy's conventional form (or the genre's formalist trappings) afforded more leeway to productions of ancient drama. On a more abstract or symbolic level, actors and artists deployed the tragic characters (sometimes mere references to the tragic characters) as metonymic masks that stood for the original plays and their performances but also for their respect for Greek civilization and cultural patrimony, which they, too, claimed as their own.

(p.62) Conclusion This theatre in the wings, which we must necessarily approach from a critical and reflexive position, engaged in and mirrored acts of patriotism that were embedded in an emerging visual culture and that came with severe consequences, which have, nonetheless, been missed by scholars as well as by the pervasive reach of the history of the Classics, theatre, or nationalism. Although drawing parallels between theatre and revolution or theatre and the ‘theatre of war’ often results in clichés, the performances of ancient drama on the prison islands were decidedly special and are worth examining. We look upon the use of ancient drama, then, as a key to unlock the exiles' thinking about performance and conflict between Left and Right but also as an— overlooked—catalyst for the development of Greek theatre at large. But, more important for the dramaturgical fallout of the Left's creation of an ideological platform, theatre performance started to present itself as an alternative and more democratic discourse of analysis. The performance of the tragic hero, in particular, became a concept that placed aspects of Greek history, politics, and society in new perspectives and that engendered an early phase in the twentieth‐century democratization of the classics, albeit in island enclaves of cultural activity.

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives Play production on Makronisos, in particular, functioned under the ineluctable restrictions of the Right's rhetoric and histrionics, or its projection of—both literal and symbolic—morality plays of ‘good triumphing over evil’. The actors and artists hardly managed to steer clear of the pitfalls of this ‘dramaturgy of virtue’ that, already by the mid‐1940s, no longer spoke to the times and was merely badly dated. Such constraints did not make the task of the players and spectators any easier. Many of the dramatic productions and especially those of the classical tragedies, all of them set in replica ancient theatres, helped to ‘situate Makronisos in the imagined Hellenic national topos and in the ancestral sacred geography’, in the words of Hamilakis (2007: 221). As Chapter 2 will explain next, Makronisos was a stage watched worldwide on which right‐wing rhetoric spoke with theatricality as well as authority—with an attitude. The trend on Aï Stratis of vying with the National Theatre attests to the central role that the exiles there attributed to their stage. For them, the island theatre held—paradoxically—centre stage on a par with the (p.63) theatre establishment of the nation's capital. Whereas the stage of Makronisos ‘enjoyed’ the public spotlight, the Thiasos of Aï Stratis, however, had difficulty shoring up its claim other than by insisting on the superb quality of the work that the actors and artists delivered. Island exile tended to abrogate the conventional categories of person, space, time, and community. The detainees' firm belief in their insular theatre, however, bespeaks their faith in themselves, and performance was highly instrumental in helping them sustain that faith through years of adversity. Tsellos remembered the commune's theatre as the only factor of life that made the hardship of prolonged exile on a remote island not quite as barren as he and the others had feared. Since the Metaxas regime, ‘official’ Greek theatre had been profusely promoted, praised, broadcast over the radio, photographed, and even filmed. The words of the prison island Homers, however, were cast to the waves. Tsellos explained about the exiles of Aï Stratis: ‘These were the last hostages [modern Greek homiroi, όμηροι] of the state’, and their brutal imprisonment was meant to deliver a warning sign to the rest of the Greek population, which the government tried to keep in check (2002: 93). Notes:

(1) On the educational activities organized by the detainees of Averof, see further Kamarinou (2005: 171–182). Barbatsi recalls how, in Averof, she acted in plays such as The Imaginary Invalid and Tartuffe, but she does not attribute them to Molière (2003: 100). She seldom remembers playwrights and relates only titles at best or, more commonly, incidents pertaining to the stagings, such as the paralyzing stage fright that overtook her when the other women insisted that she wear shorts in a play called The Sponge Divers (2003: 101). See also Vervenioti (2003: 169–170).

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives See further Kalaïtzi (2001: 197–202) on the subject of Tsekouras's contemporary comedy, which tells the story of a small island community in which both locals and some shipwrecked Athenians find equality and a better life balance under the demanding circumstances of their isolated existence. Venezis wrote Block C between 10 September and 28 October 1944 (Venezis 1971: 26). Director Pelos Katselis of the Greek National Theatre first produced the play on 5 December 1945, by which time Venezis had started to endorse state conservatism (Panourgia 2009: 234). See further Kalaïtzi (2001: 180–187), who calls the play an early example of Greek poetic realism (2001: 184); Krontiris (2007b: 97); Pefanis (2003: 500, 501, 502, 504, 505–506). (2) See, for instance, Rotas's somewhat contrived critique of the Delphic Festivals of 1927, organized by Eva and Angelos Sikelianos: Van Steen (in press a). (3) See Krontiris (2007b: 181) for details on Efthymiou's professional training and career in theatre prior to his detainment. (4) Little is known about a Sunday theatre that was active in the island prison of Zakynthos. Voglis quotes from a letter written by political detainees and published in the Rizospastis of 8 August 1947: ‘There is also a theater and an elocution class [in the Zakynthos prison]. We have the main theater, where every Sunday there is a play for all prisoners in the central dormitory’ (2004: 152 n. 30). See Baharian (1996: 516–517) for minimal references to Sunday activities on Yiaros and in the prisons of Corfu. (5) See Hatzipandazis on Rotas's Rigas play in five acts, which saw multiple editions (2006: 231–232, 437–438). The Metaxas regime had forbidden productions of Rotas's signature play, which then gained tremendous popularity by the mid‐1940s (Kalaïtzi 2001: 36, 119–120, 160). (6) Constantinidis (2001: 7, 41–43, 44–47, 51, 60, and passim); Hatzipandazis (2006: 231, 425–426); Myrsiades and Myrsiades (1999: 82, 86); Puchner (2000: 149, 167); Vasileiou (2004: 365–366); and Voglis (2002: 170). (7) Rotas's Mesolongi was manipulated by the 1930s governments of the Right and again by the military dictators (Puchner 2000: 156, 215, 217–220). See further Damianakou (n.d.: 10, with reprinted laudatory reviews, 57–59, and multiple official endorsements, 60–62) and Glytzouris (2001: 2:654). (8) Nationalism and patriotism continue to be problematic concepts. Nationalism, which has severed itself today from patriotism, seeks out and invests in a people's common ethnic features. Leontis has pointed out that historical identification with a continuous territory is a core doctrine of nationalist ideologies (1995: 7). This identification held special meaning for the Page 25 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives ethnic Greeks. Patriotism, on the other hand, is often represented as the citizen's love of the (existing) homeland and its institutions, or as the value of loyalty whose moral significance is given in advance. The current aftermath of 9/11 has deeply problematized the very definition and the historical and political underpinnings of patriotism. It may therefore suffice to stress that twenty‐first‐ century classifications do not correspond to the intertwined notions of patriotism and nationalism from around 1820, which attempted to cover political entities ranging from nation‐states to multiethnic empires. We may, however, derive benefit from looking at issues of patriotism and morality from a different perspective, from that of the Greek society in which these issues have been hotly contested for many decades. The negotiations between patriotism and Greek revival tragedy are especially complex. Just as classical theatre was and is often applauded for being classical rather than for delivering good performances, so is patriotism often applauded for its nominal nation‐preserving impetus. See Peckham for discussions of the multiple historical meanings and resonances of patrida, modern Greek for ‘fatherland’ (2001: 1–2, 59, 62–63, 84–85, 146; 2004: 55). Anderson's Imagined Communities (rev. ed. 2006) remains an important text (despite plenty of critique) that crosses over from the formal analysis of nationalism to the study of the cultural as well as the political impact of the state‐building project. Anderson recognizes the negotiations between textual and extra‐textual realities, or between the ‘imagined’ and the ‘real’, in complex ways. (9) Kenna (2001: 77, 91, 96); Myrsiades and Myrsiades (1999: 115, 116); and Tzamaloukas (1975: 72–76). See also Kamarinou (2005: 107–116) on further educational and cultural activities on Anafi. (10) Kalaïtzi (2001: 84–123); Kotzioulas (1976); and Myrsiades and Myrsiades (1999). (11) For a recent study on the extent and power of the propaganda mill of Metaxas, see Petrakis (2006), who devotes special attention to ‘theatre propaganda’ (her chapter 4). See further Panourgia on the position of art under the Metaxas dictatorship (2009: 232–234). On theatre, see Angelis (2006: 94– 101); Hamilakis (2007: chapter 5); and Mahaira (1987: 133). (12) Delveroudi (2003) provides a concise but richly illustrated history of the Greek theatre from 1922 through 1940. Kangelari (2007) follows up by covering the years 1941–1953 in the same series. For an insightful and comprehensive study of Greek theatre of the 1940s in its historical context, see the PhD dissertation of Glykeria Kalaïtzi (2001), who devotes entire chapters and chapter sections to the revue spectacle of the war years and of the euphoria of the liberation, the Theatre of the Mountains, the 1942 foundation of Koun's Art Theatre, the 1940s history of the National Theatre, and the progressive initiatives that newly founded stage companies took by the mid to later 1940s Page 26 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives (such as the—short‐lived—left‐oriented association of the United Artists or Enomenoi Kallitechnes, founded in June of 1945). Missing from these studies, however, is the theatre of the prison islands. (13) On the political stance of Theotokas, see recently Bournazos (2009a: 20). See also Kalaïtzi (2001: 132–133, 136–142, 237–239) on Theotokas's short stint as a progressive general director of the National Theatre (from February 1945 through May 1946). See further Krontiris (2007b: 91–92, 190–191). (14) Metaxas also excluded the famous Funeral Oration of Pericles from school readings of Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War (2.34–47). The dictator did not want the new Hellenic generation to be brought up with the ideals of freedom and democracy as expounded by the ancient Greeks: In the teaching of ancient Greek in the 6th High School grade, omit the funeral oration of Pericles, substituting this with some Platonic dialogue, because the funeral oration, truthfully grand of democratic ideas, may be misunderstood by the students as indirect criticism of the vigorous governmental policy and, in general, of the trend of the present State.… [T]here exists the probability that these pages will produce the same ruinous and disintegrating results that they did during the period of the Peloponnesian War, when they were recited to the unstable populace of Athens by the great Pericles, who presented so brilliantly the victories of democracy to the intellectually unprepared Athenian rabble… This directive that D. Papoulias issued on behalf of Metaxas is quoted and translated by Stavrianos (2000: 673). See also Gkartziou‐Tatti (1999: 219); Hamilakis (2007: 178); Linardatos (1975: 75, in the context of censorship and book burning under Metaxas, 72–78); Melas (1960: 404–411); and Van Steen (2001: 140–141). (15) Metaxas and his reactionary supporters, who extolled the family as an institution closely linked with the very existence of the Greek nation, shared this public hatred of homosexuality with the contemporary fascist regimes of Germany and especially Italy. See further Ebner (2004: chapter 6). It should not be overlooked that, before the outbreak of the Second World War, Metaxas and his government kept close political, economic, academic, and cultural connections with Germany. Metaxas embraced such fascist ideals as civic discipline, military virtue, and heroic self‐sacrifice. He did not live to see Greece invaded by the Germans (April 1941). (16) Bastias is quoted and translated by Petrakis (2006: 122–123), from an original article in the Greek journal Ta Paraskinia, 16 July 1938, 5. (17) On EON, see Angelis (2006); Hamilakis (2007: 179–181); and Petrakis (2006: passim). See Petridis (2000) for a collection of EON's primary texts. Page 27 of 30

Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives (18) Koufou (2008: 300). See Breyianni (1999) and Carabott (2003) for more information on the ideology of the Metaxas regime. (19) See Petrakis on the power of these ideals under Metaxas (2006: 225 n. 172). See further Voglis on the (Christian Orthodox) religious connotations of the government's language and imagery (2002: 76–78). Herzfeld resorts to the term ‘latter‐day secular inquisition’ to characterize the Greek state anticommunism (1997: 118), which was, however, not all that secular. (20) Paparrigopoulos, however, had proposed five eras of Hellenism (the epochs of ancient, Macedonian, Christian, Medieval, and modern Hellenism), but his work has been remembered in terms of three eras. Papailias (2005: 58, 244 n. 28). (21) Hatzipandazis laments that the totality of Melas's dramaturgical work has not been properly valued (2006: 232 n. 7), but he also admits that Melas ‘never abandoned his basic ideological conformism’ (2006: 233). Outmoded products of Melas's ‘conformist zeal’ are the dozen or so ‘little patriotic skits for the school theatre and the radio’ (Melas 1971), in which the heavy hand of the stage director shows (Hatzipandazis 2006: 243). (22) For more on Melas, see Glytzouris (2001: 2:632–635); Hatzipandazis (2006: 232–234, 243); Kastrinaki (2005: 373–375); and Sideris (1999: 35–37, 54–56, 102–105). On Bogris, see Hatzipandazis (2006: 243–244, 245). On the conservative role of the Academy of Athens, see Bournazos (2009a: 19). (23) This three‐act play casts 62 characters but only two female parts. Hatzipandazis (2006: 233–234, 433–435); Petrakis (2006: 139–140); and Vrahiotis (2005: 24–25, 48, 49, 50, 102, 109). (24) See further Angelis (2006: 95); Hamilakis (2007: 185 n. 18); Mahaira (1987: 133 n. 2); Petrakis (2006: 149). Kalaïtzi terms Bogris's work of late 1940 to 1941 ‘polemiki ithografia’, or the type of moralizing Hellenocentric (prose) literature meant to lift the morale of the Greeks who were, at that time, engaged in the national defence against the fascist invaders (2001: 28). See further Hatzipandazis (1981: 1:34) for a definition of the ‘ethographical tendency’ that highlights the author's or playwright's goal to depict the daily life of common people in (typically) traditional rural or provincial settings, while subjecting character portrayal to the more or less moralizing interpretation of the community's social customs and mores. By the 1930s, however, ‘ethography’ (ithografía) was generally in decline, after it saw its heyday in the last two decades of the nineteenth century and in the early twentieth century: Delveroudi (2003: 397). See further Beaton (1999: 73–74), who prefers the term ‘folkloric realism’ to the controversial Greek term.

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives (25) See Floundzis (1986: 68–75), Gkritzonas (2001b), and Kenna (2001) for a longer historical perspective on the Greek prisoners' communes. (26) Tsellos (2002: 28, 55, 59, 76, 83). Throughout the 1950s and early 1960s, the number of exiles on Aï Stratis diminished from an original 3,500 to just a few hundred (Tsellos 2002: 93). Prisoners were released on ‘furlough’ or ‘adeia’, which implied that the right‐wing authorities could also send them back to the island. This did not occur very frequently but it did happen to Nikos Margaris and to Karousos, who promptly rejoined the Thiasos of Aï Stratis upon his return there and directed Shakespeare's Othello in 1953 (Floundzis 1986: 86; Tsellos 2002: 65, 76, 83, 91; Vournas 1983a). (27) See Exarhos (1996: 2.1:299–301) on Baladimas. See Krontiris (2007b: 190– 191) for a brief overview of Karousos's career as a leftist actor and stage manager, who made concerted efforts to bring quality and especially the classics to the Greek countryside of the late 1930s through 1940s. (28) See Kalaïtzi (2001: 257–259) on Karousos's (co‐)founding of the Association for Greek Theatre (Etaireia Ellinikou Theatrou) in June of 1947. The progressive association's aim was to promote works of contemporary Greek dramaturgy but it only lasted until early October of the same year. (29) The play had also been performed on Makronisos earlier on, in May and/or August of 1949. See Apostolopoulou (1997: 203–204); Krontiris (2007b: 180– 181, 184); Mahairas (1999: 331); and Tsellos (2002: 65, 73–74, 88). (30) Tsellos (2002: 91). Karousos published a record of his imprisonment on Yiaros under the military dictatorship, but left (to my knowledge) no published records of his earlier experiences of exile. See Karousos (1974); Panourgia (2009: passim). (31) Exarhos (1996: 2.1:184–186). See also the website of the Digital Archive of the Greek National Theatre at www.nt-archive.gr/plays.aspx (last accessed 30 August 2010). Karousos became the quintessential Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, a comic play in which reconciliation and love supersede conflict and hatred (including anti‐Semitism). Right‐wing extremists tried to physically remove him from the stage of the National Theatre (Kalaïtzi 2001: 133–134, 138). This production of June 1945 was mounted by director Pelos Katselis (under the progressive general directorship of Theotokas) and captured the spirit of the short‐lived period of the National Theatre's artistic renewal and timid attempt at democratization. Therefore, producing The Merchant of Venice and playing Shylock with the ‘freedom’ granted by the prison island of Aï Stratis was, for Karousos, a special act of defiance. See further Kanakis (1999: 49, 58– 60); Krontiris (2007b: 90–98, 101 n. 34, 189, 190–191). The role of Shylock—and

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Selections, Occasions, Origins, and Objectives the entire play—became Karousos's signature part throughout the rest of his career (Krontiris 2007b: 191–193, 202–203). (32) Theatre sustained Tsellos and his friends through their years of exile. The reverse appears true as well: the decline of theatre activity on Aï Stratis signalled a crisis in the internees' self‐confidence. Tsellos remained rather reticent about any performance events after 1958 and through 1962, apart from lamenting the logistical difficulties of covering the parts (2002: 93). The last years of his exile, with constantly decreasing numbers of prisoners, may well have been the hardest.

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ very differently. Contrary to modern expectations and sensibilities, the Antigone production was heavily promoted by the camp administration. The play even saw a repeat performance, which meant that it was not an act of dissidence. The production of the Philoctetes, on the other hand, was curtailed: the records stop short of mentioning the opening performance, which may have been cancelled by the authorities. Thus different scenarios of reception were possible, and the scant allusions do not deliver conclusive certainty. Therefore, this chapter will also examine the complex background scene against which the performances took place, shifting its focus between close analysis of the slim records and the better documented broader context. Each discussion or testimony of either a relevant staging or of an incident illustrating the centrality of performance on Makronisos adds another piece to the mosaic of ‘cultural life’ on an island that, for all intents and purposes, was a horrendous penal colony. The final sections of this chapter draw out the main themes and claims underlying the (p.65) ‘Makronisos phenomenon’. This construct became a moralizing scenario in which the right‐wing regime emplotted its anticommunist actions for the public eye. An exploration of the related discourse—and deception—helps us comprehend the dimensions that rhetoric and political metatheatre added to the classical tragedies performed on Makronisos.

Sophocles' Antigone on Makronisos, 29 August and 6 October 1948 On 29 August 1948, the actors of the Third Battalion opened their production of Sophocles' Antigone, the easily politicized classic with the ultimate tragic heroine (Vrahiotis 2005: 45, 46, 47, 49–50, 69, 109). The Third Battalion was the one that had completed the ‘conversion’ to the nation (Voglis 2002: 102). In fact, most of the theatre performances on Makronisos were undertaken by detainees from the Second and Third Battalion who had repented and had thus chosen—or had been compelled to ‘choose’—a path of compliance with the administration's objectives. The Third Battalion also housed the unit that published the Skapanefs, the journal of the ‘redeemed’ recruits who had become the voice of the regime and who promoted the Antigone production. Mihalis Katsiyeras included a picture (Figure 1) of the 1948 Antigone performance in a two‐volume collection of images that capture the essence of Greece in the twentieth century (2001: 68; originally published in the Skapanefs). This picture shows a beaux‐ arts classicizing set and a carefully posed scene: two guards have arrested Antigone and lead her before Creon. The fabricated symmetries of the quasi‐ architectural elements, of the guards' blocking, and of the elders' groupings dominate. The all‐male cast is wearing lavish, ‘ancient‐style’ costumes that match the highly stylized (but not too sturdy) backdrop. There is an exotic or outlandish quality to this tableau vivant. Exaggerated, too, is the heroine's anguished expression. The elders of the chorus strike baroque poses and try hard to look and act their age. The picture conveys something, however, of the detainees' self‐conscious excitement about dressing up and playing theatre. The

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ 31). This Creon was, in the words of another anonymous reporter, the father figure ‘in whose soul paternal love and duty clash’ and ‘whose tragedy we are all made to feel’ (Skapanefs 12, December 1948, 27). Thus the inmate production cultivated some sympathy for the intransigent Creon, which is not absent from the ancient text, even as it endorsed Antigone's act (testimony by E. S., 17 December 2009).2 The above exchanges reveal that the camp authorities attempted to appropriate the Antigone play: they first allowed the performance and then had ‘reformed’ detainees write about it in laudatory terms, and finally, some five weeks later, they permitted or they themselves organized a repeat performance. These Antigone performances, however, did not encourage the detainees to identify with the heroine to the same extent as the production of the Philoctetes did (see below). The author of a short (p.68) note in the Skapanefs was struck also by the production's heightened conflict between Creon and Haemon, his son and fiancé to Antigone (Skapanefs 12, December 1948, 27). The inmate performance still depicted an ideological and generational clash but brought the male‐to‐male collision into sharper focus. This struggle, which captured the essence of the Civil War conflict, redefined the play and the war as male‐only business. It left an uneasy contradiction between the Left's emancipatory politics and its reinstating of a masculine agonistic model. The publicized interpretation of this Antigone production focused on the men in the mythical clash and on one man's right or victory over the other; it missed important opportunities to explore gender polarities. However, the male‐to‐male collision was more congenial to drawing in the all‐male public of Makronisos. Common awareness about the (missed) potential of the classical tragedy needed time to develop, and this process did not necessarily take place during the actual production but, rather, in conversation and reflection afterward. Thus the exiles' reaction to a play at the time of performance often differed from their later evaluation and reception, when they were better able to distinguish the deeper content from the temporary show. ‘I didn't know what to think of such a production’, confessed former exile P. K. (16 December 2009). ‘I had never seen an ancient play up close’. And he continued: The man playing Antigone would say some pretty outrageous things. Then he, or rather Antigone, would be crushed by the one in charge, Creon, with the guards acting on his every command. To me, the whole play looked more like another lesson in disciplining the unruly. Given how closely we ourselves were being watched, I saw some of my fellow inmates applaud every show of strength of Creon. Wasn't that what we were supposed to do? Yes, Antigone dies and Creon counts his losses. But he goes on living. That seemed to me to be the moral of the story. On a dreadful island where life hangs in the balance, that seemed to me what mattered. I saw before me another version of the indoctrination scenario: get with the Page 4 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ programme, or else…So, of course, we applauded Creon. You wouldn't have wanted to be seen sympathizing with Antigone, not at that moment, not right there. Remember that self‐preservation mattered a great deal to us. Of course, we discussed the production afterward, and some of us, who seemed to know more about the play, were rather appalled at how it had been done, and at how we had reacted to the performance. (p.69) The constraints of watching thought‐provoking scenes under surveillance coloured the recruits' reception of the play—there and then. But both P. K. and others could express their dissatisfaction with the conservative interpretation privately, in trusted company. Thus the production had a more long‐lasting and ultimately beneficial effect. Suspicions of Antigone as an agitator were not unheard of. Menelaos Loundemis described the reaction of his (partly fictional) inmates of ‘Abyss Road Number 0’ to the filming of a performance of Sophocles' Antigone at Cape Sounion, in which theatre and raw reality blended together. For him, this reaction was one of offensive and anticommunist slurs (uttered under the watchful eyes of guards), which also sexually degraded the heroine: Do you hear the language of that little whore [Antigone]! ?…A communist, obviously…. The slut escaped us! The others got a hold of her.…She wheedled him [the chorus leader] into it, the shameless one!…Now she's going on to manipulate the others as well.…Good for you, King [Creon]! You're the one we want!…Look, the little slut still has the nerve to speak back!…All the ones who have sold out must have nine lives!…What an audacity! She is rearing her head again! The little whore has been exposed! Obviously a godless woman. She is even saying so herself.… [King,] go after her! (Loundemis 1972: 340–345) Alexandrou started writing his Antigone play on Makronisos and might have wanted to counter the administration's appropriation of Sophocles' tragedy. His Antigone opens up a path to identification for the leftist exile and restores integrity to the original's reception. Alexandrou's Antigone, however, was never performed on Makronisos. The playwright destroyed the script and only started rewriting the work under the changed circumstances of exile on Aï Stratis. With thinly veiled correspondences, some detainees of Makronisos could still make a left‐wing hero out of this Antigone, as of Philoctetes and Prometheus. Both male tragic heroes hold the promise of a future victory that they live to enjoy, complete with the rewards of exoneration, recognition, and restored memory. But Antigone's death—or that of the ‘martyr’ Rigas—was the other fate looming over the exiles. All three heroes lay claim to the valid defence that they have done no wrong—at least based on modern sensibility and on the selective Page 5 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ interpretation of ‘democratic’ or ‘dissident’ passages from the original texts. All three, too, lend themselves to contestatory interaction on (p.70) stage as they take back heroic personhood and human dignity. The tragic heroes, their myths of bondage, and their protracted sufferings offered multiple emotional and ideological entry points into the minds of the detainees, who recognized their political voice but had to muzzle their reactions. They allowed the prisoners to play at rebellion under the guise of the forms and conventions—and the presumed degree of acceptance—of ancient drama. Classical theatre was a distancing device, a means to bypass the censors by avoiding frontal assaults. In general, the Left shared in a broader movement to transform the (mainly nineteenth‐century) Romanticist heroes Antigone and Prometheus into radical idealists and defined them as oppositional in character: the heroine's function is to oppose, even if the opponent is not always clearly delineated. The target of Antigone's dissidence then becomes subject to many more changes, as does the nature of the causes that she is seen to fight: she no longer fights for the right to bury her dead brother; at stake is her struggle against power abuse and terror that stifle resistance. Such readings, which fail to do justice to the richness of Sophocles' original, lay bare the perils of reducing this and other ancient tragedies to paradigmatically categorized protagonists and to slogan‐like messages. But they may have been just what some prisoners wanted to hear.

The Besieged Free: Sophocles' Philoctetes on Makronisos, Summer 1948 Few ancient tragedies capture the sense of geographical, temporal, and societal dislocation as well as Sophocles' Philoctetes, a prime play with which inmate actors opened up multiple levels of understanding for the spectators of Makronisos. The actors of the Third Battalion who produced the Antigone in the summer of 1948 found more freedom in their rehearsals for a production of the Philoctetes, which was scheduled to open a few weeks later. Lefteris Raftopoulos recalled how moved he was when he heard the Makronisiot Philoctetes lament that fellow Greeks had abandoned him to the loneliness of an inhospitable island (Lemnos) (1995: 46). The production conveyed a strong sense of group cohesion and appealed to inmate solidarity to break the curse of enforced banishment: (p.71)

And it stirred in you an extraordinary emotion to hear Philoctetes speak about his martyr's life on the island of his involuntary exile, as if he was speaking precisely about this island: No sailor comes here of his own free will: there is no harbour…[Sophocles, Philoctetes 301–302] Would you say, however, that it was only the words of Philoctetes that moved you? Or rather also your comrade, the soul and the mind of the troupe, who interpreted the role of Philoctetes? Page 6 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ (Raftopoulos 1995: 46) Sophocles' play became autobiographical when the prisoners became participants as well as spectators and understood their tragic state as the drama of the hero who, in a kind of ‘doublespeak’, commented on the predicament that he shared with his public. Such sensitivity on the part of the audience underscores the heightening of awareness within the prison theatre: fellow inmates expected to find contemporary relevance in the production of the Philoctetes; performers counted on having their pointed remarks and actions caught, interpreted, and appreciated. Sophocles' Philoctetes became a survivor guide that gave a dramatic and interactive expression to the woundedness, physical and mental alike, of a person, family, or community. The (unnamed) actor playing Philoctetes gave voice to the voiceless through the immediacy of his physical embodiment of the lead role. The concrete moral dilemmas uncovered in the ancient original blended with the story of the Left's Civil War legacy and recent history of island confinement. Philoctetes is the model subsister who challenges the group to adhere to the same high moral standards, for the purpose of collective survival and eventual victory. Harsh methods of depersonalizing the hero fail: he remains an exemplum of integrity and defines the concept of tragic heroism anew in—temporary—defeat and isolation. Philoctetes' resilience is the result of a tough personal struggle but is also made dependent on friendships and loyalties in the immediate Greek circles, which may falter under the allure of personal advancement and veer off toward opportunistic company. The hero confronts his interlocutors who vacillate between personal integrity and—purported—public duty. With such capacities, Philoctetes, the vocal victim of a protracted ordeal, was seen as much more of a political firebrand than the—young and female—Antigone. Also, he exposed the Greek leaders' betrayal or the army's abandoning of its heroes. This sentiment struck a chord with many detainees such as Nikos Koundouros who, in later writings, preferred the harsh term of (p.72) ‘revenge’ to that of the ‘resistance’ of the prisoners. In Koundouros's view, the Greek establishment had ‘betrayed’ and ‘abandoned’ the fighters marooned on the islands and had robbed their wartime resistance of its meaning (1980: 36, 37). The rehearsals of Sophocles' Philoctetes helped the inmates to ponder these relations that impacted on both the private and the community levels of their lives in exile. With a drama like the Philoctetes and its complex physical and psychological resonances, ancient theatre on the prison islands took care of its own defence and survival, and did so with the power of spareness. The more the abandoned hero Philoctetes insisted on his stage identity, the more powerful his protest grew for his fellow internees. The protagonist mastered the art of saying things without actually saying them. The public of fellow actors instinctively understood and responded with a show of appreciation, which alleviated the anxiety of the protagonist. The applicability of Philoctetes' words and fate led Raftopoulos to posit the lead actor's uninhibited identification with Page 7 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ the tragic hero, the ‘realness’ of his emotions, and the belief that Lemnos/ Makronisos was a stage fit for a hero, who would find an accepting audience—an audience in the know (testimonies by K. S., 31 May 2005, and Koundouros, 25 June 2005; Vrahiotis 2005: 3, 47, 69). The essence of the selected text remained embedded in the living memory and imagination of the participants. Nonetheless, Raftopoulos's memory is—understandably—somewhat sketchy: he did not name the lead actor. He was unsure whether the modern Greek translation used for this Philoctetes was the one written by Aristos Kambanis (published in 1913; Raftopoulos 1995: 46 n. 30). More significantly, Raftopoulos expressed some doubt as to whether the production saw an actual opening performance or merely advanced rehearsals. The formal opening appears to have been cancelled by the camp authorities.3 That Raftopoulos could no longer be sure may prove that the performance experience was more important and more memorable to him than proper attribution or precise wording. For Raftopoulos, the Philoctetes had become a play about putting on the (p.73) Philoctetes on Makronisos: ‘And you don't remember if in the end the Philoctetes was presented on the stage within the two years that you were in that battalion. Some left; go figure if their replacements could be found. Add to that other changes’ (1995: 46). Raftopoulos did not see the likely ban on an opening performance detract from the collective experience. His emphasis was on the long process of the troupe's communal work and its intense rehearsals. Rehearsals entail performative repetition or constant reiteration, which strengthened the experience for Raftopoulos and others, who perhaps enjoyed the process more than the end result (1995: 46). Maybe, too, Raftopoulos remembered the play most sympathetically precisely because its interpretation was never put to the final test of the actual production in front of hundreds of inmates of the Third Battalion, some of whom were keen to show how well they had learned the lessons of the institution. Raftopoulos cited lines from Philoctetes' explanation to Neoptolemus, Achilles' son, on his lonely condition: because of the stench of a festering wound in his foot, the hero was left behind on Lemnos by the Greek troops, including his own, who continued on their voyage to Troy. Philoctetes was a fighter whose life was held in abeyance because of a gangrenous and foul‐smelling ‘infection’. But miasma was precisely the term that the Right and the monarchy used for the mind's dangerous ‘infection’ by communism, the ‘satanic’ disease that threatened to infect the body of the entire nation and that needed to be extirpated. For the inmate audience, verbal and visual references to Philoctetes' physical condition thus acquired symbolic proportions and reverberated with the prevailing value judgements cast in pseudo‐medical verdicts of illness.4 Philoctetes' myth is about physical sickness that exposes the opposing camp's state of moral rot and, ultimately, about the healing of bodily and psychological wounds, of relationships, and of the community at large. The actors and their public together took a long and in‐depth view on the experience of detention and Page 8 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ (p.74) oppression. For them, the play also touched on the more difficult subjects of internal confusion, festering self‐doubt, the need to rein in anger, and the hope for outside recognition, as the marooned recruits worried about their present and future position in Greek society (testimony by K. S., 31 May 2005). Sophocles' play posits, first, retribution and the reward of justice but, once those goals have been achieved and Neoptolemus has established his trustworthiness, also the prophecy of a cure. After Philoctetes' protracted refusal, the availability of a cure for his emotional as well as physical pain is reiterated by the Sophoclean Heracles (1424, 1437–1438; earlier mentions occur late in the play: 1329–1334, 1345–1346, 1378–1379). This healing entails that the hero will recover his self‐confidence, which will open up the path to his reintegration into Greek society. Up until the play's final rehearsals, the camp authorities might have seen the Philoctetes as serving their agenda, that is, as a tool to resocialize and rehabilitate the leftist prisoners. Philoctetes ‘re‐educates’ himself and Neoptolemus, who has a change of heart and drops any concealed motivations. Together, they achieve one of the most potent reconciliations in all of Greek myth. Significantly, however, in the tense standoff between the Greeks and Philoctetes, Neoptolemus, who represents the younger and more principled generation and who holds the potential to stop the mistreatment of Philoctetes, makes the first move toward reconciliation and recognition on behalf of the long‐ imperious establishment. With its web of dramatic rebounds and turning points, the play held out the exiles' hope that, some day in modern Greece, reconciliation or at least sanity would prevail and also that the resistance movement would be properly acknowledged. On the scale of the nation, dramatic changes of course promised national redemption in addition to the redemption of the formerly deserted individual. Sophocles resorted to the divine intervention of Heracles to bring his tragedy to a rapid and positive conclusion: persuaded by Heracles, the inveterately stubborn Philoctetes at last agrees to leave for the glory and healing that await him at Troy. The camp authorities likely accepted the play's basic premise, because they saw this deus ex machina symbolically lead the reformed recruits to the battlefields of the Civil War: it was crucial for the cause of national security that every leftist Philoctetes (re)join the ranks of the embattled government forces. From a modern dramaturgical and critical point of view, however, the recourse to a deus ex machina is merely a (p.75) semisatisfactory solution, because of the sheer artificiality with which it imposes divine ordinances; it also raises questions about the validity of forced resolutions. The device undermines logical and psychological agency: it derails the cause‐and‐ effect sequence of the protagonists' actions and unnerves the inherent strength of tight character development. Some of these dimensions, however, probably remained opaque to the camp supervisors and censors.

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Sophocles' Philoctetes gave the lead actor the possibility to display a body in anguish and to signify the mutilation and malnourishment that the exiles endured on Makronisos. The hero's frightening and repeated bouts of pain dispelled any illusion of wholeness and consensus. The tragedy depicts Philoctetes wracked with pain in the foot or leg (the same word denotes ‘foot’ and ‘leg’ both in ancient and in modern Greek). Greek torturers tended to beat the victim's feet violently, with techniques practised from the interwar years through the colonels' dictatorship.5 The character of Philoctetes in tattered, bloodied clothes could become a witness to such a torture act. The continuous presence of the hero's gravely wounded body on stage gave the player a means to access the nonvisual order of terror on Makronisos. For lack of any other outlet, illusion helped to project the violent reality of camp life—and death— which the administration argued away as if it was spawned by the recruits' antityrannical clichés (testimony by K. S., 31 May 2005). With all the prisoners' world becoming a stage, corporeality was part and parcel of their production of acute visual representation and wrenching performative language. Sophocles' Philoctetes shows the proud warrior's state of being reduced to crawling on all fours (much like an animal), but also his despair at the thought that his plight might remain unknown: ‘How wretched I am, how hated by the gods, if no word of my plight has reached home or any other part of Greece!’ (Sophocles, Philoctetes 254–256). Philoctetes is a warrior robbed of his kleos or ‘fame’, which he could have been earning in the siege of Troy. As long as he remains confined on Lemnos, he misses out on any and every opportunity to win kleos on the battlefield, which he considers to be a severe additional punishment. The young recruit on Makronisos had similarly been physically removed from the Greek army: he was a potential (p.76) fighter whose ‘trustworthiness’ as a soldier was being tested; he had also become socially isolated from the Greek public space. Yet he was seen to engage in a contest of wills to restore especially his military reputation. In the summer of 1948, the Civil War was still raging and the internees of Makronisos were unable to fight, on either front. Like right‐wing nationalism, leftist militancy, too, was concerned with fashioning its own image of the brave Greek soldier. The degrading process of animalizing or dehumanizing Philoctetes started with Odysseus' opening statement: ‘No mortal man steps here—let alone lives here’ (Sophocles, Philoctetes 2).6 Odysseus knows well that his claim is false since he himself abandoned Philoctetes on Lemnos. His statement, however, suggests that he sees Philoctetes as lower than a human being, as a man of an erased existence. Thus the play focuses on falsehood versus truth in words, on the breakdown of trust in relations, and on a reality of mistreatment that is constantly being performed and reperformed. It is precisely the notorious ‘lie’ of the ‘Makronisos phenomenon’ that deserves further attention in the subsequent sections of this chapter. Falsehood and distrust are at the core also of Alexandrou's Antigone. However, as Raftopoulos's opening quotation on the Page 10 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Philoctetes indicated, the lead actor's emotive force posited a language of truth and solidarity. Philoctetes' ferocious struggle was, like that of the exiles, aimed at restoring his humanity and at becoming a new social, political, and military body.

Makronisos: Place, Time, and Theatrics on No Man's Island Where did the detainees of Makronisos produce their plays? Who took the initiative and how many watched? How was such an initiative even possible in a punitive environment? How did the exiles' experience affect living memory? These are some of the questions that the remaining sections of this chapter will attempt to answer. Recent records have painted a picture of the detainees on Makronisos (p.77) performing as much for and with each other as those on Trikeri or Aï Stratis, to find purpose, strength, and solace in play producing, regardless of who or how many would attend. This is not the whole story, however, and the following chapter sections add some basic facts, corrections, and distinctions; they analyse wider issues of prison theatre and performativity and broaden the rhetorical and metatheatrical subtext. On two of the hill slopes of Makronisos, the recruits built a total of four large outdoor theatres, after the model of the ancient Greek open‐air theatre. They used stone for the official, ‘show’ theatres, or those that were constructed with the approval or under the instigation of the regime (Vrahiotis 2005: 13, 16–21, 53, 66, 69–70). They built with mortar, however, a smaller theatre that they favoured as their own. Stone was associated with the internees' forced labour (Hamilakis 2007: 228; Panourgia 2009: 93). Tasos Daniil, the architect of the outdoor theatre of mortar, emphasized that only volunteer labour was used and that his theatre was an ‘expression of ourselves’ (testimony quoted by Bournazos and Sakellaropoulos 2000: 265). Daniil further reflected on how drama production fulfilled a basic need: It indicated that, at the worst moments, the Greek people brought also their cultural needs along.…And, of course, the plays we staged at this little theatre had no connection at all with the administration's wishes or programmes or with its oppressive violation of our personal dignity. On the contrary, they were a manifestation of resistance and elevation. (2000: 265) Given the large numbers held on Makronisos, the audiences there were usually very substantial and numbered up to 6,000 people (according to Efthymiou 1980a: 40). The steady flow of recruits to Makronisos gives a new meaning to the modern Greek word for ‘the public’, to koino (literally, ‘the common’), in that both performing and watching were part of a ‘shared’ mass experience. But this was not necessarily a ‘free’ experience, or an expression of freedom. The detainees' desire to play and to be recognized for their act's performativity manifested itself in ways that were not simply definitive but generative— Page 11 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ theatrically spoken. As subjects of the guards' gaze, the prisoners suffered various kinds of psychological and physical humiliations offstage. Meanwhile, the authorities kept fooling outsiders such as the many visitors from Athens and abroad: these onlookers were trumped into seeing the illusion of stage freedom as a measure of (p.78) the real interaction between inmates and prison personnel. During performances, the stage was as much the site of the exiles' coerced erasure of their actual common experience as it was the platform on which they could reveal at least some reality behind the mask of theatrical make‐belief. Theatre on Makronisos involved a complex exchange of gazes and cultivated an active and multi‐eyed public. The actors watched those who were watching them and watched themselves. The inmate spectators followed the action on stage, kept an eye out for the guards, and scrutinized the overall turnout of recruits, most of whom were obliged to appear in the theatre. The impassioned cheering of certain words was an active instrument of audience participation, as were whispers, rumblings, or gestures. They were ways for the powerless to exert power. The public's seating area was a thickly packed space but it was not an entirely regimented space. The more engaged or ‘unruly’ the spectators were, the more they became impulsive or spontaneous theatre for the prison staff. The wardens watched the cast while they controlled the detainees; they saw performers and spectators but, in them, they saw firebrands and possible wirepullers and kept on guard against their acts and antics. They observed especially those who were ‘too talented for their own good’ and whose reciprocal gaze had more of an agent's monitoring of the guard. Benas's testimony captured the image of a warden who could not bear the pressure of the gaze that the actors (re)turned on him when they made a powerful line strike home (quoted in Chapter 1 above, pp. 38–39). Showtime reminded the guards that they, too, were interned on the island and were not shielded from their subjects' watchful gaze—or from acts of harassment or sabotage against the much‐hated apparatus of enforcement. Occasionally, the guards too buckled under the psychological strain. The top administrators were triply viewed: by the actors on stage, by the audience from the seating areas, and by the guards worried about retaliation from above against their moments of weakness. Theatre was the one place where inmates could momentarily fluster their supervisors, and where prison personnel and top officials might find themselves temporarily powerless. But all parties knew that challenging the administration's authority, especially before an external audience of visitors, could have the direst of consequences (testimonies by Koundouros, 25 June 2005, and P. T., 2 June 2005). What then did the camp supervisors have to gain from granting the production of plays? Entertaining one's subjects to distract them from (p.79) injustice and terror has been a strategy employed by many power holders. More purposefully, however, the theatre on Makronisos had to function as a showcase theatre. The officials let it exist and encouraged the production of ‘serious’ plays, even Page 12 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ though they had no plan for a general repertory of classics, to be able to show off the recruits' ‘progress’ on the path to ‘re‐education’, ‘conversion’, and ‘rebirth’.7 What better stage on which to display the ‘success’ of the rehabilitation act than the stage of theatre itself! A ‘civilized’ or ‘sacred’ theatre for outsiders to see and admire invested the camp administrators with gravitas and authority. Ancient tragedy lent the best cover of civility: it helped to paint the picture of cultural unanimity and patriotic loyalty that the government wanted to disseminate. Thus both the Right and the Left could agree on producing ancient drama and other classics; they could find middle ground when selecting the plays, but their views parted ways on the chosen works' interpretation and reception. Depending on the circumstances, the official call or support for classical plays created a moral dilemma for some detainees, who worried that they might compromise their integrity (Koundouros 1980: 36–37). But if individual directors or actors needed to engage in a modest degree of collaboration to survive, their act of saving themselves through performance was the one that was the least morally offensive: they could mount highly valued tragedy, balance or alternate it with much‐desired entertainment, and thus reach out to so many fellow prisoners who stood to gain from the overall practice. Also, even those who worked with the visible support of the camp wardens could still not—or especially not—afford to cross their path. More than the spectators, who could somehow disappear in the crowds or seek strength in numbers, the actors came face to face with the guards and supervisors (testimonies by Koundouros, 25 June 2005, and P. T., 2 June 2005; Vrahiotis 2005: 66, 70). The authorities' spatial focus on the stage, too, differed from the democratizing effect associated with the architecture and the natural setting of the large outdoor theatres of antiquity. In the official conception, or the bird's eye perspective of spatial hierarchy, the theatre stage was to enact top‐down power relations: the guards held a secure and superior position above or on the sides of the (p.80) hollow seating area; the special, reserved seats had the best, undistracted view and were themselves clearly visible; the actors on stage appeared small, indeed (testimony by P. T., 2 June 2005). The physical space and its configuration at showtime helped the authorities to display where victor and victim ranked—always a useful exercise in discipline. The spatial order and the exact time were fixed by those who feared that any protest might escalate at the first mass occasion. The officials hoped to turn theatre into a theatre, not of disturbance, but of reassurance and affirmation, in which undercurrents of conservative patriotism, morality, and religion could flow together. The condemned became protagonists in their own—publicized—drama when the administration turned them into live advertisement for the project Makronisos— in the sinister double meaning of ‘live’, that is, happening there and then and performed by those still alive.

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ The government frequently invited an outside public of Greek and foreign opinion makers to take a passage to Makronisos, its show island. Such group visits were widely announced as ‘inspection’ visits. This advance notice, of course, defeated the purpose of real inspection. The local prison authorities tried hard to reassure the visitors of the humanity of the camp and honoured them by inviting them to an inmate performance of, preferably, a classical concert or play. Stavros Avdoulos called the administrators of Makronisos ‘the most talented theatre directors’, who spent days preparing the showcase events (1998: 197). It took a particular kind of brutality to stage concerts and theatre acts side by side with punishments and torture acts, or to create a façade of humane treatment of the recruits that was nothing more than a fabrication.8 Among the detainees, it created the false perception of a sense of freedom, and especially of intellectual freedom—the lack of which had landed many of the inmates on Makronisos in the first place. The subterfuge or front that the prison wardens put up through theatre and behind which they concealed the (p.81) horrid conditions in which they kept the recruits worked for some time. Conservative Greek intellectuals and artists, high‐ranking politicians and military personnel, academics, journalists, clergymen, students and their teachers, delegates, and also foreign correspondents made the Sunday trip to the island. In reality, however, they went as political voyeurs whose return trip was always securely booked. As planned, they left very satisfied, both morally and intellectually, because they had seen, with their very own eyes, that the ‘national re‐education project’ of Makronisos was working. Most uncritically, they sang the praises of the authorities' ‘admirable’ and ‘Christian’ work with their ‘unruly’ or ‘stubborn’ human material. They noted the ‘success’ of the ‘Makronisos phenomenon’ in fostering patriotism—a patriotism that, they knew well, was made of pro‐ government and pro‐Western sympathies.9 Nikos Koundouros, who became one of Greece's renowned new‐wave filmmakers, spent three years (1949–1952) as a political prisoner on Makronisos. When Nikos Efthymiou was released in 1950, Koundouros took over as stage director of the Second Battalion (testimony by Koundouros, 27 June 2005). The administration banned Koundouros's production of The Poor Man's Sheep, a political tragicomedy that attacks the arbitrariness of power and that was written by Stefan Zweig (Vrahiotis 2005: 43). Koundouros managed to see through, however, some productions of lesser known Greek satirical plays: The Trojan War, by Yiannakopoulos and Sakellarios, and The Capital Dweller, by Yiorgos Roussos, both performed in 1950 (Vrahiotis 2005: 43, 108). More important than the actual productions, however, was Koundouros's discovery of the lead comic actor, Thanasis Vengos. The tenor of Vengos's humour proved infectious, (p.82) and it remains one of the few bittersweet memories of many inmates. The theatre of Makronisos forged a lasting bond between Koundouros and Vengos and launched the latter's long career as one of Greece's most

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ beloved comic actors (testimony by Koundouros, 25 June 2005; see Chapter 1, p. 35). Koundouros dubbed the government's favourite island for public relations a ‘stage of eleven kilometres long’ and used this poignant characterization to entitle the article that he contributed to Grivas's special issue (1980). With a keen eye for hypocrisy, he described the political metatheatre of Makronisos as follows: In reality, there were two Makronisos islands. The one was hell and the other looked like a strange, well‐kept camp of happy people.…Silently, they watched the visitors with their eyes red and puffy from the dust. From time to time, a voice shouted something like a slogan and the silent mass reacted with three loud cries, ‘hail, hail, hail’, which the ravines echoed for a while. The visitors applauded. This was the stage of a theatre in its own right, which no theatre history has ever recorded: harsh, direct, political, absurd, surrealist, each genre separately and all together in a climate of paranoia that tied actors and spectators together in a mystical understanding. All knew what ‘play’ was being performed and all pretended not to know. Following the rules of the stage direction, both parties had to act as if they were improvising and reacting spontaneously. …Among them [the visitors] were inspectors of the Red Cross, foreign ambassadors, journalists, and other select observers of the worldwide public opinion. The deception was organized perfectly; the production ended with applause, and…the happy camping returned to its role of an indoctrination camp. The one and only true role of the theatre on Makronisos was to make the outside world see this image of the ‘modern school for re‐education’, the ‘font of Siloam’, the ‘new Parthenon’, as Panayiotis Kanellopoulos had baptized the camp of the Devil. (1980: 35, 36) Koundouros captured various levels of the metaphorical speech that constituted a particularly hurtful part of the dense propaganda that ruled Makronisos: politicians, journalists, public intellectuals, and priests all helped to conceal a reality of violence and entrenched around the ideal of patriotism, which they used to uphold an unconditional and semireligious consensus. Koundouros's choice of words conveyed not only his cynicism, but also his profound understanding of the rhetorical and metatheatrical acts that played out on (p. 83) the political stage that was Makronisos. He mentioned three of the island's common titles that tied together its moral‐didactic, religious, and ultra‐ nationalist connotations. First, conservative officials referred to Makronisos as a ‘school’ or even a ‘university’ (testimonies quoted by Hamilakis 2007: 214, 232; Page 15 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Voglis 2002: 84, 104, 185). According to Bournazos, the didactic imagery dominated the propaganda and symbolic statements regarding Makronisos— hence the title of his important article, ‘The “Great National School of Makronisos” ’.10 The right‐wing government of the early 1950s took ‘appeasement measures’ and decongested the prisons partly because they had become schools but, ironically, schools of ‘subversive ideas’ (official testimony quoted by Voglis 2002: 224). By 1947, EAM, which had previously worked for national liberation and the ‘vague’ ideal of laokratia (‘people's rule’), called on its supporters to fight for a ‘free people's republic’, that is, to become communists of the party line, and this appeal permeated and ‘schooled’ the ranks of imprisoned leftists (Voglis 2004: 154). Second, Greek conservatives promoted Makronisos with the title of the ‘National Baptismal Font’ (Leontis 1995: 221; Loundemis 1972: 167, 170). One of the clergymen who regularly preached on the island compared the camp to the Pool of Siloam, in which young, ‘misguided’ Greeks would be absolved from their political sins and would be ‘redeemed’ and (re)baptized into the ‘right’ Christian and patriotic values (Hamilakis 2007: 214; Lazaris 2003: 725; Voglis 2002: 77). The reference is a biblical one, to John 9:7, in which Jesus tells a blind man to go and wash in the Pool of Siloam. Like the blind man who returns cleansed and with his eyesight restored, the detainees would be ‘cleansed’ and would ‘see the light’ again. Third, Panayiotis Kanellopoulos, the then Minister for Military Affairs, called Makronisos the ‘New Parthenon’ but later denied having used that term.11 This meant that antiquity's quintessential grand monument, the Parthenon, was used as the highest standard of comparison for the work that the Greek government was accomplishing on Makronisos and that the luminaries of the (p.84) time came to see.12 The exiles of Makronisos, on the other hand, referred to the island as ‘the cemetery’ or ‘the insane asylum’ (Gavriilidou 2004: 79). As much as Koundouros understood the theatre of Makronisos to be an ‘instrument of deception and propaganda’, he saw it function also as a ‘legitimate’ platform on which the inmates could voice at least some protest and call for a spectatorial performance or reaction (1980: 36). He observed that the prisoners, in turn, devised their own rhetoric or even a ‘second’ language, in which they signalled messages to each other when performing on stage under the gaze of officials (1980: 37). ‘Thus’, he continued, ‘very slowly, we developed a technique that would allow us to perform two plays simultaneously: the one loud and clear, direct, entertaining; the other furtive, indirect, full of hints’ (1980: 37; also Margaris 1980: 38). Marika Kotopouli (1887–1954), the renowned Greek tragic actress and entrepreneurial stage manager, was one of the visitors and delegates who had come to praise the government's work on Makronisos: the diva ‘graced with her presence’ the inauguration of the new outdoor theatre of the Second Battalion (Margaris 1966: 2:250; Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 27). Koundouros described how she took to the stage to deliver a laudatory speech, how she acted and was Page 16 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ drawn into the official act at the same time (1980: 36–37). For all her knowledge of tragedy, the older actress failed to recognize the tragedy that was Makronisos. Kotopouli was, however, a monarchist and staunch conservative. Her public appreciation of the government's ‘exemplary’ work was not the kind of praise that would have insinuated that the opposite held true. Kotopouli may have been all too willing to be fooled, Koundouros pondered: when all eyes were on her, she may have chosen to pretend that she failed to see the truth, so that she would not have to show any colours or face up to the ugly reality (1980: 36). The experienced actress was probably better than anyone else at feigning the total absence of doubt, at hiding what she was really thinking. She may have opted for the safety of the stage mask or (p.85) persona when the metaphorical spotlight threatened to reveal wrinkles in her reputation, expertise, or conscience. Reflecting back on Kotopouli's performance before an audience of about 4,000 male prisoners dressed in dirty clothes on a wind‐swept island, Koundouros concluded: ‘Who knows where the actress in her stopped and where the ethnikófron prevailed at that very moment’ (1980: 36; also Grivas 1980: 32). The loaded term ethnikofrosyni (εθνικοϕροσύνη) captured the Right's paranoia about communism but translated it into nationalist patriotism. For the purposes of moral self‐justification, state anticommunism cleverly used terms derived from classical Greek, such as ethnikofrosyni, which was modelled after the word for the ancient virtue of sofrosyni (σωϕροσύνη). The classical terms were intellectual in origin but had developed moral connotations already in antiquity: therefore, the lack of ‘sound sense’ and any concomitant error could denote ‘shameful’ behaviour that was also morally reprehensible. The Right conceptualized leftist dissidence as a crime not only against the state, or the ‘family’ or genos of the nation, but also against time‐hallowed tradition—key themes that this chapter will revisit below (Voglis 2002: 24–26). In light of the government's exclusive claim to sofrosyni and the nationalist patriotism of the ethnikófron, Koundouros cynically called the camp of Makronisos a sofronistírio (1980: 35), in a pun on the Greek frondistírio, or (privately‐run) cramming school, and on the island's title of anamorfotírio, or school of ‘reform’ or ‘rehabilitation’.13 These terms, and ethnikófron in particular, placed the emphasis more on thought than on actions, and they found their counterpart in suspicions of communist thinking or sympathy as much as of communist activity. There was no word from the Greek Left's side to counter or balance precisely this term, but the battle of naming and (re)presenting continued, even though at times it seemed won by the Right. (p.86) In an interview dating back to August of 1949, Kotopouli affirmed that, for her, there was only ‘fatherland and theatre’, that classical tragedy bolstered national pride, and that the ‘present‐day Greek exploits, the spiritual and the war‐related exploits’ should proudly be displayed to the people. Kotopouli gave the interview to the conservative Petros Haris at the momentous time when the Civil War was drawing to a close. The immediate occasion, however, was the Page 17 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ National Theatre's upcoming Oresteia production of 7 September 1949, in which Kotopouli played the part of Clytemnestra, one of the last major roles of her career (Exarhos 1995: 1:153). Some called this production, directed by Dimitris Rondiris, the ‘personal triumph’ of Kotopouli, who performed in the presence of King Paul at the Herodes Atticus Theatre.14 The critic Haris envisioned the Oresteia production of September 1949 as a symbol of ‘Greek unity, for the whole world to see’, which held the promise of broadcasting the ‘genuinely Greek’ approach to ancient drama (1949: 1094, 1097).15 Kotopouli herself spoke as the consummate actress who knew her classics and did not mince her words when putting antiquity on display. She played the role of an ancient priestess, as it were, officiating at a mystery, the ‘Makronisos phenomenon’, and demanded sacrifice—enough to leave Koundouros apprehensive for many years. Kotopouli had few qualms about acting as the conscience of the established Greek theatre world—even as the nation incarnate: for the national tragedienne, what served the interests of the Greek government served the interests of the fatherland. Her testimony confirmed her traditionalist and nationalist conception of ancient drama, the staging of which she regarded as a ‘national cause’. Koundouros's record of Kotopouli's visit to Makronisos is corroborated by an article signed by ‘K. S—s.’ in the conservative Kathimerini of 17 May 1949, titled ‘The Inauguration of the Theatre of Makronisos’. In the words of the reporter for the Kathimerini, the (p.87) new theatre was built on the island's ‘most picturesque’ spot. Kotopouli praised the ‘great national work of Makronisos’ and addressed ‘warm patriotic words’ to the detainees, with which she sent ‘shivers of emotion’ through her ‘enraptured’ audience. Her speech was received with a long, ‘riveting applause’.16 The centrepiece of the (p.88) celebration, however, was a classical music concert given by talented recruits and also the recitation of poetry ‘inspired by life on Makronisos’. Efthymiou's list notes the performance of classical music on 15 May 1949 but makes no mention of the poetry recitation (1980b). Considering the weight of the occasion, the aura of the visitor, and the fixed nontopic, this performance of blissful order must have been highly rhetorical. The May 1949 article is featured in a newspaper column adjacent to an official report on the Greek army's advances against the communists: ‘Battles That Leave Many Dead on the Mainland and in Vitsi’. The majority of the casualties, the report emphasizes, had fallen on the communist side. The Greek government was keen on attracting influential foreign supporters and, in particular, the British and the Americans. It scored big hits when the BBC came out to film the Makronisos camp in April of 1949 and again when the National Geographic devoted a December 1949 photo‐reportage to postwar Greece and the island. Author of the article and reportage was Maynard Owen Williams, who waxed in lyrical terms and biblical allusions about the ‘Greek experiment in regeneration’ and about local army officers ‘play[ing] the role of the good shepherd’ (1949: 711). There was certainly more to that ‘role playing’ than Williams could have known—or wanted to see. He patronizingly contended Page 18 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ religion, and family, or (the tyranny of) the paradigm of the Orthodox nation as a unified family (see Chapter 1, p. 46). This right‐wing rhetoric of the fascist stamp supported the ideologically and religiously charged conflation of state, tradition, and family, and it placed a tremendous burden on some common terms, bywords, and older images. However, this rhetoric was bound to lose some of its effect through tireless overuse and inconsistency and to ring hollow or ‘acted’ in the ears of its opponents. Koundouros spoke of words that had been tainted or ‘corrupted’: ‘fatherland’, ‘debt’, and ‘Greeks’ (1980: 37). When Queen Frederica made her well‐publicized visit to Makronisos, she was hailed as the ‘mother’ of the ‘stray children’, the once ‘lost’ but now ‘redeemed sons’ of Greece, who had partaken of their country's ‘mercy’ and ‘forgiveness’ and had been ‘pardoned’, ‘saved’, and brought back to the ‘fold’, to the ‘bosom’ of the ‘motherland’.18 A similar nurturing but essentially homogenizing role was attributed to the Orthodox ‘Mother Church’ (Bournazos 2009a: 27, 29–30). The state's language on these issues, permeated by the ubiquitous prefix anti (andi), drew on the concepts and imagery of a religious confession or (re)conversion that, like a (re)baptism, had to be a public spectacle. The conversion narrative transformed so‐called ‘antinationals’ or ‘non‐Greeks’ into ‘born again’, ‘truly patriotic Greeks’. The official rhetoric told of the individual's fall‐and‐rise and added the coda of a future ‘happy ending’. By promising—and advertising—a happy ending, the government's message was that even the victims of the Soviet and Slav agitation would be given a chance to rebuild their lives in the camps. Meanwhile, the regime (p.91) used and abused the ‘repenters’ in its degrading and demoralizing propaganda machinery, part of which was scripted on the classics: it paraded them as ‘the misguided who had finally seen the truth’—that is, the Right's truth, which charged communism with antipatriotic and antireligious conniving and vilified it as the pawn of Muscovite Russia, the godless arch‐enemy (Voglis 2002: 76). Certain speech acts characteristic of Makronisos invoked another time, space, or reality and became forms of aggression. The slogans with which the internees had to adorn the hill slopes of the island were more for external than for internal consumption. They had to attest to the fictitious rule of national consensus on Makronisos.19 Many slogans were of classical origin or were written in English so that the foreign visitors could understand them (Avdoulos 1998: 198). The scheme worked: in his National Geographic article, Williams, for one, mentioned some patriotic slogans plastered in whitewash that he noticed immediately upon disembarking in the little harbour of Makronisos (1949: 711, 744).20 The rhetoric of power invoked not (p.92) only the slogans but also the euphemisms of evasion and denial of the true conditions of internment, such as the offensive references to internal exiles as ‘having a good time’ on their ‘holiday’ or ‘excursion’ to an island where they were being pampered with leisure and entertainment. Other false characterizations, too, had to make the repressive practices sound reasonable or civilized: from ‘pacification’ of the recruits to Page 20 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ their ‘immunity’ or ‘exemption’ from military service at the front (Bournazos 1998: 206, 218). Many ‘redeemed’ inmates were expected to write pieces for publication in the Makronisos newspapers: they dished out the same slogans, confessions of political betrayal, tracts repudiating communism, and other articles echoing the official line.21 Copies of the main journal of Makronisos, the Skapanefs, were shipped off to the outside world. Makronisos's radio station was used for purposes of indoctrination as well and featured, for instance, short moralizing skits written by some of the contributors to the Skapanefs (Lazaris 2003: 715– 716; Vrahiotis 2005: 14, 22, 53, 71). Several of these skits teach that the successfully reformed Makronisiot, who distinguishes himself on the battlefield by killing many Greek communists, gets the girl of his dreams! (Skapanefs 7, July 1948, 12–13; 9, September 1948, 13; 10, October 1948, 13; 13, January 1949, 13). The stigma attached to (p.93) engaging in hideous acts of self‐ flagellation and to playing along in the inexhaustible show of anticommunist rhetoric left huge psychological burdens on the reformed detainees. It also resulted in confused or hostile social dynamics on Makronisos, because political allegiances among its extremely diverse body of recruits tended to slip or shift.22 A peculiar piece of rhetoric is a Greek‐language booklet of some ninety pages, titled The Truth about Makronisos and published in Athens by ‘redeemed’ members and veterans of the Second Battalion.23 The names of Zoannos and Sarris (without first names) appear as narrators and general editors of the booklet, which presents many testimonies and letters related to life and work on Makronisos. The editors highlight the detainees' sports activities, religious celebrations, and artistic achievements—all practices that had to evoke a climate of freedom and well‐being. The booklet is loosely structured as a guided sightseeing tour of the facilities of the Second Battalion, as if they constituted an open‐air exhibit, in which the authors comment in the most laudatory terms on the monuments erected by the battalionists. The praise of the camp authorities is sickening, also given the timing of the booklet's publication: it was published in March of 1950, when the Civil War had come to an unofficial close but when the camp of Makronisos was still being used for purposes of rehabilitation. Also, the episodes of mistreatment of the women on Makronisos had taken place in the weeks prior to the book's publication date (Mavroeidi‐Pandeleskou 1995: 285–288, 326–327). From late 1949 on, international press revelations had started to discredit the project (p.94) Makronisos, which made the Greek government up the ante of propaganda.24 One of the letters eulogizing the work of Yeorgios Tzanetatos, the administrator of the Second Battalion (from 17 February 1948 on; Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 16), is written by Nikos Efthymiou, who directed a sequence of theatre plays on Makronisos from 1948 through 1949. Efthymiou led the troupe of the Second Battalion from the Easter 1948 production of The Sacrifice of Abraham on Page 21 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ through the end of 1949, or through the months of his detention on the island (Efthymiou 1980a: 40, 41; 1980b; see also Chapter 1, pp. 33–35). The Second Battalion consisted of those who had renounced communism and had achieved an acceptable degree of ‘national conviction’ (ethnikofrosyni) but not yet the level of the members of the Third Battalion, who had completed the course (Voglis 2002: 101). Therefore, recruits of the Second Battalion were left to feel that they still had to ‘try harder’. This may explain abominations such as the publication by Zoannos and Sarris, but also Efthymiou's staging of the anticommunist play, The Storm (I Bora; see Chapter 1, p. 60 and below). Efthymiou wrote his letter to Tzanetatos in Athens and dated it 29 December 1949. He had been released two months earlier and likely on 30 October 1949, or within hours after his last performance of The Storm. His letter reads much like a schoolboy's Christmas letter to a father or godfather: You [Tzanetatos] made us see You as a father and our big friend, and our Battalion as something of our own.…I remember those days and what all You did for us to live in a Christian atmosphere…Full of love…, You gathered us around You, You made us feel the true love of Christ.… You took us by the hand and walked us to the church of God (as when we were little and our parents took us) and…You filled our souls with a pure belief, You made us good again. And we…started singing Christmas carols again, we received the gifts from Your hand…, in one word, we felt that Christ was being reborn in our souls. (Efthymiou's letter is published by Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 11) (p.95) Focusing on the self‐infantilizing tenor of Efthymiou's letter may not be the most productive way to approach this and other documents, which were prominently featured in the booklet by Zoannos and Sarris, for the Greek‐ speaking world to see. However, Efthymiou's image of the wayward child that redeems itself on Christmas Day and that may sing carols again and receive presents, does shed light on how he saw his theatre initiatives: as acts of redemption meant to bring himself, his actors, and his audiences back to the fold of the ‘forgiving’ and ‘generous’ Christian Greek nation as a family. If Efthymiou's statements disappoint us, we must ask ourselves if we had not a priori decided that we would find the notion of a kind of prolonged ‘spiritual resistance’ particularly attractive. We cannot make damaging judgements about Efthymiou, however, without also asking which pressures continued to haunt him even after his release, to have him engage in flattery ad nauseam but, more significantly, to have him publicly negate his personal history and his identity as an artist and intellectual. In an act of collaboration, Efthymiou produced The Storm, written by Kostis Velmyras and the brothers Velimezis, to which Zoannos and Sarris made repeated references and which they used to decry the ‘storm of communism’.25 Page 22 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ This anticommunist play was likely written in 1928 but was heavily promoted under the dictatorship of Metaxas. On Makronisos, the work saw performances on 23 and 30 October 1949. The latter performance of The Storm took place with many visitors in attendance, including the author Velmyras himself (Zoannos‐ Sarris 1950: 11, 64). The journalist Angelos Metaxas of the newspaper Embros, who was partial to the Makronisos experiment, described the work's content: One fatal night, in some country a communist revolution broke out: ‘The Storm’. The people…took to arms to fight for their freedom. What freedom? A worker and defendant in a scene set in the popular court explains: ‘Did we become murderers then randomly, one cursed morning? Did we begin to burn and destroy and ravage whatever we (p.96) could find before us?'…The people are not murderers. The worker did not kill to find pleasure in blood!…For years, they had been whispering in his ear: ‘Go for it!’ and they had furtively been showing him the knife. A promise with every step, a lie every day.…Amazing how the playwrights deliver…the whole drama of young people who had been led astray, who took up arms and killed, thinking that they were fighting to create a better life, while in reality they were forging the most horrific bonds with which, in due course, their ‘oppressors’ would shackle them. Thus from the moment that the revolution prevailed, a terrible transition period followed, replete with unhappiness, bitterness, tears, and blood!… Nothing stayed in place anymore…The family dissolved,…motherhood, women's divine gift, was about to disappear.…Everything was on the decline… But somewhere in a desolate garden…love will return to people's hearts! And then…Then the bad ‘Storm’ that erupted against mankind will pass… (Quoted by Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 75–76) The Storm represented the kind of propagandistic humbug and mishmash of stereotypes that the regime was force‐feeding and that clamoured for serious theatre—and serious criticism—to deliver a countereducation. Efthymiou not only directed the ‘prophetic’ production of The Storm but also played the lead role, and did so with ‘enormous artistic capabilities’, according to the reviewer (Metaxas quoted by Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 76). It is doubtful, however, whether the work gave its audiences a spiritual boost. Tasos Zografos, the set designer, hastened to state that the play had been imposed by the administration (testimony quoted by Vrahiotis 2005: 42 n. 11). More telling, perhaps, is the criticism of the anonymous author of a review in the Skapanefs, who complained that the first performance (of 23 October 1949) of this otherwise ‘true diamond of modern Greek dramaturgy’ was not of the same high calibre as Efthymiou's earlier work for the stage of the Second Battalion (Skapanefs 7, November 1949, Page 23 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ 29). Of course, a modicum of circumspection is advised with any report published in the Skapanefs. The question remains, however, whether the more than one hundred actors, whom Efthymiou had to mobilize to stage this densely moralizing production, resented and boycotted it at the same time—hence the tenor of the review. Or were these actors merely uneasy assistants or extras to a performance of ostensible compliance? Many of the rhetorical and propagandistic events that took place on Makronisos were directly ordained by the Office for Moral (p.97) Education, which also promoted the theatre performances given on the island.26 Most informants, however, are reluctant to this day to make that formal and top‐down connection explicit, especially when it pertains to the theatre plays in which they took part and in which they still take pride. But the directives of the Office for Moral Education did not preclude the various island camps from creating their own specific climate, depending also on who was in charge locally. The administrators of Makronisos patted themselves on the back with each inmate production of a serious play that rendered the camp more convincing and more acceptable to the world beyond the island (Vrahiotis 2005: 1, 12, 13, 15, 51, 52, 61). The Skapanefs repeatedly lists the names of the officials and the visitors who attended the performances on Makronisos and reiterates how much satisfaction they showed. Also, the Makronisos wardens formally introduced some productions or delivered speeches afterward, as on the occasion of a repeat performance (and therefore again a safer bet) of Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice (21 August 1949; Vrahiotis 2005: 40, 61, 107). Some outsiders were particularly impressed with anything classical and eagerly helped to spread the word about the Greek government applying the balm of (‘its own’) time‐hallowed tradition. The classicizing artwork that some detainees on Makronisos ‘spontaneously’ produced and exhibited for the many visitors served the same dubious display purposes. A few recruits of the Second Battalion built a miniature Parthenon; others constructed a mini‐Erechtheion and a model of the Ayia Sophia church (Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 34, 39, 41–42, 46, 67–68, 70). The Second Battalion also took pride in the museum that it had built on the site (Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 42). Some of these structures and also pictures of a few theatre performances staged on Makronisos were featured in a special public exhibition that was held at the Zappeion (in central Athens) in April of 1949.27 (p.98) Robert Miner, a US Embassy representative who visited Makronisos in 1949, testified: Some of the decorations, such as scale models of the Parthenon and some of the paintings in the church, are very well done. When I remarked on the apparent wealth of artistic talent on Makronisos, Colonel Bairaktaris said, only half humorously, that all the young intellectuals in Greece had passed through this camp. (Quoted by Voglis 2002: 114 n. 38)28 Page 24 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Theatre as Tyranny, Theatre as Torture Politics on Makronisos appropriated the rhetoric and tropes of theatre. Theatre and theatre spaces were regularly drawn into the official discourse on sin and absolution or redemption through penance, sacrifice, or torment. The historian Nikos Margaris and other critics denounced the sanctimonious aura of this metatheatre. Margaris exposed the pretence behind the theatre‐related titles that the regime reserved for the ‘Makronisos phenomenon’, such as the ‘theatre of reawakening’ (théatro ananípseos, θέατρο ανανήψεως) or the ‘theatre of absolution’ (théatro apolymánseos, θέατρο απολυμάνσεως), which would ‘wash’ or ‘cleanse’ wayward souls and instil the nationalist creed (1966: passim; 1980: 38). On Makronisos, the moral, religious, and didactic overtones that coloured the official rhetoric were intensified by tyrannical connections between the physical theatres and theatre‐like displays. Compulsory Sunday church services, for instance, were held at the camp theatres (Voglis 2002: 148–149). The prison administration used Sundays and holidays to persuade the recruits that their fate and punishment were part and parcel of the quasi‐evangelical struggle against ‘godless’ communism. Highly charged, the priests' homilies were meant to give the internees a moral uplift. Most of them, however, resented the pretence. Great play was made of the liturgy of the right‐wing dispensation of power (p.99) through religion: during mass, guards held strategic positions and studied the behaviour and reaction of the inmate audience. This involuntary congregation was often herded into the theatre to attend other ceremonies as well—and to respond with ‘enthusiasm’ (testimonies by Koundouros, 27 June 2005, and P. T., 2 June 2005). The camp wardens of Makronisos contributed their share of ‘loud and direct’ performances to brainwash the recruits (Koundouros 1980: 37). Officers made stately appearances on platforms and delivered moralizing speeches, recited nationalist poems and songs, and made ‘patriotic’ announcements. Vasilis Lazaris disdains these demonstrative performances as ‘ethnikodiafotistikes omilies’, or ‘speeches [meant] to enlighten with nationalist thought’ (2003: 716). These performances of the government's competitive dramaturgy were received with (the tyranny of) compulsory cheering. Aphrodite Mavroeidi‐Pandeleskou related incidents that took place in a physical theatre of Makronisos shortly after the female exiles of Trikeri were transferred there in January of 1950. She described how some prisoner's theatre was another prisoner's torture: Behind the barbed wire we followed with a heavy heart the preparations for the evening ‘entertainment’. We knew that, when the sun would set,… the armies of the enslaved would gather there in the place of martyrdom,… and they would applaud Vasilopoulos [one of the camp authorities] as soon as he would appear in his official uniform to honour the production. The soldiers of the security division would burst out in shows of enthusiasm and would cheer the executioners and their wives who would have come to Makronisos for the weekend. And when the scenes commence that have Page 25 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ been inspired by the epic of ‘rehabilitation’ of Makronisos, cheers rise to the sky and tear through the dark, and they reach our tents and make our hearts feel even heavier. Then we'd hear the familiar shout: ‘Will we make the women into Greek women again???’ And the crowd would answer with rabid voices: ‘Yes! Yes! We'll make them! We'll make them!’ The alfamites would drag us by the hair to the site of the theatre, for us to take part in the ‘national’ event.29 (p.100) ‘Off to the entertainment! Quickly!’ They would shout, but we would counter them with the stony refusal: ‘In the spot where they kill us we don't want entertainment!’ They would deliver plenty of lashings and then they would leave, grinding their teeth: ‘You'll pay for it dearly, you shameful dregs of society’. … We hated the ‘entertainment’ of Makronisos and we detested it with all the strength of our soul, as much as we hated and detested the executioners themselves. (1975: 322–323) Thus Mavroeidi‐Pandeleskou poignantly captured the ‘performative’ aspects with which the camp authorities engaged in intimidating and mistreating the women in the physical space of one of the theatres on Makronisos (1975: 285– 288, 295–297; also Gavriilidou 2004: 41–57, 73, and testimony by Argyro Koutifari‐Frantzeskou, 27 June 2010). She did, however, make an exception for the power of music: The entertainment, however, did not limit itself to theatre. The [First] [B]attalion had a mandolin orchestra and frequently gave concerts in the officers' club house, which then the loudspeakers would transmit to us. At night, when the screams [of torture victims] fell silent, the sweet music… would bring us closer to life. Music became the bridge that joined the rock of horrors to the mainland opposite of Attica. (1975: 323)

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Nonetheless, the torture of men on Makronisos was the more common scenario. The theatre of torture, especially of an actor's torture, was the kind of sinister deviation that the ‘phenomenon of Makronisos’ devised: The alfamites beat Katrakis on the stage of the theatre to force him to sign a ‘declaration’ [the litmus test of loyalty to the right‐wing government]. To ridicule him, his torturers asked him if he was playing the heroic captain, the role that had made him famous. Katrakis answered that his part was that of the human being. (Testimony of Tasos Zografos, quoted by Vrahiotis 2005: 64 n. 6) Katrakis had played the role of the sea captain in Kostis Palamas's Trisevyeni, but was later identified with the part of Captain Mihalis, one of the freedom‐ loving Cretan heroes created by Nikos (p.101) Kazantzakis.30 Even as well‐ known a personality as Katrakis did not escape persecution, torture, and imprisonment. Moreover, his ordeal was literally put on the stage of Makronisos, for all to see.31 The detainees' ceremonious confessions of ‘betrayal’ of the fatherland were deemed effective only when acted out before an audience. The tyrannical practice of the public confessions entered the performative act of repentance into the dramatic arena, with the special kind of dramatic illusion inherent in the theatre of coercion—the theatre as prison on the prison island. The display of compliance of the ‘repenters’, the ‘posing of the powerless’, was important and beneficial to an autocratic regime that regarded the ritual humbling of ‘sinners’ as a necessary part of its ‘public show of unanimity’.32 Lieutenant Colonel D. I. Strangeways saw through the reality of appearances on Makronisos. He visited the island in January of 1950 (shortly before the women's arrival from Trikeri) and noted that he was ‘not struck by the enthusiasm of the audience’.33 He described an ordinary camp ritual: a parade of choir members chanting their (p.102) battalion song, which was broadcast over loudspeakers.34 The other detainees sang along in a ‘somewhat half hearted and mechanical’ manner. Then a series of talks followed, which were interrupted by ‘well disciplined clapping’. ‘I felt’, he averred, ‘that the actual number of claps had been laid down as they commenced and finished with remarkable precision’ (all quotations from Voglis 2002: 185–186). The unexcited public of inmates, whose acts of singing and clapping were command performances, was trapped in a programme of rituals that ranged from quasi‐natural to highly artificial. As an audience, it was an illusion, because it performed and was performed upon by ‘plants’. These ‘cheerleaders’ acted on behalf of the camp wardens and were motivated by the reward of preferential treatment for sustaining the lie about what really happened on Makronisos (testimonies by Koundouros, 27 June 2005, and P. T., 2 June 2005). Again, the administration did not deem silence to be enough of a show of support.35

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ (p.103) The tyranny of presentation and performance extended even further. Hamilakis notes that some display acts and spectacles took place beyond the confines of Makronisos (2002: 312; 2007: 232–233). In the decisive year of 1949, entire uniformed formations of ‘redeemed’ recruits marched and paraded in central Athens in front of the royal couple and thousands of spectators. They were on public display in the theatre‐like setting of the ‘old’ Olympic Stadium (the Panathenaic or Kallimarmaro Stadium) in downtown Athens, where many mass events had been held before, including shows of manly athletic and military prowess.36 The restored Stadium (1896–1906) occupied the site of its ancient predecessor. However, the government and the Athenian public made the more obvious connection with the first modern Olympics, which, in 1896, were held in this location. Some ‘redeemed’ recruits also had to deliver public declarations, anticommunist lectures, or propaganda speeches in various parts of Greece. Thus the watching, monitoring, and pretending did not stop once the exile had left Makronisos. The pervasive control took the new form of the collective watchful eye of the national body. This mass surveillance over the public spectacle that the ‘redeemed’ had become had to deter the former dissidents and others from any further ‘antinational’ activities. For as long as the Civil War lasted, the ‘redeemed’ continued to play a practical and symbolic role in converting their fellow inmates, supporters, or sympathizers through displays of submission and by fighting the communists on the frontlines (Bournazos 1998: 212–214, 223–224). Such metatheatrical rituals became the means of self‐ definition of successive reactionary Greek regimes and forged their identity through the early 1960s.

Conclusion And there was a man, what's more, a bard close by…But then,…Aegisthus shipped the bard away to a desert island, marooned him there, sweet prize for the birds of prey. (Homer, Odyssey 3.267–271; trans. R. Fagles 1996: 116) (p.104) Ancient tragedy on Makronisos managed to visualize current ideas and frictions in ways that the camp wardens' favourite plays, such as The Storm with its school‐style object lessons in traditionalism, could not. The conflicting readings generated by the written and oral testimonies of performances such as the Antigone, however, tied as they were to equally conflicting histories of the Civil War, left cultural impressions and emotions that proved worth investigating. Here, our analysis needed to clear the ground of a certain degree of mythification and radicalization in hindsight of especially the Antigone production; it examined how this theatre operated within the entrenched structures of power and surveillance and thus received the practical aid of costumes, sets, and perks. A play like the ‘democratic’ Antigone did cross over into a right‐wing regimen of terror but still delivered some satisfaction and even some memories of controlled resistance to its inmate audiences of the time. Page 28 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Chapter 5, which discusses Alexandrou's Antigone from a cultural and ideological perspective, will continue to focus on the tragedy's central themes and will address the difficult question of how a leftist regimen of terror could reshape the paradigmatic myth. The Philoctetes production on Makronisos, on the other hand, touched on all the nerves of dramatic physicality. As a performance—even at the stage of more advanced rehearsals—it became a vehicle for the Left's reaffirmation of its own patriotic and moral credentials. Perhaps precisely for being banned, the Philoctetes production rehabilitated the practice of reviving ancient drama on Makronisos. It would be wrong to conclude that revival tragedy emerged from the ashes of the prewar dictatorship and the early 1940s Occupation as a fully finished platform of resistance. Theatre on Makronisos, in particular, places classical performances of the 1940s in a broader light, focusing on both practical and symbolic aspects of drama. For those excluded by their conviction and/or their location, the characters of Antigone and Philoctetes make a true public claim for justice, even though the system was unwilling to acknowledge or dispense it. But were the detainees always willing and able to see that? The restrictions of bondage may have been temporarily and psychologically lifted through the potential of the dramatic illusion, but the limitations on seeing and perceiving were never lifted. Theatre is, in its quintessential ancient Greek meaning, a ‘place of seeing’. The recruits who suffered under the harsh regime of Makronisos knew that many more atrocities took place than any onlooker was supposed (p.105) to see. Actors and participants had to suppress this knowledge somehow and took great risks if they gave any inkling to the visitors from the outside. Thus the function of not‐seeing and not‐acting was paradoxically embedded in the practice of a theatre that routinely helped to stage the lie of the ‘Makronisos phenomenon’. Being an eyewitness was dangerous in a place where sight was strictly policed. Viewing with conscience and responsibility became a casualty of the horrid conditions that the detainees faced. Diana Taylor's concept of ‘percepticide’, or the notion of the— understandable—unwillingness to see and perceive acts of violence, proves its usefulness here. Taylor uses the term ‘percepticide’ to describe people's reaction of suppressing or ‘killing off’ their ability to see and become witnesses, for fear of being ‘disappeared’ themselves.37 From this angle, the theatre of Makronisos was still the site where the inmates could hope to see more than permitted— which an actual opening production of the Philoctetes would have allowed. The Philoctetes play presented a cure in multiple meanings of the word but also a cure for percepticide: there was no denying what the hero's psychological and bodily wounds really meant. There is also no denying that the production was swiftly disappeared.

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Notes:

(1) The subtitle of this chapter is inspired by Euripides' Andromache in the Trojan Women 764: ‘O Greeks, inventors of barbarian evils’. (2) Similar stage dynamics of divided sympathies—for Creon as well as for Antigone—have often been invoked to explain why Jean Anouilh's Antigone appealed to the Nazi occupiers and collaborationists as well as to the French left‐wing subjects and partisans, when it was first performed in wartime Paris on 4 February 1944. Fleming (2006: 166, 167–168). Recent scholarship has interpreted the double interpretation of Anouilh's Antigone differently, however. Fleming overstates Anouilh's case when she claims that he stripped his Antigone of any significance other than as the childlike character that simply refuses (which, for an enraged French resistance, bespoke irresponsible, dangerous, and even treasonous behaviour) (2006: 169, 174, 175, 177, 178, 180). Mary Witt stresses that Antigone's character reverberated with themes dear to French fascism since the 1930s (1993). (3) Raftopoulos (1995: 45, 46); also Hamilakis (2002: 321); Vrahiotis (2005: 47, cf. 69 n. 6). Noteworthy is that Sophocles' Philoctetes was a play conspicuous by its absence during the seven‐year dictatorship, because of its connotations of individual resistance and ideological resilience—unwanted subject material in the eyes of the junta censors. For a very readable introduction to the play, see Roisman (2005). (4) On this terminology of (mainly psychiatric) curing and cleansing the ‘polluted’ in the national security discourse of the early Cold War period, see further Hamilakis (2007: 214, 232); Panourgia (2009: 10–11, 13, 32, 106, 160); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 68–69); and Yannas (1994). King Constantine called communism a miasma in his New Year's address of 1 January 1966, raising a storm of protest. Bournazos (2009a: 19, 24). See also Loundemis (1972: 350). See further Foucault on the use of the medical discourse as a strategy of surveillance, or on the ‘medical gaze’ (1980: 107). (5) See Panourgia on the technique known as ‘bastinado’, which has a much longer history in the eastern Mediterranean and Middle East (2009: 260–262). (6) The theme of dehumanization is central also to Panourgia's book (2009), where it is positioned against the backdrop of the myth of Oedipus. (7) See Avdoulos (1998: 195–196); Grivas (1980: 32–33); Vrahiotis (2005: 13, 15, 61, 66–67, and passim); see also below. (8) Michael Patterson studied the ‘model camps’ of the Third Reich, to which representatives of the Red Cross were invited and where they could attend ‘even operas’. These productions, he concurs, were staged ‘as a reassurance to the outside world that the quality of life was being maintained’ (1995: 159). For the Page 30 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ same purpose, reports about the weekend ‘variety shows’ staged in the transit camp of Mechelen (Malines) in Belgium appeared in the Belgian press ‘to present a better picture of camp life and to diminish rumours of German atrocities’ (1995: 159). Obviously, a lot of work remains to be done in this sensitive area of Second World War ‘cultural’ history and its destructive effects. See also Goldfarb (1999: 119). (9) See further Avdoulos (1998: 199–202); Bournazos (1998: 206, 207, 219, 220, 223, 228, 229, and passim); and Panourgia (2009: 93–94). Bournazos quotes some of the approving visitors' laudatory statements, which reached the point of blind stupefaction (1998: 207–208; also Lazaris 2003: 717–725). These eulogies were eagerly published by the official Greek press, the right‐wing propaganda mill, and also by the editors of the Skapanefs. Gavriilidou describes a scene in which one of the female detainees breaks the news of the true Makronisos to foreign journalists, only to be supported by other women with good foreign language skills and to be threatened instantly by the guards. The women, who did not expect much sympathy or support from the visiting Greek reporters, felt let down also by a French female journalist whom they had approached at great risk (Gavriilidou 2004: 55, 71–72, 76–78). See also the testimony of Nitsa Katsiva‐Kiskira, who broke the true news to the foreign journalists but does not mention the subsequent disappointment (2003: 490–492). (10) Bournazos (1998: 208–210); also Gavriilidou (2004: 19–20, 67, 77, 79); Lazaris (2003: passim); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 63–80, and especially 68). (11) On this, perhaps one of the most controversial components of the official discourse on Makronisos, see Apostolopoulou (1984: 42); Avdoulos (1998: 195); Bournazos (1998: 214–216); Gavriilidou (2004: 77); Hamilakis (2002: 308, 313; 2007: 214–223, 225, 235); Lazaris (2003: 717–718); Panourgia (2009: 255–256); and Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 69–70). (12) Closely linked to the offensive metaphor of Makronisos as the ‘New Parthenon’ was the abuse of allusions to the Persian Wars, in which the fate of the Parthenon figured prominently. See, for instance, Zoannos‐Sarris for references to the ancient Greeks' heroic stand against the Persians in which the equation between the fifth‐century BCE Persians and the modern communists and Slavs from the North is reiterated (according to the widespread ‘analogic model of history’, Hamilakis 2007: 231) (Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 47, 54, 62; see also Chapter 4). (13) See also Bournazos (1997) and especially (2009a). Classicists cannot refrain from wondering whether Koundouros had Plato's term in mind. In the Laws 908a, Plato refers to imprisonment and internal exile with the same word in its ancient Greek form, ‘sophronisterion’, or a ‘place to reflect’, a ‘place [for the wrong‐headed] to come to their senses’. However, Koundouros, being Page 31 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ Koundouros, denied the connection and proudly claimed credit for the neologism (testimony of 25 June 2005). On the demand for ethnikofrosyni in postwar Greek educational institutions, see Noutsos (2009). (14) See further Kondoyiorgi (2000: 79), the review by Karagatsis (1999: 144), and also Kanakis, especially on the conservative, old‐fashioned effect of Kotopouli's lead as Clytemnestra (1999: 104–107, 171, 289–290). Alkis Thrylos called the production (in Gryparis's translation) academic, prosaic, and uninspired (1979: 123–130). By mid‐century, Kotopouli embodied an old staging style that no longer spoke to the audience with any immediacy. (15) Haris's words are reprinted, without further reference, in Yeorgousopoulou (2001: 54–55) but can be traced back to his article in Nea Estia 46 (no. 532) of 1 September 1949 (pages 1097 and 1098, respectively) and tellingly called ‘Projecting National Forces’. See further Iliadis (1996: 323–324) and Petrakis (2006: 124). (16) In his book titled Twice Greek (Δύο φορές Έλληνας), the novelist Menis Koumandareas develops Kotopouli's personality as an official visitor to Makronisos, who engages with the all‐male inmate cast of a special production of Aristophanes' Lysistrata, set mid‐May of 1949 (2001: 73–95, 436–439). Whereas the date is historical, the choice of play is most likely not. See also the anonymous book reviewer of Twice Greek in To Vima, 29 July 2001. Koumandareas's portrayal of Kotopouli is more sympathetic than that of Koundouros: she grasps how vulnerable the prisoners are on stage and in real life, because they perform—fictionally—a notoriously transgressive play (2001: 82–95, 105–107). Like Koundouros, Koumandareas focuses on the metatheatricality of the stage act that operates on multiple levels: the authorities, who direct the stage of the entire island for Greece and the world to see, showcase this production to the notables visiting, who behave properly impressed. Koumandareas implies that the camp administrators, who are not known for their intellectual capacities, have fussed more about how to frame the production than about the show's content: they do not know what they are in for with Aristophanes' Lysistrata and its ribald presentation of a female sex strike. The Lysistrata is arguably antiquity's most risqué comedy and, therefore, the production, its cast, and its audience are not easy to control. The unpredictable performance of a play that is itself a destabilizing rebel act serves the prisoners' goals of self‐expression and self‐preservation but also of insubordination—at least in Koumandareas's fictionalized account. The author has the surprised authorities ignore the act of resistance against them and their visitors. For the officials to overlook such an act and deny it any resistance value is, of course, another strategy to harness their power, especially when all eyes are resting on them. They stand more to gain from accepting the performance as if done in good faith than from exposing themselves by suppressing it on the spot. For this type of exercise of power, see Scott (1990: 89 n. 44). The dimension of Page 32 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ metatheatricality and the need for role‐playing underlie Koumandareas's choice of the title Twice Greek. The author acknowledges the struggle of the inmates and of broader Greek society to maintain two sides to their Greekness for the sake of survival in the long‐standing polarization between the Left and the Right. But the title also puns on another characterization of Makronisos by Kanellopoulos as the place where men and women born Greek would be ‘reborn’ as patriotic Greeks (Koumandareas 2001: 109, 671–672). For an illustrative incident involving the female detainees, whom Makronisos held for a few months in early 1950, see below pp. 99–100. A related example of the creative reworking of dramatic and cinematic material and postwar memoir is Loundemis's description of the filming of an Antigone production on Cape Sounion (1972: 338–346). See above p. 69. Papailias makes important observations about the ‘reality‐effect of Greek war literature’, or Greek readers' openness to accept literature as history, especially when it relates to periods such as the Civil War that have been subjected to censorship, the lack of public debate, or the dearth of historiographical criticism. This perceived duty of literature to supply history writing with additional evidence also explains why novelists or playwrights (such as Alexandrou) could suffer exclusion as if they were the writers of an unwanted history of a contested period (Papailias 2005: 144–145). (17) In the guest book of the Second Battalion of Makronisos, Williams drew a somewhat contrived parallel based on the island's close proximity to the Laurion (Lavrio) silver mines (of Thorikos): he compared the ‘democratic work’ of the Greek government, i.e. of the project Makronisos, to buttress its defences against the communist ‘invaders’ to that of Themistocles strengthening democratic Athens against the Persian invaders of 480 BCE (in Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 62; see also Chapter 4, pp. 142–144). (18) See Clogg on Frederica's visit (1992: 142–143). Clogg reproduces a famous picture of the royal couple, King Paul and Queen Frederica, being carried on the shoulders of ‘reformed’ inmates (1992: 142; also Hart 1996: 260). See also Bournazos (2009a: 24–25, 27). (19) Pandelis Voulgaris's film Happy Day (1976) delivers a penetrating analysis of inmate life on the unnamed, barren Makronisos. Several scenes demonstrate how the oppressed managed to transform their excessive slogan shouting into defiant acts of irony or rebellion, especially when the slogans contained truisms or platitudes so moralizing that they would otherwise have humiliated the speakers. In another sequence, Queen Frederica and her entourage are treated to a theatre production on their visit to the island. Voulgaris has the queen, whom the detainees ostentatiously welcome as ‘mother’, see through some of the administration's histrionics but she remains detached. The 1972 book Plague

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ (Loimos) of Andreas Frankias inspired Voulgaris's movie, which condemned also the terror of the junta (Voulgaris 1976: 46). (20) The Greeks grew so tired of the predictable slew of slogans that playwright Iakovos Kambanellis could ridicule them in a parodic exchange in his play Daddy War, a satire set on the island of Rhodes in Hellenistic times. Kambanellis's lines strike home the ironic performance that the use of the worn slogans, especially of the classically derived mottos and battle cries, had come to represent: ΦΙΛΟΞΕΝΟΣ· Ἐλευθερία ἤ θάνατος! ΟΙ ΑΛΛΟΙ· ῎Ηηη… ΦΙΛΟΞΕΝΟΣ· ῎Ιτε παι̑δες Ρoδίων! ΟΙ ΑΛΛΟΙ· ῎Ιτε… ΦΙΛΟΞΕΝΟΣ· Νυ̑ν ὁ ὑπέρ πάντων ἀγών! ΟΙ ΑΛΛΟΙ· Νυ̑ν… ΦΙΛΟΞΕΝΟΣ· Εἱ̑ς οἰωνός ἄριστος ἀμύνεσθαι περί πάτρης! ΟΙ ΑΛΛΟΙ· ᾽Αμύνεσθαι… ΦΙΛΟΞΕΝΟΣ· Θυμάστε κανένα ἄλλο…; ΟΙ ΑΛΛΟΙ· …῎Οχι… ΦΙΛΟΞΕΝΟΣ· Δέν πειράζει, θ᾽ ἀρχίσoυμε μ᾽ ὅ,τι ἔχουμε… Philoxenos: Freedom or death! [battle cry of 1821] The others: Eee… Philoxenos: On, sons of Rhodes! The others: On… Philoxenos: Now the battle is for all! [Aeschylus, Persians 405] The others: Now… Philoxenos: One omen is best, to fight for your fatherland! [Homer, Iliad 12.243] The others: Fight… Philoxenos: Do you remember any others…?

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ The others: …No… Philoxenos: Never mind, we'll start with what we have… (1981b: 234–235) A quasi‐chorus of bystanders sheepishly repeats after Philoxenos. It does not have any slogans of its own to contribute once the stock repertory exhausts itself. It will make do with some Aeschylus and some Homer—no matter how badly some of their lines have been ripped out of context. (21) Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 57–58). Chapter 3 explains what it meant to become a prisoner who had ‘redeemed’ himself or herself in the eyes of the right‐wing government. It analyses the pressure to seek ‘redemption’ or ‘declare repentance’ as part of the plotline of the Prometheus Bound that the female exiles staged on Trikeri. (22) Hamilakis, author's e‐mail communication, 20 February 2005. Bournazos (2009b: 45; also Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 76) explains the administration's successful creation of different and sometimes privileged categories among the inmates with references to Primo Levi's concept of the various categories of the ‘grey zone’, which functioned in between the black and white, binary division of victimizers and victims in the concentration camps of Nazi Germany (1989: 36– 69). The existence of a fluid ‘grey zone’ undermined bonds of solidarity among prisoners, which many Greek inmates to this day resent and find hard to talk about (testimony by Kyritzis, 19 June 2006). Detainees of Makronisos who were also active in the theatre seldom admitted that they enjoyed the ‘privileges’ of having entered the ‘grey zone’ (testimony by Koundouros, 27 June 2005). See further Iliou's seminal chapter, in which he refers to ‘those who tortured so as not to be tortured’ (2007: 301). (23) I am much indebted to Yannis Hamilakis, who shared a copy of this pamphlet with me. See Hamilakis on this publication (2007: 217); also Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 63 n. 31, 65, 66, 70). (24) C. P. Rodocanachi, one of the advisors to the Greek regime, published a 1949 leaflet in the same propagandistic vein but written in English and intended for an international reading audience. The title of this pamphlet is: A Great Work of Civic Re‐Adaptation in Greece. See also Hamilakis (2007: 220 n. 14, 223); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 69). (25) Zoannos‐Sarris (1950: 24–28, 64, 72, 74–77, 80; an extensive cast list is given on p. 77). The book's hyperbolic emphasis on the qualities of The Storm leave me with the impression that Efthymiou may have played an active role in its composition and publication. This would also explain why Efthymiou's letter

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ is one of the first eulogies featured in the booklet and functions as some sort of preface. However, I cannot prove this with certainty. (26) Avdoulos (1998: 197); Bournazos (1998: 223–224); and Margaris (1966: 1:227–228, 239; 1980: 38, 39). Mavroeidi‐Pandeleskou refers to this office as the ‘Office for Moral‐National Education’ (1975: 320, 321, 324). (27) ‘Photo Exhibition “Makronisos” ’, Kathimerini, 16 November 2003, 20. See also Bournazos (1998: 216 n. 27); Grivas (1980: 34 n. 3); Hamilakis (2002: 312, 314–315, figures 2 and 3, 316–317, and passim; 2007: 211–212, 217, 220, 227, 233); Leontis (1995: 221–222); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 63, 70–71); Williams (1949: 712–713); and Yalouri (2001: 43–44, 195). Dimitris Raftopoulos refused to call the miniature specimens ‘art’ and, instead, referred to them as the ‘kitsch of horror’ (1984: 86–87). I concur with Voglis who sees these models primarily as display items, as art and crafts objects with which the detainees decorated the camp for the eyes of visitors (2002: 102, 114 n. 38). (28) Note also the claim of Vonklis, the torturer, who ‘extolled the people who were being detained there [on Makronisos]: “They're all educated, scientists, bankers” ’ (Kavvadias 2003: 594). (29) The alfamites functioned as guards and eager punishers. The term derives from the abbreviation ‘A.M.’ for Astynomia Monados, or ‘Police of the Unit’, or military police divisions consisting of many who had ‘repented’ but who still needed to ‘prove’ themselves by punishing or torturing the remaining ‘stubborn’ ones. See Margaritis (2001: 578); Panourgia (2009: 91); and Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 56). (30) Katrakis himself also pursued the identification with the indomitable captain (Martsakis et al. 2004: 115, 119). Kazantzakis's novel was not published until 1953, and it took a few more years before the novel was adapted for the stage. However, Kazantzakis had written several versions of (parts of) the work before, one of which Katrakis may have known and may have performed. On the other hand, Zografos might also mistakenly have projected Katrakis's fame as Captain Mihalis back into time. For a review of Katrakis's impersonation of Captain Mihalis in a production of summer 1966, see Takopoulos (2002: 40–52). I am grateful to Peter Bien for clarifying for me the chronology of the various versions of Kazantzakis's work that resulted in the final Captain Mihalis (e‐mail communication with the author, 13 November 2009). (31) The historian Margaris concurred, with additional brief mentions of torture put on display in the theatre of Makronisos (1966: 2:124). (32) Scott (1990: 224 and 205, resp.). Scott writes of the ‘gold of willing, even enthusiastic, consent’ that the dominant might hope to extract from their subjects (1990: 93). Any prisoner's negation would dangerously subvert the Page 36 of 38

Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ ‘theater arts of subordination’ that the officiating masters had ‘choreographed’ so as to avert any unpleasant surprises (Scott 1990: 35 and 47, resp.). Scott sees this logic as one of the motivations for a regime to stage show trials (1990: 57– 58). Show trials were among the favourite strategies of the military regime of 1967, demanding displays of compliance. Scott states: ‘Ritual subservience reliably extracted from inferiors signals quite literally that there is no realistic choice other than compliance’ (1990: 66). See further Scott's key concepts of ‘public’ or ‘official’ and ‘hidden transcripts’ (1990) and also Hamilakis (2002: 322; 2007: 229). (33) Another laconic statement quoted by Close must also be credited to this perceptive British officer: ‘a broken rib is an occupational disease on Makronisos’ (1993: 174). (34) The obnoxiously loud megaphones reappear in many sources and memoirs, e.g. Apostolopoulou (1984: 64); Gavriilidou (2004: passim); and Margaris (1966: 2:124). They are obstreperous protagonists in Voulgaris's film Happy Day as well. (35) Avdoulos confirms the lieutenant colonel's impression that ‘cheerleaders’ among the recruits coordinated and synchronized the group's public reactions (1998: 199). Voglis notes the canned response of an inmate audience manipulated by its own communist leaders at the Averof prison on 27 September 1945. After visiting there, the British ambassador, Sir Reginald Leeper, sent a telegram to the Foreign Office in London that read: When M. Kyriacopoulos [Vasilios Kyriakopoulos, the Greek Minister of Justice] began to address them [the prisoners,] silence was imposed not by the gaolors [jailors] but by [the] Communist committee. They punctuated his speech with ironic cheers, catcalls, slogans of songs, which were taken up with well trained spontaneity by the entire crowd of prisoners under guidance of [an] expert cheer leader. [The] Committee replied with several violent speeches, which were wildly cheered. It was difficult to guess who was supposed to be reforming whom. (Quoted by Voglis 2002: 199) The above quotation, however, must be read against its larger historical and political context, which is provided by Voglis (2004: 144–147). Voglis notes that the date of 27 September 1945 marked the fourth anniversary of the founding of EAM. Hence, the occasion as well as the attention of foreign visitors may have emboldened the prisoners, who celebrated ‘the cornerstone of [their] identity’ (2004: 147). These orchestrated shows of strength and unanimity, however, told of a crisis in the ranks of the Greek leftists and communists. On the underground communist committees or ‘bureaus’, which consisted of

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Makronisos: Island of the ‘Greek Inventors of Barbarian Evils’ interned Communist Party cadres, see Voglis (2002: 208–219). See also my Introduction, pp. 25–26, and Chapter 5, pp. 152–153. (36) Such events were modelled after fascist prototypes. Hamilakis (2007: 233); Van Steen (in press a); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 67, 70). See also the telling pictures in Katsiyeras (2001: 70, 286, 298). (37) Taylor (1997: xii, 10). The term ‘percepticide’ was actually coined by an Argentine psychoanalyst named Juan Carlos Kusnetzoff (1986) but it entered English‐language scholarship with Taylor's work. Taylor analyses the conditions of Argentina's ‘dirty war’ of the military dictatorship of 1976–1983.

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Many left‐wing women and former fighters of the resistance or of the Civil War suffered exile, detention, and torture along with their male counterparts.1 In addition, they had to endure the sexism of virulent (p.107) anticommunism— and occasionally of communism itself—and acts of violence that took on gendered forms. As Voglis comments, the physical mistreatment of men and women alike was a way for the tormentors to enhance their masculinity (2002: 137); some went in for acts of theatre, psychological conceit, or the violent performative language of threats and promises.2 Under such conditions, the female exiles of Trikeri organized a reading of Sophocles' Antigone and a stage production of Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound. As the women themselves emphasize, their collaborative work on classical performances fostered solidarity amid adversity and forged bonds of complicity between players and spectators who were ‘in’ on things (testimony by Argyro Koutifari‐Frantzeskou, 27 June 2010). The women explored the communal aspects of rehearsing plays together and saw the experience boost individual and group morale. The preparation of the ancient plays also gave the female exiles a platform for effective counterplay: it helped them analyse and overcome the histrionics of the camp administrators, which included acts of censorship. The women discovered modes to bolster their self‐esteem by educating themselves, teaching others, and showing—confident and informed—defiance when necessary. Also, the interaction among the female performers spawned an understanding of an organic and tacit leadership model that was necessary to conduct the day‐to‐day affairs of camp life. Stage life opened a path to de facto empowerment from (p. 108) which other powers flowed, such as the strength to represent the group in front of the wardens. In their testimonies, many women speak proudly about how they constantly negotiated better living conditions and more relaxed rules— and about how successful they were at reaching their collective objectives (Kyriakidou 2003: 224; testimonies by E. P., 17 May 2005, and A. X., 13 June 2005). Over time, the female detainees managed to gain both small and substantial concessions despite the occasional setbacks. The women's work in theatre, education, and ‘public speaking’ may therefore be seen as a kaleidoscopic reflection of their effectual organization of life in exile.3

Antigone and Adult Education ‘I've had enough. No one is going to stop me doing Antigone’. (Character John, in Athol Fugard's The Island, 1986: 62)4 The interned actress Aleka Païzi was responsible for the reading of Sophocles' Antigone, about which very little is known. Today's oral (p.109) sources, however, refer to this Antigone figure as a vehicle of empathic bonding and read her act of defiance as a metaphor for youthful rebellion—but they do so many years after the facts and with the confident conviction of historical hindsight (testimonies by Nitsa Gavriilidou, 24 June 2005, and Zoe Petropoulou, 22 June 2005). If anything, the women's productions seem to have been silenced all the Page 2 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? more in critical commentary and history writing. Even when written by female authors, the scant sources hardly elaborate on the sex‐gender configurations. The reason was not that these women exhibited a mild form of the Marxist blindness toward gender relations; rather, they took for granted that nationalism, violence, and sexuality were tied together and that they manifested themselves in paternalistic and sexist modes of maltreatment, even in its more lenient forms (testimonies by Nitsa Gavriilidou, 24 June 2005, A. N., 3 June 2005, and Zoe Petropoulou, 22 June 2005). Païzi's own brief personal testimony about her exile on Trikeri (which began in late April of 1949) was printed in a collection of pictures published by the Association of Female Political Exiles (1996: 63). She testified that, because of the tight restrictions, the reading of Sophocles' Antigone substituted for a real performance. Païzi was keenly aware that the tragedy might not be accessible to all women, ‘from scientists to illiterate ones’, as she explained. She expected some of the ‘illiterate ones’ to become bored and leave, and she had told them in advance of the play reading that they could do so. Much to her surprise, none left (1996: 63). Païzi's warning indicates that one cannot presuppose a confident level of literary, let alone a classical education among the population of female political detainees of the late 1940s. This entails both the literacy level necessary for tackling a modern Greek translation of the ancient tragedy and basic knowledge of the plot. The frank sociological comment by a female member of the educated classes, that lower degrees of literacy and literary interest were to be expected among her counterparts from underprivileged strata, operates on multiple planes: it expressed an awareness that classical subject matter had to be extended to the less educated classes, or that the classics, along with basic education, had to be democratized, but it still confirmed the privileged societal status of the ‘learned’ among the Greeks through the late 1940s. Thus this episode reflects the doubly disadvantaged position of many Greek women. Païzi then turned Sophocles' Antigone into a tool for adult women's ‘epimorfosi’, or their additional schooling beyond the walls of the (p.110) conventional classroom, where the basic ‘morfosi’ should or could have taken place.5 Women's education as women and also as political detainees is a recurring theme throughout the records and interviews by and with women.6 It soon becomes clear that, as prisoners with their personal histories interwoven with the resistance, they identified with Antigone. However, as exiles thirsting for knowledge, they also identified with the Aeschylean Prometheus, as this chapter's next section demonstrates. In both cases, however, the persistent emphasis in women's testimonies is on female solidarity. Païzi did not elaborate on how an actual performance would have enhanced the text read aloud or the group experience. As a gendered portrayal of violence inflicted by the establishment, Sophocles' Antigone was, for her, still the best choice given the women's current situation and common ideological background. The tragedy, a rediscovery for some, had the impact of a first‐time discovery on Page 3 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? others, especially on younger women, who recognized a metonymic experience of their own predicament (testimony by D. G., 16 December 2009). In Païzi's idealist conception, the play reading could still serve purposes of enlightening the broader population, even in a remote (p.111) location and before a relatively small audience, which was, however, an adequate cross‐section of Greece's female population. For her, too, Sophocles' play never validated but consistently undermined the legitimacy of Creon, the ‘victor’. Any one of the male wardens stumbling upon the furtive play reading would have seen himself cast as a Creon: he would be observed observing an—unvaryingly—negative enactment of himself (testimony by A. N., 3 June 2005). Often Antigone's archetypal value becomes so forceful that the figure of Creon no longer needs to stand opposed to her. A reading could function even without Creon's physical stage character, because his shadow or the repressive system that he embodied was ever‐present in the camp.7 The lack of sources renders it difficult for the later student of the inmate theatre to define certain acts or lines as specific acts of resistance or as any other form of protest. Because we know so little about the readers' intentions and about the ways in which the audience members interpreted the Antigone's richly layered meanings, we need to turn to additional, more general reflections of detained women on the practice of performance. These reflections disclose modes of playing that entail showing and hiding at the same time and that have young and old participating in a subculture that often performed the dance of avoidance. They also reveal how women who did not read or act themselves found empowerment in the strategies of countersurveillance. Maria, one of the informants interviewed by Janet Hart, described how some of the shows or skits staged at the Athenian Averof prison could be performed only in secret. Secrecy was a good precautionary measure on Trikeri as well, and especially in a tense political climate. Maria stressed the dynamics of (p.112) watching and watchfulness and conveyed the women's exhilaration as they organized lookouts to defy the—rather dumb and disorganized—prison patrol: Some of the inmates wrote plays, and we would put on performances. They [the authorities] would watch us closely. We did it with ‘watchguards’. We would go to the ‘deepest chamber’ in the prison. We had a large chamber up on an upper floor.…We would post guards, and they would keep a lookout. And the old women would be given such duties. And what a thrill it was for them, to be given that kind of work! …[W]e didn't have time to get depressed.…We had rehearsals. We wrote our own plays; we didn't have books or scripts to go by; we had to write our sketches right there. And that's what kept us going, it kept up our strength. (1996: 255–256)

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Conspirational plot and theatre plot became one. The women's clandestine performance practice, based on trusted collaboration, gave new meaning to the many connections that the Greek language makes between theatre (metaphors), calculated pretence, and conspiracy plots.8 To their expressed delight, the women of the above scenario discover and rediscover female solidarity in their common devotion to the secretive performances. Some voices, however, conjure up a different image, one of selfishness that extended to the simple invitation to a play or skit. A letter by Loula Derveki, a poor peasant woman, speaks to a blatant lack of altruism among the female inmates at Averof and touches on the subject of the prison sketches: ‘they [the “ladies” from the cities] organize dances and several sketches but they haven't even once invited us to participate’.9 Derveki's letter springs from her disenchantment with the leftist women from the ‘better’ social classes. It is still based, however, on her sincere expectation that, in an environment of leftist and democratic idealism, the inmates' interaction be more open. Her letter also helps to fill a (p.113) particular lacuna: the absence of written records by rural women held in the urban prisons (Vervenioti 2008b: 81, 97, 101). The actress Olympia Papadouka, who herself was detained at Averof, lists the performances of songs that she taught to the members of the prison's female choir. She mentions the folk dances that the women were allowed to perform albeit only on feast days (1981: 107–110). She also introduces scenes of a revue that the women put together and that dealt with their chores and daily life in the prison (1981: 22–65). This ‘epitheorisoula’, as she calls it, was composed in eleven skits of four‐line stanzas set to well‐known demotic and folk melodies. The female inmates performed their revue show, partly accompanied by dances (such as waltzes), in the prison courtyard on the occasion of Carnival 1949 (1981: 22–23, 65; on other skits, 114, 116–120). She further describes how one of the older women went about rehearsing her part for an upcoming skit: [G]randma Theodosiou [from Velvendo in Kozani (northern Greece)]…with her knitting needles in her hands…was making strolls through the courtyard and, as she was walking, she was speaking the words of her part in the play that we would be putting on. Whenever she forgets the words, she also stops walking. From her pocket, she pulls the little piece of paper on which she has written down the words of her role in the play.…She takes a look at it and continues her walking in a synchronized rhythm: role, step, knitting move. She is walking in the pace dictated by her role. Whenever she stumbles on the words, she also stumbles in her steps. And either her role will move forward with her walking, or she will stop again to take another look at the little piece of paper and then continue… (1981: 38) Page 5 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Papadouka does not identify the play but reveals that it makes the theatre role of grandma Theodosiou coincide with her real‐life role as a civilian aide in the 1940–1941 defence against the Italian invaders on the Albanian front. Papadouka asserts somewhat defiantly: And what difference does it make that grandma Theodosiou would pronounce the ‘baroutóvola’ [the ‘muskets’] as ‘vartófla’. Deep in her heart, she had the right baroutóvola. Baroutóvola with which to strike: violence, injustice, backwardness, necessity, slavery.… (1981: 38)10

(p.114) Prometheus: Forbidden Drama, Unforgotten Experience Aeschylus' ‘philanthropist’ figure of Prometheus (as opposed to Hesiod's trickster Prometheus) became a paradigm of Greek resilience and of the age‐ long perspective that renders trials and tribulations relative.11 The Prometheus Bound stood as the longest classical attack of a lone but defiantly suffering hero against an abusive superpower—here the upstart tyrant Zeus, who was also associated with family and intergenerational conflict. According to myth, the hero was chained to the rocks and tormented in a desolate spot much in the way political detainees were confined to rocky prison islands. The feared leftist interpretation, then, had Prometheus believe in his spiritual strength and in his own just cause, which entailed the quest for knowledge and the sharing of skills with mortals against the will of Zeus. For his well‐intentioned actions on behalf of the human race, Prometheus suffered the punishment of torture, as Zeus' eagle tore at his liver day after day. But the use of the modern Greek language gave an additional edge to the above interpretation: Bia and Kratos, the brutal and unscrupulous minions of Zeus, carry out his order to restrain Prometheus. In modern Greek, Bia's name still means ‘violence’ (via), and the first meaning of kratos is ‘the state’. The immediate semantic association of the state with violence was inevitable, and Zeus' tyranny thus stood for the repressive Greek government. Prometheus fiercely rejects compromise, an option proffered on stage by the weak Oceanus. Both sides give voice and body to the controversial issue of personal responsibility under a totalitarian establishment. (p.115) Roza Imvrioti, a born organizer, vocal feminist, and gifted teacher‐ educationalist, prepared to mount a production of the Prometheus on Trikeri.12 The camp warden, however, unwilling to take chances with the power of ‘leftist’ theatre, intervened and banned the actual opening of the production (Apostolopoulou 1984: 60; Kamarinou 2005: 240, 320). According to some, the tragedy was censored by the higher, regional prison administration and rejected as ‘antethniko’, ‘antinational’, or ‘unpatriotic’, a common stigma attached to potentially explosive and innocent material alike (Kyriakidou 2003: 221). The all‐ female Prometheus production was considered to be perilous business. The paranoia of power prompted censorship and repression, and this censorship Page 6 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? mirrored key themes of the play itself, in which a brazen but also insecure Zeus oppresses and isolates the defiant Prometheus, who holds wisdom and knowledge of the future as well as of the past—and makes intimations about the tyrant's downfall. But how did the female exiles respond to such an act of censorship? The players used the banned Prometheus in their fight for the educational awakening of the women (testimony by Argyro Koutifari‐ Frantzeskou, 27 June 2010). Theatre and its representation of moral conflict helped to develop modes of political socialization. The female exiles recontextualized the rehearsals for the play and also the actual ban as political experiences and statements. The women took the occasion to discuss issues such as the tyrant's fear to fall from (ill‐gained) authority (testimonies by E. P., 17 May 2005, and A. X., 13 June 2005). The tragedy's dynamics and its reception let them seize the moral and cultural high ground, which the Left and the Right had been contesting. Because the production of a well‐prepared Prometheus was banned at the last minute, it stayed on the exiles' minds with the forcefulness of a forbidden play. Thus the classical tragedy informed a political reality and produced additional, multi‐faceted ways of knowing and understanding. If any abuses of power had previously been left unspoken, they now became part of the women's debate and their ongoing project of consciousness‐raising. (p.116) Any act of censorship that was intended to suppress political awareness was, in this vibrant environment, bound to fail. To my knowledge, the most extensive record of the final rehearsals of Trikeri's Prometheus is that of Hariati‐Sismani (1975: xi, 24–25), a painter and graphic artist who later published works related to her own and other women's lives as exiles on the prison islands: it contains a list of the six actresses who played the lead roles (Prometheus: Kiki Dionysopoulou; Kratos, Bia, Oceanus, Hermes, and Io) and of the twenty‐four members of the chorus of Oceanids.13 The group made the tragedy's female chorus more numerous than classical convention allowed— a testimony to the exiles' eagerness to participate. Hariati‐Sismani herself took on Oceanus' part and designed the sets and the costumes. The energetic Elli Nikolaïdou taught the choral passages (Apostolopoulou 1984: 61–65). Prometheus' rock consisted of large blocks of coloured marble: the women had carried them up from the shore to the area on a hill slope that they had designated for their theatre (Hariati‐Sismani 1975: 24–25). These rocks symbolized both their labour and isolation on Trikeri. Also, any one of the tragedy's many verbal references to harsh rocks or mountains in the North could denote the Left's final and losing battle in the mountain regions of northern Greece. The women's will to stake out a site and a veritable programme of educational and cultural activities marked a powerful way to keep the camp administrators at bay. Imvrioti's women had started to study their parts on Hios, their prior location of exile. The women's intense work survived the disruptive transfer from Hios to Trikeri and the group's partial reconfiguration. This persistent dedication for more than two months in the summer of 1949 was not Page 7 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? to be taken for granted. The detainees, however, understood full well that their rehearsals and other communal activities ‘kept the spirits high’ when they needed it most, that is, when news reports of the Left's defeat in the mountains kept coming in (Apostolopoulou 1984: 58, 64; Kyriakidou 2003: 223; Vervenioti 1992: 54). This performance practice against all odds was the exiles' homage to the value of theatre itself, (p.117) both as an enduring, classical art form and as a pertinent witness of contemporary history and personal experience. Aeschylus states that Prometheus bestowed on the human race the skill of writing and thus the gift of Memory (in the role of female and mother) and increased cultural awareness: ‘the combining of letters,/ Memory of all things, dutiful mother of the Muses’ (Prometheus 460–461). Much of the dialogue of the Prometheus is concerned with imparting information, that is, with teaching and learning, understanding and acquiring wisdom. The identification with Prometheus across gender boundaries let the female prisoner claim the identity of the interned intellectual (testimony by A. N., 3 June 2005). In its contemporary Marxist and leftist readings, Aeschylus' play voiced a sense of belonging to an international intellectual community in spite of physical constraints. The symbolism of its hero, the revolutionary educator and culture bringer, applied especially on Trikeri, where many detained female teachers gave informal lessons to those whose school education had been interrupted or terminated by the war years. Some women acquired in exile the basic skills in reading, writing, and arithmetic that they had never had a chance to learn back home; others studied history, literature, law, and foreign languages, or learned geography, maths, physics, and chemistry. The love of learning—and teaching— repeatedly manifests itself in the testimonies of the female detainees: many were deeply conscious of the value of self‐improvement, which entailed self‐education but also communal training to make women with leftist sympathies more useful to the leadership of the Left.14 Both theatre and teaching in their dialogic nature assumed the risky task of strengthening the commune's leftist consciousness. The women were able to put their new skills to use in exile but especially upon their release. Many female detainees later traced their intellectual and political growth or even the very discovery of learning back to their stay on Trikeri. They referred to the island as ‘the rock of the Sphinx’, with reference to the female sphinx of the Oedipus myth, who held the answer to life's enigma (Servos 2003: 159). The exiles on Trikeri had to conduct many of their lessons in secret, but restrictions were relaxed in the early 1950s (p.118) (testimony by E. Y., 26 May 2009). Then, the number of activities increased to include lectures, poetry evenings, discussion and analysis based on the latest newspapers, or even the composition and redaction of handwritten newspaper sheets (Apostolopoulou 1984: 42; 1997: 203; Gavriilidou 2004: 70, 73–74, 79, but cf. 75, 76; Kenna 2008). The teacher Natalia Apostolopoulou compared the women's clandestine educational programme to the prerevolutionary ‘secret school’ (krifó scholeío, κρυϕό σχολείο), which has traditionally (but romantically) been credited with Page 8 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? sustaining Greek language, education, and religion through the adversities of the Ottoman Occupation.15 Her references took a stab at the Greek establishment for acting like the quintessential foreign foe, long vilified as uncivilized. The secret school has served, to this day, as a synecdoche for the emerging Greek educational and patriotic movement. The educational network of Trikeri resembled a secret school setting in some important respects: it shared the emblematic features of basic instruction conducted often at night and behind closed doors; the lessons were led by Greeks with the enlightened mission to preserve Greek culture; a fair dose of mythification of the sessions resulted in a semispiritualized experience of learning for the sake of Greek regeneration. The broader Greek population related well to the myth of the secret school, which inspired a form of communal resistance activity (Doumanis 1997: 88–89). Gaining an education—conquering schooling—was for many female detainees a meaningful way to stage resistance against a repressive and patriarchal system. ‘Talent among us, women, offended the wardens’, Panayiota X. asserted: ‘Anti‐intellectualism was rampant among the guards, who came down particularly harshly (p.119) on those who were university students and who tried hard to obtain reading materials. Our intense devotion to books was anathema and we had to hide that we were bettering ourselves. And we were! Too bad if we left the male guards in a discomfiting position of inferiority’ (testimony of 29 May 2009).

The Prometheus of Nonrepentance Even though the Prometheus production did not go beyond the dress rehearsal stage, the tragedy itself warrants a closer look in the light of its reception by the Greek Left, or of some of the older uses of the hero as symbol. Hariati‐Sismani left no doubt as to how she and her fellow inmates read Prometheus' character and condition: For us, Prometheus was he who does not sign a ‘declaration’ [of repentance], who accepts to stay nailed to his rock and to remain in his martyrdom, just like us, rather than yield to violence.…Prometheus was us and all the words of the drama fit us like a glove. We called Hermes ‘the errand boy’. Hephaestus was the worker who forges his own bonds. And Oceanus? That was my uncle, who had written to me, a few days earlier, to urge me to repent. (1975: 24) Hariati‐Sismani had intentionally dressed the Prometheus of the play in a deep red chiton (1975: 25). This ‘red’ Prometheus did not succumb to the pressure to sign a ‘declaration of repentance’. The hero held on to the symbolic weapon of his proud conviction, which the opposing side was eager to repossess or to break, only to react with excessive violence to a proud denial (Apostolopoulou 1984: 60). Successive Greek right‐wing governments coaxed or terrorized Page 9 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? political prisoners into signing a recantation or renunciation of their ideological beliefs, called a dílosi metanoías (δήλωση μετανοίας) or, short, a dílosi. Often, the mechanics of social and religious control joined in the assault on the detainees' psychological strength. The pressure to sign and the concomitant threat of torture rested on the women as well as on the men. The pressure was exacerbated by the unrelenting urgings of parents, children, relatives, local priests, and village or small town authorities, all pressed into special or routine (p.120) service as pawns of the Right. Also, the Communist Party added to the pressure by branding those who signed as traitors (Voglis 2004: 154–155; cf. Margaritis 2001: 583 n. 3). Many detainees, especially on Makronisos, caved in under psychic and/or bodily torture to sign such a declaration and became ‘dilosíes’, which often opened up a whole new set of requirements: from composing hideous confession statements to denouncing their former comrades, to assisting in the process of ‘breaking’ others (to translate the modern Greek expression for ‘torturing’).16 On many occasions, those administering the beatings were former prisoners who, after they had signed, were expected to prove their new conviction by torturing their fellow inmates. Refusing to sign was therefore not only a personal insistence (p.121) on truths that contested the regime's ‘patriotism’; it was also the refusal to become an agent of cruelty. The overwhelming necessity to underwrite and perform a declaration placed intolerable burdens on the detainees to show the colours of their political creed. Even though political cum religious ‘repentance’ held the promise of salvation of the entire person, both physically and spiritually, this hope was misleading. The acts of public self‐humiliation or charade and the disapproval of fellow inmates broke the backbone of many of those who signed, whose leftist reputation was tarnished for the rest of their lives (Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 53, 60, 76, 77). Most declarations of repentance benefited only the authorities, which used them to deal divisive psychological blows to the remaining dissenters. In the official rhetoric of sin and shame, those prisoners who did not buckle under the constant strain were labelled the ‘incorrigibles’, the ‘refusers’, or the ‘stubborn ones’. The enforcement of ideological conformity by police measures and prohibition dated back to the era of growing Greek nationalism of the early 1930s and lasted through the military dictatorship. Voglis traced the roots of the ‘declaration of repentance’ back to Greek anticommunist measures of 1933 (2002: 36). This era generated also the ‘loyalty certificate’ or the certificate of ‘social thoughts’, which anyone who applied for a job or already worked in the public sector had to submit and which testified to the employee's ‘sound’ social and political convictions. Anyone found ‘disloyal’ could not stay in his or her job.17 The signing of a ‘declaration of repentance’ has been a particularly sensitive subject for Greek left‐wingers.18 Many interviewees avoided the subject altogether, unless they belonged to the group of the ‘refusers’. The communist actress Kali Kalo is one of the very few who describes how and why she decided Page 10 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? to sign: she did so after suffering spells of interrogation, imprisonment, and exile on Ikaria, for the sake of her young daughter and to be able to further pursue her career in the Athenian entertainment theatre: And with much despair and anguish, I put my signature down, in order to continue, above all, the sacred role of the mother and also the notable (p. 122) career that I had then just begun.…I was hurt so much by the signature that I put to a text that did not represent me and that I did not believe in, either.… And from then on, for very many months, I used to walk with lowered eyes, so as not to face by chance the look of a comrade, who would have ignored me with an air. (1998: 87)19 Hariati‐Sismani recalled the emotional pleading of her uncle begging her to sign the declaration, and thus to renounce communism. Like the character of Oceanus, he tried to coax her into accommodating the tyrannical regime. If Hariati‐Sismani showed some understanding for her uncle's urging, she did not for any modern counterparts to Hermes, who acts as Zeus' dutiful minion. For this Hermes, she reserved one of the most damaging Greek terms, to hafiedaki (το χαϕιεδάκι), a word that, especially in the diminutive (of χαϕιές, ‘snitch’, ‘informer’, ‘police spy’, ‘stoolpigeon’), defies translation but that implies utter venality. For the detainees who understood their refusal to sign as a powerful property or weapon, pursued by the government, the myths of Antigone and Philoctetes gained additional meaning. In vain, a ‘paternal’ Creon attempts to convince the naively idealist Antigone and Haemon to join the side of the state. The dishonest Odysseus, taking advantage of Philoctetes' physical condition and utter loneliness, tries to obtain his unfailing bow, which the hero inherited from Heracles himself and which will seal the Greeks' triumphant victory in the Trojan War. This bow, which is central to the tragedy's stage business, was seen by the prisoners as the very weapon of their conviction: for them to hold on to this weapon could still prevent the enemy from gaining or declaring victory (testimonies by E. P., 17 May 2005, and A. X., 13 June 2005). All three tragic heroes, Antigone, Philoctetes, and Prometheus, could be seen as those whose refusal to compromise left them in a state of protracted isolation, but who showed no sign of ‘breaking’. All three plays that, for the exiles, reflected on the pressure to sign a declaration strengthened their capacities to think critically. All three plays also restored the inmates' dignity and humanity, while (p.123) the prison authorities kept doing everything possible to obliterate those modes of autonomy. Like Sophocles' Philoctetes, however, Aeschylus' Prometheus, too, projects the vision that the long‐lasting struggle between the old and the new order will end in reconciliation, but only after many generations of suffering.

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Refusing to sign a declaration was, therefore, refusing to perform submission or —much more offensive—showing off defiance to the regime's agenda to respiritualize politics. Signing such a declaration was not a simple or secular act of repentance. It symbolically ‘purged’ the ‘repenters’ of political ‘sin’, cast as moral and religious sin as well. As ananípsandes (ανανήψαντες), the ‘reformed’ or ‘redeemed’ had ‘awakened’ to the ‘right’, anticommunist brand of patriotism and could rejoin the ‘good’ and the ‘deserving’. They had found ανάνηψη or αναμόρϕωση, ‘recovery’ or ‘rehabilitation’ (Tsellos, with irony, 2002: 57). The government considered them to be ‘reborn’ into the Greek family of the nation and its Orthodox religion—to be reborn, in fact, (as) Greeks. Rebirth also brought renewed assurance of the continuation of one's line (as codified in the system of Orthodox baptismal names), which held special meaning in the Greeks' concern with genealogical survival. As part of the production of nationalist overload, the prison wardens regularly read out ‘declarations of repentance’ signed by the ‘redeemed’, and they further intimidated the—dwindling numbers of—‘sinners’. Also, the ‘declaration of repentance’ provided officials with the perfect opportunity to demand a public performance of the repenter's confession, which they made the recusants watch. The camp of Makronisos formed the main stage for the performative antics that showcased the declarations: some repentant had to appear on the physical theatre stage to ask for ‘absolution’, or the ‘mercy’ to be granted moral‐political ‘cleansing’ (Margaritis 2001: 578; Voglis 2002: 102, 105). Many of these declarations, too, were published in newspapers and filed with local authorities. Journalistic objectivity was certainly another casualty of this era. So was the role of the Greek Church. Often, the priest of the local church of the ‘cleansed’ read out his or her ‘declaration of repentance’ before the congregation (Voglis and Bournazos 2009: 71). Priests travelled to the islands to help convince the exiles to sign (Margaris 1966: 2:124). One female prisoner, Maria Kyriakidou, resented the Church's complicity in the ‘production’ of 15 December 1949: the women of Trikeri were kept standing outside in the snow to listen to the spokespersons of the (p.124) regional institutions and police forces as they threatened them into signing declarations (2003: 225–226): [T]his entire crime was covered up by the Greek Orthodox Church with its representative, the then metropolitan of Magnesia, who closed this all‐day ‘performance’ (‘parastasi’), in which the women were standing in the falling snow, with the statement: ‘The representatives of the state have spoken to you in harsh terms, but this is the reality. Repent, sisters of mine, that you may find the truth’. (2003: 226)20 While the Civil War was still raging, the Church and the Greek government relentlessly called on women to ‘safeguard the national tradition’. Mihail Ailianos, the Greek Minister of Press and Information, organized a radio Page 12 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? broadcast of one of his conservative speeches defining Greek women's position: ‘In Greece, our women know that they and their children are fighting not only for Religion and Nation, but also for the Family.…Our victory will be the Victory of Mankind, a Victory led by the symbol of the Holy Virgin, representative of Motherhood, its Sorrows, Love and Sacrifice’.21 The prison administrations designed humiliating and propagandistic events along the lines of morality plays that showed how ‘good’ triumphed over ‘evil’: the exiles who had been ‘excommunicated’ from civic and religious life were given a last chance to repent. The Church exerted its supreme claims on its female citizens, in particular. With more than a few hints of theatre, the enemy within was exposed as the treacherous, unreliable, or ‘infected’ communist who could still recant. Many must have recognized such performances of recantation as patently false: few among the actual confessors were fooled into believing in any kind of redemptive future. But even disingenuous or mere illusionary acts were acceptable to the authorities as long as they held up in public. Scott makes the following general observation, which captures the Greek right‐wingers' attitude to the ‘corrective’ practice and to the merit scale of their kind of patriotism: ‘Institutions for which doctrine is central to identity are thus often less concerned with the (p.125) genuineness of confessions of heresy and recantations than with the public show of unanimity they afford’ (1990: 205).

The Leftist Prometheus The prison authorities of Trikeri, hostile to unfettered enquiry and independent expression, silenced a leftist champion in Prometheus. They did so, not because they fully realized the tragedy's potential, but because, as the work of the professed leftist Imvrioti, the play and its hero had to be ‘suspect’. Imvrioti's Prometheus depicted a theatre of strife between two opposing worldviews, which the women recognized as the current embattled ideologies (testimonies by E. P., 17 May 2005, and A. X., 13 June 2005). The Greek exemplum of the leftist Prometheus, the battered but defiant culture bringer, was established in the 1920s and was affirmed by successive generations of Greek radicals, who made many returns to this male archetype from their ‘own’ legacy. Internationally, Prometheus became the icon of the leftist committed culture and, in particular, of the Marxist Eastern European literature of the 1950s and 1960s and during the Antikewelle, or the intense engagement with ancient (Greek) themes that the German Democratic Republic (1949–1989) experienced.22 Kostas Varnalis, the well known Demotic poet and translator, created the most important early Marxist and Russian‐imported Prometheus to appear in Greek literature when, in Alexandria in 1922, he published the first version of The Burning Light (To fos pou kaiei). The ‘burning light’ of his title is the revolutionary firebrand of Reason; its hero, Prometheus the fire bringer, is in the vanguard of an unstoppable Marxist drive. By 1933, the Prometheus of Varnalis projected a (p. 126) ‘new and totally anthropocentric vision, both iconoclastic and belligerent’, in the words of Yorgis Yatromanolakis (1996: 157).23 The image of the strong Page 13 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? revolutionary leader‐ideologue that Varnalis broadcast through Prometheus influenced many Greek writers, including Rotas and Kazantzakis, whose trilogy Prometheus dates back to 1944. Varnalis's work was the subject also of a successful staged reading on Aï Stratis in 1958 (Tsellos 2002: 55, 93). In 1936, Dimitris Glinos, the avowed leftist educator and activist, fell victim to Metaxas's anticommunism and became ‘another desmotis’ on the island of Anafi. He identified with Prometheus and struck a chord with George Thomson, the British Marxist scholar who had published a scholarly edition of the Prometheus Bound. Thomson quoted an excerpt from a 1936 letter by Glinos in which he voiced his hope of liberation through the symbolism of the Prometheus' myth, a blueprint for his mental and physical survival: I keep my soul vigilant and my body straight. And I await… And what I await will certainly come. Sooner or later it will come. Read the Prometheus Bound of Aeschylus and you must know that Heracles will come—he will come. (Quoted by Thomson 1964: 89) A victim of the ‘tyrant’, Metaxas‐Zeus, Glinos‐Prometheus cried out against brutal and unjust power. But Aeschylus' original offered up a bitter reminder along with relief and consolation: Heracles, who kills Zeus' eagle and stops it from devouring Prometheus' liver, does come, but only after many generations. Glinos in the image of Prometheus declared himself ready to bear bodily and psychological sufferings until the time of liberation, no matter how long the wait. Meanwhile, (p.127) the potent symbol of the tragic hero's body functions as a means of communication with the outside world. The persistent leftist‐communist identification with Prometheus troubled the administrators of Makronisos: they resorted to publishing their own reading on the mythical hero in the Skapanefs, through the penmanship of an unnamed ‘repenter’. The officially sanctioned interpretation is a grab bag of dogmatic statements: they counter Nietzschean views on Aeschylus' Prometheus and unabashedly call for the detainee's compliance with or submission to ‘invisible’, superior, or even ‘divine’ forces: They say that Prometheus was the ‘first revolutionary’, a divinity on a par with the suffering Christ. That is incorrect. Prometheus is the expression of religious awe. The Titan's rebellious words, his passion, etcetera, are mere ornamentation, not the core of the tragedy.…Prometheus is the first encounter of mankind with the gods, the first act of becoming aware of an invisible power that brings you to submission. (Skapanefs 12, December 1948, 20)

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Katrakis seems to have had the last and most memorable word on the subject of the leftist Prometheus. He lived on in the memory of Stamatis Kavvadias as the impromptu Prometheus of Makronisos: While Vonklis [the infamous torturer] was telling me these things, I noticed that, a little further away, Manos Katrakis had climbed onto a small rock and had begun to recite lines from the Prometheus Bound of Aeschylus. Hearing Manos's voice, I turned in that direction, and what do I see before me? A Manos who was utterly moving, who had lifted his head to the sky, who held up the open palms of his hands and, thin as he was, dirtied by the soil of the stone that we had been hauling, he really looked like Prometheus. Some of the lines stayed with me: ‘Mother Earth, Mother of all. Sun, you who see everything. Look at me! Look at me and shudder! As I live nailed [to the rock] through the ages and endure appalling hardships. Such a horrid imprisonment (“karfoma”) was devised for me by the new ruler, Zeus. I am being tortured and I will forever be tortured. When will the torments come to an end?’

[paraphrasing Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound 90–100] And [there were] other lines that I could not retain from the opening but also from the final conclusion of the Prometheus Bound. (p.128) When I had recovered from the surprise that Manos's moving recitation had provoked in me, I was gripped by anxiety about how Vonklis would react. That is, perhaps he would pounce on Manos and beat him. Vonklis immediately turned and asked me in a menacing tone: ‘What is he saying?’ ‘He is an actor’, I told him, ‘let him let some steam off. It's not the end of the world. He is just talking about the ancient gods’. (Kavvadias 2003: 594–595) Katrakis enjoyed this moment of immunity precisely for being seen as an actor who was merely playing a part. It helped that Kavvadias befuddled the torturer and explained the Prometheus impersonation as some sort of a disembodied and therefore harmless experience. Katrakis polished the role to perfection and he triumphed as Prometheus in a 1974 National Theatre production that condemned the military dictatorship at the time of its ignominious collapse. Katrakis then spoke to a full Epidaurus theatre that gave him an enraptured applause. The public there had eagerly been awaiting the passages in which the actor would express liberal or defiant ideas, as when he denounced the Page 15 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? arbitrariness of ‘new tyrants’ (e.g. Aeschylus, Prometheus 439, 939, 942, 960). Katrakis's stage incarnation recalled his personal fate but, as intended, the sympathetic audience applied the lines to the common experience under the colonels. Applause was particularly impassioned toward the play's end, when the chorus leader stated: ‘I have learned to hate traitors’ (l. 1068). Similar riotous applause greeted Prometheus' final and famous cry of frustration: ‘You see how wrongly I suffer’ (1. 1093).

Conclusion Women by the thousands were walled‐in in this empty, nameless island —officially declared unfit for human habitation infested with yellow fever and typhus— We were the first to camp here on this meager soil we worked, we gave birth we buried, we sang we abolished emptiness we built kilns and workshops wells and windmills (p.129) here we lived out the clay age we dug for roots we coaxed the music from the reed we made a lyre from the turtle shell

(Victoria Theodorou 1973: 13; trans. E. Fourtouni 1978: 10) Under the guidance of some very impressive female educators, the women of Trikeri incarnated Antigone and Prometheus and thereby made a declaration of a different kind, a counterdeclaration to dissident ideals, which did not denounce or ‘break’ comrades but invited them in. Meanwhile, the Greek government's persecution of its Antigone and Prometheus‐like opponents remained informed by multiple degrees of acting and performing. It constantly— and forcibly—reminded the female exiles, in particular, who were held captive under strict surveillance, of which role to play and which script to follow: it was the script that directed them to be obedient, uncritical, and pious child‐pupils of a state that had taken over for the family circle and for the religious and educational system. The state defined patriotism through punitive as well as performative manifestations of right‐wing domination, as it continued to place its damaging rhetoric and histrionics at the centre of political life—which was a nonlife for the exiles. Especially the resented Greek government practice of demanding ‘declarations of repentance’ showed just how dangerous, demonstrative, and unreasonably personal the requirement to articulate one's own, the family's, and the group's ideology had become.

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Notes:

(1) Greek women's active role during the Occupation and especially during the Civil War has been firmly established (Hart 1996; Poulos 2009: 75–104 and 105– 157, or chapters 4 and 5, resp.; Vervenioti 1994). Some women became active guerrilla troops and adopted fierce noms de guerre, such as Thyella or ‘Tempest’. For photographs of female guerrillas, see Gkritzonas (2001a), with material drawn mainly from the author's personal archive. Many more women earned a reputation for themselves through their political labour. Many women, too, were relegated to serving as cooks, nurses, or caretakers. See also Vervenioti (2002) on the diverse roles of female guerrillas in the Democratic Army. Vervenioti modifies the idealized picture of leftist Greek women's rapid advance to emancipation by citing some of the male guerrillas' gender‐related expectations. She further illustrates the ‘redomestication’ of women even in the military groupings and locales. For instance, a female leader wrote that ‘the female fighters would compete as to which one of their sections would have the cleanest men, with the best laundered and patched‐up clothes…, which one would lead in bringing joy and entertainment’ (2002: 136). Ensuring cleanliness and providing entertainment was women's work in the Democratic Army, Vervenioti avers (2002: 136). She also notes that not all women were accepting of this kind of domesticity of the mountain (I am unwilling to call it ‘an exchange of traditional roles’, in Vervenioti's terms [2002: 134]): ‘There were girls who declared that they hadn't come to the Mountain to wash clothes and to sew buttons’ (2002: 136). On issues of gender relations in the Democratic Army, see also Marantzidis (2010: 145–148). See Voglis on the camps for female detainees of the Civil War, Hios and Trikeri (2002: 106–108). Some female exiles were accompanied by their small children. Many women were transferred from Trikeri to Makronisos in January of 1950 but were later returned to Trikeri. In 1953, those who remained ‘incorrigible’ were imprisoned with the men on Aï Stratis (Apostolopoulou 1997: 203–204; Hart 1996: 259, 264–265; and Tsellos 2002: passim). For a woman's testimony on her experience of the persecution of the Left during the postwar period through the dictatorship years, see Pagona Stefanou, Of the Invisible (1998). Her title draws attention to the terror's effacing, obliterating nature. Natalia Apostolopoulou collected the testimonies of many women and described the experiences of other female detainees whom she met on Hios, Trikeri, Makronisos, and again Trikeri during her years of exile, from 1948 to 1952 (1984 and 1997). See also Gavriilidou (2004) and Theodorou (1975). For more background on the women's educational activities on Hios and Trikeri, see Kamarinou (2005: 223–229 and 229–240, resp.), who does not, however, analyse the conditions on Makronisos. (2) See Chapter 2, pp. 99–100, on the ‘theatrical’ or ‘performative’ context in which the prison authorities intimidated and mistreated the women in the physical space of one of the theatres of Makronisos. Page 17 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? (3) Tsellos repeatedly spoke with delight and relief about the women's arrival on Aï Stratis, and not only because he saw a chance to enlist female amateur performers for the theatre there. He also noted, without even a whim of jealousy or resentment, that the female exiles were housed in village houses, whereas the men continued to live in ragged tents (2002: 57–58). (4) The bulk of the literature on the reception of ancient drama in prisons has centred on Fugard's The Island, but has overlooked many other areas of comparison. The Island is the collaborative work of Fugard, Winston Ntshona, and John Kani, who freely adapted the staging of Sophocles' Antigone by prisoners on Robben Island. The play was first performed in 1973 and became a voice of political criticism of the South African apartheid regime. See further Balfour (2004) and Goff and Simpson (2007: 271–320, or their chapter 6). Nelson Mandela, the former president of South Africa who was long interned on Robben Island, volunteered to play Creon in this inmate Antigone. He wrote about the experience in his autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom (1994). He saw Antigone ‘symbolize our struggle; she was, in her own way, a freedom fighter, for she defied the law on the ground that it was unjust’ (1994: 397). On the issue of leadership, he pondered: ‘His [Creon's] inflexibility and blindness ill become a leader, for a leader must temper justice with mercy’ (1994: 397). Mandela found classical Greek tragedies to be ‘elevating’ and reflected: ‘What I took out of them was that character was measured by facing up to difficult situations and that a hero was a man who would not break down even under the most trying circumstances’ (1994: 397). Mandela fondly remembered the ‘amateur drama society’ that was allowed to give performances at Christmas: ‘Our productions were what might now be called minimalist: no stage, no scenery, no costumes. All we had was the text of the play’ (1994: 397). (5) In his play, The Woman and the Wrong Man (I yinaika kai o lathos), Kambanellis makes a tragicomic joke that highlights women's disadvantaged position in the contemporary Greek educational system. His joke plays on the contrast with the large numbers of predominantly male artists and intellectuals who were detained on the prison islands during the Metaxas dictatorship, the Nazi Occupation through the aftermath of the Civil War, and again under the colonels' regime. Kambanellis features the following satirical exchange: Police Sergeant: They should…have…locked you up! Mother: I wish they had! It would have given me a little education, seeing I didn't even go to school.… Police Sergeant: I see! You think of prison as a secret training ground! Mother: All the educated people were ‘inside’ (‘mesa’)! (1981a: 44; trans. G. Valamvanos and K. MacKinnon 1984: 21) Page 18 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? (6) Apostolopoulou (1984: 42; 1997: passim; 2003b: 501–502); Barbatsi (2003: 94–102); Falianga‐Papanikolaou (1989: 97–98, 99, 148–149, 203–205, 230–231, 242, 369–371, and passim); Papadouka (1981: 36–39); Voglis (2002: 164–167; 2004: 153). Kyriaki Kamarinou (2005) has contributed the most important recent study to illuminate the prisoners' and exiles' ideals of popular education and continuing education over a span of half a century (1924–1974). See also the testimonies collected by Roza Imvrioti and published by Victoria Theodorou (Theodorou 1975), which attest to the value that the female prisoners placed on record keeping. For access in English to some of these records written by women, see Fourtouni (1986). On Theodorou as a sensitive, politically minded poet of the 1940s through 1970s, see Kapparis (2004: 188, 198–200). (7) Païzi's reading or a similar occasion may have inspired Gloria Maddox to write a play, Antigone through Time. In late August of 1998, director Richard S. Bach produced the play at the Connelly Theatre in New York City, as part of the New York International Fringe Festival. The company of Gloria Maddox, Mad Woman of the Woods Productions, advertised the show with pictures and images from the Greek resistance and Civil War. The play was set on a Greek prison island of the 1940s, which held about three thousand women and former members of the resistance. Despite unrelenting pressure, the women refused to sign ‘declarations of repentance’ (see below, pp. 119–125). Periodically during the show, the performers put on white masks and transformed themselves into characters from Sophocles' Antigone. See further Anita Gates, who missed the important point of the Greek Right oppressing the Left, in her article ‘In Resistance to the Nazis, Resonance with the Ancients’, New York Times, 29 August 1998. (8) Apostolopoulou (1984: 40; 1997: 54), with additional allusions to secret theatre events in the women's prisons; Barbatsi (2003: 98–99, 101); Gavriilidou (2004: 71–72); and Papadouka (1981: 23). (9) Derveki's letter to her brother is dated 16 September 1950 and is quoted and translated by Voglis (2004: 150), who also provides the broader social context of pervasive class differentials. For an in‐depth treatment of the letter writing of political detainees and of (mainly personal) correspondence as a primary source, see Lambropoulou (1999). For a long quotation from Derveki's letter in Greek, see Lambropoulou (1999: 128–130). (10) For some due reservations on the all too common topic of the courageous and outspoken grandma in prisoners' testimonies, see Vervenioti (2003: 161, 162–163). (11) The exiles would have called it a futile academic exercise to worry about the Aeschylean authorship of the Prometheus Bound, as classicists now do. Contesting the play's authenticity would have damaged its prestige, that of Page 19 of 23

Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Aeschylus, and the personal and collective stakes vested in the tragic hero. For the purposes of this analysis, I will honour the Greek theatre world's firmly held belief that nobody other than Aeschylus wrote the Prometheus. Contestation originated in the Anglo‐American scholarly domain: some interpreters have posited dating problems based on observations on content and dramatic form, which seem to fit a post‐Aeschylean author better. Mark Griffith maintains that Aeschylus might have written the tragedy late in his career. He points out that most scholars, however, have dated the play to the 440s or 430s BCE (1977; 1983: 31–35; Taplin 1977: 240, 460–469, and passim). (12) See Poulos on Imvrioti's background in the demoticist, communist, and feminist movements (2009: 72 n. 18, 146–147, 157 n. 73). See also Mazower, who characterizes Imvrioti as: ‘Ascetic and dedicated, a bitter opponent of the old Metaxas dictatorship, she embodied the idea of resistance as a process of internal reform and improvement.…Sadly, the Civil War would lead her to be written off as a dangerous radical’ (1993: 281). On Imvrioti's activities, see further Apostolopoulou (1984: 42; 1997: passim; 2003a; 2003b). (13) Hariati‐Sismani reproduces also a rare and faint picture of some of the Oceanids, dressed in light‐coloured robes (1975: 25). In antiquity, the chorus was played by male actors dressed to look like the daughters of Oceanus. For further brief references, see Apostolopoulou (1984: 58–60; 1997: 157, with mention of the teacher Liza Kottou as Imvrioti's ‘codirector’); Voglis (2002: 207); and Yeorgopoulou (1999: 323). (14) Avdoulos (1998: 299–300); Floundzis (1979: 122, and passim; 1986: 92–95, 100); and Tzamaloukas, who emphasized education in the theories of Marxism and Leninism during exile in the late 1930s and early 1940s (1975: 51–57). See further Vervenioti (2003: 161–162, 164–165). (15) Apostolopoulou (1984: 42; 1997: 148–149, 203; 2003c: 502–503). See Angelou (1997) and Mandrikas (1992) on the process of national myth making that enveloped the secret school and on the school's symbolic importance. Critical observations in English are to be found in Doumanis (1997: 88–89). The myth of the secret school has been perpetuated by popular memory and children's song. Correspondingly, children's textbooks have credited the clergy with preserving Greek faith and culture under the Tourkokratia, and the Greek Church has built much of its prestige on its proclaimed role of champion of the embattled Greeks in the revolutionary age. See Gkritzonas (2001b: 93–99) for more on the furtive lessons taught in some of the men's prisons, especially the lessons in political topics. For some all too brief references to theatre plays and skits in the men's prison of Akronafplia, see Gkritzonas (2001b: 99–100). On further educational and cultural life among the

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? detainees of Akronafplia, see, however, recently Kamarinou (2005: 126–141) and Porfyris (2008: 200–204, 209, 214–221, 225–226, 227–228, 229–233). (16) See further Panourgia (2009: 42–44, 104, 230); Vervenioti (2008b: 92–93); Voglis (2004: 154); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 56–58, 60–61, 65, 76); cf. Margaritis (2001: 582–586). Examples of the contrived language of such (boiler‐ plate) diloseis can be found in Zoannos‐Sarris, who published them with pride (1950: 82–83). One sample of a follow‐up letter is telling of the pressures placed on women, in particular: Yeorgios Simas wrote to his sister Evanthia, who was being held on Trikeri, on 12 December 1949: This is to let you know that I signed the declaration, and so did uncle Nikos, and all the Argaloiotes without exception. Therefore, I ask that you, too, come to your senses, so that we may look after our home that was wrecked by the seduction of the communist betrayal. (Quoted by Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 83) Some wives and mothers wrote back to the camp administrators of Makronisos upon the release of their men, with words that reveal the burden placed on women who themselves had not been imprisoned: Andonis came back a different person. He doesn't swear, he doesn't curse, he doesn't beat us anymore. May God bless you. (Anonymous, quoted by Stratis Myrivilis, in Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 85) Mazower attests to the concerted efforts that Greek women made on behalf of the leftist political prisoners of the Civil War: In campaigning publicly for the release of political prisoners, Greek women played a prominent part. While the men who ran…[leftist] combatants' organizations were quickly targeted and jailed, their womenfolk proved more troublesome for the authorities. In the Panhellenic Union of Families of Exiles and Prisoners, founded in 1949, they campaigned for ‘our sacred right to look after our children, husbands, and brothers’ and against government efforts to ‘stifle the mother, the wife, and the sister’. (2000: 217) See also Poulos on this Union, which adopted a woman's script (of ‘maternal love, charity, and sacrifice’) that was compatible with the traditional values promoted by the postwar conservative governments (2009: 148). (17) On these—punitive—mechanisms, see Close (2002: 90, 142); Mazower (1997: 146); and Voglis (2002: 40, 62, 68, 74–88, 224). Panourgia stresses the

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? (McCarthyite) US models or equivalents of such measures (2009: 42, 44–47, 234–235). (18) Bournazos (2009b: 41); Herzfeld (1997: 119, 121); Voglis (2002: 8); Voglis and Bournazos (2009: 76). (19) See further Krontiris on the fate of the Shakespearean actor Aimilios Veakis after he signed a dilosi (2007a: 206, 209 n. 14; Kalaïtzi 2001: 265–266). See also the personal testimony of Regina Pagoulatou‐Loverdou, who published her memoir of her time in exile some twenty‐five years later and in New York. The author sheds light also on the intimidation and humiliation that did not end for those who had signed (1974: 159–165). (20) See Mavroeidi‐Pandeleskou on similar efforts made by the priests of Makronisos to bring the women, in particular, back to the Christian fold (1975: 324). (21) Quoted and translated by Poulos (2009: 150). Ailianos's speech was published also in the February 1949 issue of Hellenia, which Poulos characterizes as ‘effectively a state‐approved “feminist” gazette’ (2009: 149). (22) See Hall (2004a: 174–175) and Ziolkowski (2000a: 562). According to Hall (2008: 397), the socialist John Goodwyn Barmby may have introduced the term ‘communism’ into the English language by the 1840s, ‘to describe his egalitarian, feminist and utopian political aims’. Barmby published a monthly magazine titled The Promethean, or Communist Apostle. Among the best known exponents of the East German Antikewelle are Heiner Müller and Christa Wolf. Müller became known for his critiques of contemporary East German society by way of ancient drama and myth. Wolf's name stands for feminist revisions of classical female figures (Cassandra and Medea). On Wolf's Cassandra, see further Komar (2003: 107–118) and Van Dyck (1998: 118–120, 138–139). Some of the works by Bertolt Brecht (1898–1956) predate the founding of the GDR, such as his Antigone of 1948. (23) Yatromanolakis's evaluation pertains to the second and thoroughly revised version of The Burning Light (Athens, 1933), to which we now generally refer. See Yatromanolakis on the similarities and differences between the two versions (1996: 156–159). For a comprehensive philological study of Varnalis's work, see Dallas (2003). Nietzsche, who identified with the Aeschylean Prometheus, influenced Varnalis and Kazantzakis. In the ninth chapter of his Birth of Tragedy (1872), Nietzsche compared the myths of Prometheus and Adam. He concluded that the human race might achieve its loftiest goal only by committing sacrilege and then bearing all the consequences, including the misery inflicted by offended deities (Ziolkowski 2000b: 116–117). Nietzsche famously called

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Female Prisoners Learning (in) Defiance: What's Playing on Trikeri? Aeschylus' tragedy a ‘hymn to impiety’ and its hero's ‘offence’ the ‘virtue’ of ‘active sin’, which, for him, commanded pride and dignity (chapter 9).

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The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 (Patrikios 1994: 13) In the 1950s, Aï Stratis functioned as a prison island first for men and, from 1953 on, for a mixed group of ‘incorrigibles’. Some of the exiles of Aï Stratis, the party die‐hards who had passed through Makronisos (until 1950), had gained prior exposure (as audience members) to the practice of inmate theatre. They were able to resume this practice under the more lenient conditions of their new island camp. Once the transfers were completed and the exiles had settled down, this theatre resumed its struggle and enjoyed relative autonomy. Through the mid‐1950s, it truly flourished. Nearly all of the genres known to the Greek stage of the mid‐twentieth century were represented on Aï Stratis, where the detainees tried out all they knew and tapped as many as they could for their talent (whether as directors, actors, artists, musicians, prompters, tailors, carpenters, technicians, etc.). Among the many plays that the exiles of Aï Stratis produced was Aeschylus' Persians, the only extant ancient Greek play that preserves the memory of a recent historical battle, namely the (p.131) battle of Salamis in 480 BCE, which the united Greek fleet won against all odds over Xerxes and the Persian navy and in which Aeschylus himself likely participated. The original play was first mounted in 472 BCE, or a mere eight years after the battle and with the destruction that the Persians wreaked on the Acropolis still showing. The exiles' production was not affected by any bans, because it appeared to confirm their allegiance to the glorious past and to declare their loyalty to the victorious homeland. It was not the product of official pressure, either, but was instead one of the ‘purest’ and most accomplished achievements of the prisoners of Aï Stratis. The choice of this tragedy afforded an opportunity to historicize victory's political and ideological role. The play's production helped to dramatize the struggle, loss, and defeat of the Left in the Civil War, which was a clear fact by September of 1951, or two full years after the final battles of Grammos and Vitsi. The exiles' aim was not only to seek a reprieve from the recent painful memory of defeat, but to mould it, exorcize it, and justify it in the longer perspective of Greek history. Correspondingly, the production proved that this kind of enquiry into Greek history could lead to greater self‐knowledge and spawn drastic revisions of the concept of nationalism and the ideal of patriotism (testimonies by Y. S., 29 May 2005, and K. T., 16 December 2009). Thus the staging can be seen as the commune's exploration of the effect of military defeat on the Left's collective identity. The play was, however, also the inmates' way to lay a proprietary claim to honour in defeat. The themes of loss and mourning that carry the original tragedy let the exiles' production invert the Right's branding tool, which was the military demise of the Left, and to posit an alternative form of heroism.

‘We Put up Theatres…Wherever we Happen to Find Ourselves’ We put up theatres and tear them down wherever we happen to find ourselves we put up theatres and set the stage Page 2 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 but our fate always triumphs in the end

(Seferis, ‘Actors, Middle East’; trans. E. Keeley and Ph. Sherrard 1981: 511) (p.132) The Thiasos of the Exiles of Aï Stratis opened its production of Aeschylus' Persians in September of 1951, at a rudimentary theatre built on the island, which marked a practical victory in its own right.1 The troupe counted the following actors and artists among its ranks: Tzavalas Karousos directed the tragedy and opted for the modern Greek translation of the (then deceased) Demotic poet Ioannis Gryparis (Tsellos 2002: 78–79). Karousos had a gift for attracting talented people and for channelling their efforts toward enhancing theatre activity on the prison island. He also acted the part of the chorus leader of the—no less than—eighteen Persian elders, to whom he had been giving lessons in recitation, correct articulation, and voice training (Tsellos 2002: 54; following the number of chorus members given in the playbill reproduced by Tsellos 2002: 79). In Aeschylus' time, there were only twelve chorus members and, given his long professional training, Karousos must have known that. But why disappoint the exiles who had trained so diligently and why prevent them from participating if that was what they wanted to do? The role of the Persian queen Atossa was played by a male actor, Fanis Kambanis, a journalist with a high‐pitched voice, who directed poetry readings on the island and later undertook some stage directing himself (Servos 2003: 131; Tsellos 2002: 54, 79, 83). The famous communist poet Yiannis Ritsos taught the choreography (as he did for some other performances as well; Tsellos 2002: 29). Stathis Alimisis, a writer and scholar of music, composed the musical score (Tsellos 2002: 78). Kostas Baladimas delivered an introduction to the play (Tsellos 2002: 78). Hristos Danklis, the painter and graphic artist, created the playbill, built the sets (see Figure 3), and designed the costumes (Diafonidis 1994: 23, 26; Tsellos 2002: 73, 78). Especially the actors' wigs made out of sheep's wool left the audience of inmates, guards, and islanders impressed (actor Yiorgos Yiolasis, quoted by Karousou 2003: 146).2 The costumes of the chorus members were made of sacks and rough cotton and were dyed dark (p.133)

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The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 preferred that they had as little unscripted communication with the prisoners as possible (Avdoulos 1998: 195–202). The presence of an audience of opinion makers watching (which is how the Greeks perceived the Red Cross delegations) turned the site of play into an arena of high stakes. Greek exiles to this day express hostility at the role of the Red Cross, for becoming complicit in maintaining illusions about their real hardships.7 (p.138) ‘Passion! Expression! We must graft life onto tradition if we want our contemporaries to feel that the tradition is theirs!’, Katrakis used to direct (quoted in Farsakidis 1994: 54). The troupe of Karouzos and Katrakis steered Aeschylus' Persians into new and modern directions. The new ‘contemporaneity’ that had to make the tragedy come alive again was the group's reaction to the play's receptive tradition, which had been conditioned by the National Theatre. Karousos and Katrakis are our most valuable links to an expressly different interpretation of the Persians that tried to shake off old enmities and antileftist prejudices as well as dogmatic definitions of patriotism. They were likely the ones to realize that, because the Persians loomed so large as a nationalist play that followed the path prescribed by the Right, the Thiasos of the Exiles did well to mount it as its ‘celebratory’ inaugural classic. The prison authorities allowed it, because they expected theatre to be patriotic indoctrination rather than a critique of tyranny, victory, and victimization, which they would not have permitted (testimony by A. T., 18 December 2009). For the administration, the Persians was a Greek victory celebration over the foreign adversary, which Aeschylus had rendered all the more powerful for having the enemy side dramatically admit to it. Given the long modern Greek reception history that saw the Persians self‐righteously affirm Greek military triumph (Van Steen 2010: chapters 2–3), this play was the safer bet for the troupe's first performance of a classic. The Thiasos of Aï Stratis, give or take a few new members as some exiles were released and others newly arrived, went on to mount many other quality plays as well, mostly classics of the international repertoire (see Chapter 1). But Aeschylus' Persians became its signature play, or the play that captured the ultimate anomaly of transposing a tragedy that firmly belonged to the National Theatre to the remote prison island of Aï Stratis.

The Persians of the National Theatre and Cold War Persians The exile production of the Persians offered a catharsis of memory and also a corrective to the official memory. The detainees felt strongly that not only the history of the Civil War but also the tradition of this particular ancient tragedy was being rewritten by the victorious Right. The best example of how the Right used (p.139) Aeschylus' Persians as a nationalist tract can be found in a National Theatre production that celebrated the anniversary of Ohi Day in 1946: the official revival sanctioned the traditional brand of political consolidation at the expense of the Left. The National Theatre's production of the Persians still counted Katrakis among its cast (in the role of the messenger and later the part of Xerxes, through early November of 1946, or before he was sent into exile). In Page 7 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 this production, director Rondiris actually revived his 1939 staging of the Persians. From 1946 through 1950, Rondiris was the appointed Director General of the National Theatre, but his conservatism stirred controversy (Glytzouris 2001: 2:655–658; Krontiris 2007a: 198–207). So did the dismissal of top actors who had been politically involved, among them Karousos and Katrakis (Kalaïtzi 2001: 239; Krontiris 2007a: 199, 204, 206; 2007b: 190–191). The reviews that appeared in the Athenian newspapers and other publications hailed Rondiris's postwar revival of the Persians more as a patriotic feat than as an artistic success.8 Not surprisingly, the production centred on the discursive shorthand of the tragedy's most famous line in its modern Greek reception, ‘nun huper panton agon’, ‘Now the struggle is for all’ (Aeschylus' Persians 405: νυ̑ν ὑπὲρ πάντων ἀγών). In its conservative interpretation, the play celebrated the patriotic, adversarial heritage of old and recalled the rightist master narrative of past military victories. In other words, the production manipulated the emotional attachment and the sloganistic quality that Aeschylus' paean had gained in the early 1940s, as a battle cry meant to rally the Greeks in the (defensive) war against the fascist invaders. Stratis Myrivilis, the well known Greek novelist and vice‐president of the National Theatre's board, singled out the opening of the battle cry, ‘On, sons of the Greeks’, to herald the play as the expression of ‘the joy of the [Greek] Race’ (Myrivilis 1946). Myrivilis identified the modern communist enemy as the Persian enemy of old: ‘We do not have calm yet because the Persian foe is again outside the gates of Greece, and we must vigilantly be on the lookout on the battlements of our freedom, which is in danger’ (Myrivilis 1946). Admittedly, many Greeks read the Persians as the symbol of unified Greek resistance against Eastern oppression and, in the recent (p.140) years of the Italian and Nazi German invasions, as an antifascist battle cry that promised ultimate victory (e.g. Iliadi 1991: 124). The Greeks saw this hortative to self‐ congratulatory value of Aeschylus' Persians condensed in the purple passage of Persians 402–405 (testimony by K. E., 21 December 2009): …ὠ̑ παι̑δες Ἑλλήνων, ἴτε ἐλευθερου̑τε πατρίδ᾽, ἐλευθεροῦτε δὲ παι̑δας γυναι̑κας θεω̑ν τε πατρώιων ἓδη θήκας τε προγόνων· νυ̑ν ὑπὲρ πάντων ἀγών On, sons of the Greeks, free your fatherland, free your children, your wives, the temples of your fathers' gods, and the tombs of your ancestors. Now the struggle is for all.

The original paean was the famous battle cry that the Greeks chanted while fatally attacking the Persian fleet. In Aeschylus' tragedy, it is the Persian messenger who relays this paean (in direct speech) to the Persian court (overlooking the classical dramatic convention that all the Persian characters be Page 8 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 played by Greek actors). These few lines allow for a decisive tilt to the promise of a surprise victory: this shift happens when a Greek messenger, who identifies as Greek, reports on the Greek triumph at Salamis to a Greek audience. This interpretation arises from the imperative of identification, the tone of voice, and the signification that draws not necessarily on additions to or omissions from the text but, beyond the actual script, on the receiving context of unanimous Greek audiences.9 However, the affirmative to celebratory dimension of this reading of Aeschylus' Persians forces real issues, and not only because it severs the paean from the rest of the play and transforms it into a normative patriotic slogan. For the leftist fighters on Aï Stratis, however, who had waged the antifascist struggle under this long‐lived battle cry, the lines stirred up all sorts of mixed emotions: ‘When Katrakis, who moved us in his role of messenger, had come to “On, sons of the Greeks…”, we brimmed with tears, we, the generation of the resistance, and we relived events and passions of 2,500 years old as if they were our own’. Thus Yiorgos Farsakidis recalled his own and others' experience of (p.141) watching the Persians on Aï Stratis and of hearing the famous battle cry (1994: 54). But this purple passage was far removed from any flashes of superiority; it was mostly bittersweet for those who were still languishing in the prison camps for acts inspired by the ideology that that very passage had long expressed. Changing times and circumstances, however, both asserted and questioned the traditional notion of a popular mobilization for the right cause and for eventual victory. Thus the classical motto—and the play that it was thought to carry— remained contested between the Greek Right and the former fighters of the resistance. In the summer of 1947, Rondiris took the National Theatre's production of the Persians to the island of Rhodes, to celebrate the unification of the Dodecanese with Greece. The incorporation of the ‘twelve islands’ into sovereign Greek territory, after they had experienced decades of Italian rule (1912–1947), marked a triumph for the fatherland. But against the backdrop of the Civil War, the play roused its audience to renewed military action against Greek and exterior communists. Myrivilis introduced the performance in person with blunt stabs at the Left. He again equated Greek and Russian communists with the Persian enemy against whom ‘the struggle for all’ had to be waged. ‘In the face of every Persian’, he insinuated, ‘the spectators should see that of a Greek partisan or of a Russian invader (“epidromeas”)’. This bellicose statement made newspaper headlines in various places, including Athens.10 However, the right‐ wing manipulation of Aeschylus' Persians and of the Persian Wars in general for anticommunist propaganda was not an isolated occurrence. On the positive side, it set the counteragenda for the production that the Thiasos of Aï Stratis was to undertake in September of 1951. In a speech published in September of 1949, merely days after the Civil War had ended, Mihail Ailianos, the Minister of Press and Information, characterized Aeschylus' Persians as the play that ‘celebrate[d]

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The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 the national victory (“ethniki niki”) of the light over the Asiatic night, which threatened the world’ (1949: 388). He continued: (p.142)

Blessed are the peoples that can celebrate new victories with their ancient poetic symbols. They thereby show the uninterrupted continuity of their national tradition.…Once more the Hellenic light has proved invincible. Once more the wave of the Asiatic night…has been dissolved.…The new Marathon…today is called Vitsi.11…After the proud victory over the red menace, Hellas, the bearer of the truly divine spirit, must become a centre where the enlightened peoples of the entire world may meet. (1949: 388) As director, Rondiris may have interpreted Aeschylus' Persians as a source of commonality on which Greek nationalist solidarity and military strength had to rest. Myrivilis and Ailianos, however, framed his production as an antagonizing broadside, and they intruded upon its aesthetic domain with militarism under the cover of patriotism. They rehashed the language of the centuries‐old cultural struggle between Hellenism and the Orient to cast the Greek Right's crushing of the Left as a defence of hearth and home. Their statements also justified the government's politicizing of the army, the police, and the security services, all supposedly rallying to support ethnikofrosyni (see Chapter 2, p. 85). Thus the end result was a National Theatre production marred by antileftist prejudices and rigid Cold War definitions of patriotism. The right‐wing officialdom frequently referred to the famous heroes and battlegrounds of the Persian Wars to affirm its own legitimacy and to stir up anticommunist fervour in a historical ‘rerun’ of defending the fatherland (Bournazos 1998: 216; Hamilakis 2007: 224, 236). Makis Donkas, for instance, the first chief editor of the Skapanefs, concurred: Here are the Persians who come to enslave us. Only this time they come from the North. Here are the Plataeae, the Marathons, and the Thermopylae. Here are Miltiades, Themistocles, Leonidas. It does not matter that they have different names.…They are the same. The same continuity of the history of our fatherland. The same Greece with its children. (Skapanefs 8, August 1948, 3. Quoted and translated by Hamilakis 2007: 224; translation slightly modified) The military administrators of Makronisos exploited Aeschylus' motto, ‘Now the struggle is for all’, to call ‘converts’ to the camp of the ethnikófrones (Bournazos 1998: 228). They forced the leftist recruits to paint this slogan in giant letters on the rocky hill slopes of the (p.143) island. In a Skapanefs article of 1948 titled Page 10 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 ‘How I Spent My Time on Makronisos’, ‘L. K.’, one of the ‘redeemed’ inmates, described how he read the painted slogans and was moved by them— purportedly—from the moment he first set foot on the island: I immediately came to my senses when I saw ‘The Parthenon’ [the propagandistic title of Makronisos], and, painted upon the rocks with big letters, ‘Now the struggle is for all’, ‘The feats of our ancestors lead us’, ‘Hellas is an ideal, that is why it does not die’. (Skapanefs 11, November 1948, 20. Quoted and translated by Hamilakis 2007: 220–221)12 The analogy with the Persian Wars was pressed into international service during the Cold War as the free and democratic West tried to stem the tide of communism that rushed through Eastern Europe and the Balkans. Cold War propaganda easily equated the Soviet Union with the expansionist and despotic Persian Empire. In April of 1951, Thermopylae was the scene of the third anniversary celebration of the Marshall Plan (officially known as the European Recovery Program) in Greece and the launching of the United States Information Service's ‘campaign of truth’ to combat the ‘Big Lie’ of communism.13 (p.144) An anonymous article in the New York Times of 4 April 1951 hailed the site as the ‘battlefield where…300 Spartans died in defence of the then Western World civilization against Asian invaders’. Leonidas and the 300 Spartans were given not only panhellenic but also pan‐Western motivations. There is a historical irony in the relative geographical closeness of Thermopylae to both Makronisos and Trikeri, where the American‐backed right‐wing government kept leftists interned. But the propaganda spinners for Makronisos saw a historical parallel or analogue rather than a paradox. Zoannos and Sarris concluded their 1950 publication with the words: Makronisos passed into the History of Greece as did Marathon, Salamis, and Thermopylae. But with the new Thermopylae, the Marathons, and Makronisos, Greece will live and will thrive… GREECE NEVER DIES!

(1950: 88; capital lettering as in original) Invocations of history and destiny, topped with claims of continuity and consanguinity, resorted to the favourite sites, heroes, and battle cries of the Persian Wars to define the nation. However, the sacred topoi of Greek patriotism and nationalism stemmed from an earlier and less dogmatic (not necessarily anticommunist) tradition. It was this more complex and more humane tradition that the exiles of Aï Stratis rediscovered in their own production of Aeschylus' Persians. This production wrested a moral win from the right‐wing adversary. Its cast took the occasion of the public performance and of the many rehearsals beforehand to question what it meant to be on the other—opposite and still Page 11 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 opposing—side of the winners of (recent) Greek victories. The actors reinvested the play that had been appropriated by the victors with its deeply contemplative meaning for the vanquished. They turned it from a national occasion or celebration into a tragedy again. Specifically, they took a critical look at the reactionary crust of contemporary Greek society that was resorting to hubris against its enemy, whom it had redefined as the enemy within. (p.145) Thus the troupe understood and presented the Persians as a premonition against the dangers posed by excessive Greek powerlust (testimonies by Titos Patrikios, 26 June 2005, and Y. S., 30 May 2005). The overreaching Xerxes gained some self‐ knowledge, whereas the victorious ancient Greeks turned from defending democracy to instituting imperialism. Unrealistic aspirations like those of the Persian despot and, in turn, of the Athenians in their ‘Golden Age’ rendered the (always temporary) ‘winner’ delusional: they led him to believe, wrongly, that he was firmly in charge, that he had moral right on his side, and that he could afford to mistreat or dispose of the ‘losers’. The exile production's introspective themes, of the sufferings inflicted by brash ‘victors’ but also of the pain of defeat after the overambitious Left's failure to conquer ‘brave new worlds’, went well beyond the scope of the Cold War reception history of Aeschylus' tragedy. The exile stage opened up the subject of defensive resistance and its value to revisionist doubt. The right‐wing Greek establishment was convinced that the resistance had been a ‘foolhardy’ attempt to install a new communist state, once it had removed the Nazi occupiers. The winning conservative camp had not only contributed less to thwart or defeat the foreign enemy, but had then denied the resistance its due recognition. This predicament drove the inmate troupe of Aï Stratis to cast itself in the part of those defeated, not only by war and ambition, but also by history and memory. The sites of the prison islands were the very last recesses of the nation's memory. The exiles feared that their marginal territorial space and forgotten political place might push them further back also into forgotten, past time (testimony by Y. S., 30 May 2005). Thus their efforts marked more complex forms of the struggle of the defeated against defeat. Michael Walton notes the potential of Greek tragedy to place victory and defeat in the starkest of perspectives when he spoke of ‘Greek tragedy with…its losers who are losers and its winners who are losers’ (2002: 11). The prisoners' authorial take on Aeschylus' Persians—their taking back the play —transformed their stage performance into a process of scrutinizing conventional definitions of ‘patriotism’, ‘victory’, and ‘resistance’. In this process, they accorded classical proportions to their status of the vanquished: they performed themselves with the stature of tragic heroes, who derived self‐ knowledge, not shame, from their defeat. Like Antigone, Philoctetes, and Prometheus, the former fighters of the resistance and the Civil War and their intellectual partisans could not defend their actions and ideals on the basis of (p.146) their immediate outcome (which appeared as failure); they could, however, try to justify at least part of their course of action as the proper Greek Page 12 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 thing to do. Therefore the Persians spoke to the exiles' grappling with what was, for them, far from orderly or logical (testimonies by Y. S., 30 May 2005, and Aris Tsouknidas, 22 June 2005). Meanwhile, the multiple demands of the play and its production called for individual performances to express an alternative, subtler vision of the troublesome past, which would, the inmates hoped, lead to better and deserved results in the future.

Cold War Tragedy, Made in Greece: A Postscript The right‐wing establishment co‐opted and overburdened not only the Persians but also the Oresteia trilogy, the former as a celebration of Greek military victory through the ages, the latter as an affirmation of the rule of law and order. When Rondiris opened his grand Oresteia production of 7 September 1949 (when the Left's defeat was still a very raw wound), he saw the ‘proper’ reading of the trilogy as incompatible with left‐wing ideologies. Kotopouli played Clytemnestra and reinforced the reactionary reception with rather obtuse propaganda (see Chapter 2, pp. 84–87). In his capacity of editor of the conservative journal Elliniki Dimiourgia (‘Greek Creation’), Spyros Melas read and introduced this Oresteia as a prophetic expression of the triumph of the nationalist order: [A]s if the administration of the National Theatre had foreseen the great victory of the Nation, it could not have chosen a better work than the Oresteia with which to celebrate that victory. There is nothing that conveys that victory's meaning in more depth than Aeschylus' immortal poetic creation. In essence, the Oresteia superbly celebrates the high superiority of the Law over blood revenge—an ardent hymn to the meaning of Justice and to its divine origin.…[I]t is the great legacy of the Athenian citizen.… [I]t is today ten times more timely… (1949: 389; capitalization as in the original) When compared to other forms of art and literature (such as poetry), the National Theatre continued to lag behind in the realm of critical consciousness and kept focusing on teaching its positivist (p.147) truths. A powerful strain of antimodernism surfaced in defensive statements about the ‘proper’ readings of Aeschylus' Persians and Oresteia. The substantial amount of newspaper comments and other records on Rondiris's tragedies, however, contrasts sharply with the paucity of sources on the inmate productions. This contrast exposes the divide between the documented or sanctioned and the unofficial history of Civil War theatre. Given the recent anticommunist reception of Aeschylus, the exiles of Aï Stratis faced an uphill battle when they wanted their production of the Persians to unnerve the antagonizing impact of Rondiris's revival tragedies. Internationally acclaimed ancient drama was part of Greece's ‘cultural capital’ (to use a notion established by Pierre Bourdieu), which was enlisted to help stabilize a fragile sociopolitical order. Rondiris and Myrivilis, Kotopouli and Melas were not the only ones to put forth the National Theatre as a pillar in the Page 13 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 Right's postwar reconstruction of national security. Yeorgios Vlahos, who notoriously advocated for the use of prison islands (I Kathimerini, 4 January 1947), also believed in a national model of staging classical tragedy: with classical tragedy, the state could play the ancient Greek ‘card’ to raise consciousness abroad about its current needs. Vlahos summed up the mission of the National Theatre, with Rondiris at the helm, in three defining words: Ethnos, techni, evprepeia, or ‘Nation, art, and decorum’ (I Kathimerini, 4 May 1946). He explained that the first part of this mission was the National Theatre's obligation to be a ‘weapon (oplon) in the hands of the State’—ominous language at the onset of a civil war. Revival tragedy imbued with ethnikofrosyni would protect Greece's interests in the malaise of the international Cold War. Ancient drama could act as a touring goodwill ambassador for poor Greece and engage the United States, in particular. To be more successful, then, at appealing to foreigners through ‘art and decorum’, the National Theatre had to go back to its ‘roots’ and exploit the ‘best’ of ancient Greece. In Vlahos's perception, Aeschylus' Persians fitted the bill demanding model patriotic plays with the necessary ‘national‐minded’ qualities. Greece should also proudly hold up to the outside world its classical plays staged locally, which, in the appropriate open‐air settings, could attract many more foreign visitors and thus boost tourism.14 While these ideas were being discussed in Greek (p.148) newspapers of the late 1940s and early 1950s, the imminent inauguration of the Epidaurus and Athens Festivals (by the mid‐1950s) would turn the ideal of mass outdoor drama productions as tourist attractions into an odd reality. Rondiris was the director who inaugurated the annual, state‐funded Epidaurus summer Festival of Ancient Greek Drama in 1954 and the Athens Festival one year later at the newly restored Herodes Atticus Theatre (Van Steen 2000: 194–195). Meanwhile, more innovative open‐air productions were still being staged in the off‐the‐beatentrack locale of Aï Stratis but were going almost completely unnoticed. The blend of ancient drama and reactionary patriotism proved, for many years, an impregnable combination, which preached to the converted but made few artistic breakthroughs. It must give us some pause to see Greek opinion and policy makers barter plays this way and to watch them steer postwar revival tragedy toward aggressive fundraising for the conservative reconstruction of their country, which excluded a substantial part of the populace. These grand schemes also excluded some of Greece's best actors and artists, who were being kept on the prison islands. Working in the isolation of Aï Stratis, Karousos and Katrakis may or may not have realized what they were up against. Their first goal, however, was to refocus the interest of Aeschylus' Persians on the more human element and, in particular, on the despair of the vanquished. They demonstrated that they had the courage to read the tragedy in a mode that the Greek theatre establishment was incapable of even comprehending. In their competitive exchange with the National Theatre production of the Persians, the exiles attempted to preserve Page 14 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 ideals about their prior struggle and about their own integrity. Patriotic sacrifice for the nation and subsequent betrayal by the nation were again writ large. It is hard to gauge whether the Persians of Aï Stratis led to noticeable and lasting changes in the positioning of the Greek nationalist discourse and in the political uses to which the tragedy was put. But when in 1965, or a mere fourteen years later, the avant‐garde director Karolos Koun (1908–1987) staged his Persians, the production sent shock waves through the Greek theatre world for its sensitive levels of introspection and for warning against hubris that proves to be everyman's ‘enemy within’. Koun's self‐reflexive staging (p.149) marked a sea change in the Greek reception of Aeschylus' tragedy.15 Could the exile production have led to the kind of directorial reinvention of the Persians with which Koun has been credited? The shared experience of auteur‐ship of the Persians and other productions fostered abiding bonds among the actors and artists of Aï Stratis, which proved to be as formative as the performance practice itself. The original author, Aeschylus, and his political perspectives had long made room for the auteurs, in the French sense of the word, or the modern creators of the ancient tragedy, who promulgated current political views and objectives. For years after his detention, Katrakis continued to work with progressive artists and friends whom he had met in exile, such as Karousos, Baladimas, and Kambanis. As early as the summer of 1955, Katrakis founded his Greek Popular Theatre, which became his permanent outdoor stage until the military dictators interrupted its activities (Elliniko Laïko Theatro at the Pedion tou Areos; Exarhos 1996: 2.1:194). His work and that of others who had passed through the islands continued to represent a period of intense and widespread infusion of ideology into theatre. Progressive theatre circles in Athens of the 1950s and 1960s built on the ideals of a decommercialized and democratically organized company structure and they fostered audience participation— principles that the exile stage had been the first to espouse. They delivered work and quality that did not go unnoticed, and Greek theatre connections have always been extremely close. Therefore, it would not be too bold to posit a line of influence between the production of Aï Stratis and Koun's revolutionary Persians of 1965. Notes:

(1) Iliadi did not include this performance in her chronological list of modern Greek productions of Aeschylus' Persians (1991). The production data given below are based on Avdoulos (1998: 300–301); Farsakidis (1994: 54; 2006: 200– 201); Kamarinou (2005: 260–263, 318); Mahairas (1999: 330–331); Tsellos (2002: passim); Yeorgopoulou (1999: 320, 322); and on oral testimonies. (2) According to Tsellos, wigs were used for other productions as well and some were made of grass weeds (2002: 26).

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The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 (3) Tsellos notes that, occasionally, aid packages of clothing were delivered to the commune. These packages had been sent from abroad and some came from the United States. The exiles found the American clothes and especially the men's flannel underwear to be quite outlandish but were happy to put them to use as costume parts (Tsellos 2002: 40; cf. Floundzis 1986: 85). On other occasions, they used pieces of the old British army tents that they had been given for shelter. Tsellos describes the intricate process that these pieces of canvas had to undergo over the course of several days to make for good costume material. Another source for costume accessories was the gauze that the detainees managed to obtain from the camp's medical unit, which proved ideal for making the fancy collars of Shakespearean heroes (Tsellos 2002: 40–41). Lastly, before the female internees arrived on Aï Stratis in 1953, the male actors who needed female clothing or accessories for some of the roles borrowed those items from the local villagers, with whom they maintained cordial relations. The villagers were, in turn, keen to see the inmate performances. After the arrival of the female exiles, amateur actresses took on the female roles (Tsellos 2002: 64). (4) Later the exiles built rotating panels and covered them with painted tent canvas. Thus they were able to create a basic depth perspective (Tsellos 2002: 70). (5) In 1953, the prisoners voluntarily built a more permanent, roofed theatre structure with wings and with a better, slightly elevated stage, partly covered with tent canvas, which also created a changing ‘room’ in the back of the stage (Tsellos 2002: 65, 67–69). The website of the Democracy Museum of Aï Stratis claims the new theatre had a stage of 70 square metres and a seating capacity of 600 (www.mouseiodimokratias.gr/english/exhibition6c.asp). Cf. Floundzis (1986: 79, 85); Krontiris (2007b: 206–207 n. 40). The spectators made sure to bring something soft to sit on (Tsellos 2002: 67). Conditions of heavy rain or wind were reasons to postpone the show, mainly because the noise of the flapping canvas interfered with the acoustics (and no microphones were used; Tsellos 2002: 67– 68). (6) This period of relaxation had been curtailed by the rise of the Right to power and by the enforced change of command within the ranks of the National Theatre. See further Krontiris (2007b: 34, 189, 191, 199, 203, 211). (7) Testimonies by K. E. (21 December 2009) and E. S. (19 December 2009). Vervenioti recently published a richly illustrated volume that presents many Greek prisons and camps as seen through the eyes of Red Cross delegates (2009). A general report on Aï Stratis written by H. Nussbaum and filed with the Archives of the ICRC briefly mentions the September 1951 production of the Persians: ‘The mise-en-scens of Aeschylus’ tragedy and the costumes had been done by the exiles, with very simple and primitive means, but the result was,

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The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 without a doubt, a remarkable success' (from the French original, with file number ACICR BA6 225-084.015, p. 2). (8) See the review by Karagatsis (1999: 50). Rondiris presented many repeat performances of the original 1939 production throughout the postwar years until 1955, also with his own Piraeus Theatre. I thank Petros Vrahiotis for bringing many more reviews of the production to my attention. (9) On the ways in which these lines have inveterately seized upon the notions of military conflict and Greek victory, through modern Greek times, see Kastrinaki (2005: 36–37, 242) and Van Steen (2007; 2010: 118–125). (10) Myrivilis is quoted—and chided—by the Cypriot newspaper Dimokratis of 20 July 1947, cited in Ahilleas Mamakis's column, ‘Illustrated Theatre News’, of the Athenian paper Ethnos of 1 August 1947. Myrivilis also wrote a charged preface (dated 23 March 1950) for the publication by Zoannos and Sarris, The Truth about Makronisos (1950: 9; see above Chapter 2, pp. 93–94). On ancient tragedy as Greece's national asset, see also the various voices quoted by Anon., ‘Theatre News’, Ethnos, 22 July 1949. (11) Vitsi in western Macedonia was one of the final battlefields on which the National Army defeated the Greek Left in late August of 1949. (12) The author signed with his real name: initials were not good enough for some editors and supervisors of the Skapanefs. Hamilakis, however, protected his anonymity by referring to him by the initials ‘L. K.’ (author's e‐mail communication, 20 February 2005). Hamilakis suspects that L. K.'s article might still draw on the irony of resistance ‘from within’, to covertly undermine the ultra‐nationalist master narrative (2002: 319–323, 331 n. 5; 2007: 221 n. 15). L. K. selected three slogans that invoked history and tradition and that had been appropriated by the establishment. He chose mottos, however, with which left‐ wingers could hardly disagree, which is not to say that they would have acceded to the Right's interpretation of the words. A prison censor looking for counterpropaganda material, however, would have been inclined to pass these slogans that virtually belonged to the Right. Like actors in a controlled or censored performance, authors, too, could slip messages that communicated one thing to the censors, another to a sympathetic public. Thus the author's inverted commas might have served multiple purposes: to distinguish the slogans as such, but also to set them apart as ostentatious markers of the verbal and visual rhetoric of Makronisos; to associate them firmly with the government; or to denote the different meanings that they could convey for the opposition (Hamilakis 2002: 331 n. 5; 2007: 221 n. 15). The Skapanefs contains other references and statements that invoke the Persian Wars more explicitly but only slightly less ambiguously. ‘[F]rom here the new Leonidas will emerge’, we read (Hamilakis 2002: 318; 2007: 223). This ambiguity, one of many, proves just how Page 17 of 18

The Prison and the Past as Theatre: Aeschylus' Persians on Aï Stratis, September 1951 unstable moralizing language and traditionalist phraseology became in the turmoil of the Civil War and its aftermath. (13) For recent perspectives on the Marshall Plan and its effects in Greece, see the October 2009 special issue of the Journal of Modern Greek Studies. For propaganda films produced to promote the Plan's achievements in Greece and other European countries, see the film archive of the German Historical Museum at http://www.dhm.de/filmarchiv/virtuelles-filmarchiv/die-filme/ (last accessed 6 September 2010). Telling is The Story of Koula, a short but very paternalistic film that illustrates the Greek agricultural aid programme through the story of a mule shipped from the USA to Greece. See also the website of the Marshall Plan Filmography (www.marshallfilms.org/mpf.asp) (last accessed 6 September 2010). (14) Vlahos expanded on his original arguments in a detailed follow‐up article, published two years later and titled ‘A Parenthesis. The National Theatre’ in I Kathimerini of 13 June 1948. His chauvinist statements anticipate those of Haris on the subject of Kotopouli's contribution to the nationalist production of the Oresteia in September of 1949 (see Chapter 2, p. 86). (15) Koun infused his production of the Persians with the innovative components of doubt and outspoken empathy for the Eastern enemy. His chorus of masked elderly Persians spoke out in an array of voices against hubris and took on a protagonist role. Koun also questioned the entrenched nationalist ‘high’ culture of modern Greek patriotic theatre. His production foreboded a broader postmodernist crisis that was to undermine many Greek grand narratives, starting with the one constructed on the foundations of Aeschylus' Persians. Edith Hall rightly identifies Koun's Persians of 1965 as one of three revisionist productions that engendered self‐doubt. In her view, this strong sentiment generated the wave of politically critical revivals that has recently turned the tide of the tragedy's reception. See further Hall, in her aptly titled section ‘Making Persians Topical Again’ (2007: 185–186); Roilou (2009: 207–249, or her chapter 6); Van Steen (2007: 120, 130–134, 137–138; 2010: 214 n. 48). Koun's production is one of those pioneering stagings that have, overall, received far too little attention in Anglo‐Saxon scholarship. A comprehensive and critical monograph on Koun and his work remains lacking.

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‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou summer of 1960. The work was published again shortly before the author's death in his 1977 collection, Exo ap' ta dondia, Not Mincing Words (1937–1975). This chapter introduces the one‐time playwright Alexandrou and analyses the script of his new Antigone, while Chapter 6 presents the Greek text and its translation into English. Chapter 5 pays special attention to the play's temporal origins, to the author's geographical and ideological position in isolation, and to the unique focus and structure of this Cold War adaptation of the myth of Antigone. I argue that Alexandrou gave his play, set in the warscape of the Nazi Occupation and the Greek Civil War, an expressly democratic subtext that undermined dogmatic leftism. Alexandrou's Antigone raised hot issues in the aftermath of the 1940s, when conflicts between the victorious Right and the disempowered Left (p.151) continued to consume Greece. The play was never produced during the author's lifetime. There was no inmate audience for Alexandrou's Antigone, either, during the many months in which he drafted and revised his script. The interned communist leadership had pushed Alexandrou into isolation as the black sheep among those who continued to suffer the punishments exacted by the Right. Thus Alexandrou became an exile among the exiles, or a victim of the ‘internal “others” ’ for not meeting their standards of political unanimity (Hamilakis 2007: 291). His unpopularity derived from his outspoken doubts about the party line at a time when the communist cadres became increasingly aware of the party's interior weaknesses and of its lack of support from the Soviet Union. Meanwhile, Alexandrou saw the Left harden its position, which substituted new essentialisms for the old ones. Also, the Communist Party pushed its version of the Greek past as the only truthful and messianic one, which became more (secular) creed than history. It is on this writing and rewriting of the true history of the Left that Alexandrou's Antigone dwells, and so did the first staging of the play in 2003, when the script was finally produced by Victor Arditti of the State Theatre of Northern Greece.2 The burden of truth has weighed particularly heavy on ardent Greek leftists who, to this day, pride themselves in their popular resistance against the Nazis but have still to come to terms with the power struggles and atrocities of the Civil War era. The legacy of the Greek fratricidal strife during this period tainted all political camps, but its record continues to be obfuscated by the absence of self‐scrutiny and critical debate. Arditti's production of 2003 unearthed a buried Antigone and invited a much needed public discussion that could, by banishing myths about the past, facilitate the (p.152) regeneration of the Left and help create a more forward‐looking agenda. But even in 2003, it seemed impolitic to dwell on the Left's history of oppressing its own. Alexandrou presented his Antigone as both a historical and a timely character that embodied the audacity of truth in the midst of a climate of suspicion and retaliation. He unmasked Greek wartime and postwar communist leadership not as the harbinger of fair approaches to the country's political and societal problems, but as a repressive force that could be as suffocating as the Page 2 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou ultra‐right‐wing terror. Alexandrou was not the only voice to advance this damaging view of the straightjacket of hard‐line leftist ideology, but he was exceptionally effective in exposing it. The Antigone of the left‐of‐left leaning dissident intellectual provides a necessary corrective to the history and culture of the Greek 1940s—and to the first parts of this book.

Aris Alexandrou, the Usual Suspect Suspicion marred the life of Alexandrou, eternal persona non grata. He wrote his Antigone while expelled from the Left's circle of ‘loyal’ comrades.3 The Greek Left took issue with Alexandrou's criticism from within and began to exclude him from the late 1940s on, when the independent‐minded author showed himself unwilling to proclaim, along with the group, a victory for the Left in the Civil War (Raftopoulos 1996: 159–160). All the reports and signs confirmed Alexandrou's view, but his truthful opinion was not what the leadership of the Left wanted to hear.4 Alexandrou's Antigone asserts her (p.153) autonomy from the ‘ideology’ of her fellow partisans. For the author, she was a threat to dogmatism and mistrust. ‘It would have been peculiar’, Dimitris Raftopoulos, Alexandrou's biographer, contends, ‘if he had not written an Antigone. Which other incarnation would better express what he had to say?’ (1996: 222). Kaiti Drosou, Alexandrou's wife and lifelong partner, poet, and journalist, claimed that the playwright fully identified with his Antigone (testimony by Arditti, 4 January 2008). Raftopoulos agrees that ‘the life and work of Alexandrou overlap almost entirely’ (2003: 8). The one‐time playwright himself declared: ‘The poet is always on the side of Antigone and never on the side of Creon’ (quoted by Pehlivanos 2004: 323). Alexandrou would have underwritten Simon Goldhill's recent claim: ‘Antigone is seen as a means of taking convictions and ideals seriously—and without convictions and ideals, what is politics?’ (2007: 137). Katie Fleming concurs: ‘it is arguable that (re)reading and rewriting this play [Sophocles’ Antigone] are always already political actions' (2006: 165). (p.154) The historical circumstances only hardened Alexandrou in his quest for physical and especially mental freedom, through communism and a longer‐ lasting disenchantment with communism (Raftopoulos 2003: 8). Alexandrou's life, his only play, his poems, and also his fiction reflect the Greek leftist political and intellectual experience of several decades, while being harshly critical of the Left. Alexandrou consciously wrote pieces of literature of war as well as of war with literature. The author began writing his best known work, the novel The Mission Box (To kivotio), in 1966, but he only published it in 1975. This Kafkaesque work about the futile mission of a ‘kamikaze’ squad further demythologized the Left of the Civil War by exposing the hollow promises and cheap pretences of the power structures of that era. If The Mission Box could be characterized as the ‘impersonal anti‐epic of the Greek Left’ (Papailias 2005: 153), then the Antigone preserved the personable characters of the anti‐epic— and thus posited its identity as a viable play.

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‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou According to Alexandrou, the retaliatory practices of communist and reactionary totalitarian regimes mirrored each other, even when they were exacted by only a small political subset. He made this painfully clear when he stated in an interview: ‘I have passed through the barren islands (xeronisia) and the prisons, and I feel that I am detained not only with all those who suffer in the fascist concentration camps, but also with all those who are being tortured on the Gulag Archipelago’ (1977b: 181; Gulag is the acronym for the Soviet internment camps that lasted from 1917 through Stalin's death in 1953). The born sceptic Alexandrou grew increasingly disillusioned, abandoned the last remaining certainties, and insisted that he belonged to no party, political organization, church, religion, or literary school: ‘I stand here a prisoner obeying [only] to the words within’, he remarked, articulating a mantra for his heroine Antigone as well (1977b: 181; also quoted by Raftopoulos 1996: 222, 232). His statement is a defiant variant of the famous epitaph that Simonides of Keos wrote for the Spartans who fell in the battle of Thermopylae (480 BCE, as recorded by Herodotus, Histories 7.228.2): ‘Stranger, tell the Lacedaemonians that we lie here, obeying to their words’ (ὠ̑ ξει̑ν᾽, ἀγγέλλειν Λακεδαιμονίοις ὅτι τῃ̑δε / κείμεθα τοι̑ς κείνων ῥήμασι πειθόμενοι). Alexandrou pointedly substituted ίσταμαι for κείμεθα and τοις ένδον ρήμασι for τοι̑ς κείνων ῥήμασι, thus distancing himself from the uncompromising Spartan military ethos and, by extension, from any party line. The right‐wing rhetoric of the 1940s had used (p. 155) and abused the ancient epitaph, along with other analogies with the heroic ancient Greek defence against the Persians.5 But Alexandrou's statement paid homage also to Vladimir Mayakovsky, the Russian poet, author, and intellectual who had also been imprisoned for ‘subversive’ political activity and who had experienced solitary confinement as well. Mayakovsky, too, lost his faith in communism and denounced the philistinism of the party. He committed suicide at the age of 36. Alexandrou's Antigone emerged after a decade of the author's intense work on translating some of Mayakovsky's plays (Pehlivanos 2004: 329– 330; Raftopoulos 1996: 217). Being a translator is, of course, being in constant dialogue with a text. From there, it was not a big leap for Alexandrou to enter into a dialogue with Sophocles' and Anouilh's work, with Brecht, Proust, and Eugene O'Neill, all of whom exerted their influence on his thinking about the modern reality of his Antigone.6 Following one's own calling was vitally important to Alexandrou, and it is this impetus that drives his Antigone character. In a poem titled ‘I Converse, Therefore I Exist’, Alexandrou voiced his deep disappointment with those who uncritically await ‘the new command that will determine / what specifically they ought to think’ (1981b: 91). He shared his experience of becoming the one whom the communist ‘outcasts’ cast out in a better known poem called ‘Alexandrostroï’ and dated ‘Moudros–Makronisos 1949’. This poem was originally published in Alexandrou's 1952 collection of poems titled Unprofitable (p.156) Line. The Greek title, Agonos Grammi, is a shipping term, and the poet may have intended Page 4 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou to convey the pointlessness of shipping off political detainees to barren islands. Nonproductive, too, was the ‘line’ of occlusion that the party members of the Left took on Alexandrou, as in the Greek expression ‘piran “grammi”  ’: ‘they took the “line” ’ that he was ‘defeatist and suspect’ (Raftopoulos 1996: 160; the author also draws attention to the related phrase, ‘katevike i grammi’, ‘the [party] line came down’, 1996: 159). The term ‘barren line’ also expressed Alexandrou's fascination with Antigone's life, which, in his play, is cut short and deprived of offspring twice over. His Antigone embodied the experience of many tragically naïve communists, who lived by an impractical idealism and refused to face up to the horrors of Stalinism. Alexandrou deconstructed the notion of the ‘objective truth’ of the Left. All of these bold endeavours bore fruition in the famous lines: Within the group I was useless always like a ‘like’. For the group I was suspect always like the truth.

(Alexandrou 1981a: 44) Alexandrou saw himself not as a Sophocles but as a Phrynichus, the early fifth‐ century BCE author of a lost historical tragedy, The Capture of Miletus. The Athenians punished Phrynichus with a 1,000 drachma fine, because he had dared to present them with the truth of the city's fall and of their defeat (Herodotus, Histories 6.21.2). Alexandrou's punishment, too, resulted from the spite of his fellow Greeks, because he had dared to remind them of their disastrous loss in the Civil War: ‘We did not win and we may be defeated’ (quoted by Raftopoulos 1996: 160). Expressing defeatism meant breaking ranks with the leadership of the Left and came with painful forms of exclusion. Alexandrou stood accused of being ittopathis—a stigmatizing label that resonates more strongly than its English translation of ‘defeatist’ (Pehlivanos 2004: 344; Raftopoulos 1996: 160). In the following poem titled ‘Phrynichus’, Alexandrou gave a new meaning to the courageous confrontation with dreaded defeat and to the audacity of truth—or the attitudes embodied by his Antigone character and his unrequited play: (p.157) You, too, wrote a Capture of Miletus. You wrote it knowing that your stasima [the tragedy's choral passages] would be heard by empty rows of marble knowing—until the last obol— the fine that you would have to pay.

(Alexandrou 1981c: 123) Page 5 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou Cast Away Acts Coincidental also is the dialogic form that this written work took. (Alexandrou 1977a: preface, p. 172)7 Alexandrou's play represents an amalgamous, dialogic transformation of the Antigone of Sophocles and Anouilh, but also of Brechtian theatre, into a subjective type of modern Greek existential drama. His work illustrates the intense complexity of personal dramas and decisions: the protagonists ponder dilemmas and necessities, which merely seem to pre‐empt individual choice. The work also revisits the concepts of patriotism and heroism in light of the author's quest for the meaning of truth and intellectual freedom amidst hypocrisy and terror. The composition of Alexandrou's play is complicated, and so the reader or viewer is meant to do some of the work of making connections. In a Brechtian fashion, Alexandrou's theatre builds consciousness through the dialectics of the stage and re‐enacts the tumultuous history of the Greek 1940s without becoming overly time‐specific. His Antigone consists of two acts that relate to but that also problematize one another, because frequent reversals create tension between the two parts. The two acts are separated by a brief intermezzo. Both of the acts could stand autonomously as one‐act plays, but together they deliver a double and shifting picture of the Greek guerrilla warfare, first by the Left against the Germans during the Nazi Occupation and then by the Left against its right‐wing opponents in the Civil War. By doubling the acts, Alexandrou (p.158) brought the two episodes of the so‐called ‘Greece of the mountains’ in dialogue with each other. He raised the expectation that the Left's struggle against the Germans and against the Greek Right would be qualitatively different. However, he soon deflated this expectation by exposing how the same personal ambitions and jealous intrigues prevailed on the inside of the leftist camp, no matter by which enemy it was besieged. The dialogic relationships dramatically expand to connect the Antigone of the first act with the Antigone figures of the intermezzo and of the second act, and to link the Andronikos and the Nikodimos of the first act with their counterparts of the second. Alexandrou further construed a web of voices that speak within the characters as well as interpersonally, adding another dialogic dimension to the play. The character of Antigone foregrounds this nexus of voices, appearances, expected sympathies, and ‘suspicious’ new alliances.8 Lack of trust rules from the work's first scenes onward, and often before any action occurs that might prompt such mistrust. In both acts, Alexandrou's leftist Antigone resists the killing and denial of burial to a man whom her fellow partisans have sent to his death for dubious reasons. Better educated that the others, she insists on thinking critically and humanely before she acts. For her, life without integrity is not worth living. In each act, Antigone herself is executed for performing the burial, or rather for championing truth and independent thinking by doing so. The Greek leftist commander Nikodimos, who puts to death the German deserter Andronikos in Page 6 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou Act 1 under the Nazi Occupation, becomes the victim of the now Greek commander Andronikos during the Civil War in Act 2. For Alexandrou, the patterns of repetition emphasize the tendency of the Greek Left throughout the 1940s to suspect irrationally and to turn against members of its own side. The names of the captains Nikodimos and Andronikos are Byzantine in origin, and they imply a continuity between earlier and contemporary Greek history rather than with the original myth. In the same vein, other characters (p.159) occupy the roles of Polyneices, Haemon, Ismene, Creon, or the guard(s) of Sophocles and Anouilh, but only temporarily. Act One: The Nazi Occupation and Antigone Agony

Any similarity with characters who have lived, are living, or will live is entirely coincidental. (Alexandrou 1977a: preface, p. 172) Act 1 featuring the Occupation starts in medias res. Before a backdrop of half‐ destroyed peasant homes, an informal ‘chorus’ of Greek women in black gathers that, in different voices, reacts to the nurse Antigone, who comes on with her injured right hand covered in bandages. The Greek guerrilla fighters who have been striking at the Nazi occupiers from their hideouts in the mountains have just taken captive a wounded German named Andronikos who wishes to desert to their camp. The subordinate Stratis expresses his fear of the retaliation that the leadership of the Left might exact if he were to spare the prisoner. He turns to Antigone, the grammatizoumeni or ‘educated one’, to decipher and respond to the incomprehensible Greek that the German is using to communicate with the partisans. Stratis: I will be in for trouble, I tell you that.…I would have struck him dead if it wasn't that he spoke to me in Greek—some incomprehensible Greek, that is—and therefore, I said, I better find out. Antigone: I'll talk to him.…(To Andronikos [in ancient Greek].) Who are you? Andronikos: [In his own ancient Greek.] Histiaeus said that, once the power of Darius would be destroyed, each city could choose to live under democratic rule rather than under a tyranny. I then want to destroy the power of the Führer, to live in a democracy because—extra prima gut. Have you understood? I do not want to live under a tyranny. Verstehen? Stratis: What the hell is he mumbling? Antigone: He is saying that he wants to come with us. Hurry, go and call Nikodimos. (Act 1, scene 2, p. 175) Page 7 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou (p.160) The ancient Greek of the German deserter reveals his privileged Western European educational background, but it is of little help to the modern Greek speakers of the distressed rural Greece of the early 1940s. Andronikos draws on Herodotus' Histories Books 5 and 6 to express his sympathy for the Greek struggle for freedom and democracy, but his reference to the sometimes turncoat Histiaeus proves to be an ominous one: Histiaeus of Miletus, a rebel leader during the early fifth‐century BCE Ionian revolt by the Greeks against the Persians, came to a gruesome end at the hands of the latter led by King Darius. Antigone responds with kind humanity to the injured German, while the troubled Stratis, like the fearful guardsmen of Sophocles and Anouilh, is happy to defer the thorny matter of the deserter to Nikodimos, the Greek guerrilla captain. Nikodimos soon grows jealous of the devotion that Antigone shows the German captive and seals his fate: at his instigation, Andronikos will be executed for treason by a firing squad consisting of Antigone's fellow partisans. The heroine, who has admired Andronikos's willingness to turn against the Germans and urged the group to accept him, resists Nikodimos's plan to execute Andronikos and to leave his body unburied. In Act 1, Andronikos thus replaces both Antigone's Sophoclean fiancé Haemon and her unburied brother Polyneices. But the heroine's goodwill is ultimately no match for Nikodimos's verdict that Andronikos is a traitor who will exert a bad influence on his troops. The captain exploits this conviction to solidify his own power and to test the reliability of the forces under his command (Pehlivanos 2004: 349). To the doomed Andronikos's question as to why anyone who dares to bury his body must be punished by death, Nikodimos coldly responds: ‘I want to test the loyalty of my people.…I want to be sure that they believe that you are a traitor. That they don't have regrets, that is to say, doubts’ (Act 1, scene 7, p. 192). Suspicion destroys not only a German philhellene, however, but also the heroine and her noble sympathy for him, which turned into love. The love affair humanizes the character of Antigone, who is not a stale paragon of morality. In a pivotal night scene that crystallizes the multiple levels of doubt and division that could be produced among the partisans, Antigone meets Nikodimos on her way to a romantic date with Andronikos. The jealous Nikodimos tries to sow suspicion in the heroine's mind about both Andronikos's love for her and his loyalty to the Greek leftist cause, which is about to be tested in (p.161) a critical battle on the following day: ‘There is something—in his face, in his hands —something I don't like. As if he is wearing a mask. If you want, you can see what is hidden underneath. Go and talk to him. Try to get him to open his heart to you. Whichever way you think. You can even tell him lies. Pretend’ (Act 1, scene 6, p. 183). Nikodimos triggers Antigone's doubts and she temporarily yields to his suspicions. A masked Antigone now tests a masked Andronikos's commitment to herself and the Left's struggle and seems to literally and metaphorically unmask him (Act 1, scene 6, pp. 185–187). The device of the mask becomes a foil that replicates the character's identity into an objective and Page 8 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou a subjective self—a sign that reduplication with inversion constitute key dialogic elements of Alexandrou's play.9 Once Andronikos has been executed, Antigone, who is pregnant with his child, insists on burying his body in spite of Nikodimos's prohibition. She reverts to the role of Sophocles' heroine: alone, she risks everything to give Andronikos a symbolic burial by throwing a handful of earth on his corpse (Act 1, scenes 8–9). Stubbornly refusing to show any remorse for her ‘disloyal’ act, the imprisoned Antigone asserts: ‘I wanted to state a truth. Perhaps that is what stating the truth means: I bury a corpse’ (Act 1, scene 9, p. 199). She sees her action as a worthy and autonomous response to a call of duty from within and rejects the blind obedience to her superior's orders. Her act also restores her faith in Andronikos's integrity. Propositioned by her guard while imprisoned, Antigone does briefly consider playing for time until her child's birth, but then refuses the guard's quid pro quo and decides to sacrifice her unborn child to preserve her own integrity (Act 1, scene 9, pp. 201–202). The pregnant Antigone is killed off by the group of her own. Her execution is summarily and almost casually mentioned by the battalion commander in the tenth and last scene of Act 1. The first act ends as this battalion commander and Nikodimos threaten to inform on one another and the leftists ruthlessly execute yet another fellow partisan and alleged traitor without proper investigation or trial. Members of the group vie by (p.162) lot for the ‘privilege’ of killing the traitor (Act 1, scene 10, pp. 203– 204). Thus the play shows the Left's self‐destructive ability to resent its own in acts that can replicate themselves indefinitely. The resistance movement has turned inward against itself. The sombre ending of Act 1 lays the ground for the turn to the Civil War in Act 2. From the outset, Alexandrou firmly establishes that his is a modern Greek historicizing plot and innovative emplotment of Sophocles' Antigone. He emphasizes that his Antigone character is both alike and different from her fellow partisans. His heroine is not without personal flaws, which brings her closer to the many compatriots whose confused priorities were exploited by manipulative parties. However, Antigone's awareness of her weaknesses is what allows Alexandrou to bestow a spiritual heroism on the female protagonist and to deconstruct the male heroism that the leftist leaders vociferously claim for themselves. The playwright demonstrates that the Left as well as the Right have, in times of crisis, construed masculinity and patriarchy along very similar lines, and that this construction has spawned violence on both sides, including the attendant forms of psychological violence. However, the author does not present femininity as a straightforward antidote, either, but portrays relations and allegiances that are continually compromised by fear and doubt. Antigone brings to the cause not rhetoric or force, but critical thinking and humane sentiment. The end of the first act, however, strikes home that this heroine is as much about agony in isolation as about action in the public sphere. Alexandrou's modern Antigone is the archetypal outsider or ‘other’ for resisting the tyranny of internal Page 9 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou leftist mistrust. The heroine embodies the constructive potential of the humane act when and where suspicion and terror suppress it. She is ultimately crushed not by a fascist regime, but by the leftist regime in its doctrinaire form, which proves unable to co‐opt her ‘purer’ ideology (to reuse a term from Anouilh). Discovering truth amid mistrust is crucial to the Antigone of Alexandrou, who knows moments of vulnerability but re‐establishes her character as an agent of truth—who will therefore always remain suspect. Like the playwright himself, who felt that he had been wearing a mask as long as he was following the party line, Antigone returns to obey to ‘the words within’, in the expression that the author adopted as his personal motto. (p.163) Intermezzo

The intermezzo between the two acts stages an old man directing a group of boys and girls who present a romantic playlet, Stamatis and Antigone. This interval, set in an idyllic landscape, contrasts with the tragedies of the two acts and suggests possibilities for peaceful and productive relations between the sexes in better times. The intermezzo strikes a bright and near‐festive but ephemeral tone. The two Antigone figures of the romantic play within the play are immature and private young women, who perhaps offer a flashback to the heroine's early youth or present a happier alternative to the doomed romance of Act 1. The Antigones of the intermezzo also capture some of the naïve essence of Anouilh's heroine, who ‘must die, not only to play out her role, but also to preserve her ideal state’ (Fleming 2006: 175). Alexandrou uses the intermezzo both to deviate from and to extend the meaning of the two acts. He sheds light on the interpretive and metatheatrical framework that underlies his play. For him, the intermezzo is a peaceful parenthesis or bridging device that, with its light‐hearted tenor, places itself virtually outside of historical time—until, suddenly, anti‐aircraft sirens go off to signal an impending air strike. The company of young players disperses and thrusts itself—and the reader—back into the sombre warscape, in which the more ‘serious’ Antigones live and die in the dark predicament of modern Greek history. The intermezzo thus evokes the all‐too‐brief historical pause between Greece's liberation from the Nazi Germans and the onset of the Civil War. Act Two: The Civil War: History Repeating Itself

The major events of the second act of Alexandrou's Antigone reperform and invert those of Act 1, underlining the continuities between the earlier period and the Civil War. Act 2 returns its audience back to the set dominated by the ruined houses and first presents a few side scenes. Among these interludes is the harrowing scene 3, in which a couple of leftist sympathizers disagrees about when to join the guerrillas in the mountains. The father argues for staying with their sick baby boy, but the mother kills the child to be able to join the war ‘burden free’. The scene demonstrates the irrationality of some leftist (p.164)

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‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou commitments in the Civil War period and recalls Antigone's own choice to sacrifice her unborn child in Act 1. The Antigone of Act 2 engages in a new version of the unmasking scene (scene 5 echoes scene 6 of Act 1). In this second night scene Antigone asks Andronikos, now a Greek leftist commander, to ‘take off his mask’ when she is anxious about an upcoming battle and wants reassurance about his love for her. Holding a mask in his hands, Andronikos considers playing the lover (as in Act 1), but then resists romantic replies. He expresses his passion for the war that they are waging and merely offers a kiss. But Andronikos exploits his high‐ranking position and enters into a psychological standoff with his fellow leftist and subordinate Nikodimos, whom he forces to undertake a suicidal mission (Act 2, scene 6, pp. 225–227). As Andronikos anticipates, Nikodimos is killed offstage by supporters of the Right, who forbid his burial. Antigone again intervenes and takes great risks to bury the body of Nikodimos. Maria, a fellow partisan, has been ordered by Andronikos to do the deed, but she is afraid to commit herself to action.10 Antigone altruistically exchanges masks with the Ismene‐like Maria to go out and bury Nikodimos and restore the Left's honour by herself (Act 2, scene 7, p. 230). She is not even claiming her ‘later glory’, the ysterofimia that is associated with her name (Act 2, scene 8, p. 231). The heroine foregoes the affirmation of her trademark identity when she lives up to her mythical name in anonymity. She is willing to become another, cowardly person (Maria) in what Alexandrou depicts as a name and fame‐driven struggle. The most critical unmasking scene of Act 2, however, follows at the end of scene 8: after burying the corpse, Antigone confronts her lover with proof that he sent Nikodimos out on a senseless and impossible mission. Andronikos admits that he sent Nikodimos to his death, but he—spuriously—contends that the mission served the greater good of the Left. He then tries to stop Antigone from divulging the truth of the Left's desperate demise and, unsure of the success of his efforts to convince her, resorts to what the leadership appears to do best: he accuses Antigone of being a right‐wing agent, while testing the loyalty of one of his subordinates ‘to take care of the matter’, that is, to ensure that the heroine will be assassinated (Act 2, scene 8, pp. 234–235). (p.165) A victim of the cruellest suspicion and of her own lover's duplicity, Antigone is then hurriedly executed by her fellow partisans (Act 2, scene 9, p. 237). Antigone does not invoke the unwritten laws of the gods but draws strength from refusing to adhere to the ‘unfailing’ ordinances of the Left as well as of the Right whenever they counter the imperatives of humane behaviour. Once again, Antigone, who is never one to speak in programmatic lines, ‘obeys to the words within’. Alexandrou's play illustrates how the heroine's ultimate integrity and willingness to act out of humane principles could transcend the partisans' insidious modes of distrust and internecine violence. He mobilizes Antigone not simply to take on forbidden burials, but to help him cope with the oppressive Page 11 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou truth of Greece's history of fratricidal strife. As in Anouilh's play, Antigone's act of burial does not settle much. Alexandrou is more interested in the moral ramifications of such a deed and in the question of how any act of duty could spawn violence among those who purportedly shared the same goals. This Antigone of insularity—in multiple meanings of the word—does not seem to present a Creon. Or does it? The long history‐scape of modern Greece, always clouded by mistrust, acts as a dramatic substitute for Creon and plays its own, protagonist role. In the 2003 production, Arditti placed Alexandrou's Antigone in an even longer temporal perspective: as the tragedy of unmasking Greek history by way of truth—a tragedy that would continue to claim its victims—the production reflected back on the fate of the playwright as well. In the director's note to the playbill, Arditti refers to the Megalos Mihanismos tis Istorias, or the ‘Great Mechanism of History’, without, however, making the explicit identification with Creon (2003: 6). For him, mercurial, near‐cyclical Greek history cannot but leave behind confused ideologies and expectations. It takes until the final scene of the second act for the reader and spectator to gain confirmation of this large‐looming and pessimistic truth, which is expressed by the chief before Antigone will again be executed, twice the victim of destructive mistrust: Have you forgotten that our home had become a prison, that our town had become a prison? Have you forgotten that the days had become round like millstones, the nights above like millstones, and we, barley grains caught in their grooves, for time to grind us? You're going back there again? (Act 2, scene 9, p. 235) (p.166) Alexandrou's Antigone is not a play without centre. However, while the conventional focus on one protagonist has been diluted, a central axis emerges in the dialectic of episodes and of (virtually) insignificant details that become keys to broader and decisive plotlines. Major themes tie the two acts together, and some of these themes reappear (often in expanded forms) in Alexandrou's acclaimed novel, The Mission Box. Alexandrou's play anticipates the novel for engaging with the ideologies and abuses of power. Both the play and the novel raise the problem also of the political and historical function of the artist and of the leftist author, in particular. A fatal sense of interchangeability pervades Alexandrou's works. The play does not even offer the steadiness of the names of some of the main characters: the fates of Andronikos and Nikodimos keep shifting. These shifts mark changes in the power structures of the Left, which are ruled by personal ambition, overt strife, and party intrigue. The first act of Alexandrou's Antigone ends with a clear case of such male‐to‐male antagonism: in a tense dialogue, the battalion commander orders Nikodimos to commit to a trumped‐up but suicidal mission (paralleled and further deflated in Act 2, scene 6). Nikodimos receives an envelope from the commander, who tells him: ‘There Page 12 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou is a blank piece of paper inside. Tell your men that you will be opening the envelope when the time comes. All those who do not know take courage thinking that they are going ahead with orders under seal’ (Act 1, scene 10, p. 206). This dramatic device of the nonsensical mission, which is doomed to failure before it even commences, contains the seeds of the plot of the empty, purposeless box in The Mission Box, which also reuses the names of Andronikos and Nikodimos.11 Such machinations leave the ‘weaker’ members of the Left, such as Antigone, in an extremely fragile position, while their youthful idealism is easily exploited. Small wonder that some partisans will do anything to stay in the leaders' good graces. Their worst fear is to fall out of favour, and this fear guides their every decision. Also, the play and the novel erode the act of naming, or the presumption that one knows what the person bearing a particular name stands for. (p.167) Only Antigone searches for meaningful political action and assumes the responsibilities that reside in her mythical name: only her character assumes a symbolic value that transcends the context of Greece in the 1940s. In the midst of a climate of distrust, however, Antigone's name and agency raise suspicion in the mind of the (all‐monitoring) male hierarchy of the Left, precipitating a dark drama of inevitability twice over.

Alexandrou's Antigone in 2003: Audience Reaction to Arditti's Production Alexandrou made an important attempt to inspire revisionism about the Greek Left, but his attempt was left unrecognized by the theatre world until 2003, when Arditti staged the long‐forgotten Antigone. In 1993 the Greek Left succeeded the Right and retained power until 2003; then growing dissatisfaction with the Left led to a conservative electoral victory in 2004. In the director's view, the newly vulnerable Left was, in 2003, at least potentially ready to revisit its past. Arditti turned Alexandrou's text into a compelling stage production, in which Miltos Pehlivanos, philological consultant and then‐colleague, played a formative role as well. By giving the work a new subtitle, ‘Two Sacrifices and One Intermedio’, the director generalized Antigone's sacrifice to include that of all young people resisting the cruelties and hypocrisies of modern history up to the present day. Arditti was attracted also to the play's use of multiple literary sources and approaches to theatre (Anouilh and Brecht as well as Sophocles, in addition to the work's prefiguration of The Mission Box). Arditti acknowledged some influence of Anouilh's work but understood the form of Alexandrou's Antigone to be modelled after Brechtian theatre techniques (author's e-mail communication, 6 July 2008). The modern Greek Antigone remains a public character deeply engaged in political issues and committed to her act. As such, Alexandrou's heroine is akin to the Antigone of Bertolt Brecht (see below). In contrast, Anouilh's Antigone and her actions pertain to the private and existential domain of the individual. Alexandrou was probably familiar with the peculiar reception of the French Antigone (see Chapter 2, n. 2). For him, however, Anouilh's Antigone was (p.168) unequivocally a heroine of the resistance movement (still the most popular interpretation, according to Page 13 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou Fleming 2006: 167–168). The anxious state of Alexandrou's Antigone, who commits to Andronikos's burial all alone in Act 1, resonates with Anouilh's young heroine admitting to fear. Although at times Alexandrou's wavering Antigone resembles Anouilh's confused, angry, and painfully isolated protagonist (Pehlivanos 2003: 33), she stops far short of the latter's infamous statement that she does not know anymore what she is dying for (‘Je ne sais plus pourquoi je meurs’, in her final letter to Haemon, which she dictates to a guard; Anouilh 2007: 1:671). For Arditti, Alexandrou's Antigone was Brechtian in that the play pivoted on a ‘paratactic structure, the self‐contained nature of the scenes, and the contradictory sketching of the characters’ (author's e-mail communication, 6 July 2008). The forces that centre Alexandrou's work on the characters' role‐playing and self‐dramatization are aligned with Brechtian theories of theatre as well. When Brecht's antifascist Antigonemodell (heavily dependent on Friedrich Hölderlin's adaptation) appeared in 1948, Alexandrou had already been sent into exile, where he was cut off from exposure to the newest literature. However, the dramatic conception of Brecht's earlier plays still influenced Alexandrou, who shared his focus on process and choice rather than on outcome. So did Brecht's endeavour to reinterpret traditional history and myth through drama and adaptation and also his preoccupation with sociopolitical critique. In the late 1920s and early 1930s, Brecht had written Lehrstücke, or ‘learning plays’, some of which such as The Measures to Be Taken (also published as The Decision, 1930) dealt with the process and morality of decision making in the strongest terms of epic theatre. Some aspects of the dilemma‐centred dramatization and demythologization that guide Alexandrou's Antigone may therefore have been shaped by the framing devices and the epic theatre techniques of Brecht's early plays. Short works such as Der Jasager (He Who Says Yes) and its antipode or inversion, Der Neinsager (He Who Says No), might have served as models for Alexandrou's first and second act. The playful or the—deceptively—lighter component of the intermezzo, too, added a Brechtian dimension to the text and the production. Brecht's distancing technique, or Verfremdungseffekt, was known to create a level of defamiliarization within well‐known, presumably organic myths or coherent stories, and thus to deliver indirect critical commentary. The resulting sense of disorientation then encouraged the audience to (p.169) look at the myths and stories anew and to reconstruct their meaning from the now disparate, uneven elements in a dialectical and more open‐ended manner. Brecht employed anachronisms, undermined heroic prototypes, disrupted conventional expectations, and turned myths against themselves by juxtaposing opposites (which is often called ‘montage’, which challenges the spectator to connect the various threads to illuminate the story). In the hands of Alexandrou and Arditti, unorthodox inversion, metatheatricality, and the illusionary or play‐level of dramatization became effective pointers to deceptive heroes and unfulfilled expectations. Page 14 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou The urban public of Thessaloniki responded enthusiastically but often emotionally to Arditti's 2003 production of Alexandrou's Antigone. Topics related to the Civil War, in particular, still stir up hot dispute and this dramatic investigation of the Left's past proved no exception (testimony by Arditti, 4 January 2008). Arditti recovered a script that contained significant resources for a lasting dialogue and called the play ‘a lost opportunity for the postwar modern Greek theatre’, because it started a process of introspection that did not come to fruition until many years later (2007: 2; testimony of 4 January 2008). He positioned the production and the critics' ambivalent responses as follows: At the Royal Theatre, in the centre of conservative Thessaloniki, a big national theatre brings to the light of the stage a play that speaks about the traumas of the Greek adventure. The production poster shows the young, female ELAS fighter of Meletzis.…The staging coincides with a flaring up of the public discussions about the Occupation and the Civil War. The ‘conscientious objector’ Alexandrou proves to be bothersome still: the critic K. G. characterizes the work as ‘a political and aesthetic mistake’; Angelos E., the political columnist of the Left, refuses to participate in a public debate about the play…; A. S., an exceptionally progressive woman, states that ‘we should not talk about those things even if they occurred’. (Arditti 2007: 1–2) These heated comments were a poignant reminder that, even though Alexandrou's play was mounted half a century after it was first conceived, the staging conjured up a political culture that twenty‐first‐century Greece was still unprepared to examine.12 Arditti had (p.170) not been seeking controversy by dredging up the past but had, rather, presented the play to open up a meaningful modern discourse about the Civil War era. But the critical reaction showed that many from the left‐oriented intellectual ‘establishment’ found the substance of their ‘liberal’ convictions too severely tested when faced with the signs of doctrinal rigidity and mechanistic thinking that plagued the leadership of the Old Left. These leftist critics' demands on Arditti for self‐censorship ironically reiterated some of the restrictions on freedom of speech that Alexandrou had suffered at the hands of his leftist group members and that his Antigone had encountered from her fellow partisans. Alexandrou's play still stood for the performance of noninclusion, of pushing Antigone in isolation, despite or precisely because of her repeated acts of noble agency.

Conclusion This chapter has traced the different narrative and theatrical paths by which Alexandrou's important text and its twenty‐first‐century production—themselves historical but dialogic diptychs—became central to renewed discussions about ideology and practice. Without feeling constricted by the Greek context, Arditti offered up an ideological retrospective that captured a range of shrill contrasts: Page 15 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou from the public, urban stage to isolation on remote prison islands, and from character development to character denial as Antigone merged with the lost generation of Greek left‐wing idealists of the Occupation and the Civil War. Alexandrou's play and Arditti's production encourage further investigation of the multiple political and social identities that were enacted in the prison camps as well as in the party hierarchies of the Left but that have seldom made the official record, because they undermined the romanticized image of the ‘liberal’ Left. Together the play and the production go some way toward explaining what these Antigones mean. Alexandrou's Antigone of insularity is an antidote to falsehood and mistrust, and she comes in multiplied characters—each one of them infusing a dose of audacious hope into this otherwise dark play. Suspicion is the driving and devouring force behind the loosely contrapuntal progression of Alexandrou's work of 1951, a product of the prison islands. The constant sense of threat that pervades the play is the marker of death and (p.171) destruction that insiders and acquaintances, rather than outsiders, tend to wreak on those who should belong to the group but choose not to. Local, culturally and historically specific Greek terms coloured this postwar Antigone but did not restrict it. Alexandrou essentially left a Cold War Antigone of a much wider scope, which challenged and subverted the proclaimed moral high ground—recently but not necessarily rightly—associated with the radical element in Western culture. Arditti successfully recovered a play and the dramatic conception of a play that had been detained on the page for five decades and, along with it, a crux of the underexplored debate between the Greek Left and those pushed out from within. His dramatic conception honoured Alexandrou's speculative proposition on the artist's role and, more broadly, on the role of the committed play or engaged work of art. Alexandrou proved to be well ahead of his time with his characteristic revisionism that repeatedly worked to his own detriment. Notes:

(1) Alexandrou was punished with repeated spells of internal exile and passed through the islands of Lemnos (from July 1948 on), Makronisos (1949), Aï Stratis (1950–1951), and the prisons of Averof in Athens (1953), Aegina (1954), and Yiaros (1955–1958) (Raftopoulos 1996: 239). (2) Arditti (born Athens, 1953) received extensive international training in theatre, in Paris and Berlin. He mounted his first production in 1984. From 1997 on, he has been teaching in the Department of Theatre Studies of the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Arditti served as Artistic Director of the State Theatre of Northern Greece from 2001 through 2004. Ardittis (in the Greek nominative case) prefers that his last name be spelled in English as ‘Arditti’ (personal correspondence, 6 July 2008). The State Theatre of Northern Greece first performed Alexandrou's Antigone at the Royal Theatre (Vasiliko Theatro) in Thessaloniki on 4 April 2003. In May of 2003, the production was shown in Athens, hosted at the Rex Theatre by the National Theatre of Greece. Eleni Page 16 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou Ouzounidou played the role of Antigone. Van Steen (in press b) explores how the innovative director brought to life a text that had lingered in oblivion for more than half a century. For a list of the cast members of the 2003 premiere production, see ibid. For a (mixed) review of the production, see Patsalidis (2006). (3) Alexandrou signed the notorious ‘declaration of repentance’ on Makronisos but subsequently revoked it and remained in exile for two more years (Raftopoulos 1996: 169). See also Kastrinaki (2005: 455). Andreas Xyftilis explains how the Left enacted the ensuing expulsion of the ‘suspect’ or ‘traitor’ in the practice of daily life during internment (1996: 548–550). (4) See Voglis on the underground communist committees or ‘bureaus’, which consisted of interned Communist Party cadres (2002: 208–219). These very hierarchical committees organized prison life internally and imposed their own coercive strategies and disciplinary tactics, complete with systems of surveillance and punishment. Many ordinary prisoners suffered a double kind of clampdown, one inflicted by right‐wing outsiders and the other brought on by insiders with their own asphyxiating rules and prescriptions. Such—worsening— conditions made unity within the Left unravel. Many came to realize that ‘red totalitarianism’ or ‘red terror’ (in the trenchant characterizations of today's revisionist historians and critics) was no more acceptable than totalitarianism from the opposing side of the political spectrum. The discussion on the autocratic practices of the Greek Left of the Civil War is ongoing and touches on sensitive issues that deserve a much more careful study than I can undertake in my brief presentation of Alexandrou. Kenna studied the commune of political exiles held on Anafi between 1938 and 1943 and reflects on the often hostile relations among the members of the leftist group, whose successors designed and implemented similar organizational structures on the prison islands of the Civil War (2008: 118–119): many of them were frequently at odds with one other. There were those purged from the Communist Party of Greece during factional disputes who now found themselves in the same place as those responsible for purging them: Trotskyists and Stalinist communists at daggers drawn with each other and intellectuals experimenting with socialist ideas who were regarded as weak bourgeois liberals by those further to the left. (2008: 120) An institutional line is promulgated [through the commune's handwritten newspapers] and the rules and purpose of the commune are not subject to either criticism or scrutiny. (2008: 136)

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‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou In his discussion of the organization of prison life during the Civil War, Voglis completes the picture of some ten years later: the majority of the detainees who did not belong to the communist leadership ‘had to conform’ to the rules laid out by the supervising ‘bureau’ of key party members (2004: 149–150). Any detainees who questioned the prison's underground leftist leadership were considered ‘suspect’; they were isolated from other inmates and excluded from the ‘collective’ (Voglis 2004: 150; also Lambropoulou 1999: 54–59, 128–133). Floundzis refers to ‘fierce infighting within the party’ during the later years of camp life on Aï Stratis (1986: 95; also 1986: 98–101, 150) and to his own experience of isolation (1986: 101–102). See also Bournazos (2009b: 43). (5) In late 1940 and through the early 1940s, such grand historical parallels and the slogans and battle cries that were drawn from the historical sources on the Persian Wars had to inspire the Greek antifascist resistance against the Axis invaders. By the mid‐1940s, however, the same analogies and purple passages had to muster Greek right‐wing and anticommunist sentiment against the ‘menacing’ ‘infiltrators’ from the North (as reflected in the double quotation of Simonides' epigram by Zoannos‐Sarris 1950: 47, 54). On this topic, see also Chapter 4, pp. 138–145. (6) Alexandrou was particularly well‐read in international literature (Arditti 2003: 6). To make a living, he was long active as a translator from Russian (his mother tongue), English, French, and German, and he also knew some Italian and Spanish (Raftopoulos 1996: 216–218; 2003: 8). Anouilh's long‐awaited Antigone was first performed in wartime Paris on 4 February 1944 and went on to a long and successful run. Koun's Art Theatre presented a Greek premiere of Anouilh's Antigone in early 1947, which Alexandrou might have attended. See also Pehlivanos, who analysed Alexandrou's play in light of Anouilh's work (2004: 327, 328, 342–343, 367). Pehlivanos surmises that Alexandrou would have followed the Athenian theatre scene—as well as the scene of critical review and acclaim—as part of a circle of young left‐leaning and pro‐resistance intellectuals (2004: 330–331). See further the special issue on Alexandrou of I Lexi (1988). (7) Because the text of Alexandrou's Antigone is not readily accessible, I include in this and subsequent parentheses in the text the references to the preface, the acts, and the individual scenes in addition to the page numbers of Chapter 6. (8) David Ricks characterizes Alexandrou's prose (in The Mission Box) as ‘a labyrinth of decision, evasion, recantation, explanation’ (1989: 120). In this process of thinking and writing, Alexandrou is ‘exploratory of personal… morality’ (1989: 122). His Antigone, too, pays attention to the workings of moral reasoning—and has her moral lapses. (9) Pehlivanos has detected in Alexandrou's Antigone the influence of Eugene O'Neill's work with the dramatic device of the mask to reflect false and true Page 18 of 19

‘Suspect always like the truth’: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou realities and to double the hero's identity (2004: 348, 362–363). Alexandrou had translated O'Neill's ominous miracle play, Days without End, for the Easter performance of 1949 on Makronisos (see Chapter 1, p. 31). (10) The fright of Sophocles' Ismene is mirrored not only by Maria's reluctance but also by the unwillingness of some unnamed partisans who—again—fear retaliation from within the group (Act 1, scene 8, pp. 195–197). (11) Karvelis (1986: 207); Pehlivanos (2004: 368); Raftopoulos (1996: 224); and Tsaknias (1983: 168–169). See further Tsirimokou (2000: 137–148; 2002) and also Papailias (2005: 143–144), who approaches Alexandrou's only novel as another literary archive that reflects on the themes of the Civil War history, the records of punishment, and the power abuse of the bureaucratic communist leadership. (12) See Introduction, pp. 23–24 on the heated debates stirred by Missios's account, Well, You Were Killed Early on, and by Valtinos's Orthokosta.

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Alexandrou's Antigone παρακάτω κείμενο μπορεί να το πει μια γυναίκα ή περισσότερες εκ περιτροπής ή όλες μαζί—ζήτημα και πάλι σκηνοθεσίας). ΟΙ ΓΥΝΑΙΚΕΣ Οι ερπύστριες των τανκς περάσαν μες απ' τις αυλές μας—τ' άλογά τους πέρασαν μες απ' τα χωράφια μας—οι βροχές περάσανε—και δεν έχουμε ήλιο. Δεν έχουμε ψωμί. Σέρνουμε τις παλάμες στα γερασμένα μάγουλα— όπως τις σέρνεις πάνω στο χοντρό στρατσόχαρτο—και δεν λέει να στρώσει—τόσα χρόνια μ' έναν άνεμο κακό που μπαίνει (p.173) απ' τις χοντρές μας χαραμάδες. Κλείνουμε τις πόρτες—κλειδώνουμε τα στόματα —κι όμως αυτοί κυκλοφορούν και μπαίνουνε παντού—μ' ένα κράνος στους ώμους—και το αίμα μας δεν πρόφτασε ακόμα να στεγνώσει στα τακούνια τους. Οι άντρες μας λακίσαν μες στη νύχτα—ξενοκοιμούνται μες στις πέτρες—μες στα σύγνεφα. Τινάξαν τα γιοφύρια. Δεν είναι τρόπος να γυρίσουμε κοντά τους. Δεν είναι τρόπος να γυρίσουνε κοντά μας. Μονάχες μας δω πέρα και τα πηγάδια στέρεψαν. Τα βυζιά μας στέρεψαν. Πάμε να τραβήξουμε νερό—και βγάζουμε λάσπη. Πάνε τα παιδιά μας να ρουφήξουν απ' τη ρόγα—και γιομίζει το στόμα τους πίκρα. Πάμε να διπλώσουμε τη νύχτα—κ' είναι τόσο άδεια—σαν τις κάλτσες του Νικόλα. Οι άνεμοι σκορπίσανε όλα τα κεραμίδια—και βρέχει. Τ' αεροπλάνα γκρέμισαν τους τοίχους—και βρέχει. Ο χρόνος στάζει απ' τ' αχτένιστα μαλλιά μας μες στον κόρφο—θα γεράσουμε. Πίσω απ' τα έλατα—πίσω απ' τις πέτρες—οι άντρες μας έχουν ντουφέκια. Πίσω απ' τις διαγουμισμένες τους καρδιές—περιμένουν. Πίσω απ' τους άντρες μας—πίσω απ' τις στάχτες του Νικόλα—ακόμα περιμένουμε. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΔΕΥΤΕΡΗ

(Ακούγονται ντουφεκιές και πολυβόλα από μακριά. Έχει μείνει ο ένας μισογκρεμισμένος τοίχος. Παράθυρο, πόρτα, ένα σκαμνί, ένα κλινάρι, ένα σεντούκι. Η γριά. Η Αντιγόνη. Το δεξί της χέρι είναι τραυματισμένο. Επίδεσμος). ΓΡΙΑ Άκου! (αφουγκράζεται). Σα να προχωράνε. Σα να τους πήρανε φαλάγγι. Λες να τους διώξουν; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πρέπει. ΓΡΙΑ Με το πρέπει δεν προκόβεις. Πρέπει νά 'χεις κι άρματα. Η μεγάλη καρδιά δε φελάει. Δίνει στόχο. (Παύση). Σαν εκείνον τον Στρατή. Όρθιος πάντα κι ο άνεμος τού παίρνει το δίκωχο. Ανεπρόκοπος. Έτσι πολεμάνε; Δες τα Page 2 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone μούτρα σου. Σε στείλανε να δένεις πληγές και συ πήγες και μου λαβώθηκες. Βιαζόστε να πεθάνετε. Τα παλιόσκυλα—βιάζουνται να σας σκοτώσουν. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Σύχασε. (p.174) ΓΡΙΑ Θέ μου! Ν' αλλάξουμε επίδεσμο. Ο γιατρός είπε ν' αλλάζουμε επίδεσμο. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Δεν είναι μήτε ώρα που τον αλλάξαμε. ΓΡΙΑ Ώρα! Άσπρισαν τα μαλλιά μου από τότε. Όλο επιδέσμους αλλάζω. Τα τσακάλια. Θέλουν κρέμασμα. Παλούκωμα. Γδάρσιμο. Ναν τους βγάλουμε ένα ένα τα δόντια να μην ξαναμιλήσουν. Ναν τους βγάλουμε τα μάτια με βελόνες να μην ξαναβρούν το δρόμο για τη Γερμανία, τα αποσπόρια της κόλασης. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Είναι—μπορεί κι ανάμεσά τους νά 'ναι άνθρωποι, θειά. ΓΡΙΑ Μας κάναν και σουρθήκαμε σαν τα σκουλίκια. Έναν καλό λόγο δεν άφησαν στο στόμα μας. Μας σημάδεψαν με σίδερο καφτό. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πού θα κλείσει αυτός ο κύκλος αν αρχίσουμε και μεις τα ίδια; (Φωνές απ' το δρόμο: Θάνατος στο Γερμανό! Μεριάστε! Κρεμάλα! Όχι αυτοδικίες!) ΓΡΙΑ (βγάζοντας το κεφάλι της απ' το παράθυρο). Πιάσαν Γερμανό! Απάνω του γειτόνισσες! Έτσι, έτσι—με το τσεκούρι, με τον κασμά, με τα νύχια. Να καταλάβει τι θα πει να σκίζεις με τα νύχια σου τα μάγουλα δίπλα σ' ένα κιβούρι. Κι αυτοί—ποιοι είναι αυτοί; Φαντάροι μας είναι και τον προστατεύουν; Ο Στρατής δεν είναι αυτός; Αντιγόνη—(η Αντιγόνη είχε κοιτάξει κι αυτή απ' το παράθυρο και μόλις έφυγε βιαστική): Έφυγες ε; Πας να τον σώσεις. (Με περιφρόνηση και στοργή): Νοσοκόμα! Άντε Page 3 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone λοιπόν να σε δω. Βγάλε τον επίδεσμο απ' το χέρι σου και δέστου τις πληγές. Σε ξέρω. Θα του ζεστάνεις και νερό. Θα τού 'δινες και γάλα αν μας είχε μείνει μια γουλιά. (Ξανακοιτάει απ' το παράθυρο). Α, εδώ τον φέρνει, ακούς; Εδώ! Του σακατέψανε το πόδι του άτιμου, του σκύλου— κουτσαίνει—δηλαδή τι κουτσαίνει, το σούρνει σαν ξένο που να μην είχε ποτέ δικό του—και το αίμα—κοίτα πώς τρέχει το αίμα—(Πάει στο σεντούκι και βγάζει ένα σεντόνι. Αρχίζει να το σκίζει λουρίδες). Ένα παλιοσέντονο είναι, τι θαρρείς. Για πέταμα τό 'χα. Μήτε κομμένο πόδι σκύλου δεν θά 'στεργα να δέσω με δαύτο. Όμως εσένα και πολύ σου πέφτει. Κι όχι για (p.175) σένα—για τη μάνα σου π' ό,τι να πεις γυναίκα είναι. (Μπαίνει η Αντιγόνη με τον Ανδρόνικο που ακουμπάει απάνω της και σέρνει το πόδι του. Από πίσω τους ο Στρατής θυμωμένος). ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Θα βρω τον μπελά μου, σου λέω. Πρέπει να τον πάω στον Νικόδημο, με καταλαβαίνεις; Θα τον άφηνα στον τόπο αν δε μου μίλαγε ελληνικά—κάτι ελληνικά ακαταλαβίστικα δηλαδή και γι' αυτό, είπα να ξακριβώσω. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θα του μιλήσω εγώ. Τι κάνεις έτσι; Δεν το βλέπεις πως δεν μπορεί να περπατήσει; (Βάζει τον Ανδρόνικο να ξαπλώσει στο κλινάρι). ΓΡΙΑ Για κοίτα κει το μούτρο! Μού 'γινες αρνάκι, ε; Χαμογελάει! Ε, το βλέπω πως έχεις ωραία δόντια. Τι θαρρείς; Πως θα τα λυπηθώ; Ένα-ένα θα στα βγάλω. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Φέρε νερό, θειά. Ζεστό. ΓΡΙΑ Καφτό. Να τόνε ζεματίσω. (Βγαίνει). ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ (Στην Αντιγόνη). Μίλα του λοιπόν. Πάντα μας έκανες τη γραμματιζούμενη. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Στον Ανδρόνικο). Τίς ει; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Page 4 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Ιστιαίος δε είπεν, της Δαρείου δυνάμιος καταιρεθείσης, βουλήσεσθαι εκάστην των πόλιων δημοκρατέεσθαι μάλλον ή τυραννεύεσθαι. Εγώ ουν την δύναμιν Φύρερ καταιρέσθαι βούλομαι, δημοκρατέεσθαι γαρ έξτρα πρίμα γκουτ. Νενοήκατε; Ου βούλομαι τυραννεύεσθαι. Φερστέεν; ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Τι τσαμπουνάει μωρέ; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Λέει πως θέλει νά 'ρθει μαζί μας. Τρέχα να φωνάξεις τον Νικόδημο. (p.176) ΣΚΗΝΗ ΤΡΙΤΗ

(Δάσος. Νύχτα. Ένας αντάρτης στη σκοπιά του. Κρατάει αυτόματο κι ακουμπάει σ' ένα δένδρο. Ακούει βήματα και γέρνει μπροστά). Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Αλτ! ΦΩΝΗ Η ώρα είναι τρεις. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Μαύρο άλογο. ΦΩΝΗ Λευτεριά ή Θάνατος. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Εσύ είσαι Κλέαρχε; Προχώρα. (Μπαίνει ο Κλέαρχος). Δε μπορώ να καταλάβω τι τα θέμε τόσα συνθήματα και παρασυνθήματα μιας κ' είμαστε συναμετάξυ μας. Τη φωνή σου την ξεχωρίζω μέσα σ' εκατό. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Εφτούνο είναι το πρέπο. Κατά πώς λέει κι ο καπετάν Νικόδημος—όλα τα πάντα για τον αγώνα. Πάρε το τσερβέλο σου και στίψτο. Θα δεις πως είσαι υπεύτυνος για όλα. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Τώρα νυστάζω. Γεια. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Page 5 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Κι ο ύπνος σου ακόμα είναι υπεύτυνος. Όταν κάνεις κάτι, αλλάζει κάτι άλλο. Όταν δεν κάνεις τίποτα—μένει κάτι ανάλλαγο ενώ μπορούσε ν' άλλαζε. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Σωστό. Όταν νυστάζεις όμως πρέπει να κοιμάσαι. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ως τα τώρα δε νύσταζες; Μία με πέντε; Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Όταν είσαι σκοπιά, δεν πρέπει να νυστάζεις. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ναίσκε. Εύκολη ταχτική. Κάνεις ό,τι σου λένε. Άκουσα πως είναι να χτυπήσουμε τους Λάκους. (p.177) Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Άμα ξυπνήσω θα λαδώσω τ' αυτόματο. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Και να διώξεις τη νύστα σου. Το πρέπο είναι νά 'χεις τα μάτια σου τέσσερα. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Ξέρω. Καλό ξημέρωμα. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Δεν ξέρεις τίποτα. Τα τέσσερα μάτια θα τά 'χεις για τον Αντρόνικο. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Ποιος είναι πάλι τούτος; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Κείνος ο αιχμάλωτος που φέρανε τις προάλλες. Ο γερμανός. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Αυτό είν' όλο; Και με κλειστά τα μάτια τον καθαρίζω ώσπου να πεις προδότης. Καιρός είταν να το πάρουν απόφαση. Page 6 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Έτσι έλεγα κ' εγώ. Όμως, εδώ είν' ο κόμπος. Αν κατάλαβα καλά, θα τον στείλουμε να εκτελεστεί απατός του. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Ή νυστάζω πολύ ή δεν κόβει πια το ξερό μου. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Έχεις καπνό; (Κάθεται χάμω). Βρήκα μια προκήρυξη με λίγη μελάνη. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Είναι σκοτάδι ακόμα. Δεν κάνει ν' ανάψουμε. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Όπου νά 'ναι χαράζει. Και στο κάτω-κάτω ανάβεις μες στον κόρφο σου. Κρύβεις την κάφτρα στο μανίκι. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Απαγορεύεται. Μας τό 'παν χίλιες βολές. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Καλά. Παίρνω εγώ την ευτύνη. (Κάθεται κι ο σκοπός. Μιλάνε στρίβοντας τσιγάρα, τ' ανάβουν και καπνίζουν). Ήρθε μονάχος του λέει να πολεμήσει μαζί μας. Τους έλληνες λέει τους έχει στην καρδιά του. (p.178) Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Εγώ ξέρω πως τον πιάσανε. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Είχε κρυφτεί σε κάτι θάμνους, λέει, λίγο πιο πέρα απ' τα τελευταία χωράφια μας. Ότι είταν έτοιμος να σηκώσει άσπρο μαντήλι—πρόφτασαν οι δικοί μας και τον άρπαξαν. Είχε αυτόματο μα δεν έριξε. Είχε κ' ένα μαντήλι στο χέρι του. Ο Στρατής τον έπιασε. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Μπορεί να μην πρόφτασε να ρίξει. Μπορεί το μαντήλι να τό 'βγαλε γιατι είχε συνάχι. Μπορεί νά 'ναι κάνας κατάσκοπος. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Είναι, λέει, υπολοχαγός. Έχει όλα τ' αστέρια του στους ώμους. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Μπορεί νά 'ντουσαν και ψεύτικα. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Στην ανάκριση τά 'πε χαρτί και καλαμάρι. Ονόματα, νούμερα, υψώματα, τάγματα—σε μια στιγμή πετάγεται και τους λέει: Η Γερμανία κάνει καταχτητικόνε πόλεμο. Ντρέπουμαι λέει που είμαι γερμανός. Ήρθα ν' αγωνιστώ μαζί σας για την αλήθεια και την πρόοδος [sic]. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Κάποια δική μας φυλλάδα θα διάβασε. Σίγουρα. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Αυτά είπε κι ο Νικόδημος. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Έχουμε τετράγωνο μυαλό. Ο Νικόδημος πα να πει τό 'χει ολομόναχος. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Η Αντιγόνη όμως έχει μυαλό θηλυκό. Το γυναίκιο μυαλό είναι όλο πονηριά. Αυτή πήγε και στο γυμνάσιο. Αν τον σκοτώσουμε, λέει, χάνουμε τις σφαίρες. Να τον στείλουμε να πολεμήσει, μπορεί να μας σκοτώσει γερμανούς. Αν σκοτωθεί, γλυτώνουμε τις σφαίρες. Παστρικές κουβέντες. Είπε όμως και κάτι άλλο που δεν το πολυκατάλαβα. Είπε πως τα μάτια του Αντρόνικου είναι, λέει, καθαρά. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Χμ. Και τι γίνεται τότενες κείνο που φωνάζαμε και λέγαμε: Τσεκούρι και φωτιά στους Γερμανούς; Βρίσκουμε έναν τώρανε και τον κάνουμε δικό μας; (p.179) ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Το δέχτηκε κι ο ταγματάρχης. Ώρες τό 'χαν βάλει κάτω και το συζητάγανε. Μπορεί νά 'ναι καλός. Πού τό 'βρες τούτο τ' αυτόματο; Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ Τους το πήρα σε μάχη. Τ' αυτόματο όμως δεν έχει κεφάλι.

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ναίσκε. Γι' αυτό μεθαύριο τα μάτια μας τέσσερα. Τα δυο στους γερμανούς που θά 'χουμε μπροστά μας και τ' άλλα στον Αντρόνικο που θά 'ναι δίπλα μας. Ο ΣΚΟΠΟΣ (Χασμουριέται). Μιας και το λέει ο ταγματάρχης, εμένα μου φτάνει και μου περισσεύει. Πάω για ύπνο. Καλημέρα. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Καλή τύχη. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΤΕΤΑΡΤΗ

(Τοίχος σπιτιού. Τραπέζι. Αναμμένο λυχνάρι. Καρέκλα. Ένα κλινάρι μ' ένα άρρωστο παιδί. Η μάνα του το νανουρίζει). (Μπαίνει απότομα ο Στρατής. Το δεξί του χέρι είναι κομμένο). ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Ζει ακόμα; ΜΑΝΑ Σσσ! Σα να το παίρνει ο ύπνος. Ή νά 'ναι βύθισμα; (παύση). Έφερες τίποτα; ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Μισό καρβέλι. Κριθάρι. ΜΑΝΑ Ο γιατρός μού είπε—λίγο γάλα. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Να ψοφήσει. Το μούλικο. ΜΑΝΑ Στρατή! Είναι δικό σου. Τ' ορκίζουμαι. Δικό σου. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Λίγο με κόφτει. Τα σωστά παιδιά πρέπει νά 'χουν σωστό πατέρα. Όχι σακάτηδες. Σπέρνεις κάτι κ' ύστερις τ' αφήνεις να το δέρνουν όλοι οι άνεμοι. Λίγο με κόφτει. (p.180) ΜΑΝΑ Το δέρνουν οι θέρμες. Τα χείλια του σκάσανε. Είναι κατακόκκινα. Μίλα πιο σιγά. Θα το ξυπνήσεις. (Παύση). Πού είναι το ψωμί; ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ (Ανόρεχτα). Εδώ τό 'χω. (Το βγάζει με τ' αριστερό του χέρι μες απ' τ' αμπέχωνο και τ' ακουμπάει στο τραπέζι. Ύστερα βγάζει το σουγιά και τον ανοίγει. Η μάνα πλησιάζει, απλώνει το χέρι της). Κάτω τα κουλά σου. (Καρφώνει το σουγιά στο μισοκάρβελο. Αυτή μόλις προφταίνει να τραβήξει το χέρι της). ΜΑΝΑ Στρατή! ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Εγώ θα το μοιράσω. ΜΑΝΑ Εσύ, Στρατή! (Ο Στρατής το κόβει. Το πιο πολύ το κρατάει για τον εαυτό του. Η μάνα παίρνει τ' άλλο). Γιατί δαιμονίζεσαι; Δεν μπορώ να κατεβάσω μπουκιά. Το θέλω γι' αυτό εδώ—πού δε σού 'φταιξε τίποτα. Άμα το βρέξω ίσως του κάνει καλό. (Παύση). Νά 'χαμε λίγη ζάχαρη! ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Όλο κομπρέσες του βάζεις. Θα στερέψεις το πηγάδι. (Η μάνα απιθώνει το κομμάτι της στο κρεβάτι του μωρού και βγαίνει έξω. Σιωπή. Χτύπημα στην πόρτα. Σιωπή. Ξανά). Ποιος είναι πάλι, νυχτιάτικο! ΕΝΑΣ ΝΕΟΣ Η “Ελεύθερη Φωνή”. (Κρατάει εφημερίδες). ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Άστ—άστηνε στο τραπέζι. Ο ΝΕΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone (Λίγο ζεματισμένος). Καληνύχτα. (Ο Στρατής μασουλάει. Ύστερα σηκώνεται, παίρνει την εφημερίδα—πολύ μικρό σχήμα—και τη φέρνει κοντά στο λυχνάρι. Διαβάζει. Την τσαλακώνει και την πετάει χάμω. Κάνει δυο βήματα. Βλέπει το ψωμί στο κλινάρι του παιδιού—το παίρνει κι αρχίζει να το τρώει. Μπαίνει η μάνα μ' ένα πιάτο κ' ένα μικρό λαγήνι. Βλέπει πως λείπει το ψωμί της). ΜΑΝΑ Στρατή—γιατί; ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ (Αρπάζει από χάμω την εφημερίδα και τη χώνει στα μάτια της). Διάβασε. (p.181) ΜΑΝΑ Στρατή, το ξέρεις πως δεν βλέπω με τόσο λίγο φως. Τα μάτια μου θαμπώνουνε. Τα ψηφιά αρχίζουνε και περπατάνε. Ίσως νά 'ναι απ' τα πολλά μπαλώματα, ίσως να γεράσανε κιόλας τα μάτια μου. Τα ψηφιά περπατάνε σα μυρμήγκια. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Θά 'δινα και το άλλο μου χέρι, να περπατάγανε μονάχα τα ψηφιά. Εμένα τα μυρμήγκια περπατάνε απ' τις πατούσες ως το σβέρκο. Άκου: “Ο Ανδρόνικος—επικεφαλής”—και τα ρέστα. “Πέρασε απ' τα πυρά ομαδόν του εχθρού”—και τα λοιπά. “Η παρασημοφορία του εκφράζει την αγάπη του λαού μας…”. ΜΑΝΑ Και το ψωμί; ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Όταν είμασταν στους Λάκους—πρόσεχα αυτόν. Έπρεπε νά 'χω τα μάτια μου τέσσερα. Όταν οι σφαίρες σφυρίζουνε γύρω σου, πρέπει να προσέχεις τις σφαίρες. Τίποτις άλλο να μην έχεις κατά νου. Εγώ πρόσεχα τον Ανδρόνικο. Ατός μου και μονάχος μου, άφησα τη ριπή να μου πάρει το χέρι. Ο Ανδρόνικος θα κρεμάσει το χέρι μου στο στήθος του. Εγώ σακάτης. Ο Ανδρόνικος έγινε κιόλας λοχαγός. Εγώ σακάτης. Και να σκεφτείς τα χέρια, καταλαβαίνεις; Είχε δυο χέρια τότε και τά 'χει και τώρα, ακέρια, ολάκερα, ατόφια κ' εγώ… ΜΑΝΑ Ναι Στρατή. Μα το ψωμί—γιατί το τρως το ψωμί; Page 11 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΣΚΗΝΗ ΠΕΜΠΤΗ

(Δύο προβολείς πέφτουν στις άκρες της σκηνής. Στη μια ο καπετάν Νικόδημος που μιλάει στο τηλέφωνο. Στην άλλη ο ταγματάρχης επίσης στο τηλέφωνο). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Όχι, η παρουσία μου εδώ είναι απαραίτητη. Υποπτεύουμαι τον Ανδρόνικο. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Ο Ανδρόνικος πολέμησε καλά. Συ ο ίδιος τού 'δωσες το παράσημο. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Με διατάξανε και τό 'δωσα. Δεν τού 'χω εμπιστοσύνη. (p.182) ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Κ' είναι λόγος αυτός ν' αρνιέσαι να πας στην αποστολή που σε στέλνουμε; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δεν αρνιέμαι. Ζητώ ν' αναβληθεί. Θέλω να ξεκαθαρίσω αυτή την υπόθεση με τον Ανδρόνικο. Δε θα μ' ένοιαζε αν είταν μια ατομική περίπτωση. Παρατηρώ όμως πως έχει κακή επίδραση και στους άλλους μαχητές. Τι προτιμάς; Να μας χαλάσει το λόχο ή να πάω να τινάξω την αποθήκη στο Μεγάλο Χωριό; Την αποθήκη την τινάζει όποιος νά 'ναι. Τον Ανδρόνικο όμως μόνον εγώ τον έχω παρα‐κολουθήσει από κοντά, μόνον εγώ τον ξέρω, άρα μόνον εγώ μπορώ να σώσω το λόχο. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Ώστε λοιπόν ζητάς να πάει άλλος κι όχι αναβολή. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Μίλησα γι' αναβολή για να μην σου περάσει η ιδέα πως φοβάμαι. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Βλακείες. Σε ξέρω. Έχεις πάει σε άλλες αποστολές πιο επικίνδυνες. (Παύση). Λοιπόν ας είναι. Γεια. Θα στείλω άλλον. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Αν μπορούσε ν' αναβληθεί θα σε παρακαλούσα νά 'στελνες εμένα. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Όχι. Θα στείλω άλλον. Page 12 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Όπως διατάζεις. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΕΚΤΗ

(Νύχτα. Ύπαιθρο. Μπαίνει η Αντιγόνη απ' τα δεξιά. Φοράει πολύ λεπτή μάσκα με τα χαρακτηριστικά της. Κοιτάει γύρω της. Απ' τ' αριστερά μπαίνει ο Νικόδημος). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Έπρεπε να κοιμάσαι. Την αυγή ξεκινάμε. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Δε θ' αργήσω. (p.183) ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Καληνύχτα. (Πέρα μακριά, μια πράσινη φωτοβολίδα. Ύστερα μια κίτρινη). Κοίτα. Συνθηματικές. (Πάλι κίτρινη). Ο Ανδρόνικος δεν είναι αυτός κει κάτω; (Δείχνει διαγώνια, στο βάθος της σκηνής). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Δεν πρόφτασα να δω. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Είμαι σίγουρος. Τι γυρεύει εδώ τέτοιαν ώρα; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Τι γυρεύουμε εμείς; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Άλλο εμείς. Αυτός είναι Γερμανός. Μπορεί να περιμένει κάνα σύνθημα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Να το κάνει τι; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δεν ξέρω. Πάντως ένα είναι σίγουρο. Περιμένει εσένανε. Έτσι; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Έτσι. Page 13 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Μην το αρνηθείς αυτό όταν έρθει η ώρα να δώσεις γραφτή την απολογία σου. Προς το παρόν μου χρειάζεται μια πληροφορία. Σου χρειάζεται και σένα. Τον αγαπάς; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ναι. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Ξέρεις τι άνθρωπος είναι; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ξέρω. Μ' αγαπάει. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Αμφιβάλλω. Η πληροφορία που μου χρειάζεται—αυτή είναι ίσα ίσα. Θέλω να ξέρω αν μπορεί ν' αγαπήσει. (Παύση). Είναι κάτι—στο πρόσωπο, στα χέρια του—κάτι που δε μ' αρέσει. Σα να φοράει μάσκα. Αν θέλεις—μπορείς να δεις τι κρύβεται από κάτω. Πήγαινε και μίλησέ του. Προσπάθησε να σου ανοίξει την καρδιά του. Όπως νομίζεις. Πέστου και ψέματα ακόμα. Υποκρίσου. (p.184) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Μα— ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Τον ρώτησες ποτέ γιατί πολεμάει; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ναι. Γι' αυτό που πολεμάμε και μεις. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Όχι αυτό. Τον ρώτησες ποτέ αν πολεμάει για τους άλλους; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και για ποιον θα πολεμούσε; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Για τον εαυτό του. Τον ρώτησες αν σ' αγαπάει—για σένα; Page 14 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όχι. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πήγαινε λοιπόν να τον ρωτήσεις. (Πάει και κρύβεται πίσω από 'να δέντρο. Η Αντιγόνη προχωράει, κάνει να γυρίσει πίσω, ξαναπροχωράει. Φωνάζει σιγά). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ανδρόνικε! Ανδρόνικε! ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Φοράει κι αυτός μάσκα). Έλεγα πια πως δε θά 'ρθεις. Συμβαίνει τίποτα; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Α, όχι, τίποτα. (Με ψεύτικη ευθυμία). Καθόμαστε εδώ; Είναι όμορφα. (Κάθουνται κοντά στο δέντρο που κρύφτηκε ο Νικόδημος. Παύση). Η τελευταία μας νύχτα. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Δηλαδή; Απ' αύριο δε θα μ' αγαπάς; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Αύριο μπορεί να σκοτωθούμε. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Κάθε ώρα μπορεί. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ποτέ δεν είταν σαν αύριο. (Παύση). Τι σκέφτεσαι; (p.185) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ανοησίες. Μου πέρασε απ' το νου— ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ναι; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Είπα: Αν είταν να σκοτωθεί ένας απ' τους δυο μας στη μάχη αύριο ποιος θά 'θελα να ζήσει; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Λοιπόν; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Κάνοντας να τη φιλήσει). Μα εσύ φυσικά. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Απομακρύνοντάς τον ελαφρά). Κοίτα. Ένα πεφτάστερο. Εμείς εδώ, λέμε πως αν προφτάσεις και πεις μιαν ευχή, γίνεται. Τό 'χετε και σεις στη Λειψία; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τό 'χαμε. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ναι. Σήμερα δε μας μένει καιρός για παραμύθια. Ας πούμε όμως πως μας μένει. Τούτη η μισή μας νύχτα. Τι θα ευχόσουνα; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Το ξέρεις. Γιατί κάνεις πως δεν το ξέρεις; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θά 'θελες να μιλάγαμε; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Και τι κάνουμε λοιπόν τόσην ώρα; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Να μιλάγαμε σαν άνθρωποι που είναι να σκοτωθούνε μόλις φέξει. Ανδρόνικε, θέλεις να γδυθούμε; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τό 'λεγα εγώ πως το ξέρεις. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Να βγάλουμε και τις μάσκες μας. Page 16 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τι ιδέα. Δεν έχω μάσκα. (p.186) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Έχεις. Σα να τις αλλάζεις μάλιστα κάθε τόσο. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Και βέβαια αλλάζω. Με δέχτηκαν απλό μαχητή κ' έφτασα να γίνω λοχαγός. Αλλάζω. Γίνουμαι όλο και πιο χρήσιμος στον αγώνα, όλο και πιο — ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όχι λόγια. Βγάλε τη μάσκα σου, Ανδρόνικε. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μα δεν έχω μάσκα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Εγώ έχω. Νά, πρώτη. (Βγάζει τη μάσκα της). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τα μάτια σου σκοτείνιασαν. Σα να φοβάσαι. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πολύ. Κάθε φορά που ξαναρχίζει το ντουφέκι. Φοβάμαι μην καεί το πρόσωπό μου. Φοβάμαι και σένα. Δε σε ξέρω. Άφησέ με να σε γνωρίσω, Ανδρόνικε. (Του βγάζει τη μάσκα). Δε μ' αγαπάς. Έτσι δεν είναι; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Δεν ξέρω. Σε θέλω. Για τίποτα δεν είμαι σίγουρος. (Παύση). Γυρεύω ένα καινούριο σπίτι. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ο πόλεμος τά 'χει γκρεμίσει όλα. Μόνο στην Ελβετία ίσως—(Ζωηρά). Θά 'θελες να φύγουμε μαζί; Εδώ θα σκοτωθούμε. Αργά ή γρήγορα κάποια σφαίρα θα βρεθεί και για μας. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Δεν ξέρω. Ένα σπίτι θέλει και μια καλή επίπλωση. Η επίπλωση είναι ο κόσμος όπως θέλουμε να τον φτιάξουμε. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Για σένα όλ' αυτά; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Για ποιον άλλον; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και οι άλλοι; (p.187) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ποιοι άλλοι; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Αυτοί που πολεμάς μαζί τους δίπλα-δίπλα. Εγώ. Οι στρατιώτες σου. Κκάθε μέρα παίζεις το κεφάλι σου μαζί με τους άλλους. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Οι άλλοι τυχαίνει να θέλουν αυτό που θέλω κ' εγώ. Είμαι μ' αυτούς επειδή το θέλουν. Μα τη ζωή μου τη ρισκάρω για μένα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Λοιπόν, ούτε και μένα μ' αγαπάς. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Αγαπάω το φιλί σου. (Κάνει να την αγκαλιάσει). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Είναι αργά. Το χάραμα έχουμε μάχη. Δε μας μένει καιρός. Ποτέ δεν είχαμε καιρό. Βδομάδες ολόκληρες περπατάμε, κοιμόμαστε με τις αρβύλες, μιλάμε ανάμεσα σε δυο ριπές πολυβόλου. Θέ μου ας είχαμε λίγο καιρό. Θα πέταγα το δίκωχο στο ποτάμι, θα πέταγα τα ρούχα πίσω απ' τις καλαμιές και θά 'πεφτα στο νερό. Νά 'μουνα μονάχη μες στο ποτάμι—μονάχη μες στον ήλιο—μονάχη μου—μονάχη μου! (Σηκώνεται και φεύγει τρέχοντας). ΣΚΗΝΗ ΕΒΔΟΜΗ

(Γωνιά δυο τοίχων. Ένα παράθυρο, μια πόρτα. Φως φεγγαριού απ' το παράθυρο. Ένα κλινάρι. Ο Νικόδημος κοιμάται. Ένα τραπέζι μ' ένα κερί. Το ρολόι της Page 18 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone εκκλησιάς χτυπάει τρεις φορές. Ο Νικόδημος ξυπνάει. Γυρίζει απ' τ' άλλο πλευρό. Σηκώνεται. Ανάβει μ' ένα σπίρτο το κερί. Φυσάει το δάχτυλό του. Όλη η σκηνή, κάτι ανάμεσα σε πραγματικότητα και εφιάλτη). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Τι νά 'ναι αυτό που λέμε πόνο; Η φλόγα μού 'καψε το δάχτυλο. Η φλόγα καίει το κερί. Όμως, εγώ πονάω. Εγκέφαλος. (Παύση). Τάχα, αυτό που λέμε μυαλό, είναι κείνο που θέλω ή κείνο που πρέπει; Πώς είναι δυνατό να μην κάνει άλλη δουλειά παρά να μου στολίζει κείνο που θέλω—να μου το δείχνει λογικό, σύμφωνο με την αλήθεια του καιρού μου—σύμφωνο με το συμφέρο του λαού; Πότε θα μάθουμε επιτέλους τι νόημα έχουν όλα αυτά; Τι νόημα έχει να πασχίζεις βγάζοντας μια μια τις φλούδες του κρεμμυδιού; Όσες φορές προχώρησα ως το τέλος, δ (p.188) ε βρήκα τίποτα. Μόνο σαν τύχει και βιαστείς και μπηχτούν τα νύχια σου στη σάρκα του—μπορεί να δακρύσεις. (Παύση). Ώστε; Μείνε καλύτερα στις επιφάνειες. Στις διαπιστώσεις. Σε δυο ώρες θα φέξει. Να, επιτέλους, κάτι σίγουρο. Ως τα τώρα ο ήλιος δε μας γέλασε ποτέ. Σε δυο ώρες ο Ανδρόνικος θά 'χει πεθάνει. Ως τα τώρα τα πτώματα είταν πάντοτε σίγουρα. (Παύση). Σε δυο ώρες θα πω το πυρ. Παλμικές δονήσεις στις χορδές του λαρυγγιού μου. Ο ήχος στ' αυτιά των μαχητών μας. Το νευρικό τους κέντρο. Ανακλαστικό γνωστό απ' τα πριν. Θα λυγίσουν οι δείχτες των δεξιών χεριών. Μια δύναμη πατάει τη σκανδάλη. Από κει και πέρα ζήτημα ευθυβολίας ντουφεκιού—ζήτημα τροχιάς της σφαίρας—ζήτημα διατρητικής ικανότητας. Χωρίς κανένα γιατί, φτάνεις στο πτώμα του Ανδρόνικου. Πεντακάθαρο. Σαν καθρέφτης. (Παίρνει έναν καθρέφτη και κοιτάζεται). Είμαι μέρες αξούριστος. Μες απ' τα ρουθούνια μου ξεπετάγονται μαύρες τρίχες. Κάτω απ' τα μάτια μου αρχίζει το πρώτο γεροντόπαχο. Γιατί δεν με κοιτάς κατάματα; Μένει ακόμα τίποτα; Και τι με νοιάζει εμένα πώς θα νιώθει ο Ανδρόνικος; Μήπως μπορώ να γίνω δυο κομμάτια; Κανείς δεν έγινε ως τα τώρα δυο κομμάτια. Κι αν ακόμα βουτήξεις το χέρι σου μέσα σε μια κοιλιά που την άνοιξε το θραύσμα της οβίδας, δε θα πονέσεις. Η σάρκα μας είναι κακός αγωγός του ξένου πόνου. Λοιπόν; Τι σκοτίζεσαι; (Παύση). Κι αν όλα αυτά δεν είναι παρά μια δικαιολογία; Αν λέω πως δεν μπορώ να γίνω δυο κομμάτια μόνο και μόνο επειδή δεν το θέλω—επειδή δεν μπορώ να υποφέρω—επειδή πασχίζω ν' αμυνθώ; (Βγάζει το πιστόλι του). Γιατί λόγου χάρη να μην εκτελέσω το χέρι μου; Ναι. Πες πως το χέρι σου είναι ο Ανδρόνικος. Έτσι—βάλτο όρθιο —να περιμένει το πυρ. Πάσχισε τώρα να σκεφτείς. Πάσχισε να νιώσεις. Δεν ξεχωρίζεις τίποτα; Το τρεμούλιασμα στη ράχη; Μήπως σηκώθηκε βοριάς; Είναι καλοκαίρι. Κι αυτός ο κόμπος π' ανεβαίνει στο λαιμό σου; Είναι που διστάζεις να τραβήξεις; Είναι που φοβάται το χέρι σου; Πάσχισε λοιπόν. Πάσχισε. Νιώσε. (Πυροβολάει. Μπαίνει τρέχοντας ο Κλέαρχος, έτοιμος να τραβήξει το πιστόλι του απ' τη θήκη).

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ (Ρίχνοντας μια ματιά γύρω του). Καπετάνιο, σα νά 'πεσε σφαίρα. Ματώθηκες! ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ (Δένοντας το χέρι του μ' ένα μαντήλι). Το καθάριζα και πήρε φωτιά. Με γραντζούνισε στο μεγάλο δάχτυλο. Δεν είναι τίποτα. Ξεκουμπίδια, είπα. (p.189) ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Όπως ορίζεις, καπετάνιο. (Βγαίνει). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Λοιπόν; Άλλο ένα κούφιο κρεμμύδι. Κι ούτε που δάκρυσα. (Παύση. Το ρολόι χτυπάει τέσσερις φορές. Μπαίνει ο Κλέαρχος). ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Καπετάνιο, με το συμπάθειο δηλαδή. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Τι τρέχει πάλι; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Εδώ που τα λέμε, δεν κατάλαβα καλά. Απ' ό,τι ξέρω, τις διαθήκες τις κάνουν όσοι έχουν ν' αφήσουν κάτι τις. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Διαθήκες; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ναίσκε. Έτσι μου μήνυσαν. Ο Ανδρόνικος λέει, θέλει να σε δει. Να σου πει τη διαθήκη του. Αν ρωτάς την κουτή μου γνώμη—λέω πως θά 'ναι κάποια πονηριά. Μα πάλι—που ξέρεις καμιά βολά. Είπα το λοιπόν να σου το πω, να κανονίσεις όπως νομίζεις. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πες τους να τον φέρουν. Δεμένον. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Έγινε καπετάνιο. (Βγαίνει). Page 20 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Το χέρι μου πονάει. Σα να μη νιώθω καλά. Και σε μια ώρα θα πρέπει νά 'μαι στητός, νά 'ναι δυνατή κι ατράνταχτη η φωνή μου—ν' ακουστεί το πυρ σα μια σφυριά. (Παύση. Μπαίνει ο Ανδρόνικος με τα χέρια δεμένα πιστάγκωνα. Τον συνοδεύουν δυο φρουροί που βγαίνουν μ' ένα νόημα του Νικόδημου). Ακούω. Ή μήπως θέλεις χαρτί; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όχι. Δεν είναι διαθήκη. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Με γέλασες. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όπως το πάρεις. Ήρθα να σου κάνω μια ερώτηση. Είναι το μόνο που έχω να σου αφήσω. (Παύση). Μα—πριν απ' αυτό, θά 'θελα να ξαναγινότανε η δίκη μου. (p.190) ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Ποτέ. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ναι. Το ξέρω. Η απόφαση είναι από κείνες που δεν παίρνουνται πίσω. Τό 'χω δεχτεί. Σου μιλάει ένας νεκρός. Όμως, κάτι μένει ακόμα. Κάτι θέλω ακόμα να ξεδιαλύνω. Ίσως να θέλεις και συ—κάτι να ξεδιαλύνεις— ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Τίποτα. Είμαι σίγουρος για όλα. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θέλω να ξαναγίνει η δίκη μου, τώρα που μπορώ και μιλάω για τον εαυτό μου όπως θα μιλούσα για έναν τρίτο. Διάβασε το κατηγορητήριο. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Εγκατέλειψες το μέτωπο μπροστά στον εχθρό. Είσαι ένοχος εσχάτης προδοσίας. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όλοι οι λόχοι υποχώρησαν. Page 21 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πήραν διαταγή από μένα. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μού 'χες στείλει την ίδια διαταγή. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πώς το ξέρεις; Ο αγγελιοφόρος σκοτώθηκε στο δρόμο. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ακριβώς. Υπάκουσα στη διαταγή σου. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δεν την πήρες ποτέ. Ώστε, ουσιαστικά, παράκουσες έναν άγραφο νόμο. Οι μαχητές μας πολεμάνε ως τη στερνή ανάσα. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Χωρίς λόγο; Δεν εγκατέλειψα τη θέση μου. Υποχώρησα κανονικά. (Παύση). Έλα στην ουσία, Νικόδημε. Δεν μπορεί να ζήτησες το θάνατό μου επειδή ο αγγελιοφόρος σκοτώθηκε στο δρόμο. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πες πως δεν τον είχα στείλει. Πες πως η διαταγή για σένα ειδικά, είταν να πολεμήσεις εκεί, ως τον τελευταίο σου άντρα. (p.191) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Έλα στην ουσία. Γιατί ζήτησες να πεθάνω; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δεν είμουνα μόνο εγώ. Είταν κι άλλοι τρεις ανταρτοδίκες. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Αυτοί σε πιστεύουν. Έλα στην ουσία. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Είσαι ατομιστής. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Και ποιος δεν είναι; Page 22 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πολλοί. Ή τουλάχιστο δεν το λένε. Δεν το λένε γιατι πιστεύουν πως δεν είναι. Εσύ το είπες: “Θέλω ένα σπίτι. Μια επίπλωση. Ρισκάρω το κεφάλι μου για μένα”. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μας άκουσες. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Ναι. (Παύση). Σκέφτεσαι την Αντιγόνη; Είπε πολύ χειρότερα από σένα, αυτό δε σκέφτεσαι; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ίσως. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Την έβαλα εγώ να σου τα πει. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ο μόνος τρόπος να κάνεις τον άλλον να βγάλει τη μάσκα του είναι να υποκριθείς πως βγάζεις τη δική σου. (Παύση). Ας είναι. Τι σε πειράζει που ρισκάρω το κεφάλι μου για μένα; Πολέμησα καλά, πήρα και παράσημο κι αστέρια. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Κείνος που βλέπει τον αγώνα μας σαν έπιπλο, που τον θέλει για το χουζούρι του—μπορεί να παραπετάξει τον αγώνα σαν έπιπλο. Μπορεί να παραπετάξει τον αγώνα όταν δει πως οι σούστες του δεν είναι τόσο μαλακές όσο τις θέλει. Ένας τέτοιος κυνηγός επίπλων δεν έχει τίποτα που να τον δένει με το λαό. Αν δεν τον πρόδωσε ακόμα—μπορεί να τον προδώσει από στιγμή σε στιγμή. Αν δε θέλουμε να παίζουμε με τις λέξεις είναι κιόλας ένας προδότης. (p.192) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Έστω. Καταδίκασέ με σαν ατομιστή. Μη με λες προδότη. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Γιατί σκοτίζεσαι; Λέγοντάς σε προδότη, αποφεύγω τις εξηγήσεις σε κείνους που ξεχωρίζουν μόνο το άσπρο και το μαύρο. Γιατί να τα ψιλοκοσκινίζουμε; Θα μπορούσες να μου δώσεις το λόγο σου πως θα Page 23 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone μείνεις για πάντα πιστός στον αγώνα; Μπορείς νά 'σαι σίγουρος για τούτο μόνο: Πως δε θα πάψει ποτέ ο αγώνας νά 'ναι για σένα το έπιπλο που γυρεύεις; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όχι. Δεν είμαι για τίποτα σίγουρος. (Παύση). Φαίνεται πως έχεις δίκιο. Χρειάζεται απόλυτη σιγουριά για να ξέρεις πού πατάς. Το μόνο σίγουρο είναι η πίστη. Και το πτώμα. (Παύση). Αλήθεια. Γιατί σκοπεύεις να μ' αφήσεις άταφο; Γιατί να τιμωρηθεί με θάνατο όποιος τολμήσει να με θάψει; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Θέλω να δοκιμάσω την πίστη των ανθρώπων μας. (Παύση). Θέλω νά 'μαι σίγουρος πως το πίστεψαν ότι είσαι προδότης. Ότι δεν έχουν τύψεις, δηλαδή αμφιβολίες. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Σωστά. Και συ ακόμα, διστάζεις. Δε θά 'ρθεις στην εκτέλεση. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Ποιος—ποιος σου τό 'πε αυτό; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Δείχνοντας με το δεξί του χέρι σα να μην είταν ποτέ του δεμένος). Αυτοτραυματίστηκες. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Έξω κάθαρμα. Προδότη. Κλέαρχε! Κλέαρχε! ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ (Μπαίνει ορμητικά). Διαταγές καπετάνιο. (Στέκεται προσοχή. Ο Ανδρόνικος προχωράει προς την πόρτα. Στέκεται δίπλα στον Κλέαρχο). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πέτα τον έξω. Με τις κλωτσιές. Με τη λόγχη. Μ' ό,τι έχεις. (Ο Κλέαρχος εξακολουθεί να στέκει προσοχή). Λοιπόν; Γιατί δε φεύγει; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone (Πάντα προσοχή). Κλωτσάω καπετάνιο. Κλωτσάω σαν ξεκαπίστρωτο μουλάρι, μά τους θεούς και τ' αστέρια, κλωτσάω. Ιδρωκοπάω (p.193) κλωτσώντας. Είναι τος όμως πολύ κρύος, παγωμένος, καπετάνιο. Βάζω στοίχημα πως οι αρβύλες μου πονάνε πιο πολύ απ' τα ψαχνά του. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Τι άλλο θέλει και δε φεύγει. Ρώτα τον τι άλλο θέλει; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ο καπετάνιος ρωτάει τι άλλο θέλεις και δε φεύγεις; Απάντα, Γιούδα. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Κάνε να δω την Αντιγόνη. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Είναι αργά. Σ' ένα τέταρτο θα φέξει. Δεν προφταίνουμε να της στείλουμε μήνυμα. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Για τελευταία χάρη. Σ' ένα τέταρτο πεθαίνω. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Ας έρθει. (Παύση. Μπαίνει η Αντιγόνη). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Πες της για την εκτέλεση. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Καθάριζα το πιστόλι μου, πληγώθηκα. Δεν είναι τίποτα σοβαρό, όμως, σα να μη νιώθω καλά. Αντιγόνη, σου παραχωρώ την τιμή να πεις εσύ το πυρ. Σου αξίζει. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Εγώ; Τον Ανδρόνικο; (Σα να βλέπει για πρώτη φορά τον Ανδρόνικο): Εσένα! Ποτέ. Δεν πιστεύω πως είναι προδότης. Ό,τι άλλο, όχι προδότης. Αρνούμαι. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Κοίταξε να ζήσεις. Πρόσεξε. Πρόσεξε πολύ. Θέλω να ξέρω πως θα ζήσεις. Θέλω να ξέρω πως δε θα χαθούν τα δέντρα που κοιτάξαμε μαζί, το ψωμί που περιμέναμε μαζί, οι σφαίρες που μετρήσαμε μαζί. Κ' ύστερα, σκέψου, αν δε θά 'σαι συ, θά 'ναι κάποιος άλλος. Δε γίνεται αλλιώς. Το ξέρεις. (Σχεδόν ερωτικά): Πες μου πως θά 'ρθεις. Θυμάσαι που μου τό 'πες: Πρώτη εγώ θα σε σκοτώσω αν μάθω πως είσαι προδότης. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Μα δεν πιστεύω πως είσαι. (p.194) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θά 'ναι πιο εύκολο, για μένα. Πες μου πως θά 'ρθεις—νάν' η φωνή σου που θ' ακούσω τελευταία. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θά 'ρθω, Ανδρόνικε. (Ο Κλέαρχος τον παίρνει απ' το μπράτσο και βγαίνουν). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Ανδρόνικε! ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Ξαναμπαίνει). Ναι; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Την ερώτηση. Δε μου είπες την ερώτηση. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τι σημασία έχει. Σε πέντε λεφτά πεθαίνω. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Εγώ θα ζήσω. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όταν πια το πήρα απόφαση, όταν δέχτηκα πως δε γίνεται να ξεφύγω, αναρωτήθηκα τότε αν οι λέξεις έχουν νόημα. Ήρθα να μου απαντήσεις. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ (Σχεδόν με αγωνία). Λοιπόν; Page 26 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Καλή ζωή, Νικόδημε. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Καλό βόλι. (Ο Ανδρόνικος βγαίνει. Ο Νικόδημος, κοιτάζοντας την Αντιγόνη, μόνος του): Νά 'μουνα τουλάχιστο ερωτευμένος μαζί της, ίσως όλ' αυτά νά 'χαν κάποιο νόημα. Χεροπιαστό. Αν ήθελα τουλάχιστο να κοιμηθώ μαζί της, θά 'σφιγγα ένα κορμί. (Παύση). Μη σκέφτεσαι. Δεν μπορεί λοιπόν ούτε δυο λεφτά να μείνει σβηστό αυτό το κερί που ψαχουλεύει όλες τις γωνιές, που ψάχνει πίσω απ' τα ντουλάπια, κάτω απ' τα κρεβάτια, για νά 'βρει ένα περσινό ξεροκόμματο, ένα σκισμένο χαρτί, ένα μουχλιασμένο αποτσίγαρο, ούτε δυο λεφτά λοιπόν; (Παύση). Χεροπιαστό; Μήπως το καλό των άλλων δεν είναι χεροπιαστό; Μια ώρα ύπνο παραπάνω το πρωί, τρεις μπουκιές παραπάνω ψωμί, ένα φιλί το βράδυ πιο ξέγνιαστο, δε θα τα δεις όλ' αυτά; Δε θά 'χεις κάτι προσφέρει και συ για να γίνουν όλ' αυτά; Δε θά 'χεις και συ το μερτικό σου—αλλά τότε, τι διαφέρω λοιπόν απ' τον Ανδρόνικο; (Απότομα στην Αντιγόνη): Τι διαφέρω λοιπόν απ' τον Ανδρόνικο; (p.195) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ο Ανδρόνικος τυχαίνει να βρίσκεται μαζί με τους άλλους γιατι αυτό τον συμφέρει. Εσύ πασχίζεις να πλησιάσεις τους άλλους γιατι αυτό συμφέρει στους άλλους. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Τι περιμένεις λοιπόν. Τράβα να ξυπνήσεις το εκτελεστικό απόσπασμα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όπως διατάζεις, Α ν δ ρ ό ν ι κ ε. (Βγαίνει. Παύση. Οι πρώτες αχτίδες του ήλιου φωτίζουν το δωμάτιο. Ο Νικόδημος σβήνει το κερί και πέφτει στο κλινάρι του). ΣΚΗΝΗ ΟΓΔΟΗ

(Άδεια σκηνή μ' αχνό φωτισμό. Μπαίνει η Αντιγόνη απ' τα δεξιά. Απ' τ' αριστερά, γυναίκες). ΓΥΝΑΙΚΕΣ Τον δικό μου τον σκοτώσαν Γερμανοί. Έμεινα μονάχη μ' έναν κλειστό σουγιά. Ο δικός μου πέθανε σ' ένα κελί. Έμεινα μονάχη με τις δαχτυλιές του στο τραπέζι. Γυρίζαμε στις κάμαρες, μ' ένα γέλιο αντρικό κάπου καταχωνιασμένο, σαν τα παλιά νομίσματα που δεν τα παίρνει πια ο Page 27 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone μπακάλης. Εύκολα γνωρίζεσαι με μια γυναίκα που πασχίζει ν' ανοίξει το σουγιά—με μια γυναίκα, που δε σκουπίζει το τραπέζι να μη χαθούν οι δαχτυλιές του.—Και λίγο-λίγο, ακουμπή-σαμε το χέρι στον ώμο που ακουμπούσε στο δικό μας χέρι. Και λίγο-λίγο, ξεχαστήκαν τ' αρσενικά ονόματα. Δεν ξανάπαμε πια: Ο δικός μου. Λέγαμε: Το χώμα μας. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Λίγο χώμα θέλω να του δώσω. Λίγη ζεστασιά μέσα στο χώμα και μέσα στις καρδιές μας. ΓΥΝΑΙΚΕΣ Πρόσεξε μη μείνεις ολομόναχη. Μένοντας μόνη, πεθαίνεις. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ελάτε μαζί μου λοιπόν. Ελάτε να τον θάψουμε, μην τον φάνε τα τσακάλια. ΓΥΝΑΙΚΕΣ Ο Νικόδημος διάταξε να μείνει άταφος. Ο Νικόδημος πολεμάει τους Γερμανούς. Οι Γερμανοί σκοτώσανε τον άντρα μου. Ο δικός μου πέθανε (p.196) σ' ένα κελί. Είμαι με το μέρος του Νικόδημου. Ό,τι λέει, σωστά ειπωμένο. (Σβήνουν τα φώτα. Ένας προβολέας πέφτει στο μέρος που στεκόντουσαν οι γυναίκες κι όπου τώρα είναι ένας άντρας στο κρεβάτι του. Η Αντιγόνη τον κλωτσάει και τον σκουντάει). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ξύπνα! Ο ΑΝΤΡΑΣ Ε; Πώς; Τι τρέχει; Συναγερμός; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ναι. Δηλαδή όχι. Οι Γερμανοί δεν επιτεθήκανε ακόμα. Ο ΑΝΤΡΑΣ Ε, λοιπόν; Άσε με να κοιμηθώ. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ο Ανδρόνικος μένει άταφος. Page 28 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Ο ΑΝΤΡΑΣ Καλά κάνει. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Δεν είναι σωστό. Δεν είταν προδότης. Για το δίκιο δεν πολεμάμε; Για την αλήθεια δεν σκοτωνόμαστε; Ο ΑΝΤΡΑΣ Και πού το ξέρεις—πώς τολμάς και το λες πως δεν είταν; Αφού τον καταδίκασε τ' ανταρτοδικείο, αφού εκτελέστηκε—αφού εσύ, μωρή, εσύ δεν είπες το πυρ; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Με παρακάλεσε. Όμως, προδότης δεν είταν. Ό,τι άλλο θέλεις, προδότης όμως όχι. Να πάμε να τον θάψουμε. Να του ρίξουμε μια χούφτα χώμα— έτσι—όχι για κείνονε που δεν τον νοιάζει πια—για μας—για να το δείξουμε στους άλλους—στον εαυτό μας πρώτα, πως καταλαβαίνουμε, βλέπουμε. Ο ΑΝΤΡΑΣ Ου, με παρασκότισες! Παράτα με ήσυχο να κοιμηθώ μια στάλα. Έχε χάρη που βαριέμαι τώρα με τη νύστα που έχω, αλλιώς θα πήγαινα γραμμή στον Νικόδημο. Όποιος φροντίζει για προδότες, όποιος τους μιλάει, είναι κι ατός του προδότης. (Γυρίζει απ' τ' άλλο πλευρό κι ο προβολέας σβήνει. Αμέσως ύστερα φωτίζει μιαν άλλη μεριά της σκηνής όπου κοιμάται μια γυναίκα. Η Αντιγόνη την πλησιάζει και την σκουντάει). (p.197) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ξύπνα! Η ΓΥΝΑΙΚΑ Τι συμβαίνει; Βάλαν φωτιά στο σπίτι; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ναι…Δηλαδή όχι…εγώ είμαι, η Αντιγόνη. Η ΓΥΝΑΙΚΑ (Τρίβοντας τα μάτια της). Α, εσύ, η νοσοκόμα, η γραμματιζούμενη. Λοιπόν; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Page 29 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Ο Ανδρόνικος μένει άταφος. Όπου νά 'ναι θα κατέβουν τα τσακάλια να τον φάνε. Σκέφτηκα, είναι κρίμα απ' το Θεό. Η ΓΥΝΑΙΚΑ Ποιο Θεό; Εσύ δε μας τό 'πες πως δεν υπάρχει Θεός; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θέλω να πω δεν είναι σωστό. Τον εκτελέσανε με την κατηγορία πως είταν προδότης, ενώ δεν είταν και λοιπόν θέλω να με βοηθήσεις να πάμε να τον θάψουμε. Η ΓΥΝΑΙΚΑ Μπα; Να σε βοηθήσω, ε; Τώρα με θυμήθηκες; Τόσα χρόνια μήτε που καταδεχόσουνα να μιλήσεις μαζί μας με μας τις παρακατιανές, εσύ βλέπεις έκανες στην πόλη. Τέλειωσες και το γυμνάσιο, πού να καταδεχτείς να μας πεις μια κουβέντα. Μόνο κείνα που σου λέγανε να μας πεις, εκείνα μας έλεγες, μας έκανες πάντα τη δασκάλα…Μα, για στάσου. Και τι σε κόφτει εσένα αν μένει άταφος ο Ανδρόνικος; Κι ο δικός μου ο Φώτης μήπως βρέθηκε κανείς να τον θάψει; Λένε πως οι Γερμανοί τον κάνανε σαπούνι. Α, σα να μου φαίνεται πως είχε δίκιο η Μαριώ όταν μού 'λεγε πως τά 'χες με τον Αντρόνικο. Γι' αυτό σε κόφτει τόσο πολύ και σκίζεσαι, ε; Τώρα τον θυμήθηκες; Ε, μά την πίστη μου, αυτό είναι απ' τ' άγραφα. Τον σκοτώνεις καλά καλά, λες το πυρ και τώρα σου καπνίζει να τον θάψεις και θες να βάλεις και μένα σε μπελάδες. Παράτα με. Όπως στρώσεις θα κοιμηθείς. Και το καλό που σου θέλω, παράτα τα όλ' αυτά και τράβα να κοιμηθείς, έστω κ' έτσι πού 'στρωσες. Άλλο απ' τον ύπνο δεν μας έμεινε τίποτα πια. (Γυρίζει απ' τ' άλλο πλευρό κι ο προβολέας σβήνει. Αμέσως ύστερα φωτίζει τη μέση της σκηνής. Η Αντιγόνη μόνη της). (p.198) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Λοιπόν, δε μένει άλλο παρά να προχωρήσω. Δεν έχει νόημα τώρα πια να κοντοστέκουμαι και να μιλάω κ' η φωνή μου ν' αντηχεί σα να λέει στα δέντρα: “Θα σας το πω αργότερα”. Τώρα πια που το ξέρω πως ποτέ δε θά 'ναι τόσο φουντωμένη η πασχαλιά, τώρα πια που το ξέρω πως φεύγω χωρίς ποτέ αργότερα. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΕΝΑΤΗ

(Κελί φυλακής. Και οι τρεις τοίχοι κ' η σκεπή. Στο βάθος παράθυρο με κάγκελα. Οι τελευταίες αχτίδες του ήλιου πέφτουν πλάγια στον αριστερό τοίχο όπου είναι κ' η πόρτα. Κάτω απ' το παράθυρο, λίγα άχερα. Η Αντιγόνη κάθεται κει με τα μαλλιά λυτά, χυμένα στην πλάτη. Μπαίνει ο Κλέαρχος με μια φέτα ψωμί κ' ένα πιάτο).

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Σού 'φερα να μασήξεις. (Τ' απιθώνει χάμω). Δεν έχεις όρεξη ε; πού νά 'χεις. Ποτέ μου δεν το πολυχώνεψα—τι τους πιάνει και ταΐζουνε ανθρώπους πού 'ναι να πεθάνουν σε μια νύχτα. Φαίνεται όμως πως εφτούνο είναι το πρέπο. (Παύση). Σαν το καλοσκεφτείς όλοι το ίδιο είμαστε. Εσύ ξέρεις στα σίγουρα την ώρα και τον τόπο. Κάτι είναι κι αυτό. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ίσως. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ίσως, μπορεί, μάλλον, περίπου. Περπατάμε ολοχρονίς κι όλο χάνουμε το μονοπάτι. (Παύση). Δε μου λες αλήθεια γιατί τό 'κανες; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ποιο; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Τι σου μπήκε λέω κ' έθαψες τον Αντρόνικο; Έτσι κι αλλιώς είταν πεθαμένος. Ένας πεθαμένος δε σκοτίζεται ποιος θα τον φάει. Άμα ρώταγες εμένα θα διάλεγα τα όρνια. Ξεμπερδεύεις μιαν ώρα αρχήτερα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Τι σημασία έχει; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ξέρω κ' εγώ; Μπορεί να βαρέθηκα κει απόξω να σε φυλάω. Νά 'μαι πάντα όξω από κάπου και κάτι να φυλάω. (Παύση). Τι σ' έκοφτε το κουφάρι; (p.199) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ήθελα να πω μιαν αλήθεια. Ίσως αυτό να σημαίνει λέω την αλήθεια: Θάβω ένα κουφάρι. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Τα πολλά σου γράμματα σου κάναν το κεφάλι κεραμιδαριό. Δε λέω. Τα λόγια μας είναι λειψά. Δε μας φτάνουν να μιλήσουμε. Άκουσα πως κάπου κει πέρα απ' τις θάλασσες έχουν, λέει, ξέχωρη λέξη για τη νιογέννητη κατσίκα, ξέχωρη σαν είναι ενός χρόνου, ξέχωρη σαν μείνει ένα χρόνο χωρίς να γκαστρωθεί, ξέχωρη—. Όμως οι λέξεις είναι άλλο πράμα. Τώρα Page 31 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone εσύ βάλθηκες να μιλήσεις με κουφάρια. Με γεια σου, με χαρά σου δηλαδή και να με συμπαθάς που χώνω τη μύτη μου—όμως, είναι πολύς ο κόπος, πώς το θέλεις. Να σκάβεις λάκους, να παραχώνεις, να φτυαρίζεις—και καλά ο ιδρώτας, που θα χύσεις. Αμ πού να βρεθούν και τα κουφάρια; Εγώ να πούμε, θά 'πρεπε να βρω μιαν ολόκληρη χώρα πεθαμένους για να πω αυτά που είπα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Μια φορά μιλάς έτσι. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ναίσκε. Αυτούνο είναι πού 'θελα να πω. Όλα τα κόπια δε θα τα λογάριαζα, αν είτανε να μίλαγα κατά πώς μου γουστάριζε. Όμως εδώ λες ένα λόγο κ' ύστερις χρατς! κόβεις το λαιμό σου. Είναι δουλειές αυτές; (Παύση). Βάζω στοίχημα πως το μετάνιωσες. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πριν αρχίσω ακόμα τό 'χα μετανιώσει. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Τότε γιατί τό 'κανες; Βρε μπας και σού 'στριψε; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Πολύ απλά). Όχι. Σού 'τυχε ποτέ να πιεις κρασί; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ναι—πριν απ' τον πόλεμο. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και θύμωσες ποτέ σου πάνω στο κρασί; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Έκανα και καυγά. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Για προσπάθησε να θυμηθείς όταν σήκωσες το χέρι σου— (p.200) ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Ε, καλά. Έτσι γίνεται πάντα. Είχα σηκώσει το ποτήρι μου κ' έλεγα να το φέρω ήσυχα ήσυχα στο στόμα να πιω τις τελευταίες γουλιές και τότες, σαν κάτι να μ' άδραξε απ' το χέρι κ' είδα το ποτήρι να χτυπάει στα μούτρα του Νικόλα. Κ' είταν φίλος μου ο Νικόλας. Φάγαμε ψωμί και πολεμήσαμε μαζί. Τον σκοτώσαν οι Γερμανοί την τελευταία μέρα του πολέμου. Παλικάρι απ' τα λίγα ο Νικόλας. (Παύση). Είσουνα μεθυσμένη; Αυτό θες να πεις; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Κάτι τέτοιο. Κάτι μ' είχε αδράξει και μένα. Κάτι που δεν ήξερα πώς αλλιώς να το πω και το είπα αλήθεια. Μ' άδραξε και το πίστευα. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Πάλι μου τά 'μπλεξες. Άμανε το πίστευες τότες τό 'θελες. Δε σ' άδραξε κανένας. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Αυτό θα πει πιστεύω. Νιώθω πως κάτι μ' αδράχνει και δε μπορώ να ξεφύγω. (Παύση). Κουφόβραση απόψε. (Βγάζει το αμπέχωνό της και μένει μ' ένα σκισμένο πουκάμισο). ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ (Αφού την κοιτάξει για λίγο). Κρίμα στα νιάτα σου. (Παύση). Αν ρωτάς εμένα, θά 'κανα μιαν αυτοκριτική. Στην ανάγκη θα ξέθαβα και κείνο το κουφάρι. Όπως και να το κάνεις είναι για λύπηση να πάει χαμένο τέτοιο κορμί μεσοκαλόκαιρο. Να δεις που ο Νικόδημος θα σε σχωρέσει αν πεις πως έφταιξες. Δεν τό 'πε καθαρά, μα είμαι σίγουρος. (Παύση). Να πήγαινες τουλάχιστο από σφαίρα γερμανού. Χαλάλι. (Κάθεται κοντά της). Άκου. Αν θες να φύγεις— ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Να πάω πού; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Να ζήσεις. Λες να μην έχεις να πας πουθενά; Έχεις ολόκληρο χινόπωρο μπροστά σου, χειμώνα—ως τον Απρίλη στα σίγουρα. (Την πλησιάζει και της πιάνει το χέρι). Διάβασα τις προάλλες μια φυλλάδα. Στη Βαστίλια λέει, είχανε μια πριγκιπέσσα κ' είταν να της πάρουν το κεφάλι. Τους είπε τότε πως είναι γκαστρωμένη. Την άφησαν κ' έζησε. Μπορείς να ζήσεις ως τον Απρίλη. Ως τότε μπορούν να γίνουν χίλια δυο. Ως τότες θα δεις τον

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Alexandrou's Antigone ήλιο τρακόσες τόσες φορές, θα φας ψωμί, θα πιεις νερό, θ' ανασαίνεις, θα κοιμάσαι μαζί μου— (p.201) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Με σιχασιά). Μαζί σου! ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Θέλω το καλό σου. Έτσι κι αλλιώς θα πεθάνεις. Κ' εγώ και συ κι όλοι μας. Γιατί βιάζεσαι να πεθάνεις; Θα γίνουμε σκουλήκια και κοπριά. Αλλά γιατί από τώρα; Χαράμισες τη ζωή σου και δεν έμαθες. Δεν έζησες. Δε σού 'μεινε καιρός. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Μαζί σου! ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Το βλέπω. Το αίμα σου χτυπάει χοχλακιστό στα μινίγγια, τα μάτια σου λάμπουνε. Τα χείλη σου είναι υγρά. Με θέλεις. (Η Αντιγόνη τον φτύνει). Και το σάλιο σου ακόμα. Είν' ένα σάλιο αραιό σαν αυτό που βγάζει η γλώσσα όταν τη δαγκώνεις πάνω στο φιλί. (Παύση). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Με σένα; Πρέπει να γίνει με σένα; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Μ' όποιον νά 'ναι. Μα ποιον άλλον θα βρεις; Δεν υπάρχει άλλος. Θέλουμε πάντα εκείνον που υπάρχει. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και—και θα μ' αφήσουν να γεννήσω; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ναι. Θα ζήσεις μήνες πολλούς. Θα ζήσουμε μαζί. Θα σου φέρω φρέσκο άχερο. Λυχνάρι για τις νύχτες. Θ' αφήνω μισάνοιχτη την πόρτα ν' ανασαίνεις μια στάλα δροσιά. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και θα περιμένουν; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Page 34 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Ναι. Θα μας περιμένουν. Το λέει η φυλλάδα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και το παιδί; Τι θα γίνει το παιδί; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Θα ζήσει. Τα παιδιά δεν ξέρουν. (Την αγκαλιάζει). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όχι. Όχι. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Όχι ακόμα; Τι περιμένεις; Μια νύχτα μας μένει. (p.202) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Εντελώς ψύχραιμη). Άδικα μπαίνεις στον κόπο. Και δίχως σου θα γίνω μητέρα. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ (Πετιέται απάνω). Σκύλα. Και μου τριβέλιζες το μυαλό μ' αλήθειες και φούμαρα! Με ποιον μωρή; Ποιανού είναι το μούλικο; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Του Ανδρόνικου. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Μαζί μάς προδίνατε λοιπόν. Σκρόφα! Και σου άνοιξα τα μάτια. Φτου! Αμ θα το πω του Νικόδημου. Αυτός δεν τα σηκώνει κάτι τέτοια. Δεν πάει να το λέει η φυλλάδα. Εσύ θα πεθάνεις. Αύριο κιόλας ο λαός θα σε λιώσει κάτω απ' τη φτέρνα του. Σαν οχιά. Σαν πουλημένη πουτάνα όλων των καταχτητώνε. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΔΕΚΑΤΗ

(Στο δωμάτιο του Νικόδημου. Ο Νικόδημος κι ο Ταγματάρχης). ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Αρχίζω πια να μην καταλαβαίνω. Η υπόθεση του Ανδρόνικου τέλειωσε, η Αντιγόνη εκτελέστηκε κι όμως αρνιέσαι και πάλι να πας στην επικίνδυνη αποστολή που σε στέλνω. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Page 35 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Αν είταν επικίνδυνη θα πήγαινα. Αυτό που μου προτείνεις όμως είναι μάταιο. Θα σκοτωθούμε όλοι. Κ' εγώ κ' οι δώδεκα φαντάροι που μου δίνεις. Στο εξήγησα και πάνω στο χάρτη. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Άλλοτε δεν κοίταζες τους χάρτες. Έπαιρνες τ' αυτόματο, έβαζες στραβά το δίκωχο και ξεκίναγες. (Παύση). Μα δεν είδες λοιπόν τους φαντάρους, δεν τους είδες πώς κάθουνται σταυροπόδι, δυο-δυο, τρεις-τρεις και τα λένε καθαρίζοντας τα όπλα τους, περιμένοντας εσένα να ξεκινήσετε— ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δεν ξέρουν πού πάνε, γι' αυτό. “Δε θα γίνουμε ακροβάτες που αψηφάν το θάνατο. Η θυσία της ζωής μας έχει νόημα μόνο όταν συμφέρει στο σύνολο”. Ποιος τό 'πε αυτό; (p.203) ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Εγώ. Κ' επιμένω πως η αποστολή που σε στέλνω μπορεί να πετύχει. Και μας συμφέρει, έστω κι αν σκοτωθείτε όλοι σας. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Όλ' αυτά είναι προφάσεις. Πας να με βγάλεις απ' τη μέση. Όπου νά 'ναι θα γίνω ταγματάρχης. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Πώς το ξέρεις; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δική μου δουλειά. Πας να με φέρεις στο φιλότιμο για να σου αδειάζω τη γωνιά. Έχεις δίκιο. Είμαι καλύτερος από σένα. (Τραβάει κατά την πόρτα). ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Πού πας; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Να το πω στο λόχο. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ (Παίρνει το τηλέφωνο). Δε θα προφτάσεις. Θά 'χουν μάθει από μένα πως σ' έστειλα σ' αποστολή και δείλιασες.

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δειλός εγώ; Μα όλος ο λόχος ορκίζεται στ' όνομά μου, συ ο ίδιος τό 'πες. (Ακούγονται φωνές κάτω απ' το δωμάτιο αριστερά. Ένας προβολέας πέφτει σε πεντέξη φαντάρους που τραβάνε δεμένον πισθάγκωνα έναν άλλον φαντάρο, ντυμένον με διαφορετικό χακί. Ένας φαντάρος έρχεται από πίσω τους παράμερα. Είναι κ' ένας λοχίας. Ο Νικόδημος κι ο Ταγματάρχης κοιτάνε τη σκηνή απ' το παράθυρο). ΠΡΩΤΟΣ ΦΑΝΤΑΡΟΣ Να τον πάμε στον Ταγματάρχη. ΔΕΥΤΕΡΟΣ [ΦΑΝΤΑΡΟΣ] Τι τα θέμε τα λούσα; Αυτός είναι σας λέω. Λέγεται Στέλιος. Αυτός πρόδωσε τον πατέρα μου και τον σκότωσαν. Γιατί χασομεράμε; ΟΛΟΙ Δεν έχουμε καιρό για χάσιμο. Να τον καθαρίσουμε επί τόπου. Είναι προδότης. Τον ξέρω κ' εγώ. ΛΟΧΙΑΣ Όλα τα πάντα πρέπει να γίνουνται με τάξη. Ποιος θα τον σκοτώσει; (p.204) ΟΛΟΙ Εγώ! Εγώ! ΛΟΧΙΑΣ Τότε θα ρίξουμε κλήρο. (Βγάζει το δίκωχο). Ρίξτε ο καθένας κάτι δικό του μέσα. Και θα τραβήξει ο προδότης. ΤΡΙΤΟΣ Ναι, ναι, να τραβήξει τον κλήρο ο προδότης. ΛΟΧΙΑΣ (Στον προδότη). Γύρισε από κει να μη βλέπεις. (Ο προδότης γυρίζει. Στον φαντάρο που ερχόταν από πίσω και δεν έβγαλε λέξη ως τα τώρα). Ρίξε κάτι δικό σου δω μέσα. ΤΕΤΑΡΤΟΣ Εγώ—όχι—δε μπορώ— Page 37 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΔΕΥΤΕΡΟΣ Δε μπορεί να σκοτώσει έναν προδότη. Φοβάται τα αίματα. ΟΛΟΙ Φοβάται. (Γελάνε). ΤΕΤΑΡΤΟΣ Όχι—μα είναι αδελφός μου—δίδυμος αδελφός μου και— ΠΡΩΤΟΣ Αδελφός σου; Δηλαδή πας να τον γλυτώσεις—ώστε και συ— ΤΕΤΑΡΤΟΣ Όχι—το ξέρω πως είναι προδότης—εξ αιτίας του πέθανε κ' η ξαδέλφη μου —όμως—γιατί νά 'μαι εγώ—γιατί να μου πέσει εμένα ο κλήρος; ΤΡΙΤΟΣ Μωρ' για σταθείτε. Δείλιασε σας λέω, την τελευταία στιγμή δείλιασε, αλλιώς τι κουβαλήθηκε δω πέρα; Τι δίδυμος αδελφός του και πράσιν' άλογα. Οι δίδυμοι μοιάζουν· δε μοιάζουνε; ΠΡΩΤΟΣ Και βέβαια. Σαν δυο σταγόνες νερό. ΤΡΙΤΟΣ Κοιτάξτε αυτόν. Είναι ένα κεφάλι πιο ψηλός. Για να σε δω τι μάτια έχεις; Μαύρα. Εσύ; Γαλανά. Φτυστοί που να μην αβασκαθούνε! (Γελάνε). ΔΕΥΤΕΡΟΣ Και τα μαλλιά τους. Κοιτάτε. Σγουρά και καστανά—ολόιδια μ' αυτά τα μαύρα και ίσια. (Γελάνε). (p.205) ΛΟΧΙΑΣ Ας μη χασομεράμε. Αφού φοβάται και δε θέλει, τόσο το καλύτερο. Θά 'χει ο καθένας μας μια πιθανότητα παραπάνω. (Οι φαντάροι ρίχνουν στο δίκωχο κάτι δικό τους). ΠΡΟΔΟΤΗΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone (Πάντα με την πλάτη γυρισμένη στους φαντάρους). Τελειώνετε επί τέλους. Ναι. Είμαι ο Στέλιος. Όμως τελειώνετε πια. ΤΕΤΑΡΤΟΣ Όχι, δε φοβάμαι. Εγώ θα τον σκοτώσω. (Βγάζει το πιστόλι του). ΔΕΥΤΕΡΟΣ (Αρπάζοντάς του το πιστόλι). Τα όπλα είναι για τους άντρες. Δε μας κάνεις. ΤΕΤΑΡΤΟΣ (Βγάζοντας μαχαίρι). Με το μαχαίρι θα του τρυπήσω την καρδιά. ΠΡΩΤΟΣ Τα μαχαίρια είναι για κείνους πού 'χουν καρδιά. Εσύ είσαι δειλός. (Του το παίρνει). ΤΕΤΑΡΤΟΣ Με τα δόντια. Αφήστε με να του κόψω το λαρύγγι με τα δόντια. ΤΡΙΤΟΣ Οι δειλοί τά 'χουνε τα δόντια μόνο για να χτυπάνε απ' τον τρόμο. Δε σου χρειάζονται. (Του δίνει μια γροθιά στο στόμα και τον ρίχνει κάτω). ΛΟΧΙΑΣ Ε, συ, γύρνα από δω. (Ο προδότης γυρίζει). Τράβηξε. (Ο προδότης τραβάει ένα κλειδί). ΠΡΩΤΟΣ Το κλειδί μου! (Βγάζει το πιστόλι του και πυροβολάει τον προδότη. Ταυτόχρονα σβήνει το φως του προβολέα). ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ (Ξαναπαίρνοντας τ' ακουστικό). Προτιμάς να σου σπάσουν τα δόντια; (Μεγάλη παύση). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Πότε πρέπει να ξεκινήσω; ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Page 39 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Στις δώδεκα παρά τέταρτο. (p.206) ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Καλή ζωή, ταγματάρχα μου. ΤΑΓΜΑΤΑΡΧΗΣ Καλό βόλι, Νικόδημε. (Ο Νικόδημος κάνει να φύγει): Στάσου. Πάρε αυτόν τον φάκελο. Έχει μέσα ένα άγραφο χαρτί. Πες στους άντρες σου πως θα τ' ανοίξετε όταν έρθει η ώρα. Όσοι δεν ξέρουν, παίρνουν κουράγιο νομίζοντας πως προχωράνε μ' ενσφραγίστους διαταγάς. (Αυλαία) ΙΝΤΕΡΜΕΤΖΟ

(Ακούγεται από μακριά μια μουσική, όλο νοσταλγία και πίκρα. Σιγάσιγά, το θέμα παραλλάζει. Γίνεται πιο γρήγορο, πιο χαρούμενο. Πλησιάζει και ξεσπάει σ' ένα χορό. Ανοίγει η αυλαία. Είναι ένα λιόλουστο απομεσήμερο. Ακούγονται γέλια και φωνές. Ένα χωράφι με θημωνιές. Στο βάθος, αριστερά, ένα τετράτροχο κάρο. Μπαίνει ένας γέρος. Σταματάει στη μέση της σκηνής, βάζει την παλάμη του αντήλιο και κοιτάει τον ουρανό). Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ Τι μου καρφώθηκες κει χάμω; Άντε λέω. Ξεκουμπίδια. Τι με κοιτάς; Δεν είμαι ποιητής Να σε σηκώσω σαν γαβάθα Να σ' ονομάσω φέτα καρπουζιού Αστραφτερό ταψί Σκουφί του νου μου Και κλωτσοσκούφι του μεγάλου ανέμου. Με γαργαλάς και μπήγεσαι στα μάτια μου Μου καψαλάς το σβέρκο Γλυστράς στις κλειδαρότρυπες Και ξεκλειδώνεις τα βιβλία. Δίχως εσένα δε θα διάβαζε κανείς Page 40 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Και δε θα ξέραν τίποτις. Άμα δεν ξέραν τίποτις Όλα θα τά 'ξερα μονάχα εγώ. (Σκουπίζει τον ιδρώτα του). Σίχαμα συ της πλάσης. Τους έμαθες και πήραν όλοι αγέρα. Όταν με βλέπουν και περνώ Πεζός και μαχμουρλής (p.207) Στέκουν και χαχανίζουν. Γιατί γελάν; Είναι για γέλια Εκειός όπου κατέχει Ένα ζευγάρι μάτια Ένα βρακί κ' ένα κεφάλι Ένα τσερβέλο, το νιονιό του Ένα μυαλό και το καπέλο; Έγινα ρεντίκολο. Ό,τι κι αν πω το βρίσκουν γερασμένο. Και συ; Γιατί δεν τους το λες; Για δεν τους λες πως είμαι μέλι του βουνού Καρδιά του χόρτου Αγνό στοιχειό Ψυχή της πέτρας; Μόνο σε κάθε τους γιορτή Με βάζουν και τους λέω παραμύθια. Μου δίνουνε ρακί Να πω πολλά, να καβαλήσω Καλάμια και σκουπόξυλα Page 41 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Παράδοση κ' ελάφια Να στολιστώ σαν το παγώνι Και να σκουπίζουν οι νουρές μου Τις καβαλίνες απ' τους δρόμους. Άντε λοιπόν. Ξεκόλλα. Κατρακύλα. Σιχαίνουμαι το φως που σταματάει. Ντε, πάρ' τα πόδια σου μαγκούφη. Ήλιος που πάει να σταματήσει. Σ' ένα τηγάνι θα μας ψήσει. (Ακούγονται χάχανα κι ο γέρος κρύβεται πίσω από μια θημωνιά. Μπαίνουν απ' το βάθος τρέχοντας η Αντιγόνη κι ο Σταμάτης. Κυνηγιούνται. Η Αντιγόνη σκαρφαλώνει στο κάρο). ΣΤΑΜΑΤΗΣ Κατέβα. Πού σκαρφάλωσες κει πάνω; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Χτυπάει τη γροθιά της πάνω στην παλάμη). Δεν κατεβαίνω, δεν κατεβαίνω, δεν κατεβαίνω. ΣΤΑΜΑΤΗΣ Τι μύγα σε τσίμπησε; Τι φοβάσαι; (Αρχίζουν και μπαίνουν κοπέλες και νέοι μέσ' απ' τις θημωνιές. Κοιτάνε—κρυφομιλάν—κρυφογελάνε). (p.208) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θα με φιλήσεις. ΣΤΑΜΑΤΗΣ (Γονατίζει στο δεξί). Βασίλισσά μου και ζωή μου Θέλεις να γίνω σύννεφο Δροσιά σου, απάγκιο; Θέλεις να κάνω τρεις φορές Page 42 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Της γης το γύρο και ξανά Να βρω τι δίνουν στο νοτιά Για δώρο στην καλή τους Να μάθω πότε κλέβουνε Στη δύση το χαμόγελο Να βρω πώς λεν στις θάλασσες Το σ' αγαπώ και το πεθαίνω; (Σηκώνεται). Δε θες; Εσύ θα μετανιώσεις. (Κάνει να φύγει). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ε, στάσου. Πώς θα κατέβω από δω; ΣΤΑΜΑΤΗΣ Πηδώντας. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θα σπάσω κάνα πόδι. ΣΤΑΜΑΤΗΣ Τότε κάτσε. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θα σκοτεινιάσει και θα μείνω μοναχή Θα βγούνε φίδια, σερπετά, Αράχνες, γρύλοι και σκορπιοί Νυφίτσες, τυφλοπόντικοι Δαγκώνουν! ΣΤΑΜΑΤΗΣ Διάλεξε και πάρε. Θέλεις δάγκωμα της νύχτας Δίχως φιλί; Θα τό 'χεις. Page 43 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Θέλεις δικό μου φίλημα Στης θημωνιάς τον ίσκιο Και δάγκωμα τη νύχτα; (p.209) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Αχ ήλιε μου το βλέπεις. Δεν είναι τρόπος να διαλέξω. (Απλώνει τα χέρια της στον Σταμάτη. Τη βοηθάει να κατεβεί. Την αγκαλιάζει και φιλιούνται). ΟΙ ΚΟΠΕΛΕΣ ΚΑΙ ΟΙ ΝΕΟΙ Μπράβο, μπράβο. Έξοχα. (Χειροκροτήματα). ΜΙΑ ΚΟΠΕΛΑ Πότε θα παιχτεί ολόκληρο το έργο; Το βράδυ απόψε; ΕΝΑΣ ΝΕΟΣ Αν είναι σαν την πρόβα—βάλε με νου σου. Θά 'ναι υπέροχο. Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ (Βγαίνει φουριόζος). Τι τσαμπουνάτε κει; Τι λέτε; Αυτό δεν είναι θέατρο. Τους είδα και δεν παίζανε καθόλου. Πώς γίνεται λοιπόν Μια τόσον άτεχνη πλοκή; Πα στα σανίδια της σκηνής Πρέπει να λες τα σύκα σύκα Και νά 'ναι σύκα γινομένα. (Γελάνε). Τα βλέπετε λοιπόν; Αυτό θα πει να παίζεις. Ο θεατρίνος πρέπει να πηδάει

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Alexandrou's Antigone Να κάνει τούμπες Να τουρλώνει το νιονιό του Να δίνει κλώτσο να κυλάει Η κούτρα του στον κάμπο Να παίρνει και την γκλάβα του Και να τηνε ψειρίζει Να πέφτει η ψείρα κόσκινο Που να σου φεύγει το καφάσι. (Γελάνε). Καλά το καταλάβατε. Θέλει να ξέρεις τη ζωή Για να σταθεί στα πόδια ο μύθος. Θέλει να μείνεις μόνος σου Για νά 'σαι με το πλήθος. ΕΝΑΣ ΝΕΟΣ Δείξε μας εσύ τη σωστή σκηνοθεσία. Πώς έπρεπε να παιχτεί η σκηνή του Σταμάτη και της Αντιγόνης; Εμπρός. Εγώ θα κάνω το Σταμάτη. Η Άννα από δω, την Αντιγόνη. (p.210) Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ Εσύ είσαι ό,τι πρέπει. Η Άννα δε μου κάνει. Νά, αυτή η ξανθιά. Δεκαοχτώ χρονώ και κάτι. Ο ΝΕΟΣ Εγώ θέλω την Άννα. Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ Είμαι ή δεν είμαι σκηνοθέτης; ΟΛΟΙ (Χειροκροτώντας). Είσαι! Είσαι! Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Λοιπόν, σκασμός. Κρυφτείτε μέσα στ' άχερα. Όταν θα βγάλω το καπέλο Ξαναμπέστε. Εσείς οι δυο πιαστείτε χέρι‐χέρι Κι ακούτε μ' όρθια τ' αυτιά Ό,τι σας λέει το κείμενο. (Ο νέος κ' η ξανθιά έχουν προχωρήσει στο βάθος της σκηνής. Ο γέρος έρχεται από πίσω τους και τους υποβάλλει το ρόλο). Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Τι μ' έφερες εδώ; Νά 'μαστε μόνοι; Ο ΝΕΟΣ Εγώ; Καθόλου. Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Τότε; Να παίξουμε κρυφτούλι; Κυνηγητό κι αμπάριζα; Τι θέλεις; Άλλος! Άλλος! Πιάσε με ντε. Σου ξέφυγα. (Τρέχει κι ο νέος την κυνηγάει ανόρεχτα. Η ξανθιά σκαρφαλώνει στο κάρο. Ο γέρος βγάζει το καπέλο του). Ο ΝΕΟΣ Τι τρέλες είν' αυτές; Κατέβα κάτω. Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Τι λες. Φοβάμαι. Θες να με φιλήσεις. Ο ΝΕΟΣ Ποιος είπε τέτοιο πράμα; Σιγά. Θα μας ακούσουν. Page 46 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Αυτό είναι μπαμπεσιά. (p.211) Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Έτσι το λες; Το ξέρουν όλοι. Είσαι μπερμπάντης από κούνια. Η καρδιά σου κάνει τακ Σα να χτυπάει ψηλό τακούνι Το μυαλό σου κάνει τικ Σα ν' ανεμίζει ένα φουστάνι. Ο ΝΕΟΣ Α, είσαι μια ξεδιάντροπη. Κατέβα κάτω. Θα γενούμε Μπαίγνιο και χάχανο σκυλιών. Θα μας κρεμάσουν κουδουνάκια. Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Σε ξέρω γω. Μην κάνεις Πως είσαι θυμιατήρι και λιβάνι. Νά κοίτα, κοίτα τα μουστάκια σου. Έχουν ακόμα κοκκινάδια. Ο ΝΕΟΣ Είναι από βατόμουρα—(στο γέρο). Γιατί σταμάτησες; Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ Τα ψηλά νοήματα Θέλουν καιρό και σκάλα. Όλα καλά. Μα όπως πάμε Πώς θα την κάνω να πηδήξει Μέσα στα μπράτσα του Σταμάτη; Page 47 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Ο ΝΕΟΣ Και ποιος σου είπε πως θέλω να πηδήξει; Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ Το ξέρω ντε. Αυτού είναι ο κόμπος. Πρέπει να βρω μια πονηριά Ένα Θεό της μηχανής Μια μάκινα τ' Ολύμπου. Αυτό είναι. Μια βροχή. Μια μπόρα. Όταν θα κάνω μπρρ! Είναι που βρέχει. Η Αντιγόνη θα πηδήξει Και συ—για να μην πέσει Θ' απλώσεις τα ξερά σου. Γκέκε; Πάμε. (p.212) Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Να κοίτα τα μουστάκια σου Έχουν ακόμα κοκκινάδια. Ο ΝΕΟΣ Είναι από βατόμουρα Από ντομάτα σάλτσα Από κρασί καλοκαιριού Και κόκκινο πιπέρι— Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ Μπρρ! (Η ξανθιά κάνει να πηδήξει μα κείνη τη στιγμή ακούγονται αντιαεροπορικές σειρήνες. Όλοι κοιτάνε γύρω τους και τον ουρανό σα χαμένοι). ΜΙΑ ΚΟΠΕΛΑ Νάτα. Νάτα. Αεροπλάνα. Τρέξτε, θα μας δούνε. Page 48 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΕΝΑΣ ΝΕΟΣ Μη σας πιάνει πανικός. Στο ρέμα. Γρήγορα. (Σκορπάνε). Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Αντώνη, πού μ' αφήνεις; ΑΝΤΩΝΗΣ Το θέατρο τελείωσε. Πήδα όπως μπορείς. Η ΞΑΝΘΙΑ Άσε τ' αστεία κ' έλα να με βοηθήσεις. Θα σπάσω κάνα πόδι. ΑΝΤΩΝΗΣ (Τρέχει και τη βοηθάει να κατεβεί. Η ξανθιά πέφτει στην αγκαλιά του και φιλιούνται). Χμ. Δε φιλάς κι άσχημα. ΑΝΝΑ Αντώνη, τ' αεροπλάνα. (Φεύγουν όλοι τρέχοντας). Ο ΓΕΡΟΣ (μόνος). Μαγκούφη. Πήρες φόρα. Τραβάς και συ την κατρακύλα. Τώρα που θέλω τη φωτιά σου Λακάς και κρύβεσαι λαγός. Εμπρός λοιπόν! Βάλε και συ το κράνος. Σκότωσε και σούβλισε Φύτεψε τούβλα, λιάνισε καρφιά Ξαμόλησε τ' αλόγατα Βάλε τα μούτρα των ανθρώπων (p.213) Να κρεμαστούν ανάποδα Σαν τις σβησμένες λάμπες. Α, θά 'δινα το μάτι μου

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Alexandrou's Antigone Να σού 'βγαζα το μάτι. Ό,τι κι αν κάνεις πέφτει Η Αντιγόνη μες στα μπράτσα του Σταμάτη. (Αυλαία)

ΔΕΥΤΕΡΗ ΠΡΑΞΗ ΣΚΗΝΗ ΠΡΩΤΗ

(Το ίδιο σκηνικό με της πρώτης σκηνής της πρώτης πράξης. Ισχύουν κι όλα τ' άλλα σχετικά με τον χορό των γυναικών). ΧΟΡΟΣ Οι ερπύστριες των τανκς περάσαν μες απ' τις αυλές μας και μες στα τανκς είναι δικοί μας. Είναι ο γείτονας που κουβεντιάζαμε το βράδυ, είναι τ' αδέλφια μας μέσα στο τανκ. Τους πήραν και τους φόρεσαν το κράνος, ένα κράνος σταχτί πάνω στους ώμους. Μπαίνουν με τ' αυτόματα, κοιτάνε τους σοβάδες που πέφτουν απ' τους τοίχους, μας κοιτάνε μες στα μάτια—δε μας γνωρίζουν. Αδέρφι μου, τι σού 'καναν και ξέχασες; Τι σε πότισαν κ' έσβησαν εκείνα τα πρωινά που φτάναν απ' τη θάλασσα και μας δροσίζανε τα μάτια—πώς σε ξεγέλασαν με λίγα χαϊμαλιά, τι χάντρες σού 'ταξαν, τι λιλιά κι αστέρια και ξέχασες τις νύχτες μας. Κλείνουμε τις πόρτες, σφίγγουμε τα δόντια, γιατι ο κακός αγέρας μπαίνει από παντού, ο κακός αγέρας είναι μες στο σπίτι μας. Όταν είταν οι άλλοι, ήξερες πώς να φυλαχτείς. Άκουγες τις μπότες τους να ζυγώνουν μες στη νύχτα και γινόσουνα ένα με το χώμα, ένα με το ντουφέκι. Τ' αδέρφια μας όμως μιλάνε σαν και μας, περπατάνε σαν και μας. Οι άντρες μας φοβούνται να κοιμηθούν μέσα στο σπίτι. Πίσω από κάθε πόρτα είναι μια μπούκα ντουφεκιού, πίσω απ' το χαμόγελο—και το δικό μας, Θεέ μου, κι αυτό ακόμα—δεν το πιστεύουν πια. Ένας‐ένας, δυο-δυο, παίρνουν τον ανήφορο. Πώς να γνωρίζονται τάχα μέσα στο σκοτάδι; Τι σημάδια νά 'χουν και μπιστεύουνται στον άλλον την τελευταία τους ανάσα; Δε μας λένε. Βιάζουνται. Τι περιμένουν και δεν παίρνουνε και μας; Αν κατάλαβα καλά, δεν είναι τόσο δύσκολα σημάδια. Όποιος τραβάει τ' απάνου, είναι μαζί μας. Όποιος πεινάει, είναι μαζί μας. Τα πηγάδια μας στέρεψαν. (p.214) Τι περιμένουμε; Πίσω απ' τα έλατα, πίσω απ' τις πέτρες, οι άντρες μας έχουν ντουφέκια. Τι περιμένουμε; Ταμπουρωμένες πίσω απ' τις στάχτες των σπιτιών μας, τι περιμένουμε; ΣΚΗΝΗ ΔΕΥΤΕΡΗ

(Ένας προβολέας πέφτει σ' ένα γραφείο. Ο αστυνόμος, η μάνα). ΑΣΤΥΝΟΜΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Για την ψυχή της μάνας μου το κάνω. Ν' αγιάσουν τα κοκαλάκια της πέρα κείθες που βρίσκονται. ΜΑΝΑ Αχ, αν είταν κι ο δικός μου σαν και σένα. Αν είταν όλος ο κόσμος σαν και σένα. Την ευχή μου νά 'χεις. Κάθε βράδυ θα σ' ονοματίζω σαν θα προσπέφτω στην Αγία Ελεούσα. Χρόνια να κόβει ο Θεός απ' τον ανεπρόκοπο το γιο μου και να στα δίνει μέρες. (Ένας αστυφύλακας φέρνει τον Ανδρόνικο. Μάνα και γιος κοιτάζονται σιωπηλοί). ΑΣΤΥΝΟΜΟΣ Τι μου βουβάθηκες κει πέρα; Λέγε. Αυτά που υποσχέθηκες. Έχουμε και δουλειές. ΜΑΝΑ Γιε μου μη με κοιτάς έτσι. Για καλό σου ήρθα, Ανδρόνικε. Η ανάγκη μ' έφερε, με νιώθεις; Το ξέρεις το σπίτι μας, τι να στα λέω. Μα τώρα, νά— χτες πούλησα τη βέρα μου. Μας κόψαν το νερό. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Αύριο φεύγω, μάνα. Αν θες να με φιλήσεις— ΜΑΝΑ Φεύγεις; Κοίτα πώς αχάμνηνες, άμυαλο παιδί. Είκοσι μέρες στο κρατητήριο και τα μάτια σου βούλιαξαν, τα χέρια σου κιτρίνισαν. Δεν είν' για σένα η εξορία, γιόκα μου, δεν είν' για σένα, κάτι ξέρω και γω η μαύρη. Πήγε κι ο πατέρας σου κι έκανε χρόνους να γυρίσει. Μα κείνος, μάτια μου, είτανε θεριό, ναι να σε χαρώ, τά 'βγαζε πέρα με τρεις χωροφυλάκους. ΑΣΤΥΝΟΜΟΣ Πρόσεχε πώς μιλάς! ΜΑΝΑ Πέθανε, καλέ μου κύριε, πέθανε, αυτό του λέω. Γύρισε χτικιάρης απ' το ξερονήσι του και πέθανε, όμως αυτός δε θυμάται, είταν πολύ μικρός. (p.215) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θυμάμαι. Έβρεχε την ημέρα που τον θάψαμε. Κόλλησε το παπούτσι μου στη λάσπη και τ' άφησα εκεί. Με τράβαγες απ' το χέρι. Δε μ' άκουγες. ΜΑΝΑ Page 51 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Τι πας να κάνεις λοιπόν; Τι πας να κάνεις; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Πάω να βρω το παπούτσι μου. ΑΣΤΥΝΟΜΟΣ Να λείπουν τα συνθηματικά. Δε τα καταλαβαίνω εφτούνα αυτού τα παπούτσια. ΜΑΝΑ Μην τον συνερίζεσαι να χαρείς, μην του δίνεις σημασία. Όλο κάτι τέτοιες κουβέντες μου πετάει, έμαθε γράμματα βλέπεις. Έκοβα τη μπουκιά μου και του αγόραζα βιβλία και νά το φχαριστώ. Του μάθαινα τόσα χρόνια γράμματα και τώρα κάνει πως δεν ξέρει να βάλει μιαν υπογραφή. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Δεν είναι αυτό μάνα. Το ξέρεις. ΜΑΝΑ Δεν ξέρω τίποτις. Ξέρω πως δεν έχω μοίρα σε τούτον το ντουνιά, το πετσί μου κόλλησε στα κόκαλα, η νύχτα κόλλησε στα μάτια μου, είμαι στους τέσσερις δρόμους και δεν έχω πόρτα να χτυπήσω, ούτε να διακονέψω πια δε μου μένει κουράγιο, αυτό ξέρω. Έλεγες πως πάσχιζες για τους άλλους, αυτό δε μού 'λεγες τα βράδια όντας μου γύριζες φορτωμένος κούραση κι άδειες τσέπες; Για δεν πασχίζεις μια στάλα και για μένα; Δεν είμαι άλλος εγώ; Υπόγραψε—για χάρη μου—για τα γεράματά μου—ν' απαγκιάσω κ' εγώ, να ζεσταθώ και γω η έρμη— ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μάνα! ΜΑΝΑ Τι το πιάνεις αυτό το όνομα στο στόμα σου; Έχεις από καιρό ξεχάσει τι θα πει. Ποτέ δεν τό 'χες μάθει—γιε μου (τον αγκαλιάζει και του λέει κρυφά στ' αυτί). Μην ακούς κουτό παιδί—πώς πίστεψες πως τα λέω όλ' αυτά με την καρδιά μου. Είταν για να μ' αφήσουν να σε δω, να σου πω πως η Αντιγόνη έφτασε απάνω. Κουράγιο. Μα ναι, το ξέρω, είναι καλή κοπέλα. Θα σου στέλνω ρούχα, παξιμάδια, τσιγάρα. Εμείς έχουμε τα δάκρυα. Εσείς, σας ξέρω, κάνει καλό ένα τσιγάρο. (p.216) ΑΣΤΥΝΟΜΟΣ Page 52 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Τέλειωνε. ΜΑΝΑ (Πισωπατάει). Δε θες ν' ακούσεις, ε; Άσπλαχνε, άκαρδε, φίδι. Για δεν τον παίρνετε να μην τον βλέπω πια; Πάρτε τον, πάρτε τον να πάει σ' ένα νησί που να μην έχει ολοχρονίς νερό. (Σιγά). Μην πέσεις σε κανένα πηγάδι και χτυπήσεις γιόκα μου. Σ' ένα νησί που να μην έχει πράσινο δέντρο. (Σιγά). Μην κοιμηθείς στον ίσκιο της συκιάς και πάθεις τίποτα καλέ μου. Σ' ένα νησί που να μην φτάνουν μήτε τα γράμματά μας. (Σιγά). Μη μάθεις πως απόθανα και μου βαρυγκομήσεις αετέ μου. (Φωνάζοντας). Πάρτε τον λοιπόν. Πάρτε τον να μην τον βλέπω πια. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΤΡΙΤΗ

(Δύο τοίχοι δωματίου πολιτείας. Αριστερά πόρτα, στο βάθος παράθυρο και ντιβάνι, ένα τραπέζι με μια λάμπα πετρελαίου αναμένη. Η Μαρία γονατιστή δίπλα στο ντιβάνι νανουρίζει ένα παιδί. Το νανούρισμα είναι το ίδιο με κείνο της ανάλογης σκηνής της πρώτης πράξης. Παύση. Μπαίνει ο Στρατής βγάζει την καμπαρντίνα του, το καπέλο και τ' απιθώνει στο τραπέζι). ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Κοιμήθηκε; (Ψιθυριστά όλος ο διάλογος). ΜΑΡΙΑ Ναι, Στρατή. Σα να ησύχασε λιγάκι. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Έφερα λίγο γάλα σκόνη. Και δυο ασπιρίνες. ΜΑΡΙΑ Καίει. Τα χείλη του σκάσανε. Είναι άσκημα. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Κάνε λίγη υπομονή, Μαρία. ΜΑΡΙΑ Ως πότε; (Παύση). Νά 'μασταν τουλάχιστον απάνω. Εκεί έχεις ένα ντουφέκι. Δε μπορώ πια να περιμένω με σταυρωμένα χέρια. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Κ' εδώ πολεμάμε.

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΜΑΡΙΑ Ο Ανδρόνικος είναι απάνω. Δραπέτευσε απ' την εξορία και τώρα είναι συνταγματάρχης. Κάποτε δουλεύατε μαζί. Αν ήθελες— (p.217) ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Και το παιδί; Όλοι οι δικοί μου ντουφεκίστηκαν, είναι στις φυλακές, στην εξορία. Οι δικοί σου δε θέλουν να σε ξέρουν. ΜΑΡΙΑ Κάτι πρέπει να γίνει. Σκέψου. Άλλοτε σκεφτόσουνα. (Παύση). Δε μπορώ πια. Και τη νύχτα, γι' αυτό δε μπορώ και σου γυρίζω την πλάτη. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Σκέφτουμαι. Όλην ώρα αυτό σκέφτουμαι. Δε γίνεται. Είναι το παιδί. Κ' εδώ πολεμάμε. Καλά είμαστε και δω. Στη θέση μας. (Παύση. Απότομα). Γιατί δεν τό 'ριχνες τότε; Θά 'μασταν λεύτεροι τώρα. ΜΑΡΙΑ Μη φωνάζεις. Θα το ξυπνήσεις. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ (Ψιθυριστά). Τό 'χα πει από τότε. Δεν έπρεπε να ζήσει. ΜΑΡΙΑ Τό 'πες, Στρατή. (Παύση). Κοντανασαίνει. (Παύση). Στρατή! Φοβάμαι. Σα να μην είναι ύπνος αυτό. Είναι βύθισμα. Να τό 'βλεπε ένας γιατρός, ίσως να τού 'δινε τίποτα. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Με τι λεφτά; Με τι ταυτότητα; ΜΑΡΙΑ Αν πεις πως είναι πολύ βαριά, ίσως νά 'ρθει. Αν πας σ' άλλη γειτονιά μπορείς να δώσεις ψεύτικο όνομα. Τι με κοιτάς, πήγαινε σου λέω. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Και τέτοια ώρα νύχτα. (Ωστόσο φοράει το καπέλο, ρίχνει την καμπαρντίνα στους ώμους και βγαίνει. Παύση. Ακούγονται δυο πυροβολισμοί. Η Μαρία τρέχει στο παράθυρο. Τ' ανοίγει, κοιτάει έξω. Ύστερα πάει να κλείσει το Page 54 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone παραθυρόφυλλο, κοιτάει το παιδί, μένει για λίγο ασάλευτη και τελικά τ' αφήνει ανοιχτό. Πάει στο παιδί και το ξεσκεπάζει. Ύστερα του γυρίζει την πλάτη και κοιτάει άπλανα μπροστά της. Τα φώτα σβήνουν. Όταν ξανανάβουν, όλα είναι όπως πρώτα. Ακούγονται απ' τη σκάλα τα κουρασμένα βήματα του Στρατή. Η Μαρία κλείνει βιαστικά το παράθυρο. Σκεπάζει το παιδί. Μπαίνει ο Στρατής). ΜΑΡΙΑ Δε θά 'ρθει; (p.218) ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Είναι περιττό. Του είπα τα συμπτώματα, τους κόκκινους λεκέδες που έβγαλε στα μάγουλα. “Πνέει τα λοίσθια”, μου λέει, τι νά 'ρθω να κάνω; Είσαι και παράνομος, μου λέει, γιατί να βρω άδικα τον μπελά μου; Για να παρακολουθήσω πώς θα πεθάνει; “Αυτό μπορείς να το κάνεις και συ, μου λέει. Άμα δεις πως κοκκινίσανε τα μάτια του, σα να τά 'χει πνίξει το αίμα, τότε σημαίνει πως όπου νά 'ναι”—(Μην τολμώντας να κοιτάξει αυτός): Είναι κόκκινα τα μάτια του, Μαρία; Άνοιξέ του τα βλέφαρα. (Η Μαρία απλώνει το χέρι της στα μάτια του παιδιού. Την ίδια στιγμή ο άνεμος ανοίγει το παράθυρο). ΜΑΡΙΑ Είναι κόκκινα, Στρατή. Όμως, μια και τό 'πε ο γιατρός, σημαίνει πως δε γινότανε τίποτα ε; Σημαίνει πως έτσι κι αλλιώς— ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Μα—εσύ—εσύ, σα να χαίρεσαι! Κλείστο αυτό το παράθυρο λοιπόν! Τι τ' άνοιξες; ΜΑΡΙΑ Δεν τ' άνοιξα εγώ. Ο αέρας τ' άνοιξε, Στρατή. (Σηκώνεται βιαστική και το κλείνει). Τι—τι με κοιτάς έτσι; ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Εσύ το άνοιξες! ΜΑΡΙΑ Έτσι κι αλλιώς θα πέθαινε. Μόνος σου τό 'πες. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Δεν τό 'πα εγώ. Ο Φωκάς το είπε. Αυτός ο δήθεν φίλος μου, ο δήθεν γιατρός—και πού ξέρω αν όλ' αυτά δεν είτανε δικαιολογίες—πού ξέρω αν απλώς δε φοβήθηκε, αν δεν τά 'πε όλ' αυτά για να με ξεφορτωθεί. Όμως εσύ, εσύ γιατί το άνοιξες το παράθυρο; Γιατί κάνει τόσο κρύο εδώ μέσα; ΜΑΡΙΑ Τι σημασία έχει τώρα πια. Έτσι κι αλλιώς θα πέθαινε, και τώρα—απλώς— πέθανε. Πάψε πια να με κοιτάς έτσι! ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Το δολοφόνησες. Εσύ το δολοφόνησες. ΜΑΡΙΑ Μα—εσύ το θέλησες. Από μιας αρχής. Δεν έπρεπε να ζήσει. Τό 'πες από τότε που— (p.219) ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Μην πας να μου ρίξεις την ευθύνη. Τα χέρια μου είναι καθαρά. Έλεγα να μη ζήσει, όταν δεν υπήρχε. Είναι άλλο πράμα. Αυτό που έκανες, είναι φόνος. ΜΑΡΙΑ Όταν σου είπα να πας για το γιατρό, νόμισα πως συνεννοηθήκαμε. ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Α, όχι, όχι! Ούτε για μια στιγμή δεν μου πέρασε απ' το νου πως—Εγώ, ίσα-ίσα βγήκα έξω, ρισκάροντας τη ζωή μου—Το ξέρεις πολύ καλά, τέτοια ώρα που βγήκα, εννιά στις δέκα, μπορούσαν να με σταματάγανε, να μου ζητάγανε ταυτότητα. Ποιος ο λόγος να βγω αν είχαμε συνεννοηθεί; ΜΑΡΙΑ Ε, ας συνεννοηθούμε τώρα λοιπόν. Στρατή, είμαστε λεύτεροι πια, θα φύγουμε. Δεν τ' άντεχα να περιμένουμε τον θάνατο με σταυρωμένα χέρια. Έπρεπε να προχωρήσουμε, όπως και τότε, στη Σμύρνη, έπρεπε να προχωρήσουν οι δικοί μου και πνίξανε τ' αδελφάκι μου που είτανε μωρό, μην τους προδώσει με τα κλάματά του. Έλα, Στρατή, πες μου πως έκανα καλά. Πες μου πως είταν κι αυτό μια θυσία στη μάχη. Το ξέρεις πως αν δε φύγουμε μεθαύριο με την τελευταία αποστολή, δε θα φύγουμε ποτέ. Αν δε φύγουμε, αργά ή γρήγορα θα σε πιάσουν και τότε, απ' τη στιγμή που θα σου βάλουνε τις χειροπέδες, θ' ανήκεις πια στους νεκρούς. Τον άκουσες τον Αργύρη, δεν τον άκουσες; “Σκεφτείτε το καλά κι αποφασίστε. Ή Page 56 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone μεθαύριο ή ποτέ”, έτσι μας είπε. Έλα, Στρατή, χαμογέλασέ μου. (Τον πλησιάζει ικετεύοντας). ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Μη μ' αγγίζεις. Πας να μου φορτώσεις τη μισή ευθύνη. Εγώ, δεν το θέλησα ποτέ. ΜΑΡΙΑ Όχι, το δέχουμαι, όλη η ευθύνη δική μου. Όλο το αίμα του πάνω μου. Μόνο να φύγουμε, και ξέρεις; Νιώθω πως μου πέρασαν όλα. Τώρα θα μπορούμε να πλαγιάζουμε κοντά-κοντά, όπως μας άρεσε πάντα, θα μπορούμε τώρα πια. (Ο Στρατής τη σπρώχνει και μ' ένα χαστούκι τη ρίχνει στο ντιβάνι, δίπλα στο παιδί). ΣΤΡΑΤΗΣ Πόρνη! Γι' αυτό λοιπόν. Για να μπορείς να κοιμηθείς μαζί μου. (Πέφτει πάνω της σηκώνοντας το χέρι να την ξαναχτυπήσει μα την αγκαλιάζει και την φιλάει παράφορα). Τόσο πολύ μ' αγαπάς; (p.220) ΜΑΡΙΑ Χαμογέλασες. Είμαστε λεύτεροι. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΤΕΤΑΡΤΗ

(Τοίχος χωριάτικου σπιτιού. Ο Νικόδημος και ο Ανδρόνικος. Τραπέζι. Δύο καρέκλες). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Επιμένω για τ' άλογα. Χωρίς άλογα— ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μας χρειάζονται αλλού, καπετάν Νικόδημε. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δεν είναι πολύς καιρός που ήρθες απ' την εξορία. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Λοιπόν; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Κ' είμαι δεκαπέντε χρόνια μεγαλύτερός σου. Μ' όλο πού 'σαι Ταγματάρχης και μπορείς να διατάζεις, στο λέω παστρικά πως χωρίς άλογα— ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Δε διατάζω γιατι μου δόθηκε η ευκαιρία. Διατάζω γιατι δε γίνεται αλλιώς. Έπρεπε να τό 'χεις καταλάβει. (Παύση). Πίνεις ένα ρακί; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Όχι. (Παύση). Είναι τίποτ' άλλο; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τίποτα. Ή μάλλον, φρόντισα να μετατεθεί η Αντιγόνη στο τάγμα μου. Πολέμησες μαζί της, τι ιδέα έχεις; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Αν είταν όλοι σαν κι αυτήν, ίσως νά 'χαμε κιόλας νικήσει. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τόσο πολύ; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Ναι. Όλοι πολεμάνε. Να πω πως δε φοβούνται, δε λέω τίποτα. Να πω πως δε λογαριάζουν τη ζωή τους, το βλέπεις κάθε στιγμή. Όμως, με την Αντιγόνη είναι κάτι άλλο, νιώθεις κάτι αλλιώτικο. (p.221) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Σαν τι; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Νομίζω, αυτό το κάτι παραπάνω είναι να δίνεις και τη ζωή σου χωρίς να παίρνεις τίποτα, ούτε την υστεροφημία. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ευχαριστώ. Είμασταν ξέρεις—στην Αθήνα είταν να παντρευτούμε. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΠΕΜΠΤΗ

(Φεγγαρόφωτο. Ο Ανδρόνικος κ' η Αντιγόνη καθισμένοι κάτω από 'να δέντρο. Ο Ανδρόνικος κρατάει μια μάσκα στο χέρι). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Ανδρόνικε; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ναι; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Είναι κάτι—πώς γίνεται, Ανδρόνικε, νά 'ναι κάτι τελευταίο και την ίδια στιγμή νά 'ναι πρώτο; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Αν απ' το τελευταίο αρχίζει κάτι άλλο— ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όχι, μη μου μιλάς σαν τα βιβλία. Εγώ, έλεγα για τούτη τη νύχτα—για τη φωνή μου π' ακούς—για την ανάσα σου—γι' αυτή την τελευταία νύχτα μας. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τελευταία; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Η αυριανή μάχη θά 'ναι άνιση. Μπορεί— ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Κάθε ώρα μπορεί. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ναι. Μα τώρα είναι τόσο κοντά—κ' είσαι τόσο κοντά μου. Και πάλι, πώς γίνεται, Ανδρόνικε; Σα να μην είναι αυτό το τέλος. Πάω να δω το κορμί μου γαζωμένο με μια ριπή και δεν τα καταφέρνω. Τόσοι και τόσοι πέσαν γύρω μου κι όμως δεν τα καταφέρνω. Έχω πάρει απ' τα (p.222) ματωμένα τους αμπέχωνα ένα γράμμα που δεν πρόφτασαν να στείλουν και τό 'στειλα. Έχω πάρει ένα ξεροκόμματο απ' τον γυλιό τους και τό 'φαγα. (Παύση). Δεν έχεις τίποτα να πεις; Κάποτε λέγαμε να παντρευτούμε. Θυμάσαι; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Το λέμε και τώρα, Αντιγόνη. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Page 59 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Λες να ταιριάζουμε στ' αλήθεια; Γιατί δεν απαντάς; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Μόνος). Θέλει ν' απαντήσω. Θέλει να της πω ψέματα. Θέλει ν' ακούσει αυτό που περιμένει. Θα βάλω τη μάσκα μου ξέροντας τι πρόσωπο λαχταράει να δει. Εύκολο και φτηνό. Καθαρή περίπτωση πλαστοπροσωπίας. Άρα δεν την αγαπάω. Ποιος τό 'πε; Για να φτάνω ως την πλαστοπροσωπία, σημαίνει πως είμαι ικανός να θυσιάσω και τ' αληθινό μου πρόσωπο ακόμα για να κερδίσω την αγάπη της. Την αγαπάω λοιπόν περισσότερο απ' τον εαυτό μου. Παρ' όλ' αυτά, υποφέρω. Ω, ας είταν δυνατό να μ' αγαπήσει όπως είμαι! ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Γιατί δεν απαντάς; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Αν ταιριάζουμε! Μέτρησε ό,τι θέλεις. Το μπόι μας, τα χρόνια μας, τα μάτια και τον τρόπο που ζούμε. Μέτρησε— ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Άσε τις ρητορίες. Έλα να μιλήσουμε σα νά 'ταν να πεθάνουμε αύριο. Σα να μιλάμε για τελευταία φορά. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Σύμφωνοι. Λοιπόν; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Νά. Έχω συνεχώς την εντύπωση πως από τότες που ξανασυναντηθήκαμε —θέλω να πω, ποτέ σου δεν άνοιξες εντελώς τα μάτια, ίσως γιατι έχεις όλη την ώρα τα φρύδια σου σμιχτά, κι όλο μού φαίνεται πως κάτι μας χωρίζει—κάτι που δεν μπορώ να το πιάσω κι όμως κάπου θα πρέπει να υπάρχει ανάμεσά μας—και λοιπόν, σκέφτηκα να σου ζητήσω—βγάλε τη μάσκα σου, Ανδρόνικε, απόψε, που είναι ίσως η τελευταία μας φορά— θέλω να μάθω. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Μισογελώντας). Γιατί όχι. Ορίστε. Κοίταξε. (p.223) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Τα μάτια σου είναι σκοτεινά. Είναι θυμωμένα. Περήφανα.

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Είναι. Αγωνίζουμαι για κάτι σωστό και δίκαιο. Είμαι περήφανος για τον αγώνα που κάνω. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Μόνη). Πάλι με τρομάζει. Τούτη η περηφάνεια. Σχεδόν μίσος, ή όχι; Σα να χαμογελάει. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Μόνος). Την τρόμαξα. Πρέπει να χαμογελάσω. (Βάζει τη μάσκα). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Για τον αγώνα παίζεις το κεφάλι σου κάθε νύχτα; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Για τι άλλο; Για να μη χάσουμε κι άλλα παιδιά σαν του Στρατή και της Μαρίας. Για να χορτάσουν ψωμί όσοι είναι σήμερα εξορία, όσοι δεν τ' αντέχουν να τους κλωτσάν σε κάθε σταυροδρόμι, να τους ζητάν ταυτότητα κάθε Κυριακή. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και συ; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μου φτάνει να δω τους άλλους ξέγνοιαστους. Να τους ακούσω να μιλάν όπως μιλάμε σήμερα στις παράνομες συγκεντρώσεις, στα κρατητήρια, στο βουνό, να μπορέσουν επιτέλους να το πούνε φωναχτά πως το ψωμί είναι ιδρώτας κ' η ελπίδα ψωμί τους. Μου φτάνει που θα ξέρω πως είναι έτοιμοι κάθε στιγμή να τραγουδήσουν. Για τον εαυτό τους, Αντιγόνη. Εμένα—ας μ' έχουν ξεχάσει, εμένα—μήτε που με ξέρανε ποτέ για να με ξεχάσουν, γιατι εγώ, έχω βρει το σπίτι μου, στο σπίτι των άλλων. (Παύση). Όταν είταν οι Γερμανοί στην Αθήνα, βγαίνανε τη νύχτα τα συνεργεία και γράφανε στους τοίχους. Μες στο σκοτάδι δεν ξεχώριζες τα σπίτια και έγραφες σ' όλα έναν καλό λόγο κάτω απ' τα παράθυρα. Κι αν έφτανε η περίπολο, έμπαινες στην πρώτη πόρτα που έβρισκες μπροστά σου. “Καλησπέρα”, έλεγες. “Καλώστον. Άργησες. Ότι λέγαμε να σου κρεμάσουμε το κουτάλι”. (Παύση). Ύστερα βάλαμε σκοπιές στις γωνίες. Έναν νέο με μια κοπέλα. Αν περνούσε γερμανός, φιλιόντουσαν και δεν τους πρόσεχε. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Page 61 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Θά 'ταν όμορφα. (p.224) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Φιλιόντουσαν στα ψέματα. Θες να σου δείξω; (Παύση). ΆΆκου. Πλησιάζει. Σούρνει τις μπότες του, η ξιφολόγχη χτυπάει στο ζωστήρα. Πρόσεχε! (Την αγκαλιάζει και τη φιλάει). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Έτσι φιλάς στα ψέματα; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ναι. Γιατί; (Έχοντας βγάλει τη μάσκα). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Γιατι μου φάνηκε πως είτανε στ' αλήθεια. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όχι. Νά ποιο είναι. (Την ξαναφιλάει). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Είταν αλήθεια αυτό; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Σ' αγαπώ, Αντιγόνη. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Δεν καταλαβαίνω τίποτα. Τά 'χω μπερδέψει. Είναι σα νά 'πια κρασί. Οι λέξεις δεν έχουνε νόημα πια κι ούτε μου χρειάζονται οι λέξεις, ξαναφίλησέ με—στ' αλήθεια—δε θα σε ξαναρωτήσω πια, Ανδρόνικε. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΕΚΤΗ

(Χωριάτικο δωμάτιο. Τραπέζι, ένα κερί. Σ' ένα κρεβάτι ο Ανδρόνικος. Κοιμάται. Παύση. Γυρίζει απ' τ' άλλο πλευρό. Παύση. Σηκώνεται, ανάβει το κερί). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τα κοκόρια τρελάθηκαν απόψε. Τόσο πολύ προχώρησε η νύχτα; (Παύση). Νά 'ναι το χάραμα που βάζει τα κοκόρια να φωνάζουν, ή μήπως τα κοκόρια φέρνουνε το χάραμα με τις φωνές τους; Ανοησίες. Ιδεαλισμοί. Αντιστροφή αιτίας και αποτελέσματος. (Παύση). Τάχα, αυτό που λέμε μυαλό, μήπως είναι ένας μηχανισμός που καταγράφει και δικαιολογεί τις Page 62 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone πράξεις μας; Και κείνο το υπόγειο κάτω απ' την καρδιά μας με τα βαρέλια του μούστου που βράζει όλην ώρα και δε λέει ποτέ του να γίνει κρασί, κείνο το υπόγειο—Ουφ, άσε κατά μέρος τα βιβλία. Τα βιβλία δεν πονάνε. Δεν πεθαίνουν. Όταν ένα χάραμα είναι το τελευταίο σου, μπορεί, ναι, μπορεί να το φέρνουν τα κοκόρια, (p.225) τα φύλλα π' αρχίζουν να παίρνουν το χρώμα τους, οι κοριοί στο κρεβάτι σου π' αρχίζουν κι αποτραβιούνται στις χαραμάδες του σάπιου ξύλου. Όλα μπορεί να τα προσέξεις, όταν ξέρεις πως ποτέ πια δε θα τα ξαναδείς—κ' η φωνή του κόκορα μπορεί να τεντωθεί σαν ένα σκοινί τεζαρισμένο που τραβάει τον ήλιο—μπορεί, φτάνει να βρεθείς στη θέση του Νικόδημου. (Παύση). Βέβαια. Εσένα δε σου κοστίζει τίποτα να γράψεις λίγα λόγια σ' ένα χαρτί και να κλείσεις το χαρτί στο φάκελο. Όπου νά 'ναι θά 'ρθει ο Νικόδημος να το πάρει. Δε σου κοστίζει τίποτα να του πεις πως θα προχωρήσει μ' ενσφραγίστους διαταγάς. Γιατί όλη αυτή η κωμωδία; Βαθιά, κατάβαθα μέσα σου ξέρεις πως δεν έχεις να του δώσεις καμιά διαταγή. Τον στέλνεις στο Μεγάλο Χωριό ξέροντας πως ποτέ δε θα γυρίσει. Λοιπόν, βάλε το χΧαρτί στο φάκελο έτσι όπως είναι. Ένα άσπρο χαρτί. (Βάζει το χαρτί στο φάκελο: Αλλά τότε γιατί τον στέλνεις; Κατά βάθος—(Χτύπημα στην πόρτα): Εμπρός. (Μπαίνει ο Νικόδημος). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Τα παληκάρια είναι έτοιμα. Σ' ένα τέταρτο ξεκινάμε. Ήρθα για τις τελευταίες οδηγίες. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θα χτυπήσετε το Μεγάλο Χωριό. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Αυτό το είπαμε. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θα φτάσετε ως την εκκλησία, στην κεντρική πλατεία. Τότε θ' ανοίξεις αυτό το φάκελο για τα παρακάτω. (Του τον δίνει). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δεν υπάρχει παρακάτω. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τι θα πει αυτό; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Η αποστολή μας τελειώνει στην πλατεία του χωριού. Εκεί θα ρίξουν τα κουφάρια μας. Να περάσει ο κόσμος να μας γνωρίσει. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Αυτό είναι τουλάχιστον ηττοπάθεια. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Όχι, γιατι ο πρώτος που θα πέσει θά 'μαι εγώ, ίσως μάλιστα να καρφώσουν το κεφάλι μου σ' ένα παλούκι. Κράτα το φάκελο. Δε μου χρειάζονται άγραφα χαρτιά. (p.226) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Με κατασκοπεύεις. Κοιτάζεις απ' την κλειδαρότρυπα. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Όχι. (Παύση). Γιατί με στέλνεις στο Μεγάλο Χωριό, Ανδρόνικε; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Δεν είναι ώρα για πολεμικό συμβούλιο. Όταν φτάσεις— ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Άσε τα μεγάλα λόγια. Γιατί με στέλνεις; ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Εσύ γιατί πας, μια και ξέρεις πως δε θα γυρίσεις; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Κάποτε, είχα άλλο όνομα. Το ξέχασα πια. Τ' άλλαξα όταν ήρθα εδώ γιατι κ' εγώ είχα αλλάξει. Στην αρχή, όταν λέγαν τ' όνομά μου, γύριζα και κοίταζα ποιος με φώναξε. Όμως σιγά-σιγά, θες γιατι φοβόμουνα, θες γιατι δεν είμουν παρά η έκφραση της δύναμης μιάς ολόκληρης ομάδας, σιγά-­ σιγά, όλοι δω στα λεύτερα βουνά, λέγανε Νικόδημος σαν θέλανε να πουν λεβεντιά. Δεν είταν πια ανάγκη να γυρίζω το κεφάλι μου κάθε λίγο και λιγάκι. Τ' όνομά μου δεν είταν πια μόνο δικό μου, δεν είταν ένα κομμάτι από μένα. Είταν κάτι ξέχωρο. Ώσπου, τούτο τ' όνομα, έγινε κάτι παραπάνω από μένα. Δεν το πήγαινα όπου ήθελα εγώ. Με πήγαινε όπου ήθελε εκείνο. (Παύση). Κ' έρχεσαι προχτές και λες μπροστά σ' όλους τους καπετανέους: “Αν είμουνα στη θέση του Νικόδημου, θά 'κανα γιουρούσι στο Μεγάλο Χωριό”. Και τότε τ' όνομά μου, μου λέει: “Τι κάθεσαι; Δεν το νογάς πως είναι διαταγή να ξεκινήσεις;” Γι' αυτό πάω, Ανδρόνικε.

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Σχεδόν χαρούμενα). Ώστε; Πας για σένα. Για δική σου όρεξη. Για να μην πουν μεθαύριο πως ο Νικόδημος πισωπάτησε μπροστά στον κίνδυνο. Γι' αυτό; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Γιατί καμώνεσαι πως δεν καταλαβαίνεις; Τ' όνομά μου—στο είπα—δεν είναι πια δικό μου. Τα παληκάρια ορκίζονται σ' αυτό, οι γυναίκες με δείχνουν στα παιδιά τους και τους λέν: “Κοίτα να γίνεις σαν και δαύτον”. Δεν είμαι εγώ που ξεκινάω για το γιουρούσι του Μεγάλου Χωριού. Είναι ό,τι καλύτερο έχει τούτος ο τόπος γύρω μας. Όμως εσύ—γιατί με στέλνεις; (p.227) ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Τον τελευταίο καιρό, είχαμε τη μια ήττα πάνω στην άλλη. Κανείς δε θέλει να πιστέψει πως θα νικηθούμε. Όμως, τα μάτια τους είναι βαριά. Κάτι περιμένουν. Κάτι πρέπει να γίνει. Σκέφτηκα εσένα. Ο κόσμος πιστεύει πως εσύ, όλα τα μπορείς. (Παύση). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Εσύ δεν το πιστεύεις. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όχι. Αυτό πάω να δείξω. Είναι σα να λέω: “Νά, ούτε ο Νικόδημος κατάφερε τίποτα. Λοιπόν, δε φταίω εγώ”. (Παύση). Ύστερα, είναι και μια τελευταία ελπίδα. Όταν χάνεις τα χωράφια σου, σκέφτεσαι πως είναι μακριά ο εχτρός και βολεύεσαι στην αυλή. Όταν σου παίρνουν την αυλή, βολεύεσαι στο σπίτι. Μα σαν σου πάρουν και το σπίτι, τρέχεις κάπου να χωθείς ή—σ' αυτό ελπίζω—τροχίζεις τα νύχια κι ορμάς με πέτρες. Είσαι το σπίτι τους. Πρέπει να το χάσουν κι αυτό, ίσως τότε να ορμήσουν. (Παύση). Αλλιώς, τούτα τα' αστέρια στους ώμους μου θά 'ναι για πέταμα. Είμαι καπετάνιος σ' ένα καράβι που βουλιάζει. Πρέπει να τα δοκιμάσω όλα, πρέπει πρώτ' απ' όλα να μην το δει κανείς πως κάνουμε νερά, αλλιώς η γέφυρα δε θά 'χει πού να σταθεί. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Σχεδόν σε λυπάμαι. Πασχίζοντας μόνο για σένα σκλαβώνεις τα χέρια σου. Τι μπορείς να κάνεις μόνος σου; Αν είσουν στο κατάστρωμα, θά 'βλεπες πως όταν έχεις στόχο το γενικό καλό, όταν η δική σου λαχτάρα είναι η λαχτάρα των πολλών, μπορεί και τ' ατομικό σου συμφέρο να γίνει

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Alexandrou's Antigone στήριγμα των άλλων. (Παύση). Μα είναι αργά. (Σηκώνεται, το κερί σβήνει). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Γιατί έσβησες το κερί; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Παραμιλάς. Το κερί τό 'σβησε η μέρα. Ξημερώνει. Δεν το βλέπεις; (Πραγματικά, ο ήλιος μπαίνει λοξά απ' το παράθυρο). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ναι. Ίσως νά 'μαι ένα κερί. (Παύση). Καλό βόλι, Νικόδημε. ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Καλή νίκη, Ανδρόνικε. (Προχωράει να φύγει). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Το φάκελο. Ξέχασες το φάκελο. (p.228) ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Περιττό. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Για σένα ναι. Αν σε ρωτήσουν όμως τα παληκάρια σου; ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Θα τους πω την αλήθεια. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Είσαι τρελός. Δε θα δεχτεί να πάει κανένας. (Παύση). ΝΙΚΟΔΗΜΟΣ Δός μου το φάκελο. ΣΚΗΝΗ ΕΒΔΟΜΗ

(Χωριάτικο δωμάτιο. Μέρα. Η Αντιγόνη που φοράει μάσκα πλαγιάζει σ' ένα κρεβάτι. Μπαίνει βιαστικά μια νοσοκόμα, η Μαρία. Φοράει μάσκα). ΜΑΡΙΑ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Πώς πας; Πρέπει να ειδοποιήσω την Όλγα. Εγώ, έχω κάπου να βγω—τι φουστάνι λες να φορέσω; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Τι να την κάνω την Όλγα, δε μου χρειάζονται νοσοκόμες. Το πόδι μου έγιανε. Ο γιατρός είναι ένας γεροσχολαστικός. Φουστάνι είπες; Τι σού 'ρθε; ΜΑΡΙΑ Μα ναι, φυσικά. Λέω να βάλω ένα γύφτικο. Μπα, θα με προσέξουν. Μπορεί κιόλας να με φορτωθούν να τους πω τη μοίρα τους. Ένα γαλάζιο. Τι λες; Χτυπάει πολύ στο μάτι το γαλάζιο; Μα θά 'ναι και νύχτα. Και φυσικά, θα πηγαίνω τοίχο-τοίχο. Το φεγγάρι είναι στη χάση του, τα ηλεκτρικά είναι χαλασμένα—όλα έχουν γκρεμίσει—μόνο τίποτα κεριά στην εκκλησία—μα όχι—θά 'χουν κλείσει τις πόρτες, σίγουρα θα τις έχουν κλείσει. Είναι αλήθεια πως αφήνουν ανοιχτές τις πόρτες, τη νύχτα; Στις εκκλησίες λέω. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Δε θυμάμαι, Μαρία. ΜΑΡΙΑ Τότες θα μπω και θα σβήσω τα κεριά. Και γιατί να μην κλείσω την πόρτα; Θέ μου, πνίγουμαι σε μια στάλα νερό. Κι αν τρέξει τίποτα, (p.229) καλύτερα ανοιχτή. Να χωθώ στο ιερό. Όσο νά 'ναι μες στην εκκλησία δε σε πειράζουν, έτσι δεν είναι; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όχι πάντα. ΜΑΡΙΑ Τι κάθουμαι και λέω. Πού να τους έχεις μπέσα αυτουνώνε. Αυτοί πατάνε όπου βρούνε. Κ' ύστερα—και να μ' αφήσουν εκεί μέσα, τι θα τρώω; Μπορεί να μου φέρνει ο παπάς, α, μπα, θά 'ναι μαζί τους. Ο καντηλανάφτης—ούτε —μαζί τους κι αυτός. Θα φάω τα πρόσφορα, θα πιω τη μετάληψη, κ' ύστερα; Όχι, όχι, δε γίνεται. (Παύση). Να μην είτανε τουλάχιστο στην κεντρική πλατεία. Θά 'χουν και σκοπιές. Σίγουρα θά 'χουν. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θά 'χουν. Τον Νικόδημο, και σκοτωμένον ακόμα, τον φοβούνται.

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΜΑΡΙΑ Α, όχι, δεν είναι αυτό. Βγάλαν διάτα να σαπίσει εκεί, να μην τολμήσει να τον θάψει κανένας. Κι ο Ανδρόνικος μας μίλησε και μας είπε πως ο Νικόδημος είναι ήρωας, σκοτώθηκε στη μάχη, σε μιαν αποστολή που αν πετύχαινε, όλα θα γύριζαν ξανά στο καλύτερο. Όμως εμείς, είπε, πρέπει να δείξουμε πως δεν τα βάζουμε κάτω, πρέπει κάποιος να κατέβει στο Μεγάλο Χωριό να τον θάψει. Και μας είπε, και μας είπε, για το λαό, για τα σπίτια μας, για τον ήλιο, τόσο όμορφα να δεις και τα μάτια του λάμπανε μες στο μεσημέρι και θά 'λεγες πως είναι χαρούμενα τα μάτια του, όμως εγώ που είμουνα κοντά του, ξέκρινα πως είταν βουρκωμένος, κ' είταν κείνα τα μικρά, τα πολύ μικρά δάκρυα που δε λέγανε να πέσουν και λαμπυρίζαν μες στο φως και τότε, ποιος θέλει να πάει να θάψει τον Νικόδημο; ρώτησε σα να τους χάριζε ολονώνε ένα χαρούμενο πρωινό. Βγήκαν τρεις άντρες μα δεν τους άφησε. Πρέπει είπε να πάει γυναίκα. Θα περάσει πιο εύκολα απ' τις σκοπιές. Έτσι είπε. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Και βγήκες εσύ. ΜΑΡΙΑ Ναι. Τα μάτια του είταν βουρκωμένα. Είχα ξεχάσει πως έπρεπε να διαλέξω φουστάνι—είχα ξεχάσει— ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πως φοβάσαι. (p.230) ΜΑΡΙΑ Όχι, όχι. Ποιος είπε τέτοιο πράμα; Εγώ, τη ζωή μου την έχω αποφασίσει. Μόνο—πώς δεν το σκέφτηκα αλήθεια! Με τι θα σκάψω το λάκο; Αν πάρω ξινάρι θα με ρωτήσουν: “Απ' το χωράφι σου γυρνάς τέτοια ώρα;” Ποιος κάνει χωράφι τα μεσάνυχτα; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Φοβάσαι. ΜΑΡΙΑ Δηλαδή, τι θα πει φοβάμαι; Σκέφτουμαι. Δεν κάνει να σκέφτουμαι; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πρέπει. Δεν είναι απ' τα λόγια σου που το κατάλαβα. Απ' τα μάτια σου. Page 68 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone ΜΑΡΙΑ Ναι. Όσο το σκέφτουμαι, φοβάμαι. Ας μη σκέφτουμαι λοιπόν. Σκέψου συ για μένα, τι φουστάνι να φορέσω; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ (Βγάζοντας τη μάσκα της). Φόρα αυτό. ΜΑΡΙΑ Αυτό—μ' αυτό το πρόσωπο θα με γνωρίσουνε αμέσως. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όχι, γιατι δε θα σε δούνε. Θα μείνεις εδώ. Θα χωθείς κάτω απ' τις κουβέρτες. Μη φοβάσαι. Το πόδι δεν πονάει πια. Δόσμου το πρόσωπό σου. (Η Μαρία βγάζει τη μάσκα της και τη δίνει στην Αντιγόνη παίρνοντας τη δική της). ΣΚΗΝΗ ΟΓΔΟΗ

(Το δωμάτιο του Ανδρόνικου. Νύχτα. Το κερί αναμμένο. Ο Ανδρόνικος διαβάζει κάτι χαρτιά. Μπαίνει η Αντιγόνη χωρίς να χτυπήσει). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Γιατί—ο γιατρός είπε να μη σηκωθείς, μια βδομάδα ακόμα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Μου είπες ψέματα, Ανδρόνικε. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Πότε; (p.231) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πάντα. Τα λόγια σου είταν ένα άγραφο χαρτί. Γιατί χλώμιασες; Το βρήκα στον κόρφο του Νικόδημου. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Βρήκες; Εσύ; Το έκλεψες απ' τη Μαρία. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Όχι. Πήγα εγώ. Με το πρόσωπο της Μαρίας. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Μόνος). Ούτε την υστεροφημία λοιπόν. (Η Αντιγόνη παίρνει ένα φάκελο απ' το τραπέζι του Ανδρόνικου και τον συγκρίνει μ' έναν άλλον που βγάζει απ' την τσέπη της). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Νά 'ξερες πόσο παρακάλεσα νά 'χω γελαστεί. Είναι δικός σου όμως. Πολύ αργά λοιπόν. (Κάνει να φύγει). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Πού πας; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Να το πω. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Σε ποιον; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Σε όλους. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Δε θα σε πιστέψουν. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θα προσπαθήσω. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θ' αναγκαστώ να σε διώξω από κοντά μου. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Το ξέρω. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Και δε σε νοιάζει; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Δε γίνεται αλλιώς. (Κάνει να φύγει). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Και δε θα με φιλήσεις; Για τελευταία φορά; (Παύση). Ξέρεις, ίσως να μην είμαι και τόσο κακός. Έστειλα το Νικόδημο, τον καλύτερο (p.232) καπετάνιο μας, ξέροντας πως θα τον χάσουμε. Λες να μη μου κόστισε; Μα κατάλαβέ το λοιπόν, έλπιζα πως κάτι μπορούσε να γίνει ακόμα, πως ίσως κερδίζαμε μια νίκη. Μας χρειαζότανε μια νίκη, μου είταν πιο πολύ κι απ' το ψωμί κι απ' το νερό και από σένα μια νίκη. (Παύση). Και τάχα, θά 'ταν μόνο για μένα; Εσύ, δεν την είχες ανάγκη μια νίκη; Οι φαντάροι μας δεν την περίμεναν; Έλα και φίλησέ με, Αντιγόνη. Ίσως να μην είμαι και τόσο κακός. (Η Αντιγόνη τον πλησιάζει. Αγκαλιάζονται και φιλιούνται). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θέ μου, γιατί να μας τύχουν εμάς όλ' αυτά. Θα μπορούσαμε να ζήσουμε τόσο όμορφα. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μπορούμε ακόμα, Αντιγόνη. Μπορούμε να ζήσουμε. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Αν είχανε τελειώσει όλ' αυτά, αν δεν είχανε αρχίσει ποτέ όλ' αυτά, ίσως να μπορούσαμε και εμείς νά 'χουμε ένα πιάτο ζεστό φαΐ, ένα ήσυχο δωμάτιο, μια δική μας νύχτα. Είναι πολλά λοιπόν όλ' αυτά και δε μας δόθηκαν ποτέ; Χρόνια και χρόνια πόλεμος γι' αυτά τα λίγα και τώρα νικηθήκαμε. Να σώσουμε τουλάχιστον τα χαλάσματα που μας μένουν. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Όχι ακόμα. Μας μένει ένα ολόκληρο βουνό. Το χίλια ένα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Θα νικηθείς και κει. Το ξέρεις. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μα κατάλαβέ το λοιπόν. Προσπάθησε να καταλάβεις. Σ' έχει πιάσει ηττοπάθεια και δε μπορείς να δεις τίποτα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Έλα μαζί μου να τους το πούμε. Έλα όσο είναι καιρός. Εσένα θα σε πιστέψουν.

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Πρόκειται να γίνω στρατηγός γιατι πάντοτε πίστευα στη νίκη. Μόνο έτσι πετυχαίνεις. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Είναι αργά. Το μόνο που μας μένει είναι να χωριστούμε σε μικρές ομάδες και να σκορπίσουμε. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Μα οι διαταγές—οι διαταγές λένε να κρατήσουμε με τα δόντια το χίλια ένα. (p.233) ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Πες τους πως δε γίνεται. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Τη σκουντάει από κοντά του με σκυφτό κεφάλι, ύστερα σιγά-σιγά θυμώνοντας). Φυσικά. Εσύ δεν έχεις να χάσεις και πολλά πράγματα, τίποτα σχεδόν. Όμως εγώ—εγώ τ' αστέρια μου τα θέλω. Τα κέρδισα με τον ιδρώτα μου, με το αίμα μου. Έτσι την πετάς εσύ μιαν ολόκληρη ζωή στα σκουπίδια; Σαν είμουνα παιδί μ' άρεσε ν' ανεβαίνω σ' ανεμόσκαλες και να κοιτάζω πάνω από τους μαντρότοιχους. Έτσι την κλωτσάς εσύ τη σκάλα κάτω απ' τα πόδια σου; Έτσι σκύβεις το κεφάλι σου μπροστά στον κάθε νεκρό; Η καρδιά σου είναι ζυμάρι που το φουσκώνουν οι καημοί των άλλων. Βγάζεις κάθε λίγο το μαντήλι ενώ θά 'πρεπε να τραβάς το κινητό ουραίο του ντουφεκιού σου— ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ανδρόνικε, πώς μπορείς, εγώ ποτέ μου δεν είχα μαντήλι. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Γυναικεία καμώματα σού λέω. Ντρέπουμαι που σου είχα εμπιστευτεί ένα όπλο. Λοιπόν; Τι περιμένεις και δεν πας να τους φωνάξεις πως είναι νικημένοι; Θα σε πάρουν με τις πέτρες. Τι περιμένεις να μείνεις ολομόναχη; Εσύ που έχεις τόση ανάγκη από μένα, απ' τους άλλους, τραβάς για τη μοναξιά σαν μανιακή. Εσύ που έχεις τόση ανάγκη να δίνεις, δε θά 'βρεις μήτε έναν να δεχτεί τα λόγια σου. Εμπρός λοιπόν, ποδοπάτα μόνη σου το πεσμένο σου κορμί, φύγε να τους το πεις—σε διώχνω—σε κλωτσάω—σε φτύνω για να φύγεις, τι άλλο περιμένεις ακόμα; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Page 72 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone (Ύστερα από παύση). Άμποτε νά 'χεις δίκιο, Ανδρόνικε. (Φεύγει). ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ (Ύστερα από μεγάλη παύση). Κλέαρχε! Κλέαρχε! ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ (Μπαίνει). Διαταγές, στρατηγέ μου. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Κάτσε. (Κάθουνται). Μού 'χεις εμπιστοσύνη, Κλέαρχε; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Πέφτω στη φωτιά, στρατηγέ μου. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θα πίστευες ό,τι κι αν σού 'λεγα; (p.234) ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ο,τιδήποτε στρατηγέ μου. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Συμβαίνει—μόλις τώρα βεβαιώθηκα—η Αντιγόνη είναι πράκτορας του εχθρού. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Α, όχι! Αποκλείεται. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Ώστε δε με πιστεύεις. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Δηλαδή, φοβάμαι—φοβάμαι μήπως έγινε κάνα λάθος. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Είναι σίγουρο. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Τότε να το αναφέρουμε—

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Alexandrou's Antigone ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Δεν έχουμε ν' αναφέρουμε τίποτα. Την υπόθεση θα την αναλάβεις εσύ. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Α, όχι. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Θα την παρακολουθήσεις. Μόλις δεις τίποτα ύποπτο θα ενεργήσεις όπως ξέρεις. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Μα—δε μπορώ—χωρίς να είμαι σίγουρος. Κ' ύστερα είμαι υπασπιστής σου. Έχω τόσα να φροντίσω. ΑΝΔΡΟΝΙΚΟΣ Σε μεταθέτω. Και σε συμβουλεύω να πειστείς μια ώρα αρχήτερα, πριν μου φανεί ύποπτη η στάση σου, γιατι βέβαια όποιος πάει να καλύψει έναν πράκτορα— ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Ω, αν είναι να με μεταθέσεις, δεν έχω καμιά αντίρρηση. Έτσι τακτοποιούνται όλα. Μου δίνεις μια διαταγή—εγώ την εκτελώ, αυτό τό 'χω συνηθίσει. Με βολεύει. Και φυσικά, μια και με διατάζεις να πιστέψω, το πιστεύω μ' όλη μου την καρδιά πως η Αντιγόνη είναι πράκτορας. Και τι χρειάζουνται οι διαταγές εξ άλλου μια και μου το λες εσύ ο άντρας της. Κ' ύστερα, εγώ φυσικά δεν το θέλω καθόλου ν' απομονωθώ, α, όχι, αυτό θά 'ταν και αντιομαδικό, θά 'ταν ενάντια στα (p.235) συμφέροντα του λαού, ψέματα; Όχι, τι θα γινόταν δηλαδή αν όλοι κάνανε του κεφαλιού τους; Ούτ' ένα βήμα δε θα μπορούσαμε να—αλλά τι κάθουμαι λοιπόν; Η Αντιγόνη μπορεί να έχει αρχίσει κιόλας τη διαβρωτική δουλειά της. Πρέπει να τρέξω. Έφυγα. Οι διαταγές θα εκτελεστούν κατά γράμμα. (Βγαίνει βιαστικός). ΣΚΗΝΗ ΕΝΑΤΗ

(Σούρουπο. Στο βάθος λίγα δέντρα. Απ' τα αριστερά μπαίνει η Αντιγόνη. Απ' τα δεξιά τρεις-τέσσερις φαντάροι μ' έναν επικεφαλής). Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Πού πας από δω; Η διαταγή είναι να συμπτυχτούμε όλοι στο χίλια ένα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Page 74 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Μάταιος κόπος. Νικηθήκαμε. Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Πώς μπορείς και το λες; Αρνιέσαι όλ' αυτά τα χρόνια. Ξεχνάς που το σπίτι μας είχε γίνει φυλακή, η πολιτεία φυλακή, οι μέρες στρογγυλές σαν μια μυλόπετρα, οι νύχτες από πάνου σαν μια μυλόπετρα και μεις μες στις χαρακιές τους σπυριά κριθάρι να μας αλέθει ο χρόνος—πάλι κει θα γυρίσεις; (Μπαίνει ο Κλέαρχος πίσω απ' την Αντιγόνη και κρυφακούει). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Όχι. Εκεί ποτέ. Κάπου δω πέρα, κάπου δω ψηλά, μα να περισώσουμε, ό,τι μας μένει ακόμα—κάτι από κείνο πού 'ρθαμε γυρεύοντας—κάτι από κείνες τις πέτρες που λέγαμε πως θα στρογγύλευαν την πίκρα, την μοναξιά, το αίμα μας—Είναι μάταιο, πιστέψτε το, πρέπει να σκορπίσουμε, να ξεγλιστρήσουμε σε μικρές ομάδες— Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Και το χίλια ένα; Να το παραδώσουμε έτσι, αμαχητί; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Το βουνό είναι υπερφαλαγγισμένο. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ (Στον επικεφαλής). Τι χάνεις άδικα τα λόγια σου; Δεν το κατάλαβες ακόμα πως παίζει το παιχνίδι του εχτρού; Έχω διαταγή του στρατηγού να την καθαρίσω επί τόπου μόλις καταλάβω πως πάει να κάνει οπουρτουνισμό. Εδώ που τα λέμε, θά 'θελα και τη γνώμη σου πριν της την ανάψω. (Τραβάει το πιστόλι του). (p.236) Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Πού τα ξέρεις όλ' αυτά; ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ξέρω πως νικηθήκαμε. Ο Ανδρόνικος πιάνεται σαν τον πνιγμένο απ' τα μαλλιά. Έστειλε τον Νικόδημο στο Μεγάλο Χωριό μ' ένα άγραφο χαρτί. Τον έσπρωξε στο θάνατο με μιαν άδικη κριτική. Τώρα σπρώχνει και σας, με μια μάταιη ελπίδα. Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Η πλάτη μας λύγισε κάτω απ' το συρματόσκοινο του ξένου βούρδουλα. Δε θα την αντέξουμε μια μαχαιριά ακόμα από δικό μας χέρι. Λες πως πασχίζεις για το καλό μας, λες να σώσουμε ό,τι μας μένει, όμως, τι θα το κάνουμε κι αν το σώσουμε; Λες πως πασχίζεις για το καλό μας κι όμως δε σού 'χει μείνει ούτε στάλα συμπόνια. Πριν από λίγο είμασταν μαζί στην ίδια ρεματιά και το νερό που κατεβάσαν οι βροχές μας χτύπαγε μαζί με τις ξεριζωμένες πέτρες και τα σπασμένα κλαδιά. Τώρα σκαρφάλωσες στον όχτο και κοιτάς. Τώρα που το ποτάμι φούσκωσε πολύ, έγινες νερό, πέτρα, κλαδί, και μας χτυπάς. Δεν μπορείς πια να μας πονέσεις. Α΄. ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Θέλει το κακό μας. Β΄. ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Θέλει να μην πιστεύουμε πια. Γ΄. ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Τραβάει τη γης κάτω απ' τα πόδια μας. Α΄. ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Είμαστε οι πολλοί. Γιατί δεν τη διώχνουμε; ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Είμαστε κείνοι που θέλουν—κείνοι που αποφασίζουν. Γιατί δεν τη σκοτώνουμε; (Μια ομάδα στρατιώτες μ' έναν αξιωματικό μπαίνουν τρέχοντας απ' τα δεξιά). ΑΞΙΩΜΑΤΙΚΟΣ Τι χασομεράτε; Διαταγή να πιάσουμε το χίλια ένα. ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Ο δρόμος είναι κλειστός. ΑΞΙΩΜΑΤΙΚΟΣ Τι πα να πει αυτό; (p.237) ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Θέλει να μας καθυστερήσει. Είναι πράχτορας του εχτρού. ΑΞΙΩΜΑΤΙΚΟΣ Page 76 of 78

Alexandrou's Antigone Τι τη φυλάτε λοιπόν τη σκρόφα! (Στους στρατιώτες του): Ακόμα δω είσαστε σεις; (Οι στρατιώτες βγαίνουν τρέχοντας απ' τα αριστερά). Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Θά 'πρεπε ίσως—να περάσει στρατοδικείο. ΑΞΙΩΜΑΤΙΚΟΣ Τούτη τη στιγμή, στρατοδικείο είμαστε εμείς. (Βγάζει το πιστόλι του, ο Κλέαρχος βιάζεται να κάνει το ίδιο). ΑΝΤΙΓΟΝΗ Σταθείτε. Περιμένετε τουλάχιστο δυο λεφτά. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Σκέψου πόσο πολύτιμα είναι τα λεφτά για να προσπαθεί να μας καθυστερήσει. Ας βιαστούμε. (Πυροβολούν την Αντιγόνη που πέφτει νεκρή παράλληλα με τα φώτα της ράμπας). ΑΞΙΩΜΑΤΙΚΟΣ Και τώρα δρόμο. (Ορμάνε προς τ' αριστερά. Την ίδια στιγμή επι-στρέφουν τρέχοντας οι στρατιώτες του αξιωματικού). Α΄. ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Ο δρόμος είναι κομμένος. ΚΛΕΑΡΧΟΣ Πότε πρόφτασαν κιόλας; (Παύση. Ακούγονται ντουφεκιές). ΑΞΙΩΜΑΤΙΚΟΣ Τι καθόστε και χάσκετε; Ταμπουρωθείτε. Σε κύκλο. Να μην πυροβολήσει κανείς αν δε μας πλησιάσουν στα τριάντα μέτρα. Σβέλτα είπα. (Σκορπάνε κυκλικά και ταμπουρώνονται. Ο επικεφαλής κι ένας στρατιώτης μένουν δίπλα στην Αντιγόνη). Ο ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Μας άφησαν το χειρότερο μέρος. Μήτε μια πέτρα να κρύψεις το κεφάλι σου. Θα μας βλέπουν σαν στην παλάμη τους. Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ

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Alexandrou's Antigone Μας μένει το κουφάρι. (Ακούγεται μια ριπή): Κάνε γρήγορα. (Πέφτουν πάνω απ' την Αντιγόνη με πρόσωπο προς την πλατεία. Στηρίζουν πάνω της τα ντουφέκια τους. Παύση). Ο ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Πλησιάζουν. (p.238) Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Μη ρίχνεις ακόμα. (Παύση). Ο ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Ο Στρατής! Το περίμενες ποτέ σου; Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Όχι. (Παύση). Πού ξέρεις; Ίσως να μην είναι όπως νομίζεις. Θυμήσου την Αντιγόνη. Ο ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Ναι, μ' αυτός—έρχεται με το ντουφέκι καταπάνω μας. Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Και ποιος σου λέει πως δεν κάνει καλά; Ο ΣΤΡΑΤΙΩΤΗΣ Δηλαδή; Να μην του ρίξω; Ο ΕΠΙΚΕΦΑΛΗΣ Και βέβαια να ρίξεις. Έφτασε κιόλας στα τριάντα μέτρα. Ένα κουφάρι είναι το μόνο σίγουρο. Δε βλέπεις; Ταμπούρι πρώτης. (Ρίχνουν κι οι δυο καταπάνω στους θεατές). (ΑυΫαία)

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English close to us. We're alone here now and the wells have dried up. Our breasts have dried up. We go to haul water, and we draw mud. Our children go to suck from our nipple, and a bitter taste fills their mouths. We go to lie down at night, and the night is so empty—like Nicholas's socks. The winds have scattered all the roof tiles, and it rains. The airplanes have demolished the walls, and it rains. Time is trickling down from our uncombed hair into our bosoms. We will grow old. Behind the fir trees, behind the stones, our men have their rifles. Behind their shaken hearts, they wait. Behind our men, behind Nicholas's ashes, we are still waiting. Scene Two

(Rifle shots and machine gun fire are heard from afar. One half‐destroyed wall is left standing. A window, a door, a stool, a bed, a chest. The old woman. Antigone, whose right hand is injured. Bandage.) OLD WOMAN Listen! (She strains her ears.) They seem to be moving forward. They may have put them to flight. Would you say that they'll chase them out? ANTIGONE They need to. OLD WOMAN With ‘needing to’ you don't make any progress. You must have arms, too. A great heart doesn't do you any good. It lays itself open. (Pause.) Like that fellow, Stratis. Always standing there and the wind taking his cap. Good‐ for‐nothing. That's how they fight? Look at you. They sent you to bandage wounds and you went and got yourself wounded. You are in a rush to get killed. The dirty dogs, they are in a rush to kill you. ANTIGONE Calm down. OLD WOMAN My God! Let's change the bandage. The doctor said to change the bandage. (p.241) ANTIGONE Not even an hour has gone by since we last changed it. OLD WOMAN

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English An hour! My hair has gone white since then. I'm changing bandages all the time. The jackals. They need to be hanged. They deserve impaling, flaying. We should pull their teeth out one by one, so they won't talk any more. We should gouge their eyes out with needles, so they won't find their way back to Germany, the offspring of hell. ANTIGONE They are—There may be human beings among them, Auntie. OLD WOMAN They made us drag ourselves like worms. They did not leave a good word in our mouth. They branded us with a hot iron. ANTIGONE Where will this circle close if we start doing the same things? (Voices from the road.) Death to the German! Step aside! Hang him! Nobody shall take the law into his own hands! OLD WOMAN (Sticking her head out of the window.) They caught a German! Rush at him, neighbours! That's the way—with the axe, with the pick, with our fingernails. Make him understand what it means to tear up your cheeks with your nails next to a corpse. And they, who are they? They are our soldiers and they protect him? Is that not Stratis? Antigone—(Antigone, too, had been looking out of the window and just left in a hurry.) You left, didn't you? You went to save him. (With contempt and affection.) Nurse! Let me see you then. Taking the bandage off your hand and dressing his wounds. I know you. You will even be warming up some water for him. You would also give him milk if we had a drop left. (She again looks out of the window.) Ah, she is bringing him here, do you hear that? Here! They crippled the leg of that villain, the dog. He is limping. But what am I saying? He is dragging his leg as if it is alien to him, as if it never was his. And the blood, see how the blood is running. (She goes to the chest and takes out a sheet. She starts tearing it up in strips.) It's just an old sheet, what did you think. I was ready to throw it out. I wouldn't call it good enough even to dress the wounded leg of some dog. But for you, it (p.242) may even be a big thing coming your way. But I don't do it for you, but for your mother, who is a woman, after all—and who cares what they say.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English (Antigone enters with Andronikos, who leans upon her and drags his leg. Behind them an angry Stratis.) STRATIS I will be in for trouble, I tell you that. I must take him to Nikodimos, do you understand me? I would have struck him dead if it wasn't that he spoke to me in Greek—some incomprehensible Greek, that is—and therefore, I said, I better find out. ANTIGONE I'll talk to him. Why are you acting that way? Don't you see that he cannot walk? (She makes Andronikos lie down on the bed.) OLD WOMAN Now look at his face! You've become a little lamb, haven't you? He smiles! Hey, I see that you have beautiful teeth. What do you think? That I will take pity on them? I'll pull them out one by one. ANTIGONE Bring water, Auntie. Warm water. OLD WOMAN Burning hot water. To scald him. (She leaves.) STRATIS (To Antigone.) Talk to him then. You've always played the educated one. ANTIGONE (To Andronikos [in ancient Greek].) Who are you? ANDRONIKOS [In his own ancient Greek.] Histiaeus said that, once the power of Darius would be destroyed, each city could choose to live under democratic rule rather than under a tyranny. I then want to destroy the power of the Führer, to live in a democracy because—extra prima gut. Have you understood? I do not want to live under a tyranny. Verstehen? STRATIS What the hell is he mumbling?

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANTIGONE He is saying that he wants to come with us. Hurry, go and call Nikodimos. (p.243) Scene Three

(The forest. Night. A guerrilla soldier on guard duty. He holds a machine gun and leans against a tree. He hears steps and stoops forward.) THE GUARD Halt! VOICE It's three o'clock. THE GUARD Black horse. VOICE Freedom or death. THE GUARD Is it you, Klearchos? Come on up. (Klearchos enters.) I can't understand what we want all those signs and countersigns for when we are among ourselves. I can tell your voice out of a hundred. KLEARCHOS It's what we need to do. As our captain Nikodimos says: ‘All and everything for the struggle’. Go rack your brain. You will see that you are responsible for everything. THE GUARD I am getting sleepy now. Bye. KLEARCHOS And even your sleep comes with responsibilities. When you do something, it changes something else. When you don't do anything—something remains unchanged even though it could have changed. THE GUARD Correct. But when you're sleepy, you must get some sleep.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English KLEARCHOS Until now you haven't been sleepy? From one o'clock to five? THE GUARD When you're on guard duty, you cannot get sleepy. KLEARCHOS Yes. Easy strategy. You do what they tell you to do. I heard that we're about to attack that place Lakoi? (p.244) THE GUARD When I wake up, I'll be greasing my machine gun. KLEARCHOS And you'll be chasing away your sleepiness. The thing for you to do is to keep your eyes peeled. THE GUARD I know. Have a good daybreak. KLEARCHOS You don't get it. You will keep your eyes peeled for Andronikos. THE GUARD And who is he again? KLEARCHOS That captive they brought in the other day. The German. THE GUARD That's it? Even with my eyes closed I can kill him before you could say ‘traitor’. They better get around to making that decision. KLEARCHOS That's exactly what I said. But here's the rub. If I've understood it well, we'll send him to get himself executed. THE GUARD I am either very sleepy or my mind is no longer working. Page 6 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English KLEARCHOS Do you have tobacco? (He sits down.) I found a leaflet with hardly any ink on it. THE GUARD It's still dark. We can't light up. KLEARCHOS It's close to daybreak. And, in any case, you light up inside your jacket. You hide the glowing end of the cigarette in your sleeve. THE GUARD That's forbidden. They've told us that a thousand times. KLEARCHOS Well then, I take the responsibility. (The guard, too, sits down. They talk while they roll their cigarettes. They light them and start smoking.) He came alone, he says, to fight with us. He holds the Greeks dear in his heart, he says. (p.245) THE GUARD I know how they caught him. KLEARCHOS He had been hiding in some bushes, he says, a short distance beyond our last fields. When he was getting ready to raise a white kerchief, our men caught up with him and captured him. He had a machine gun but he did not fire. He also held a kerchief in his hand. Stratis caught him. THE GUARD Maybe he didn't have the time to fire. Maybe he had taken out the kerchief because he had a cold. Maybe he is a spy. KLEARCHOS He claims that he is a first lieutenant. He has all his stars on his shoulders. THE GUARD

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English They could be fake, too. KLEARCHOS During the interrogation, he gave chapter and verse. Names, numbers, high grounds, battalions. Suddenly, he jumps up and tells them: ‘Germany is waging a war of conquest’. ‘I am ashamed’, he says, ‘to be German. I came to fight with you for the truth and for progress’. THE GUARD He must have read some pamphlet of ours. For sure. KLEARCHOS That's also what Nikodimos said. THE GUARD We have a firm mind. Nikodimos, that is, has a firm mind, all by himself. KLEARCHOS Antigone, however, has the mind of a woman. A woman's mind is all craftiness. She even went to high school. If we kill him, she says, we lose the bullets. If we send him out to fight, he may kill some Germans for us. If he gets killed, we save the bullets. Frank talk. But she also said something else that I did not understand very well. She said that Andronikos's eyes are, in her words, clear. THE GUARD Hm. Well then, what about what we used to shout and say: ‘Sword and fire to the Germans’? Now we find one and we make him one of us? (p.246) KLEARCHOS The army major, too, approved of it. For hours they had it under discussion. Maybe he is a good guy. Where did you find that machine gun? THE GUARD I took it from them in a battle. But the machine gun does not have a mind. KLEARCHOS Yes. Therefore, keep your eyes peeled the day after tomorrow. Keep your eyes out for the Germans we will have in front of us, and keep your eyes also on Andronikos, who will be next to us. Page 8 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English THE GUARD (He yawns.) Since the major says so, that's enough and more than enough for me. I am going to sleep. Good morning. KLEARCHOS Good luck. Scene Four

(The wall of a house. A table. A lit lamp. A chair. A bed with a sick child. The mother is lulling her child to sleep.) [2 lines of a lullaby set to music.] (Suddenly Stratis enters. His right hand is injured.) STRATIS Is the baby still alive? MOTHER Sh! It looks like sleep is getting a hold of him. Or is he sinking deeper? (Pause.) Did you bring anything? STRATIS Half a loaf of bread. Barley. MOTHER The doctor told me a little milk. STRATIS Let him die. The little bastard. MOTHER Stratis! It's your child. I swear. Yours. (p.247) STRATIS I don't care a whole lot. The right children deserve a good father. The ones with physical defects don't. You sow something and then you let all the winds beat it. I hardly care. MOTHER

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English The fevers beat him. His lips are cracked. They're bright red. Speak more quietly. You will wake him up. (Pause.) Where is the bread? STRATIS (Without appetite.) Here I have it. (He pulls it with his left hand out of his uniform and puts it on the table. Then he pulls out his jack‐knife and opens it. The mother approaches and stretches out her hand.) Keep your hands down. (He jabs the knife in the half‐loaf. She barely has the time to pull her hand back.) MOTHER Stratis! STRATIS I will divide it up. MOTHER You, Stratis! (Stratis cuts the bread. He keeps the bigger piece for himself. The mother takes the other piece.) Why are you so furious? I can't swallow a bite. I want it for the baby—who has done you no wrong. Maybe if I wet the bread, it will do him good. (Pause.) If only we had a little sugar! STRATIS All you do is put compresses on him. You will run the well dry. (The mother puts her piece of bread down in the baby's bed and goes outside. Silence. A knock on the door. Silence. Another knock.) Who is it again, in the middle of the night! A YOUNG MAN The ‘Free Voice’. (He is holding newspapers.) STRATIS

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Leave one on the table. THE YOUNG MAN (Somewhat offended.) Good night. (p.248) (Stratis is chewing. Then he gets up, takes the newspaper—a very small format—and brings it close to the lamp. He is reading. He crumples up the paper and throws it down. He takes two steps. He sees the bread in the child's bed, takes it, and starts eating it. The mother enters with a plate and a small jar. She notices that her piece of bread is missing.) MOTHER Stratis, why? STRATIS (He grabs the newspaper from the floor and sticks it in her face.) Read. MOTHER Stratis, you know that I can't read with so little light. My eyes go blurry. The letters start to move before my eyes. Maybe it's because of all the mending. Maybe my eyes have already grown old. The letters move about like ants. STRATIS I would give my other hand, too, if it were only the letters that moved about. For me, the ants are crawling from the soles of my feet up to my neck. Listen: ‘Andronikos in charge’—and the rest. ‘He passed through the enemy's open fire’—etcetera. ‘Our people express their affection by awarding him a medal…’ MOTHER And the bread? STRATIS When we were in Lakoi, I kept an eye on him. I had to keep my eyes peeled. When the bullets whistle around you, you have to pay attention to the bullets. You can't have anything else on your mind. I kept an eye on Andronikos. In person and by myself. I let the gunfire take my hand. Andronikos will hang my hand on his chest [like another decoration]. I am maimed. Andronikos has already become a captain. I am maimed. And then Page 11 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English to think of his hands, do you understand? He had two hands then and he still has them, intact, whole, firm, and I… MOTHER Yes, Stratis. But the bread—why do you eat the bread? Scene Five

(A spotlight falls on each end of the stage. On the one side, captain Nikodimos, who is speaking on the phone. On the other, the major, also speaking on the phone.) (p.249) NIKODIMOS No, my presence here is necessary. I've grown suspicious of Andronikos. MAJOR Andronikos fought well. You yourself gave him the medal. NIKODIMOS They ordered me to, and I awarded it. I don't trust him. MAJOR And is that why you refuse to go on the mission on which we're sending you? NIKODIMOS I am not refusing. I ask that it be postponed. I want to clear up this situation with Andronikos. It wouldn't bother me if it were an individual case. I notice, however, that he exerts a bad influence on the other fighters as well. What do you prefer? That he ruin our company, or that I go and blow up the warehouse in Megalo Horio? Anybody can blow up the warehouse. But Andronikos? I alone have followed him up close, I alone know him, therefore I alone can save the company. MAJOR So you are asking then that someone else go, and you're not asking to postpone. NIKODIMOS I spoke of postponing to avoid leaving you with the idea that I am afraid. MAJOR Page 12 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Nonsense. I know you. You've gone on other and more dangerous missions. (Pause.) So be it then. Bye. I will send someone else. NIKODIMOS If it could be postponed, I would beg you to send me. MAJOR No, I will send someone else. NIKODIMOS As per your command. Scene Six

(Night. Outdoors. Antigone enters from the right. She is wearing a very thin mask with her features. She looks around. Nikodimos enters from the left.) (p.250) NIKODIMOS You should be asleep. At dawn we set out. ANTIGONE I won't be late. NIKODIMOS Good night. (In the far distance, a green flare, then a yellow one.) Look. Code signs. (Another yellow flare.) Is that not Andronikos down there? (He points diagonally across to the far end of the stage.) ANTIGONE I didn't have time to look. NIKODIMOS I am certain. What is he doing here at such an hour? ANTIGONE What are we doing? NIKODIMOS Ours is a different case. He is German. He may be waiting for some signal. ANTIGONE Page 13 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English To do what? NIKODIMOS I don't know. In any case, one thing is sure. He is waiting for you. Right? ANTIGONE Right. NIKODIMOS Don't deny that when the time comes for you to give your written defence. For the time being, I need some information. You need it, too. Do you love him? ANTIGONE Yes. NIKODIMOS Do you know what kind of man he is? ANTIGONE I know. He loves me. NIKODIMOS I doubt it. The information I need—it's just that. I want to know if he is able to love. (Pause.) There is something—in his face, in his (p.251) hands— something I don't like. As if he is wearing a mask. If you want, you can see what is hidden underneath. Go and talk to him. Try to get him to open his heart to you. Whichever way you think. You can even tell him lies. Pretend. ANTIGONE But— NIKODIMOS Did you ever ask him why he is fighting? ANTIGONE Yes. For the same reason we do. NIKODIMOS

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Not that. Did you ever ask him if he is fighting for the others? ANTIGONE And who would he be fighting for? NIKODIMOS For himself. Did you ask him if he loves you—for yourself? ANTIGONE No. NIKODIMOS Then go and ask him. (He goes and hides behind a tree. Antigone proceeds, she turns to go back, she goes forward again. She shouts softly.) ANTIGONE Andronikos! Andronikos! ANDRONIKOS (He, too, is wearing a mask.) I was just saying that you wouldn't come. Is something the matter? ANTIGONE Oh, no, nothing. (With fake cheerfulness.) Shall we sit here? It's beautiful. (They sit down close to the tree behind which Nikodimos went hiding. Pause.) Our last night. ANDRONIKOS What do you mean? Comes tomorrow and you won't love me any more? ANTIGONE Tomorrow we may get killed. (p.252) ANDRONIKOS That can happen any time. ANTIGONE

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English It was never like tomorrow. (Pause.) What are you thinking? ANDRONIKOS Silly thoughts. It crossed my mind— ANTIGONE Yes? ANDRONIKOS I was thinking, ‘If one of us two were to die in the battle tomorrow, who would I want to live?’ ANTIGONE And? ANDRONIKOS (Attempting to kiss her.) You, of course. ANTIGONE (Pushing him gently away.) Look. A shooting star. We say here that, if you're in time to make a wish, it will come true. Do you have that in Leipzig, too? ANDRONIKOS We used to. ANTIGONE Yes. Today we have no time left for fairy tales. But let's say that there is time left. Half of our night here. What would you wish for then? ANDRONIKOS You know. Why do you pretend not to know? ANTIGONE Would you want to talk? ANDRONIKOS And what have we been doing then all this time? ANTIGONE Page 16 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Would you want to talk like people who are about to be killed, as soon as daylight breaks. Andronikos, do you want to get undressed? ANDRONIKOS I'd say you know that. (p.253) ANTIGONE Let's take our masks off, too. ANDRONIKOS What a thought. I don't have a mask. ANTIGONE You do have a mask. And you seem to be changing masks every once in a while. ANDRONIKOS Of course, I am changing. They accepted me as a simple fighter and I managed to become a captain. I am changing. I am becoming more and more useful for the struggle, more and more— ANTIGONE Quit talking and take off your mask, Andronikos. ANDRONIKOS But I don't have a mask. ANTIGONE I have one. Look, I'll go first. (She takes off her mask.) ANDRONIKOS Your eyes have gone dark. As if you are afraid. ANTIGONE Very much so. Every time the rifle shots start up again. I am afraid that my face will get burned. I am also afraid of you. I do not know you. Let me get to know you, Andronikos. (She removes his mask.) You don't love me. Isn't that the case? ANDRONIKOS Page 17 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English I don't know. I want you. I am not certain about anything. (Pause.) I am seeking a new home. ANTIGONE The war has destroyed all the houses. Only in Switzerland maybe—(Lively.) Would you want to leave together? Here we will get killed. Sooner or later some bullet will find its way to us, too. ANDRONIKOS I don't know. A house requires some good furniture as well. The furniture is the world as we want to shape it. ANTIGONE For you, all of that? ANDRONIKOS Who else? (p.254) ANTIGONE And the others? ANDRONIKOS Which others? ANTIGONE Those with whom you fight side by side. I. Your soldiers. Every day you put your life on the line together with the others. ANDRONIKOS The others, too, may want what I want. I am with them because they want it. But my own life, I risk for myself. ANTIGONE So, you don't even love me? ANDRONIKOS I love your kiss. (He tries to embrace her.) ANTIGONE

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English It's late. At daybreak we have a battle. We don't have time left. We've never had time. For weeks on end we've been walking, we sleep with our boots on, we talk in between two bursts of machine gun fire. My god, if we only had a little time. I would throw my cap in the river, I would throw my clothes behind the reeds and jump into the water. If only I could be alone in the river, alone in the sun, alone, alone! (She gets up and runs away.) Scene Seven

(A corner of two walls. A window, a door. Moonlight coming in through the window. A bed. Nikodimos is sleeping. A table with a candle. The church bell rings out three times. Nikodimos wakes up. He turns over on his other side. He gets up. He lights the candle with a match. He blows on his finger. The whole scene is something in between reality and nightmare.) NIKODIMOS What could it be that we call ‘pain’? The flame that burned my finger. The flame burns the candle. Nonetheless, I am the one hurting. Brain. (Pause.) I wonder, what we call the brain, is that what I want or is it a necessary evil? Can't the brain do more than dress up what I want? Can't it show me the logic of what I want and make it serve the truth of my time and the interest of the people? When will we finally learn what all these things mean? What does it mean to painstakingly peel off the skins of an onion one by one? Whenever I reached the end (p.255) part, I did not find anything. But if you're in a hurry and your nails happen to dig into the onion's flesh, you may end up crying. (Pause.) So then? Better to stay on the surface. To stay with observations. In two hours from now, the day will break. Yes, finally, something that is certain. Until now, the sun has never fooled us. In two hours, Andronikos will have died. Until now, a corpse has always been a sure thing. (Pause.) In two hours, I will be saying ‘Fire!’ Pulsating vibrations in my vocal chords. The sound travelling to the ears of our fighters. Their nerve centre. The reflex known from previous times. The index finger of their right hands will bend. A force pulls the trigger. From there on, it's a matter of the rifle shooting straight, a matter of the orbit of the bullet, a matter of its perforating capacity. Without any ‘why’, you come to the corpse of Andronikos. Crystal clear. Like a mirror. (He takes a mirror and looks at himself.) I haven't shaved in days. Black hairs grow from my nostrils. Underneath my eyes begins the first middle‐age spread. Why don't you look me straight in the eye? Is there anything left? And what do I care how Andronikos will feel? Can I split myself into two pieces perhaps? Until now, nobody has split in two pieces. And even if you were to shove your hand in a belly ripped open by shell fragments, you wouldn't feel the pain. Our flesh is a bad conductor of someone else's pain. So then? What are you beating yourself up for? (Pause.) And if all those things are nothing more than an excuse? If I say that I cannot split myself Page 19 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English in two pieces only because I don't want to, because I cannot bear to suffer, because I do my best to keep up my defences? (He takes out his pistol.) Why, for instance, should I not execute my hand? Yes. Say that your hand is Andronikos. Like this—put it upright—to wait for the fire. Try hard now to think it through. Try hard to feel it. You don't sense anything? The shivering in your back? Maybe the northern wind picked up? It is summer. And that knot that comes up in your throat? Is it that you hesitate to pull the trigger? Is it that your hand is afraid? Try hard then. Try hard. Feel it. (He fires. Klearchos comes running in, ready to pull his pistol from its case.) KLEARCHOS (Casting a glance around.) Captain, it sounded like a bullet was shot. You are bleeding! NIKODIMOS (Bandaging his hand with a kerchief.) I was cleaning my pistol and it fired. It only scraped my thumb. It's nothing. Get out, I said. (p.256) KLEARCHOS As per your command, Captain. (He leaves.) NIKODIMOS So? Another hollow onion. And I did not even cry. (Pause. The church bell rings four times. Klearchos enters.) KLEARCHOS Captain, begging your pardon, that is. NIKODIMOS What's happening again? KLEARCHOS Between us, I didn't understand very well. From what I know, wills are drawn up by those who have something to leave behind. NIKODIMOS Wills? KLEARCHOS Page 20 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Yes. That's the word they left me with. Andronikos, they say, wants to see you. To state his will to you. If you ask me for my simple opinion, I say it must be some ruse. But then again, you never know. So I said that I would tell you, for you to arrange it as you see fit. NIKODIMOS Tell them to bring him over. Tied up. KLEARCHOS Will do, Captain. (He leaves.) NIKODIMOS My hand is hurting. I may not be feeling well. And in one hour, I will have to stand straight, and my voice will have to be strong and unwavering, for the ‘Fire!’ to be heard like the blow of a hammer. (Pause. Andronikos enters with his hands tied behind his back. He is accompanied by two guards, who leave at a nudge from Nikodimos.) I am listening. Or maybe you want a piece of paper? ANDRONIKOS No. This is not a will. NIKODIMOS You fooled me. ANDRONIKOS However you want to take it. I came to ask you a question. It is the only thing that I can leave you with. (Pause.) But, before that, I would want my trial to be held over again. (p.257) NIKODIMOS Never. ANDRONIKOS Yes. I know. The decision is one of those that cannot be retracted. I've accepted it. It's a dead man talking to you. However, something is still pending. Something I still want to clear up. Maybe you want that, too, to resolve something—

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English NIKODIMOS Nothing. I am certain about everything. ANDRONIKOS I want my trial to be held over again, now that I can speak about myself like I would speak about a third person. Read the indictment. NIKODIMOS You deserted the frontline in the face of the enemy. You are guilty of high treason. ANDRONIKOS All the companies retreated. NIKODIMOS They received a command from me. ANDRONIKOS You had sent me the same command. NIKODIMOS How do you know? The messenger was killed on the way. ANDRONIKOS Right. I obeyed your command. NIKODIMOS You never received it. Therefore, in essence, you disobeyed an unwritten law. Our fighters wage war until their last breath. ANDRONIKOS For no reason? I did not desert my position. I retreated in good order. (Pause.) Come to the substance, Nikodimos. You cannot have sought my death because the messenger was killed on the way. NIKODIMOS What if I had not sent him? What if the command for you, specifically, was to fight there, until your last man?

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANDRONIKOS Come to the substance. Why did you ask for the death penalty? (p.258) NIKODIMOS It was not just me alone. There were three other judges. ANDRONIKOS They put their trust in you. Come to the substance. NIKODIMOS You are a selfish individualist. ANDRONIKOS And who is not? NIKODIMOS Many. Or at least they don't say it. They don't say it because they believe that they are not. But you said so: ‘I want a home, furniture. I risk my life for myself’. ANDRONIKOS You overheard us. NIKODIMOS Yes. (Pause.) You're thinking of Antigone. She said things that are a lot worse than what you said. Is that what you're thinking? ANDRONIKOS Maybe. NIKODIMOS I made her say those things to you. ANDRONIKOS The only way to make the other take off his mask is to pretend that you're taking off your own. (Pause.) So be it. Why do you care that I risk my life for myself? I fought well, I even got a medal and stars. NIKODIMOS Page 23 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English He who sees our struggle as a piece of furniture that he wants for his own lazy comfort could also cast aside our struggle like a piece of furniture. He may discard our struggle when he sees that the springs aren't as soft as he likes them to be. Somebody who chases after furniture like that has nothing to tie him to the people. If he has not betrayed the people yet, he may betray them at any moment. If we don't want to be playing with words, he already is a traitor. ANDRONIKOS So be it. Convict me for being an individualist. Don't call me a traitor. NIKODIMOS What are you beating yourself up for? By calling you a traitor, I avoid having to give explanations to those who see only black and white. (p.259) Why sift through this? Could you give me your word that you will forever remain loyal to the struggle? Can you be certain about just this much: that, for you, the struggle will never stop being the piece of furniture that you seek? ANDRONIKOS No. I am not certain about anything. (Pause.) It looks like you're right. One needs absolute certainty to know where to step. Loyalty is the only sure thing. And the dead body. (Pause.) Truth. Why do you plan to leave me unburied? Why must anyone who dares to bury me be punished by death? NIKODIMOS I want to test the loyalty of my people. (Pause.) I want to be sure that they believe that you are a traitor. That they don't have regrets, that is to say, doubts. ANDRONIKOS Right. And you are still wavering. You won't be coming to the execution. NIKODIMOS Who—who told you that? ANDRONIKOS (Pointing with his right hand as if he was never tied up.) You hurt yourself. NIKODIMOS Out, you scum. Traitor. Klearchos! Klearchos! Page 24 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English KLEARCHOS (Rushing in.) Your orders, Captain. (He stands at attention. Andronikos moves toward the door. He stands next to Klearchos.) NIKODIMOS Throw him out. Kick him out. With the bayonet. With whatever you have. (Klearchos continues to stand at attention.) So? Why doesn't he leave? KLEARCHOS (Still standing at attention.) I am kicking, Captain. I am kicking like an unbridled mule. By the gods and the stars, I am kicking. I am breaking out in a sweat as I am kicking. But he is very cold, frozen, Captain. I bet you that my boots hurt me more than his buttocks hurt him. (p.260) NIKODIMOS What else does he want that he does not leave? Ask him what else he wants. KLEARCHOS The captain is asking what else you want that you do not leave? Answer, you Judas. ANDRONIKOS Let me see Antigone. NIKODIMOS It's late. In a quarter of an hour, the day will break. We don't have the time to send her a message. ANDRONIKOS For a last favour. In a quarter of an hour, I die. NIKODIMOS Let her come. (Pause. Antigone enters.) ANDRONIKOS Tell her about the execution.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English NIKODIMOS I was cleaning my pistol, I hurt myself. It's nothing serious, but I may not be feeling well. Antigone, I grant you the honour of giving the order to fire. You deserve it. ANTIGONE I? Andronikos? (As if she sees Andronikos for the first time.) You! Never. I do not believe that he is a traitor. Anything else but not a traitor. I refuse. ANDRONIKOS Keep focused on living. Careful. Be very careful. I want to know that you will live. I want to know that the trees that we looked at together, the bread that we waited for together, the bullets that we counted together won't be lost. And then, think about it, if it won't be you [giving the order to fire], it will be somebody else. There is no other way. You know it. (Almost romantically.) Tell me that you will come. Do you remember that you said to me: ‘I will be the first to kill you if I learn that you are a traitor’. ANTIGONE But I do not believe that you are a traitor. ANDRONIKOS It will be easier for me. Tell me that you will come. Let it be your voice that I will hear last. (p.261) ANTIGONE I'll come, Andronikos. (Klearchos takes him by the arm and they leave.) NIKODIMOS Andronikos! ANDRONIKOS (He steps back in.) Yes? NIKODIMOS The question. You did not tell me the question. ANDRONIKOS Page 26 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English What difference does it make? In five minutes, I die. NIKODIMOS But I will live. ANDRONIKOS When I made up my mind, when I accepted the fact that there was no escape, then I asked myself if words have meaning. I came to get your answer. NIKODIMOS (Almost with agony.) So? ANDRONIKOS Have a good life, Nikodimos. NIKODIMOS I hope you die well and I hope you die clean. (Andronikos leaves. Nikodimos by himself, looking at Antigone.) If at least I were in love with her, maybe then all these things would have some meaning. Some palpable meaning. If at least I wanted to sleep with her, I would be holding on to a body. (Pause.) Don't think. So this candle cannot stay extinguished even for two minutes, this candle that rummages through all the corners, that searches behind the cabinets, underneath the beds, to find a piece of dry bread from last year, a torn piece of paper, a mouldy cigarette butt. So not even for two minutes? (Pause.) Palpable? Isn't the well‐being of the others palpable then? An extra hour of sleep in the morning, three extra bites of bread, a more carefree kiss at night, can't you see all those things? Won't you have contributed something, you too, for all of that to happen? Won't you have your share in it, you too? But, in what way do I differ then from Andronikos? (Suddenly to Antigone.) In what way do I differ then from Andronikos? (p.262) ANTIGONE Andronikos happens to fall in with the others, because that's in his interest. You try hard to move closer to the others, because that's in the interest of the others. NIKODIMOS So what are you waiting for? Go and wake up the execution squad.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANTIGONE As per your command, Andronikos.1 (She leaves. Pause. The first rays of the sun light up the room. Nikodimos extinguishes the candle and falls on his bed.) Scene Eight

(An empty stage with faint lighting. Antigone enters from the right. Women enter from the left.) WOMEN The Germans killed my husband. All I have left is a closed jack‐knife. Mine died in a cell. All I have left are his fingerprints on the table. We returned to our rooms, with a man's laughter buried somewhere, like the old coins that the grocer won't take any more. It's easy to get to know a woman who is trying hard to open the jack‐knife, a woman who does not wipe off the table so that his fingerprints won't be lost. And as time passed, we let our hand rest on the shoulder that leaned against our arm. As time passed, the men's names were forgotten. We did not say any more: ‘my husband’. We started to say: ‘our soil’. ANTIGONE A little soil is what I want to give to him. A little warmth in the soil and in our hearts. WOMEN Be careful not to stay alone. If you stay alone, you die. (p.263) ANTIGONE Come with me then. Let's go and bury him, so the jackals won't eat him. WOMEN Nikodimos ordered that he must remain unburied. Nikodimos is fighting the Germans. The Germans killed my husband. My husband died in a cell. I am on the side of Nikodimos. Whatever he says is well said. (The lights dim. A spotlight falls on the side where the women were standing previously; now a man there is lying in his bed. Antigone kicks him and prods him.) ANTIGONE Wake up! Page 28 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English THE MAN Hey? What? What's happening? An alarm? ANTIGONE Yes. Well, no. The Germans haven't attacked yet. THE MAN Well then? Let me sleep. ANTIGONE Andronikos has not been buried yet. THE MAN Good thing. ANTIGONE That's not right. He was not a traitor. Is it not for justice that we are fighting? Is it not for the truth that we are getting killed? THE MAN And how do you know that? How dare you say that he was not a traitor? Since the military tribunal convicted him, since he was executed—since, you, did you not give the order to fire? ANTIGONE He begged me to. Nevertheless, he was not a traitor. Anything else you want, but not a traitor. Let's go and bury him. Let's go and throw a handful of earth on him—like this. Not for him; it doesn't matter any more for him. But for us, to show the others—and ourselves first—that we understand, that we see. THE MAN You tired me out! Leave me in peace and let me get some sleep. Count yourself lucky that I can't be bothered now that I feel so sleepy, (p.264) otherwise I would go straight to Nikodimos. Whoever cares for traitors, whoever talks to them, is a traitor, too. (He turns over on his other side and the spotlight dims. Immediately afterward, the spotlight lights up another side of the stage where a woman is sleeping. Antigone approaches her and prods her.) Page 29 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANTIGONE Wake up! THE WOMAN What's happening? Did they put the house on fire? ANTIGONE Yes…Well, no…It's me, Antigone. THE WOMAN (Rubbing her eyes.) Ah, you, the nurse, the educated one. So? ANTIGONE Andronikos has not been buried. The jackals may come down any moment to eat him. I was thinking, it's a pity in the eyes of God. THE WOMAN Which God? Weren't you the one to tell us that God does not exist? ANTIGONE It want to say that it is not right. They executed him alleging that he was a traitor, even though he was not. And, therefore, I want you to help me to go and bury him. THE WOMAN Bah, help you? Now you remember me? For so many years you didn't condescend to talk to us, the low‐class women. You, you see, you have lived in the city. You even finished high school. Why would you stoop to chatting with us? You told us only what they told you to say to us. You've always acted like a schoolmistress…But, hang on. What's it to you if Andronikos remains unburied? For my Fotis, was there anyone to bury him perhaps? They say that the Germans turned him into soap. Ah, apparently Mario was right when she told me that you had something going on with Andronikos. That's why it means so much to you, and you try as hard as you can, don't you? Now you remembered him? By my faith, this is unheard of. You kill him off, you give the order to fire. And now you get it into your head to bury him, and you want to get me in trouble as well. Leave me alone. As you made your bed, so must you lie on it. And I want what's good for you. Leave that all behind and go and get some sleep, even as you made your bed. We have nothing left any more but sleep. Page 30 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English (p.265) (She turns over on her other side and the spotlight dims. Immediately afterward, the spotlight lights up the middle of the stage. Antigone by herself.) ANTIGONE So, there is nothing left but for me to proceed. There is no point any more in me hesitating and talking, and my voice echoing like it's saying to the trees: ‘I will tell you later’. Now that I know that the lilac will never again be so bushy, now that I know that I am leaving without there ever being a ‘later’. Scene Nine

(A prison cell. All three walls and the roof. In the back, a window with bars. The last rays of the sun fall aslant on the left wall, where the door is. Below the window, some straw. Antigone, with her hair loosely flowing down her back, is sitting down. Klearchos enters with a slice of bread and a plate.) KLEARCHOS I brought you something to munch on. (He puts it down.) You don't have an appetite, right? Why would you. I've never quite understood it—why do they insist on feeding people who will die the next night? It seems, though, that that's the right thing to do. (Pause.) If you think it through, we are all in for the same. You know the time and the place with certainty. That's something, too. ANTIGONE Perhaps. KLEARCHOS Perhaps, maybe, likely, probably. We walk all year long, and all we do is lose the path. (Pause.) Tell me honestly, why did you do it? ANTIGONE What? KLEARCHOS What got into you, I ask, and you went and buried Andronikos? He was dead anyway. A dead man doesn't agonize over who will eat him. If you were to ask me, I'd prefer the birds. You're done with it a bit sooner. ANTIGONE

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English What difference does it make? (p.266) KLEARCHOS How would I know? Maybe I got bored out there guarding you. Maybe I got tired of always being outside of some place and guarding something. (Pause.) What was the corpse to you? ANTIGONE I wanted to state a truth. Perhaps that is what stating the truth means: I bury a corpse. KLEARCHOS All your schooling has left your head in complete shambles. I am not saying anything. Our words are inadequate. They don't suffice us when we speak. I heard that somewhere out there beyond the seas they have, they say, a separate word for a newborn goat, another word for when it is one year old, and yet another one if it does not become pregnant within one year, and a separate word again—Yes, words are a different matter. You now got to talking to dead bodies. Good luck, best of luck, that is, and forgive me for sticking my nose in your business. But the labour is hard, how can I put it? Digging pits, burying, shovelling—and then all the sweat that you pour. Where are the dead bodies to be found? I, for one, I'd have to find a whole land full of dead people for me to say what I told you. ANTIGONE Well, if you say so. KLEARCHOS Yes. That's what I wanted to tell you. I wouldn't consider all the labour, if only I could say what I want. But here you say one word and then, snap! You cut your throat. What kind of business is this? (Pause.) I bet that you've come to regret it. ANTIGONE Even before I set out I had come to regret it. KLEARCHOS Then why did you do it? Did you lose it perhaps? ANTIGONE (Very simply.) No. Did you ever have the luck to drink wine? Page 32 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English KLEARCHOS Yes, before the war. ANTIGONE And did you ever get angry after drinking wine? (p.267) KLEARCHOS I've even started brawls. ANTIGONE Now try to remember when you raised your hand— KLEARCHOS Well, right. That's always how it happens. I had raised my glass and I was saying that I'd bring it ever so gently to my mouth to drink the last drops. And then, as if something had grabbed me by the hand, I saw the glass hit Nicholas's face. And Nicholas was a friend of mine. We ate bread together and we fought together. The Germans killed him on the last day of the war. An exceptionally brave fellow, Nicholas. (Pause.) Were you drunk? Is that what you want to say? ANTIGONE Something like that. Something had gotten a hold of me, too. Something that I did not know how else to call it, and I called it truth. It had grabbed me, and I believed in it. KLEARCHOS You left me confused again. If you believed in it, then you wanted it. Nobody had gotten a hold of you then. ANTIGONE That's what it means to believe in something. I feel that something is taking a hold of me and I cannot escape it. (Pause.) Sultry weather tonight. (She takes off her uniform and is left wearing a torn shirt.) KLEARCHOS (After he looks at her for a while.) It's a pity of your youth. (Pause.) If you ask me, I would do some self‐criticism. If need be, I'd even unbury that dead body. Whatever you do, it's a pity for such a body in its prime to go to Page 33 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English waste. You'll see that Nikodimos will forgive you if you say that you were at fault. He didn't say that clearly, but I'm sure. (Pause.) It would be preferable if you were felled by a German bullet. At least not a waste. (He sits down close to her.) Listen. If you want to leave— ANTIGONE To go where? KLEARCHOS To go and live. Are you saying that you don't have anywhere to go? You have an entire autumn before you, and a winter—until April, for sure. (He moves closer to her and takes her hand.) I read a booklet the other day. In the Bastille, it says, they had a princess and they were (p.268) going to cut off her head. Then she told them that she was pregnant. They left her alone and she lived. You can live until April. Until then, a thousand things can happen. Until then, you'll see the sun some three hundred times, you will eat bread, you will drink water, you will breathe, you will sleep with me— ANTIGONE (With disgust.) With you! KLEARCHOS I want what's good for you. You will die anyway. And I, and you, and all of us. Why are you in a rush to die? We will turn into worms and manure. But why from now on? You have thrown away your life and you haven't learned. You haven't lived. You don't have time left. ANTIGONE With you! KLEARCHOS I can see it. Your blood is throbbing in your temples, your eyes glow. Your lips are moist. You want me. (Antigone spits at him.) And even your saliva. It tastes good, like what the tongue gives off when you bite it in the midst of a kiss. (Pause.) ANTIGONE With you? Does it have to happen with you? KLEARCHOS Page 34 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English With whomever. But who else will you find? There is nobody else. We always want the one who is out there. ANTIGONE And—and will they let me give birth? KLEARCHOS Yes. You will live for many months. We will live together. I'll bring you fresh straw. And a lamp for the night. I will leave the door half open for you to breathe a bit of fresh air. ANTIGONE And they will wait? KLEARCHOS Yes, they will wait for us. The booklet says so. ANTIGONE And the child? What will become of the child? (p.269) KLEARCHOS It will live. Children do not know. (He embraces her.) ANTIGONE No. No. KLEARCHOS Not yet? What are you waiting for? One night is all we have left. ANTIGONE (Entirely composed.) Your effort is a waste of time. I will become a mother even without you. KLEARCHOS (He jumps up.) You bitch. And you filled my mind with truths and hot air! With whom, you fool? Whose little bastard is it? ANTIGONE Andronikos's. Page 35 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English KLEARCHOS Together you betrayed us then. You slut! And I opened your eyes. Damn! But I will tell Nikodimos. He has no tolerance for things like that. So what if the booklet says so. You will die. Tomorrow already the people will crush you under their heel. Like a viper. Like a whore who has sold out to all the conquerors. Scene Ten

(In the room of Nikodimos. Nikodimos and the major.) MAJOR I don't understand any more at this point. The case of Andronikos has come to a close. Antigone has been executed. And yet you refuse again to go on the dangerous mission on which I am sending you. NIKODIMOS If it were a dangerous mission, I would go. What you propose to me, however, has no purpose to it. We will all get killed. Both I and the twelve soldiers that you're giving me. I have explained that to you also with the map. MAJOR In the past, you didn't look at maps. You took your machine gun, you cocked your cap, and you went on your way. (Pause.) But haven't you seen the soldiers then? Didn't you see them sitting there cross‐legged, (p.270) in small groups of two or three, cleaning their weapons, waiting for you to set out— NIKODIMOS They do not know where they're going, that's why. ‘We won't become acrobats who defy death. The sacrifice of our life has meaning only when it benefits the whole’. Who said that? MAJOR I did. And I insist that the mission on which I am sending you may succeed. And it is to our benefit, even if you all get killed. NIKODIMOS All those words are pretexts. You're trying to clear me out of the way. Soon enough I will become major.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English MAJOR How do you know that? NIKODIMOS That's my business. You're invoking my honour to get me out of the way. You're right. I am better than you. (He moves toward the door.) MAJOR Where are you going? NIKODIMOS To tell the company. MAJOR (Picking up the phone.) You won't have the time. They will have learned from me that I sent you on a mission and that you cowered. NIKODIMOS A coward, I? But the whole company swears by my name. You said so yourself. (Voices are heard beneath the room on the left. A spotlight falls on some five or six soldiers who are dragging along another soldier with his hands tied behind his back; he is dressed in a different colour of khaki. A soldier follows behind them on the side. There is also a sergeant. Nikodimos and the major watch the scene from the window.) FIRST SOLDIER Let's take him to the major. SECOND SOLDIER What do we want the cackle for? It is him, I tell you. His name is Stelios. He is the one who betrayed my father and they killed him. Why are we dallying? (p.271) ALL We don't have time to lose. Let's kill him on the spot. He is a traitor. I know him, too. SERGEANT Everything needs to be done with order. Who will kill him? Page 37 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ALL I will! I! SERGEANT Well then, we'll cast lots. (He takes off his cap.) Each one of you, throw in something of your own. And the traitor will draw. THIRD SOLDIER Yes, yes, let the traitor draw the lot. SERGEANT (To the traitor.) Turn over there so you can't see. (The traitor turns. To the soldier who was following from behind and who has not uttered a word until now.) Throw something in here that belongs to you. FOURTH SOLDIER I? No, I can't. SECOND SOLDIER He cannot kill a traitor. He is afraid of blood. ALL He is afraid. (They laugh.) FOURTH SOLDIER No, he is my brother, my twin brother and— FIRST SOLDIER Your brother? So, you're trying to save him. So you, too— FOURTH SOLDIER No, I know that he is a traitor. Because of him, my cousin also died. Nevertheless, why should it be me? Why should the lot fall to me? THIRD SOLDIER Hey, hang on. He chickened out, I tell you. He chickened out at the last moment. Otherwise, why did he drag himself over here? His twin brother and such nonsense. Twins look alike, or do they not look alike?

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English FIRST SOLDIER Of course. Like two drops of water. (p.272) THIRD SOLDIER Look at him. He is a head taller. Let me see, what colour eyes do you have? Black. You? Blue. Spitting images of each other and may they be safe from the evil eye! (They laugh.) SECOND SOLDIER And their hair. Look. Curly and brown—identical to this black and straight hair. (They laugh.) SERGEANT Let's not idle. Since he is afraid and does not want to, all the better. Each one of us will have an extra chance. (The soldiers throw something of their own in the cap.) TRAITOR (Always with his back turned to the soldiers.) Finish up at last. Yes, I am Stelios. But finish up. FOURTH SOLDIER No, I am not afraid. I will kill him. (He pulls out his pistol.) SECOND SOLDIER (Seizing his pistol.) Weapons are for men. You are not good enough for us. FOURTH SOLDIER (Pulling out a knife.) With my knife I will stab him in the heart. FIRST SOLDIER Knives are for those who have a heart. You are a coward. (He takes the knife from him.) FOURTH SOLDIER With my teeth. Let me cut his throat with my teeth. THIRD SOLDIER

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Cowards have their teeth only to chatter them from fear. You don't need them. (He punches him in the mouth and throws him down.) SERGEANT Hey, you. Turn over here. (The traitor turns.) Draw a lot. (The traitor draws a key.) FIRST SOLDIER My key! (He pulls out his pistol and shoots the traitor. At the same time the spotlight dims.) (p.273) MAJOR (Picking up the phone again.) Do you prefer that they break your teeth? (Long pause.) NIKODIMOS When do I need to set out? MAJOR At quarter to twelve. NIKODIMOS Have a good life, my major. MAJOR I hope you die well and I hope you die clean, Nikodimos. (Nikodimos turns to leave.) Wait. Take this envelope. There is a blank piece of paper inside. Tell your men that you will be opening the envelope when the time comes. All those who do not know take courage thinking that they are going ahead with orders under seal. —CURTAIN— Intermezzo

(From the far distance, music can be heard, full of nostalgia and bitterness. Little by little, the tune changes. It becomes faster, more joyful. It moves closer and breaks out in a dance. The curtain opens. It is a sun‐drenched early afternoon. Laughs and voices can be heard. A field with hay stacks. In the back,

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English to the left, a cart on four wheels. An old man enters. He stops in the middle of the stage. He shades his eyes with his hand and looks at the sky.) THE OLD MAN What got into my head down there? Come on, I say. Good riddance. Why are you looking at me? I am not a poet To lift you up like a bowl, To call you a watermelon slice, A shiny tin, The bonnet of my mind, And the plaything of the great wind. You tickle me and thrust yourself into my eyes. You singe my neck. You slip through the keyholes (p.274) And you unlock the books. Without you, nobody would be reading And they would not know anything. If they were not to know anything I would be the only one to know it all. (He wipes off his sweat.) You sickening creature. You found them out and they all took off with the wind. When they see me passing by, On foot and bleary‐eyed, They stand there and giggle. Why do they laugh? Is he laughable then,

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English He who has One pair of eyes, A pair of pants and a head, A mind, a brain, His intellect and his hat? I have become ridiculous. Whatever I say, they find it old‐fashioned. And you? Why don't you tell them? Why don't you tell them that I am honey from the mountain, The heart of the herb, A pure element, The soul of the stone? Only, at their every feast, They make me tell stories. They give me raki to drink To have me tell many stories, to ride upon Reeds and broomsticks, Tradition and deer. To have me deck myself out like a peacock And to have my tails sweep The droppings from the streets. Come on then. Detach yourself. Plunge down. I detest the noon light that stands still. Come on, pick up your feet, you wretch. The sun that will stand still Will roast us in a pan. Page 42 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English (Giggles can be heard and the old man hides behind a hay stack. Antigone and Stamatis run in from the back. They chase each other. Antigone climbs up on the cart.) (p.275) STAMATIS Come down. Why did you climb up there? ANTIGONE (She beats her fist on the palm of her hand.) I am not coming down, I am not coming down, I am not coming down. STAMATIS What fly has bitten you? What are you afraid of? (Young women and men begin to enter among the hay stacks. They watch, they whisper, they laugh furtively.) ANTIGONE You'll kiss me. STAMATIS (Kneeling down on his right knee.) My queen and my life, Do you want me to become a cloud, To bring you coolness, shelter? Do you want me to go around The earth three times and then once more, To find out what it is in the south That they give as a gift to their girlfriend, To learn how in the west They steal a smile, To find out how they say overseas ‘I love you’ and ‘I am dying’? (He gets up.) You don't want to? You will come to regret it. (He turns to leave.) Page 43 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANTIGONE Hey, wait. How do I get down from here? STAMATIS You jump. ANTIGONE I'll break a leg. STAMATIS Then stay put. ANTIGONE It will become dark and I will be all alone. Snakes and reptiles will come out, Spiders, crickets, and scorpions, (p.276) Weasels, moles. They bite! STAMATIS Take your choice. Do you want to be bitten at night Without a kiss? You'll have it. Do you want my kiss In the shadow of a hay stack, And biting at night? ANTIGONE Ach, my sun, you can see it. This is no way to make a choice. (She spreads out her arms to Stamatis. He helps her to climb down. He embraces her and they kiss.)

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English THE YOUNG WOMEN AND MEN Bravo, bravo. Outstanding. (Applause.) A YOUNG WOMAN When will the whole play be performed? Tonight? A YOUNG MAN If it is anything like the rehearsal—mind my words—it will be excellent. THE OLD MAN (He rushes out.) What are you babbling there? What are you saying? This is not theatre. I saw them, and they were not playing at all. How is it possible then Such a simplistic plot? On the stage floor You must call figs figs, Even if they are ripe figs. (They laugh.) So you see? That's what it means to play. The performer must jump, Must do somersaults, Must thrust out his brains. He must kick and Let his head roll through the field. He must take his noddle, too, (p.277) And do some nitpicking, And sift out the lice, And drive you out of your mind. (They laugh.) Page 45 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English You understood it well. One must know life For myth to stand on its feet. One must remain alone To become part of the crowd. A YOUNG MAN You show us the correct staging then. How was the scene of Stamatis and Antigone supposed to be played? Come on. I will be Stamatis. Anna here will be Antigone. THE OLD MAN You are what I need. But Anna does not suit me. Look, that blonde one. Just over eighteen years old. THE YOUNG MAN I want Anna. THE OLD MAN Am I or am I not the stage director? ALL (Applauding.) You are! You are! THE OLD MAN So then, silence. Go hide in the straw. Then, when I take off my hat, Come out again. You two, hold each other's hand, And listen very carefully To what the text says to you. (The young man and the blonde girl have reached the back of the stage. The old man follows behind them and prompts them.) Page 46 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English THE BLONDE GIRL Why did you bring me here? To be alone? THE YOUNG MAN I? Not at all. THE BLONDE GIRL Then what? To play hide‐and‐seek? Tag or prisoner's base? (p.278) What do you want? Next! Next! Catch me then. I got away from you. (She runs and the young man chases her half‐heartedly. The blonde girl climbs onto the cart. The old man takes off his hat.) THE YOUNG MAN What foolishness is that? Come on down. THE BLONDE GIRL What are you talking about? I am afraid. You want to kiss me. THE YOUNG MAN Who said such a thing? Quiet. They'll hear us. This is foul play. THE BLONDE GIRL That's what you call it? They all know it. You are a skirt chaser by birth. Your heart goes ‘tack’, Like when a high heel hits. Your mind goes ‘tick’, Like when a skirt flaps in the wind.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English THE YOUNG MAN Ah, you are shameless. Come on down. We'll become A plaything and a chortle for the dogs. They'll hang little bells on us. THE BLONDE GIRL I know you. Don't act Like you are the most upright man. Look, look at your moustache. It still has rouge on it. THE YOUNG MAN It's from eating blackberries—(To the old man.) Why did you stop? THE OLD MAN Lofty meanings Require time and a ladder. All very well. But the way we're going, How will I make her leap Into the arms of Stamatis? (p.279) THE YOUNG MAN And who told you that I want her to jump? THE OLD MAN I know. That's the rub. I must find a ruse, A deus ex machina, A machine from Olympus. That's it. A rain shower. A storm. Page 48 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English When I go ‘brrr!’ that means it's raining. Antigone will then jump, And you—to prevent her from falling— You will spread out your arms. Got it? Let's go. THE BLONDE GIRL Look at your moustache. It still has rouge on it. THE YOUNG MAN It's from eating blackberries, From tomato sauce, From summer wine, And red pepper— THE OLD MAN Brrr! (The blonde girl prepares to jump, but at that moment anti‐aircraft sirens can be heard. They all look around and look at the sky as if lost.) A YOUNG WOMAN Look. Look. Airplanes. Run, they'll see us. A YOUNG MAN Don't panic. To the stream. Quickly. (They scatter.) THE BLONDE GIRL Andonis, where are you leaving me? ANDONIS The play's finished. Jump any way you can. THE BLONDE GIRL

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Drop the jokes and come and help me. I'll break a leg. ANDONIS (He runs over and helps her to climb down. The blonde girl falls in his arms and they kiss.) Hmm. You are not a bad kisser. (p.280) ANNA Andonis, the airplanes. (They all run off.) THE OLD MAN (Alone.) You wretch. You were just getting into it. You, too, are going to the dogs. Now that I want your fire, You cower and run to hide like a hare. Forward then! You, too, put on the helmet. Kill and impale, Heap up bricks, hack down the nails, Let loose the horses. Make the faces of people Hang upside down, Like the lamps that have been put out. Ah, I'd give my eye To take your eye. Whatever you do, Antigone falls In the arms of Stamatis. —CURTAIN— Act Two Scene One

(The same stage set as in the first scene of the first act. Everything else related to the chorus of the women again applies.) CHORUS Page 50 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English The tracks of the tanks passed through our yards, and inside the tanks are our people. It is the neighbour with whom we used to chat in the evening, it's our brothers inside the tanks. They took our brothers and made them wear the helmet, an ashen helmet on their shoulders. They come in with their machine guns, they look at the pieces of plaster that fall from the walls, they look us in the eyes—they don't recognize us. My brother, what have they done to you to make you forget? What did they give you to drink to wipe out those mornings that came from the sea and refreshed our eyes? How did they fool you with a few trinkets? What beads did they promise you, what baubles and stars, to make you forget our nights? We close the doors, we clench our teeth, because the bad wind enters from everywhere. The (p.281) bad wind is inside our house. When the others were here, you knew how to protect yourself. You heard their boots approaching in the middle of the night, and you became one with the earth, one with the rifle. Our brothers, however, talk like us and walk like we do. Our men are afraid to sleep inside the house. Behind every door lurks the muzzle of a rifle. Behind the smile—including ours, my God, that, too—they don't trust it any more. One by one, two by two, they take the path up the mountain. How do they recognize each other, I wonder, in the dark? What signs do they have to entrust to one another their last breath? They're not telling us. They're in a hurry. What are they waiting for? Why don't they take us, too? If I understood it well, the signs are not that difficult. Whoever is heading up the mountain is with us. Whoever is hungry is with us. Our wells have dried up. What are we waiting for? Behind the fir trees, behind the stones, our men have rifles. What are we waiting for? Holed up behind the ashes of our houses, what are we waiting for? Scene Two

(A spotlight falls onto a desk. The policeman, the mother.) POLICEMAN I do it for the soul of my mother. May her bones be blessed where they are. MOTHER Ach, if only my son were like you. If only the whole world were like you. You will have my blessing. Every night, I will name you as I fall at the feet of the Saint of Mercy. Let God take away years from my good‐for‐nothing son and give them to you as days. (A police officer brings in Andronikos. Mother and son look at each other in silence.) POLICEMAN Why have you gone silent over there? Speak. What you promised. We have work to do. Page 51 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English MOTHER My son, don't look at me like that. I came for your own good, Andronikos. Necessity brought me, do you feel for me? You know our house, why am I telling you. But now, well—yesterday I sold my wedding ring. They cut off the water. ANDRONIKOS Tomorrow I leave, Mother. If you want to kiss me— (p.282) MOTHER You leave? Look how thin you've become, you foolish child. Twenty days in detention and your eyes have sagged, your hands have become yellow. Exile is not for you, my son, it's not for you. I, wretched woman that I am, know something, too. Your father went and he took years to return. But he, my dear son, was strong like a beast. He could take on three gendarmes. POLICEMAN Careful what you say! MOTHER He died, dear sir, he died, that's what I'm telling him. He came back with consumption from the prison island and he died. But my son does not remember, he was very small. ANDRONIKOS I remember. It rained on the day that we buried him. My shoe got stuck in the mud and I left it there. You dragged me by the hand. You did not listen to me. MOTHER What are you going to do then? What are you going to do? ANDRONIKOS I am going to find my shoe. POLICEMAN Drop the code words. I don't understand that business about the shoes. MOTHER

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Don't take offence at what he says, please, don't pay attention to him. He blurts out such talk to me all the time. He got an education, you see. I cut down on the food that I put in my mouth to buy books for him. And this is what I get? I let him study for so many years and now he pretends that he does not know how to put down a signature. ANDRONIKOS It's not that, Mother. You know that. MOTHER I do not know anything. I know that I don't have any hope in this world. My bones stick to my skin. I can barely keep my eyes open. I keep wandering about, and there is no door to knock on. I don't even have the courage any more to go begging. That I know. You used (p.283) to tell me that you were trying hard for the others. Isn't that what you used to tell me when, at night, you would come home weighed down by fatigue and with empty pockets? Why don't you try hard for me, too? Just a little bit. Am I not another human being? Put down your signature, for my sake, for the sake of my old age, that I, too, may find shelter, that I, too, may find warmth— ANDRONIKOS Mother! MOTHER Why do you even take that name in your mouth? You have long forgotten what it means. You've never learned what it means, my son. (She embraces him and secretly whispers in his ear.) Don't listen, silly child. You didn't believe that I am saying all of that with all my heart, did you? I had to do that for them to let me see you, to tell you that Antigone has reached the mountain. Courage. Yes, I know, she is a good girl. I will send you clothes, dried bread, cigarettes. We have our tears. You men, I know you, a cigarette does you good. POLICEMAN Finish up. MOTHER (Stepping backward.) You don't want to listen, do you? Merciless, heartless son, you snake. Why don't you take him so that I won't see him any more. Take him, take him, let him go off to an island where he won't have water, the whole year round. (Softly.) Don't fall into some well and hurt yourself, Page 53 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English my son. To an island that doesn't have a single green tree. (Softly.) Don't sleep in the shadow of the fig tree and have something happen to you, my dear son. To an island where our letters won't arrive, either. (Softly.) I wish that you won't learn that I have died and feel resentment, my eagle. (Shouting.) Take him then. Take him so I won't see him any more. Scene Three

(Two walls of a room of a city home. On the left, a door. In the back, a window and a divan, a table with a petrol lamp that has been lit. Maria on her knees next to the divan lulls a child to sleep. The lullaby is the same as that of the equivalent scene of the first act [scene four]. Pause. Stratis enters. He takes off his raincoat and his hat and puts them on the table.) (p.284) STRATIS Did he fall asleep? (Whispering for the entire dialogue.) MARIA Yes, Stratis. He looks like he has calmed down a bit. STRATIS I brought some powdered milk. And two aspirins. MARIA He is burning up. His lips are cracked. He is in bad shape. STRATIS Show some patience, Maria. MARIA Until when? (Pause.) If only we were up the mountain. There you have a rifle. I cannot wait any longer with crossed hands. STRATIS Here, too, we're fighting. MARIA Andronikos is up the mountain. He escaped from his place of exile and now he is a colonel. Some time ago you worked together. If you wanted— STRATIS

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English And the child? All my folks were shot down, they are in prison or in exile. Your folks do not want to know you. MARIA Something has to happen. Think. In the past you used to think. (Pause.) I cannot hold out any longer. And at night, that's why I can't and turn my back to you. STRATIS I am thinking. The whole time, that's what I am thinking. It's impossible. There is the child. Here, too, we're fighting. We're good here, too. In our position. (Pause. Abruptly.) Why didn't you abort the baby back then? Then we would be free now. MARIA Don't shout. You'll wake him up. STRATIS (Whispering.) I had told you back then already. He shouldn't have lived. (p.285) MARIA Yes, you said so, Stratis. (Pause.) She gasps. (Pause.) Stratis! I am afraid. He looks like he's not just sleeping. He is sinking deeper. If only a doctor could see him, maybe he would give him something. STRATIS With what money? With what identity card? MARIA If you tell him that it's very serious, maybe he will come. If you go to another neighbourhood, you can give out a false name. Why are you looking at me? Go, I tell you. STRATIS At such an hour of the night. (Nevertheless, he puts on his hat, he throws his raincoat over his shoulders, and goes out. Pause. Two gunshots are heard. Maria runs to the window. She opens it and looks outside. Then she is about to close the shutters. She looks at the child. She remains motionless for a short while, and in the end she leaves the window open. She goes to the child and takes Page 55 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English the covers off its body. Then she turns her back to the child and stares vacantly ahead. The lights dim. When they turn back on, everything is as before. The tired steps of Stratis can be heard from the stairs. Maria hurriedly closes the window. She covers up the child. Stratis enters.) MARIA He won't come? STRATIS It's not even needed. I told him about the symptoms, the red spots that he has on his cheeks. ‘He is breathing his last’, he tells me, ‘I'd come to do what?’ ‘Besides, you are an outlaw’, he says to me, ‘why should I get into trouble in vain? To watch the child dying?’ ‘That you can do yourself’, he tells me. ‘When you see that his eyes have turned red, that they've become all bloodshot, that means that the end can come at any moment’. (He does not dare to look for himself.) Are his eyes red, Maria? Open his eyelids. (Maria stretches out her hand to the eyes of the child. At the same moment the wind blows the window open.) MARIA They're red, Stratis. But, since the doctor said so, that means that it wouldn't have made a difference, right? That means that, one way or another— (p.286) STRATIS But, you, you seem relieved! Close the window! Why did you open it? MARIA I didn't open it. The wind opened it, Stratis. (She gets up hurriedly and closes it.) Why—why are you looking at me like that? STRATIS You opened it! MARIA He would have died one way or another. You said so yourself. STRATIS

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English I did not say so. Fokas said so. That so‐called friend of mine, that so‐called doctor. And what if all his words were just excuses? What if he was simply afraid, and said all that just to get rid of me? But you, you, why did you open the window? Why is it so cold in here? MARIA What difference does it make now? He would have died one way or another, and now—to put it simply—he died. Stop looking at me like that! STRATIS You killed him. You killed him yourself. MARIA But, you wanted it that way. From the beginning. He shouldn't have lived. You said so from the moment when— STRATIS Don't try to throw the responsibility on me. My hands are clean. I said that he shouldn't live when he wasn't born yet. That's a different matter. What you did is murder. MARIA When I asked you to go and get a doctor, I thought we were agreed. STRATIS No, no! It didn't cross my mind for a moment that—I, on the contrary, went out and risked my life—You know full well that at the time that I went out, between nine and ten, they could have stopped me and asked me for my identity card. Why would I have gone out if we were agreed? MARIA Well, let's agree now then. Stratis, we're finally free. We can leave. I couldn't stand it to wait for death with crossed hands. We had to (p.287) move forward, just like when, in Smyrna, my folks had to move forward. They smothered my little brother, who was a baby, so he wouldn't give them away with his crying. Come on, Stratis, tell me that I did the right thing. Tell me that this, too, was a sacrifice for the struggle. You know that, if we don't leave the day after tomorrow with the last mission, we will never leave. If we don't leave, sooner or later they'll arrest you. Then, from the moment that they'll put you in handcuffs, you will belong to the dead. You heard Argyris. Did you not hear him say: ‘Think it over and make up Page 57 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English your minds. Either the day after tomorrow or never’? That's what he told us. Come on, Stratis, smile at me. (She approaches him pleading.) STRATIS Don't touch me. You're trying to burden me with half of the responsibility. I, for my part, I never wanted it. MARIA No, I accept it. All the responsibility is mine. All his blood is on me. Only to get away and, you know, I feel like all is behind me now. Now we can sleep cuddled closely together, as we always liked to do, now we can— (Stratis pushes her aside and, with a slap, throws her onto the divan, next to the child.) STRATIS You whore! That's what this is all about. So you can sleep with me. (He throws himself onto her raising his hand to slap her again, but instead he embraces her and kisses her passionately.) You love me that much? MARIA You smiled. We are free. Scene Four

(The wall of a village home. Nikodimos and Andronikos. A Table. Two chairs.) NIKODIMOS I insist on the horses. Without horses— ANDRONIKOS We need them elsewhere, Captain Nikodimos. NIKODIMOS Not a whole lot of time has gone by since you came out of exile. (p.288) ANDRONIKOS So? NIKODIMOS And I am fifteen years older than you. Even though you are a major and you can give the orders, I am telling you frankly that without horses— Page 58 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANDRONIKOS I do not give out orders because the opportunity presented itself to me. I give orders because there is no other way. You should have understood that. (Pause.) Will you drink a raki? NIKODIMOS No. (Pause.) Is there anything else? ANDRONIKOS No, nothing. Or, rather, I had Antigone transferred to my battalion. You fought with her. What impression did you get? NIKODIMOS If they were all like her, perhaps we would already have won. ANDRONIKOS You hold her in such high esteem? NIKODIMOS Yes. All of them fight. I can say that they are not afraid, that at the very least. That they are willing to risk their own lives. You can see that all the time. But, there is something special about Antigone. With her, you feel something different. ANDRONIKOS Like what? NIKODIMOS That something extra, I think, is her willingness to give up even life without getting anything back, not even the posthumous glory. ANDRONIKOS Thank you. We were, well, you know—in Athens, we were about to get married. Scene Five

(Moonlight. Andronikos and Antigone are sitting underneath a tree. Andronikos holds a mask in his hands.) (p.289) ANTIGONE Page 59 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Andronikos? ANDRONIKOS Yes? ANTIGONE There is something—How is it, Andronikos, that something can be last and, at the same time, be first? ANDRONIKOS If from the last thing something else takes its beginning— ANTIGONE No, don't talk to me in the language of books. I was talking about this night, about my voice that you are hearing, about your breath, about this night, our last one. ANDRONIKOS Our last one? ANTIGONE Tomorrow's battle will be uneven. It's possible that— ANDRONIKOS That can happen any time. ANTIGONE Yes, but now it's so close—and you are so close to me. And then again, how is it possible, Andronikos? As if this is not the end. I try to envision my body riddled with bullets and I cannot do it. So many have fallen around me, and I still cannot do it. From the bloodied uniforms I have taken letters that they did not have time to send, and I sent them. I have taken a piece of dry bread from their rucksacks and have eaten it. (Pause.) You don't have anything to say? Once we were talking about getting married. Do you remember? ANDRONIKOS We are still talking about that, Antigone. ANTIGONE Page 60 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Honestly, would you say that we are compatible? Why aren't you answering? ANDRONIKOS (Aside.) She wants me to answer. She wants me to tell her lies. She wants to hear what she is waiting for. I will put on my mask knowing full well which face she is eager to see. Easy and cheap. A clear case of (p.290) wrongful impersonation. So, I do not love her. Who said so? For me to go as far as to impersonate somebody else, that means that I am capable of sacrificing even my true self in order to win her love. So I love her more than I love myself. In spite of all that, I am suffering. Oh, if only she could love me as I am! ANTIGONE Why aren't you answering? ANDRONIKOS If we are compatible! Count whatever you want. Our height, our age, our eyes, and the way we live. Count— ANTIGONE Drop the rhetoric. Let's talk as if we were to die tomorrow. As if we were talking for the last time. ANDRONIKOS Agreed. So? ANTIGONE Well, I constantly have the impression that, from the moment that we met up again—I want to say, you've never entirely opened up your eyes, perhaps because you keep your eyebrows close all the time. And it always seems as if something is keeping us separated—something that I cannot put my finger on. Nonetheless, somewhere it must exist between the two of us. So I thought of asking you: take off your mask, Andronikos, tonight, which is perhaps our last time together. I want to know. ANDRONIKOS (Half laughing.) Why not. Here it is. Look. ANTIGONE Your eyes are dark. They're angry. Proud. Page 61 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANDRONIKOS They are. I am fighting for something good and just. I am proud of the struggle that I am waging. ANTIGONE (Aside.) Again, he scares me. That pride. Almost a hatred, or not? He looks like he is smiling. ANDRONIKOS (Aside.) I scared her. I must smile. (He puts on the mask.) (p.291) ANTIGONE For the struggle you risk your head every night? ANDRONIKOS For what else? So we won't lose more children such as that of Stratis and Maria. So that they will have enough to eat who are today in exile, who can't take it to be kicked around at every crossroads, to be asked for their identity cards every Sunday.2 ANTIGONE And you? ANDRONIKOS It is enough for me to see the others free of worries. To hear them speak like we speak today at the illegal meetings, in the detention cells, on the mountain, so that they may at last say out loud that bread means sweat and that hope is their bread. It is enough for me that I'll know that they are at any moment ready to sing. For themselves, Antigone. Me—they may have forgotten me, and let it be. They may never have known me to then forget me, because I, I have found my home in the home of the others. (Pause.) When the Germans were in Athens, the crews went out at night and wrote on the walls. In the dark, you could not distinguish the houses, so you wrote a good slogan below all of the windows. And when the patrol arrived, you went into the first door that you could find before you. ‘Good evening’, you said. ‘Good to see you. You are late. We were just saying that we should put your plate away’. (Pause.) Later on, we placed lookouts on the corners. A young man and a girl. When a German came by, they would kiss, and he would not pay any attention to them. ANTIGONE Page 62 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English That must have been nice. ANDRONIKOS They would kiss but it would be faked. Do you want me to show you? (Pause.) Listen. He is coming. He is dragging his boots. His bayonet is beating against his belt. Attention! (He embraces her and kisses her.) (p.292) ANTIGONE That's how you fake a kiss? ANDRONIKOS Yes. Why? (He has taken off his mask.) ANTIGONE Because it looked to me like it was for real. ANDRONIKOS No. Look what's for real. (He kisses her again.) ANTIGONE That was for real? ANDRONIKOS I love you, Antigone. ANTIGONE I don't understand any more. I am all confused. It's as if I have been drinking wine. The words don't have meaning any more, and I no longer have a need for words. Kiss me again, for real. I won't ask you any more questions, Andronikos. Scene Six

(A room of a village home. A table, a candle. Andronikos lying in a bed. He is sleeping. Pause. He turns over on his other side. Pause. He gets up and lights the candle.) ANDRONIKOS The roosters have gone crazy. That's how far we are into the night? (Pause.) I wonder, is it the daybreak that makes the roosters crow, or do perhaps the roosters with their crowing make the daylight break? Page 63 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Nonsense. Fantasy. An inversion of cause and result. I wonder, too, what we call the brain, is it perhaps a mechanism that registers and justifies our actions? And then that basement underneath our heart, with its barrels of must that is fermenting all the time but that isn't likely to ever become wine, that basement—ach, lay the books aside. Books don't feel pain. They don't die. When the daybreak is your last one, then it's possible, yes, quite possible that the roosters bring it on, or the leaves that have begun to take on colour, or the bugs in your bed that start to withdraw into the cracks of the rotten wood. All those things you may notice, when you know that you will never see them again. And the crowing of the rooster might be stretched like a tight (p.293) rope that pulls the sun. It might, if you find yourself in Nikodimos's place. (Pause.) Of course. It does not hurt you to write a few words on a piece of paper and to put the paper in an envelope. Any minute now, Nikodimos will come and get it. It does not hurt you to tell him that he will go ahead with orders under seal. Why this whole comedy? Deep, deep inside you, you know that you don't have any order to give to him. You send him to Megalo Horio knowing full well that he will never return. So, put the piece of paper in the envelope just as it is. A blank piece of paper. (He puts the paper in the envelope.) But then, why are you sending him? Deep down— (There's a knock on the door.) Come in. (Nikodimos enters.) NIKODIMOS My brave young men are ready. In a quarter of an hour, we'll be setting out. I came for the final directives. ANDRONIKOS You'll be attacking Megalo Horio. NIKODIMOS We already said that. ANDRONIKOS You'll go as far as the church, on the central square. Then you'll open this envelope for further guidelines. (He gives it to him.) NIKODIMOS There is no ‘further’. Page 64 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANDRONIKOS What does that mean? NIKODIMOS Our mission ends in the village square. That's where they will throw our corpses. For people to come by and recognize us. ANDRONIKOS That is defeatism, at the very least. NIKODIMOS No, because I will be the first one to fall. Maybe they'll even nail my head to a stake. Keep the envelope. I have no need for blank pieces of paper. ANDRONIKOS You are snooping on me. You are watching through the keyhole. (p.294) NIKODIMOS No. (Pause.) Why are you sending me to Megalo Horio, Andronikos? ANDRONIKOS This is not the time for a council of war. When you arrive— NIKODIMOS Drop the big words. Why are you sending me? ANDRONIKOS You, why are you going, since you know that you won't be returning? NIKODIMOS At one time, I had a different name. I have long forgotten it. I changed it when I came here because I, too, had changed. In the beginning, when they spoke my name, I used to turn and look to see who had called me. Either I was afraid or I felt I merely stood for the strength of an entire group. But time passed and, slowly slowly, all the folks here in the free mountains started to say ‘Nikodimos’ whenever they wanted to say ‘bravery’. I no longer needed to turn my head every so often. My name was no longer solely mine; it was no longer a piece of me. It had become something separate. Until this name turned into something that was larger Page 65 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English than me. I no longer took it where I wanted it to go. It took me where it wanted me to go. (Pause.) And the day before yesterday, you came and said in front of all the captains: ‘If I were in Nikodimos's place, I'd make an assault on Megalo Horio’. And then my name says to me: ‘Why are you sitting there? Don't you understand that this is an order to set out?’ That's why I am going, Andronikos. ANDRONIKOS (Almost cheerfully.) So? You are going for yourself. For your own satisfaction. So that the day after tomorrow they won't say that Nikodimos recoiled from the danger. That's why? NIKODIMOS Why do you pretend that you don't understand? My name—I told you—is no longer mine. The young men swear by it; the women point to me and tell their children: ‘Try to become like him’. It is not me who is setting out for the assault on Megalo Horio. It is the best that this land around us has to offer. But you, why are you sending me? ANDRONIKOS Lately, we've had one defeat after the other. Nobody wants to believe that we will be overcome. Nonetheless, their eyes are heavy. They're (p.295) waiting for something. Something has to happen. I thought of you. The people believe that you can do anything. (Pause.) NIKODIMOS You don't believe that. ANDRONIKOS No. That's what I want to prove. It is as if I were to say: ‘Look, even Nikodimos could not succeed. So, why blame me?’ (Pause.) And then, there is also that last hope. When you lose your fields, you think that the enemy is still far away and you make do with the yard. When they take your yard away, you make do with the house. But when they take also your house away, you run and hide somewhere or—and that's what I am hoping for— you sharpen your claws and you attack with stones. You are their house. They must lose that, too, and then maybe they'll pounce. (Pause.) Otherwise, these stars on my shoulders are to be thrown out. I am a captain on a ship that is sinking. I have to try everything. First of all, nobody should see that we are drawing water, otherwise the ship's bridge won't have a place to rest upon.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English NIKODIMOS I almost feel sorry for you. Because you take pains only for yourself, you have your hands tied. What can you do on your own? If you were on the deck, you would see that, when you strive for the general good, when your desire is the desire of the many, then your personal advantage may also become a support to the others. (Pause.) But it's late. (He gets up; the candle goes out.) ANDRONIKOS Why did you extinguish the candle? NIKODIMOS You are raving. The daybreak extinguished the candle. It's becoming light. Don't you see it? (Indeed, the sun is coming in aslant through the window.) ANDRONIKOS Yes. Maybe I am a candle. (Pause.) I hope you die well and I hope you die clean, Nikodimos. NIKODIMOS Have a good victory, Andronikos. (He turns to leave.) ANDRONIKOS The envelope. You forgot the envelope. (p.296) NIKODIMOS Superfluous. ANDRONIKOS For you, yes. But what if your men ask you? NIKODIMOS I will tell them the truth. ANDRONIKOS You are crazy. Nobody will accept to go. (Pause.) NIKODIMOS Give me the envelope. Page 67 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Scene Seven

(A room of a village home. Daylight. Antigone, who is wearing a mask, is lying on a bed. A nurse, Maria, enters hurriedly. She is wearing a mask.) MARIA How are you doing? I must notify Olga. I, I have to go somewhere. What dress should I wear? ANTIGONE What am I to do with Olga? I don't need any nurses. My leg has recovered. The doctor is an old pedant. A dress, you said? What's up with you? MARIA But, of course. I was thinking of putting on a gypsy dress. Bah, they'll notice me. They may even impose on me to tell them their fate. A light blue dress. What do you say? Is the light blue too striking? But it will be night. And, of course, I will go from wall to wall. The moon is waning, and the electric lamps are broken—everything is destroyed—except for some candles in the church. But no, they must have closed the doors. For sure, they will have closed them. Is it true that they leave the doors open at night? The doors of the churches, I mean. ANTIGONE I don't remember, Maria. MARIA In that case, I'll go and extinguish the candles. And why should I not close the door? My God, I am drowning in a drop of water. But if anything happens, it's better to have the door open. So I can flee to the sanctuary. As long as you're in the church, they don't bother you. Isn't that the way it is? (p.297) ANTIGONE Not always. MARIA Why am I sitting here babbling? How could you possibly trust them? They enter wherever they want. And then, even if they leave me there inside, what will I eat? Perhaps the priest would bring me something to eat. Ah, bah, he's likely to be with them. The sexton? No, not him, either. He, too, would be with them. I'll eat the sacred bread, I'll drink the wine of the Page 68 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English communion, and after that? No, no, impossible. (Pause.) If only it wasn't in the central square. They must have lookouts, too. For sure, they'll have them. ANTIGONE They'll have them. They fear Nikodimos, even after he has been killed. MARIA Oh, no, that's not it. They issued a command that he must rot out there, so nobody will dare to bury him. And Andronikos spoke to us and told us that Nikodimos is a hero, that he was killed in the battle, on a mission that, if successful, would turn everything around for the better. But we, he said, must show that we don't give up. Somebody must go down to Megalo Horio and bury him. And he told us, yes he told us about the people, about our homes, about the sun. It was such a beautiful sight. And his eyes shone in the noon light, and one might have said that his eyes were full of joy. But I, who stood close to him, I noticed that his eyes filled with tears. And they were those small, those very small tears that weren't about to fall and that glistened in the light. ‘Who wants to go and bury Nikodimos?’ he then asked, as if he was granting them all a joyful morning. Three men stepped up, but he would not let them. ‘We need a woman to go. She'll pass more easily through the patrols’. That's what he said. ANTIGONE And then you stepped up. MARIA Yes. His eyes were filled with tears. I had forgotten that I would have to choose a dress. I had forgotten— ANTIGONE That you are afraid. MARIA No, no. Who said such a thing? I, I've given up my life for dead. It's just that—honestly, why didn't I think of it! With what will I dig the (p.298) pit? If I take a pick with me, they'll ask me: ‘You're coming back from your field at this late hour?’ Who works in the field at midnight? ANTIGONE You are afraid. Page 69 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English MARIA So what, what does it mean to be afraid? I am thinking. Am I not allowed to think? ANTIGONE You must. It's not from your words that I understood it. It's from your eyes. MARIA Yes. The more I think about it, I am afraid. Better for me not to think, then. Why don't you do the thinking for me: which dress shall I wear? ANTIGONE (Taking off her mask.) Wear this. MARIA That? With that mask, they'll recognize me instantly. ANTIGONE No, because they won't see you. You'll stay here. You'll hide underneath the blankets. Don't be afraid. My leg does not hurt any more. Give me your mask. (Maria takes off her mask and gives it to Antigone. She takes Antigone's mask.) Scene Eight

(Andronikos's room. Night. The candle lit. Andronikos is reading through some papers. Antigone enters without knocking.) ANDRONIKOS Why—the doctor said that you shouldn't get up, for one more week. ANTIGONE You lied to me, Andronikos. ANDRONIKOS When? ANTIGONE

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English Always. Your words were a blank piece of paper. Why have you turned pale? I found the blank paper on the chest of Nikodimos. (p.299) ANDRONIKOS You found it? You? You stole it from Maria. ANTIGONE No. It was me who went. With the mask of Maria. ANDRONIKOS (Aside.) Not even the posthumous glory, indeed. (Antigone takes an envelope from Andronikos's table and compares it with another one that she pulls from her pocket.) ANTIGONE If you only knew how much I begged to have been mistaken. But the envelope is yours. Very late, indeed. (She turns to leave.) ANDRONIKOS Where are you going? ANTIGONE I'm going to tell it. ANDRONIKOS To whom? ANTIGONE To all. ANDRONIKOS They won't believe you. ANTIGONE I'll try hard. ANDRONIKOS I will be compelled to chase you away from me. Page 71 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English ANTIGONE I know. ANDRONIKOS And that doesn't bother you? ANTIGONE There is no other way. (She turns to leave.) ANDRONIKOS And you won't kiss me? For the last time? (Pause.) You know, perhaps I am not such a bad guy. I sent Nikodimos, our best captain, knowing full well that we would lose him. You think that (p.300) did not hurt me? But try to understand it then. I had hopes that something might still happen, that maybe we would win a victory. We needed a victory. A victory was worth more to me than bread or water or than you. (Pause.) And, I wonder, would it have been only for me? You, did you not have the need for a victory? Our soldiers, were they not waiting for a victory? Come on and kiss me, Antigone. Perhaps I am not such a bad guy. (Antigone approaches him. They embrace and kiss.) ANTIGONE My God, why do all these things happen to us? We could be living so beautifully. ANDRONIKOS We still can, Antigone. We can still live. ANTIGONE If all these things had come to an end, if all these things had never even begun, then perhaps we, too, could have a plate of warm food, a quiet room, a night to ourselves. Are all those things that were never given to us perhaps too much to ask? For years on end, we've waged a war for these few things, and now we've been defeated. Let's save at least the ruins that we have left. ANDRONIKOS Not yet. We still have one whole mountain left. Number 1,001. ANTIGONE Page 72 of 80

Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English You will be defeated there, too. You know that. ANDRONIKOS But understand it then. Try to understand. Defeatism has gotten hold of you, and you can't see anything else. ANTIGONE Come with me to tell them. Come while there is still time. You, they'll believe you. ANDRONIKOS I am about to become a general because I always believed in our victory. It's the only path to success. ANTIGONE It's late. The only solution we have left is to split up in small groups and to scatter about. (p.301) ANDRONIKOS But the orders—the orders say that we should, at all costs, hold number 1,001. ANTIGONE Tell them that that is not possible. ANDRONIKOS (With bowed head, he pushes her away. Then, slowly, he gets angry.) Of course, you, you don't have much to lose, hardly anything. But I, I want my stars. I earned them with my sweat, with my blood. That's how you throw out a whole life? When I was still a child, I liked to climb up on rope ladders and to look over the surrounding walls. That's how you kick away the ladder from underneath your feet? That's how you bend your head before every casualty? Your heart is like dough: it rises with the sorrows of the others. You pull off your kerchief more often than you pull out the bolt of your rifle— ANTIGONE Andronikos, how could you. I've never had a kerchief. ANDRONIKOS

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English A woman's antics, I am telling you. I am ashamed to have entrusted a weapon to you. So then? What are you waiting for? Why don't you go and shout out to them that they are the defeated? They'll pelt you with stones. What are you waiting for to remain all alone? You who are so needy of me, of the others, you pursue the path of loneliness like a madwoman. You who have such a need to give, you won't find even one person willing to accept your words. Go then, trample on your fallen body yourself. Go and tell them. I am chasing you out. I am kicking you. I am spitting on you for you to leave. What are you still waiting for? ANTIGONE (After a pause.) May you be right, Andronikos. (She leaves.) ANDRONIKOS (After a long pause.) Klearchos! Klearchos! KLEARCHOS (He enters.) Your orders, General. ANDRONIKOS Sit down. (They sit down.) Do you trust me, Klearchos? KLEARCHOS I would go through fire for you, my General. (p.302) ANDRONIKOS Would you believe whatever I told you? KLEARCHOS Whatever, my General. ANDRONIKOS As it happens—I just now got confirmation—Antigone is an enemy agent. KLEARCHOS No! Impossible. ANDRONIKOS So you don't believe me.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English KLEARCHOS That's to say, I am afraid. I am afraid that there might be some mistake. ANDRONIKOS It's certain. KLEARCHOS Then let's refer it to— ANDRONIKOS We have nothing to refer. You will take on this case. KLEARCHOS Oh, no. ANDRONIKOS You will be following her. As soon as you see something suspect, you know how to act. KLEARCHOS But, I can't. Not without being sure. And then, I am your aide‐de‐camp. I have so many things to take care of. ANDRONIKOS I am transferring you. And I advise you: the sooner you convince yourself, the better, before your stance leaves me suspicious, because, of course, whoever tries to provide cover for an agent— KLEARCHOS Oh, if you were to transfer me, I don't have any objection. That way everything gets settled. You give me an order. I carry it out. I am used to that now. It suits me fine. And, of course, since you order me to (p.303) believe it, I believe with all my heart that Antigone is an agent. And, besides, why are orders even needed, since you, her man, are the one telling me? And then, I, of course, I don't want to isolate myself at all. Oh, no, wouldn't that be something that goes against the group, wouldn't that be against the interests of the people? Isn't it true? No, what would happen, indeed, if they all went their own way? Not one step would we be able to—But why am I sitting here, then? Antigone might already have

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English begun her corrosive work. I need to run. I'm off. The orders will be carried out to the letter. (He leaves in a hurry.) Scene Nine

(Dusk. A few trees in the back. Antigone enters from the left. From the right, three or four soldiers with their chief.) THE CHIEF Where are you going from here? The order says that we should all close ranks on number 1,001. ANTIGONE Wasted effort. We have been defeated. THE CHIEF How can you say that? You are denying all those years. Have you forgotten that our home had become a prison, that our town had become a prison? Have you forgotten that the days had become round like millstones, the nights above like millstones, and we, barley grains caught in their grooves, for time to grind us? You're going back there again? (Klearchos comes in behind Antigone and listens furtively.) ANTIGONE No, never there. Somewhere over here, somewhere high up here, but let's save what we still have left. Something of what we came here looking for— some of those stones that, as we used to say, would take the edge off the bitterness, the loneliness, our blood. It's a wasted effort, you better believe it, we must scatter and slip through in small groups— THE CHIEF And number 1,001? Are we to give it up like that, without a fight? ANTIGONE The mountain has been encircled. (p.304) KLEARCHOS (To the chief.) What are you wasting your words for? Haven't you understood yet that she is playing the enemy's game? I have an order from the general to kill her on the spot as soon as I notice that she is acting out

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English of opportunism. But now that we're talking, I'd like to hear also your opinion before I shoot her. (He pulls out his pistol.) THE CHIEF How do you know all of that? ANTIGONE I know that we have been defeated. Andronikos is like a drowning man clutching at a straw. He sent Nikodimos to Megalo Horio with a blank piece of paper. He pushed him to his death with an unjust criticism. Now he is pushing you, too, with a vain hope. THE CHIEF Our backs suffered under the wire rope of the enemy's whip. But we won't endure any lash from the hand of one of our own. You say that you take pains for our good. You tell us to save what we have left. But, what are we to do with it if we were to save it? You say that you take pains for our good, and yet you don't have even a tiny bit of sympathy left. A short while ago, we were together in the same river bed. The water that the rains brought down was beating down on us, along with the uprooted stones and the broken tree branches. Now you've clambered onto the river bank and you are looking. Now that the river has swollen, you have become water, stone, branch, and you're beating down on us. You can't feel for us any more. FIRST SOLDIER She wants evil for us. SECOND SOLDIER She wants us to no longer have faith. THIRD SOLDIER She is pulling the earth from under our feet. FIRST SOLDIER We are in the majority. Why don't we chase her away? KLEARCHOS We are the ones who want—the ones who decide. Why don't we kill her? (A group of soldiers and an officer come running in from the right.)

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English (p.305) OFFICER Why are you hanging around? We are under orders to seize number 1,001. ANTIGONE The road is closed. OFFICER What does that mean? KLEARCHOS She wants to delay us. She is an enemy agent. OFFICER Why do you keep her then, that slut! (To his soldiers.) You are still here? (The soldiers run off to the left.) THE CHIEF Perhaps she should pass before the military tribunal. OFFICER At this moment, we are the tribunal. (He pulls out his pistol. Klearchos hurries to do the same.) ANTIGONE Stop. Wait at least for two minutes. KLEARCHOS Just think how valuable those minutes are since she is trying to delay us. Let's hurry up. (They shoot Antigone, whose dead body falls down [on a line] parallel to the footlights.) OFFICER And now on our way. (They rush to the left. At the same moment, the officer's soldiers come running back in.)

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English FIRST SOLDIER The road is cut off. KLEARCHOS When did they beat us to it? (Pause. Rifle shots can be heard.) OFFICER Why are you sitting there? What are you gaping at? Barricade yourselves in. In a circle. Let nobody fire unless they've come within thirty metres of us. Hurry up, I said. (p.306) (They scatter about in a circle and barricade themselves in. The chief and one soldier stay next to Antigone.) THE SOLDIER They left the worst spot for us. Not even a stone behind which to hide your head. They'll see us right away, as if we were in the palms of their hands. THE CHIEF We have the corpse left. (A burst of gunfire can be heard.) Hurry up. (They throw themselves onto Antigone with their faces turned to the audience. They steady their rifles on top of her. Pause.) THE SOLDIER They're approaching. THE CHIEF Don't fire yet. (Pause.) THE SOLDIER Stratis! Did you ever expect that? THE CHIEF No. (Pause.) How would you know? Maybe things are not what they seem. Remember Antigone. THE SOLDIER Yes, but he—he's coming with his rifle aiming right at us.

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Alexandrou's Antigone Translated into English THE CHIEF And who is telling you that he is not doing the right thing? THE SOLDIER So then? Shall I not fire at him? THE CHIEF But of course you must fire. He has already come within thirty metres. A corpse is the only sure thing. You see? A first‐rate defence. (They both fire right at the spectators.) —CURTAIN— Notes:

(1) By switching names on Nikodimos at this crucial moment, Antigone anticipates the role reversal between Nikodimos and Andronikos that will occur in Act 2. The interchangeability of victim and victimizer is reminiscent of the symbolic (to Sophocles' Antigone) or literal (Anouilh's version) interchangeability of the corpses of the mythical dead brothers Polyneices and Eteocles. (2) This is one of the few specific references in which Alexandrou points to the Right's systematic surveillance of and continued retaliation against leftists who had recanted or who had broken ties with the (underground) Party leadership of the Civil War. The harassment of leftists on the street, however, could also include acts of retaliation by staunch leftists against other leftists who had reneged.

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Conclusion In late June of 1998, fifty years after the opening of the Civil War camps, a group of actors and artists made the special boat trip to the deserted island of Makronisos to mount there a commemorative production of Aeschylus' Prometheus Bound. By then the island had been declared a national ‘historical site’ (by ministerial decree of 1989), a site of political memory worthy of preservation and protection, or a site that forever covered the ideal of ‘reforming’ dissidents through internment with ignominy.1 Makronisos has not been left unaltered, however: the ex‐detainees constructed a monument on the site; the Greek Ministry of Culture restored a number of the buildings. Other structures, including some of the theatres, have been left to fall into disrepair, obliterating what little memory remained of the stage productions of the Makronisiotes. Nikitas Tsakiroglou, who directed the Prometheus production, interpreted the tragedy as a call to endure and defy oppression, for the good of humanity.2 For those among the (p.308) small audience who had once not just watched but also deeply felt the play, this Prometheus proved that spirits had not been broken—which was what the practice of playing inmate theatre had been about. The stagings, rehearsals, and readings by those interned during the late 1940s through the 1950s strove to articulate political values, learn and share lessons, and deduce modes for survival. This performance practice was also preoccupied with overcoming mental and physical obstacles so that the truth of the detainees' past and present experiences might come to light. This book may add to an ongoing examination of many more aspects of the prison islands and encourage further analysis of the detainees' lives and activities and thus of the cultural history of the Left of the Civil War. Contemporary theatre, rituals of performance, and the ceremony of press and propaganda items can assist our broader understanding of the Cold War period in Greece. Theatre of the prison islands is also an important chapter in the history of progressive Western Hellenism or of the ‘democratic turn’ in the reception of the classics, with its penchant for ‘radical’ ancient drama (from Shelley's Hellas to the revisionist classical drama of the 1960s through recent political appropriations of Aeschylus' Persians). The inmate theatre beckoned the beginning of a Greek redefinition of the classics as a more popular, a more democratic type of drama. Detainees grew excited when, for example, simple folk as well as experienced actors took back the Persians from the ranks of the National Theatre. The study of the art of prisoners has a wider geographical and temporal spread as well, but this book has focused on theatre (the most interactive or the least private of all art forms), the classics, and Greek exile camps, in which the ‘ownership’ of ancient tragedy was a particularly sensitive issue.3 The Greek Right (p.309) construed the drama of the Civil War as an epic clash and turned its anticommunist persecution into a moral struggle of epic proportions (with language of salvation and damnation, light and darkness, etc.). The Left re‐evaluated the country's tragedy through tragedy and looked to the tragic heroes for guidance. Page 2 of 10

Conclusion Select classics became the reliable spine of Greek individuals and groups exiled to the prison islands. Even though a panoply of performance genres was technically available, directors and actors preferred certain ancient plays for the distinct ideological advantages that they offered. They selected tragedies that brought into focus a unity of purpose based on shared suffering, proud resilience, and perceived moral superiority: the myths of the besieged, radical Antigone, of the castaway Philoctetes, and of the fettered and tortured, ‘intellectual’ Prometheus helped the detainees to comprehend their own predicament within the framework of heroic tragedy and to reclaim the power of knowledge and judgement. Prisoner actors and audiences savoured those passages in the plays in which representation collided with the reality of their detention. The inmate public felt empowered when it seized upon such high‐ voltage moments to act and thus to exchange its role of spectator for that of actor and agent. Antigone, Philoctetes, and Prometheus joined the ranks of the modern Greek (p.310) martyrs and stalwart heroes of 1821, in which the prisoners recognized all the shades of the patriotic national character that they themselves professed. The detainees derived renewed strength and vitality from the tragic heroes turned secular martyrs. It was, however, the stubborn Prometheus who, from the mid‐1930s through the mid‐1970s, provided the stronger thematic focus for personal identification, for men and women alike. Antigone and Philoctetes and also the characters of the Persians redefined such concepts as ‘victory’, ‘loyalty’, and ‘patriotism’ and embodied these notions in the context of a dynamic and democratic reception of the classical legacy. Many inmate actors were driven by a sense of mission so strong that their heroic‐patriotic play production reflected communal thinking about personal sacrifice, torture, death, history, and remembrance. On the prison islands, levels of dramatic pretence and genuine self‐identification with the tragic heroes merged and drove the need for recognition and testimony, for eyewitnesses to remember, and for subsequent readers to bear witness. Inmate actors and their audiences of a kindred spirit laid claim to a quiet but profound patriotism, without any of the state‐orchestrated devotional rites: this patriotism refused to equate loyalty to the country with loyalty to the then government, or to its long‐ ruling conservative establishment. Prison theatre had deeper roots in the common resistance activity than in the maelstrom of the Civil War. One trail led back to the rudimentary Theatre of the Mountains and, in particular, to several of Rotas's plays. The historical Left glorified the resistance and tapped inmates' collective but older consciousness to reaffirm political and cultural ideals. It co‐ opted the classics in this process as a key to the exiles' survival in dignity and continued mental and intellectual dissidence. But a more recent path tracked the engagement with the National Theatre and ancient drama that had become a tool of the Cold War. The National Theatre had mounted Aeschylus' Persians and Oresteia to publicly support the government forces and to impress the sense of right, lawful order. By performing classical plays the detainees further distanced Page 3 of 10

Conclusion themselves from the obligatory official language on national security and the shows of ethnic or, rather, Western superiority. Against this backdrop, Aeschylus' Persians could finally play a new role as a tragedy of introspection rather than of nationalist triumph. Dramas such as the Persians and the Philoctetes also let the army manqué of exiles deconstruct a war‐based heroism. In addition, Alexandrou's Antigone opened up ways (to the author and perhaps also to a few trusted readers) to deconstruct male heroism.

(p.311) Location, Location, Location My friends, you are lucky to be here this afternoon. Here, in Buchenwald, we have the best art and the best artists in the whole of Germany. Here you can actually laugh out loud at our jokes. Here is the freest theater in the Reich. In the theaters outside, the actors and the audience are frightened because they fear that they may end up in a concentration camp. That's something we don't have to worry about. (An experienced compère [emcee] introducing a cabaret show by prisoners for prisoners at the Nazi concentration camp of Buchenwald [quoted by Daniel 1999: 153])4 Actors on any conventional stage do not normally undergo the consequences of the deeds that they portray. The public, if aware, finds psychological relief in that certainty. But this truism did not (p.312) apply in the case of the Greek inmate theatre. Actors performed under surveillance and under threat of sanctions. They had to fear retaliation, which, at times, drove them to act that they acted: they played while balancing the demands for dramatic illusion and metatheatrical delusion. Prisoner casts on Makronisos could only secure an (ambivalent) legitimacy for their productions if they were willing to meet the authorities (at least) halfway on the road between showing and showing off. But if some actors felt that they needed to tread on the middle ground of moderate collaboration, their act of saving themselves through theatre was perhaps the least objectionable one, because they still had something on offer for their fellow detainees. Ancient drama let inmate casts and audiences play with and within the surrounding system of political charade and its judgemental rhetoric. It stirred prisoners to bring some of their concerns and criticisms into public view, which, otherwise, they had to keep safely out of sight. Whereas classical theatre did not present ready‐made solutions to serious problems, its familiar strangeness helped political detainees to face issues head‐on or to contemplate alternative modes of perception. Productions of classical tragedies by Greek recruits entered the grey area between resistance and compromise. The performances of the Antigone of Makronisos raised the problem posed by a theatre that was useful to the authorities. Some productions, indeed, conformed with the coercive requirements of the camp wardens, whom the government pressured from above Page 4 of 10

Conclusion to put on a show of confidence and respectability and thus to boost its conceited claim to the higher moral ground. This Antigone, however, may still represent a form of both conformity and dissidence, if the lead actor could steal a subversive moment from the actual showtime. Only the occasional stolen moment could turn the always‐monitoring political system in on itself. Also, one cannot blame some players for trying to recapture a sense of the more desirable status of the free performer while acting under compliance before the eyes of the repressive authorities. The administrators of Makronisos camouflaged the ugly truth by parading ancient‐style illusion and the falsity of a consensus on time‐honoured Greek tradition, even when the recruits' choices or interpretations of the classical plays contravened theirs—as when the actor playing Philoctetes smuggled messages of empathy into his role and became a dissonant voice obtruding in the chorus of unanimity. This inmate Philoctetes took the opportunity to express himself in the rehearsals, to comment on the conditions of his exile, and thereby to regain some (p.313) control. Through theatre he could escape the confinement of the camp and allow others to do the same, however tentatively. The camp authorities, on the other hand, broadcast the pretended objectives and ‘successful’ outcomes of the productions and advertised a ‘re‐education’ effort that led to a ‘happy ending’ for all parties involved. Because the inmate plays were eye‐openers on theatre and political metatheatre, they operated as counter‐rites to the official rituals of forced (secular) conversion, whose transformative power they drained. They diffused also the ‘normalizing’ drive behind the government's fascist‐style reduction of language and imagery to sterile, black‐versus‐white polarities. Makronisos, the nonplace of island confinement (a heterotopia according to Hamilakis 2002; 2007: 231), was most instrumental in shaping the symbolic behaviour that the state expected from players and spectators alike, who acted under unrelenting constraint. The ‘Makronisos phenomenon’ placed a full retinue of influential outsiders in the position of super‐spectators of the act staged by the local camp authorities, masters of ceremonies and masters of mise‐en‐scène. For the recruits who watched themselves being watched onstage or in the audience, it was particularly painful to see the ‘expert inspectors’ fail— or hide behind the pretence of failing—to see through the act that the officials were putting on. Such public relations stunts and situations of double and crossed discourses reoccurred under the military dictatorship of 1967–1974. Like the Right of the Civil War, the colonels took communism to be their nemesis and overstated, with a revamped anticommunist rhetoric, the threat of the enemy within. The stage of Makronisos, however, had first broken the new ground between theatre and political metatheatre. The success of the exiles' counteracts showed in the stage legacy of their small but deliberate selection from ancient drama: the selected tragedies lived on in productions, references, and analogies through the years of oppression inflicted by the colonels. When during the junta period the consolation of ancient drama was needed and Page 5 of 10

Conclusion appreciated again, actors and directors could fall back on the same choices of radical classics and on the intense grassroots experience of those classics that stemmed from the prison islands.5 These island exiles democratized tragedy well before the Athens and Epidaurus summer festivals (p.314) ‘massified’—and institutionalized—ancient drama as an outdoor spectacle culture. Performance constitutes a battleground that is highly productive for contesting the metanarrative of the past. Theatre on the prison islands ushered in revival tragedy as a genre with considerable potential for socio‐political criticism and disruption, which was absent from the first open‐air productions of the ancient drama festivals but, by the late 1950s, manifested itself in the work of directors who were closely attuned to progressive and popular trends in Greek culture (Koun's Birds, 1959, and his Persians, 1965). On Trikeri and Aï Stratis, the exiles found more freedom to select a basic repertoire of choice classics for mainly thematic purposes, and they did so in a far from lukewarm fashion. The female exiles of Trikeri treaded a tightrope between isolation and censorship, and they bore the brunt of waves of pressurizing that originated in the traditional discourses on the Greek family and Orthodox religion. Nonetheless, the female prisoners tenaciously engaged in creative ways to make the plays, readings, and other educational and cultural activities relevant to their experiences as women. They explored the interlocking worlds of theatre, education, and emancipation and gained a growing awareness of their potential as social and political actors. To this day, they testify that learning and speaking out were small but significant personal acts of resistance. Committing to education was also a means to supersede defeat. Speaking out through theatre, however, and denouncing the infamous dilosi made the most critical difference for the group as well as for the individual. The Prometheus, for instance, became the ideal text for the women's empowering enquiry into unrelenting pressures. Thus they favoured deliberation over obedience and found, especially in the Prometheus, provocative opportunities for leftist and intellectual signification. The female exiles appropriated and internalized the contemporary leftist discourse through their classical theatre, the resilience of which they redeployed in the fabric of their harsh daily lives. The women's (p. 315) plays and their demanding agenda of teaching and learning invite further reflection on the dynamic relationship between the diverse forms of their creative activities and the making of—perhaps the most positive—segments of knowledge about the history of the Greek Left. The exile stage really came into its own on Aï Stratis. Theatre there presented (economically) poor theatre based on the method of collective staging before it became fashionable. It confronted actors, artists, and audiences with the modernist challenge to rethink the very means and methods of drama, in— sobering and abstract—ways that anticipated avant‐garde and purist theatre movements of later decades. The theatre of Aï Stratis was also intensely political for reasons of the real‐life ideological perspectives of its practitioners. Page 6 of 10

Conclusion Performance as a platform for political involvement reached its apogee for becoming performance of and for political beings again. The measure of commitment that inmate actors brought to the stage was far more important to the group than their level of expertise, because plays had become a matter of urgent political relevance. Even though the productions had little to be embarrassed about, the majority of the exiles cared that the plays were done, not as much about how they were done. It mattered that their theatre spoke and that it spoke in accessible ideological cadences. Emphasizing political and material result more than performance style was a way for the inmate cast to present itself as a disciplined group that was still engaged in dissidence and that, every so often, managed to push the dark and inefficient administration back into the spectator seat. The performers took stock of their personal and communal lives and explored various strategies for resistance as well as for reintegration into Greek society, once their ordeal would be over. Their choices, styles, and techniques helped them to maintain a sense of cultural belonging, professionalism, and integrity. This prisoner theatre also reclaimed the power of ‘patriotism’, ‘resistance’, and ‘victory’. While the ravaged Greek language and rites of state anticommunism deepened the divide between the ‘winners’ and the ‘losers’ of the Civil War, the forum of ancient drama enacted the tragedy of the exiles' predicament far beyond that of ‘defeat’. The theatre of Aï Stratis delivered one more important message in a bottle, which was rediscovered half a century after the castaway (p.316) Alexandrou had first deposited it. His message, too, denounced a party line of authority and oppression, but inflicted by the camp of the Left. The analysis of Alexandrou's Antigone has therefore placed a lens of revisionism on some of the main tensions explored in this book. Alexandrou's work, which exploits the ambiguous balance between fiction and historicity, reminds us that the question of the precise evaluation of criticism of the Greek historical Left remains a live one. Hamilakis has argued that Makronisos's role in the discourse on antiquity (in which radicals as well as conservatives participated) also worked to suspend the temporality of the Greek Civil War and the Cold War. He saw this time specificity replaced by the ‘monumentalized national time’ (Hamilakis 2007: 236). Alexandrou's Antigone, however, may bring back the concrete temporality of the Greek 1940s in full force. This study takes a modest step in the exploration of how the playwright could take (theatrical) action against the categories of underground as well as of official political culture. The origins of Alexandrou's Antigone lie in the left‐enforced isolation of the exile among the exiles of the prison camp, and his play might therefore have turned into a dark theatre of the mind. The overall tenor of the work is, however, still hopeful, despite its sense of despair at the interchangeability of heroes and villains, of revolutionaries and tyrants, of executioners and flatterers. For several reasons, Alexandrou conveyed a positive message—and it is in this optimism that the 2003 production and also this book might share: first, he proved that playwriting or creative Page 7 of 10

Conclusion activity in general may function as an antidote against indoctrination and as a secular ritual of self‐restoration, even under the worst of circumstances. Second, he let the humane nature of his Antigones shine, in her multiple characters that strove to substitute, not one political line with another, but mistrust with open dialogue. Also, Alexandrou's work reminds us that, while we recognize acts of censorship, for instance, as abusive of the prisoners' conditions, we should also beware not to fall into the trap of the unilateral leftist interpretation. We find mental satisfaction in the self‐identification of the political detainees with Antigone, Philoctetes, and Prometheus, but we should not forget that the single‐ mindedly leftist identifications as well as the reactionary readings are themselves reductive interpretations of much more complex plays. Alexandrou's life and work have, in their own right, brought (p.317) some of the complexity back. A telling feature of his Antigone, too, is that foreign enemies are nearly completely absent. The enemy is internal to Greece and internal also to one's person. This may be Alexandrou's boldest and perhaps least welcome statement of all.6 Notes:

(1) Hamilakis (2007: 238); Kokkinidou and Nikolaïdou (2004: 182); and Papailias (2005: 264 n. 34). (2) For further comments on this production and its context, see Nikitas Tsakiroglou, interview by Makis Delipetros, Apogevmatini, 1 June 1998; Dimitra Pavlakou, ‘Prometheus Bound—Makronisos 1998’, I Avyi, 30 June 1998. (3) This book only begins to suggest the range of work that remains to be done on cases internationally that illustrate the paradox of art's existence as a virtual liberal practice in (confined) places of oppression or annihilation. Creativity during internment proves to be a complex process and theatre makes it a particularly explosive blend. The political circumstances in which other prisons that ‘generated’ art work came about may be very different, but frequently these prisons were the products of militaristic national agendas masquerading as patriotic ones. International communication about related inmate experiences has increased with the launching of various websites (including Panourgia's www.dangerouscitizens.columbia.edu, with more information about the Greek prison islands and about the concentration camps of Tito's Yugoslavia). Some key examples and more conventional studies may serve as preliminary guides to direct us to multiple locations and diverse types of cultural activities—and hypocrisies. Deborah Gesensway and Mindy Roseman have introduced the art (drawings and paintings) of relocated Japanese Americans (1942–1945) in Beyond Words: Images from America's Concentration Camps (1987). The same subject is covered in the exhibition catalogue, The View from Within: Japanese American Art from the Internment Camps, 1942–1945 (1992). Jean‐François Roudier presents the mural paintings executed by German prisoners of war held in France during the years of 1944 through 1946 (2000). In many of these Page 8 of 10

Conclusion instances, the psychology and rationale behind the various artistic expressions might have been similar, but the outlet through performance still made a noticeable qualitative difference. Producing classical theatre may have been unique to Greece and South Africa's Robben Island (see Chapter 3, p. 108 n. 4). The performances of music and theatre in general, however, were more widespread. Through history, there have been plenty of other prison islands or (remote) detention camps that left traces of their unexpected stage and musical performances (such as in the Gulag, see Solzhenitsyn [1974–1975] and also Kuziakina [1995]). Minimal activities took place on Rab, Goli Otok, and Sveti Grgur. Rab was the Croatian island on which Italian fascist soldiers imprisoned Croats, Slovenes, and Jews. Goli Otok (literally, Naked Island or Bare or Barren Island) was the infamous northern Adriatic island where Stalinist and Cominformist opponents of the Tito regime were held in communist times, in years overlapping with the era of the Makronisos camp. Another notorious Yugoslav prison island was Sveti Grgur (Panourgia 2009: 20, 22–23, 251–252, 253–255). The prison islands of the communist states, where victims of the regime suffered and died, are a reminder that repression was not a monopoly of the Right. (4) I do not invoke the above implied comparisons lightly. The intersections between ancient Greek drama productions and the cultural activities initiated by detainees of World War Second concentration and extermination camps raise perhaps the most difficult questions, which demand far more attention than I can allot to them here. I do not mean to be disrespectful by relegating the latter experiences and places to a mere footnote. On the contrary, each case deserves further study in itself. Norbert Troller's translated and illustrated memoir sheds light on his personal experience of life and timid art in Hitler's ‘model ghetto’ Theresienstadt (1991), where the Jews lived under the continual threat of deportation and where artistic sensibilities contributed to the internees' endurance. See further Adler, especially the comprehensive section titled ‘Cultural Life’ (1960: 584–623), and Dutlinger (2001). Wolfgang Schneider studied the art from Buchenwald in Kunst hinter Stacheldraht, Art behind Barbed Wire (1976): some internees of Buchenwald staged Shakespeare's As You Like It on 30 July 1944 and took much pride in their production despite its primitive means (1976: 124–125). Fania Fénelon wrote about the privileges that she enjoyed as a singer in the SS‐supported female orchestra of the Birkenau concentration camp (1977). Her memoir, Playing for Time (originally, Sursis pour l'orchestre) also explored the psychological burdens of being associated with the oppressor, however tentatively. She averred: At Birkenau, music was indeed the best and worst of things. The best because it filled in time and brought us oblivion, like a drug; we emerged from it deadened, exhausted. The worst, because our public consisted of

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Conclusion the assassins and the victims; and in the hands of the assassins, it was almost as though we too were made executioners. (1977: 125) See further Rovit and Goldfarb, Theatrical Performance during the Holocaust (1999), a collection that focuses on stage and musical performances by Jews within the Third Reich and during the years of the Holocaust (with an overview of older literature on the subject p. 3). See also Gilbert, Music in the Holocaust (2005). For a broader perspective, see also the two volumes edited by Balfour (2001 and 2004). (5) These few lines anticipate my next research project: a critique of cultural life during the Greek military dictatorship of 1967–1974 under theatre's probing lens. Many strands of modern Greek dramaturgy that originated or were strengthened on the prison islands came out in full force during the junta years and transformed theatre altogether: memory, patriotism, the burden of the past, the leftist versus rightist legacy, the demands on physical spaces, the political metatheatre, the sloganistic politics, the translating ‘business’, the use of language to help regulate power, etc. (6) Maria Katsounaki concludes her critique of Deep Soul, a newly released feature film of renowned Greek filmmaker Pandelis Voulgaris on the subject of the Greek Civil War, with words that expose the current trend to close down debate and enforce a culture of consent: [T]his is where the battle becomes uneven: Hints are erased and all ‘evil’ comes from the outside. It's the fault of the Americans who came and of the Russians who didn't. It was the foreign powers who brought napalm bombs, destruction and civil heartache. Voulgaris touches the wounds carefully, so that they don't bleed. When things get awkward he turns to poetic imagery and cinematic stereotypes…as opposed to laying it all bare. Is this what we're looking for 60 years on? Perhaps it is. (Kathimerini, 2 November 2009)

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References —— (1981c) ‘Φρύνιχος’. ‘Phrynichus’. In Ποιήματα (1941–1974). Poems (1941– 1974), 123–124. Athens: Kastaniotis. —— (1981d) Ποιήματα (1941–1974). Poems (1941–1974). Athens: Kastaniotis. —— (1986) [1974] Το κιβώτιο· Μυθιστόρημα. The Mission Box: A Novel. 13th ed. Athens: Kedros. —— (1996) Mission Box. Translated by Robert Crist. Athens: Kedros. Anderson, Benedict (2006) Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. Rev. ed. London and New York: Verso. (p.319) Angelis, Vangelis, Αγγελής, Βαγγέλης (2006) ‘Γιατί χαίρεται ο κόσμος και Χαμογελάει, πατέρα…’ ‘Μαθήματα Εθνικής Αγωγής’ και νεολαιίστικη προπαγάνδα στα Χρόνια της μεταξικής δικτατοριάς. ‘Why are the people happy and smiling, father?…’ ‘Lessons in National Education’ and Youth Propaganda in the Years of the Dictatorship of Metaxas. Athens: Vivliorama. Angelou, Alkis, Αγγέλου, ´Αλκης (1997) Το κρυφό σΧολείο· Χρονικό ενός μύθου. The Secret School: Chronicle of a Myth. Athens: Estia‐Kollaros. Anonymous (1940) ‘Η “Ιερή Φλόγα”’. ‘The Sacred Flame’. Το Ελεύθερον Βήμα, To Eleftheron Vima, 13 August. Anonymous (1949) ‘Θεατρικά νέα’. ‘Theatre News’. ´Εθνος, Ethnos, 22 July. Anonymous (1951) ‘Greeks Mark E.R.P. Day: Marshall Plan Anniversary Is Observed at Thermopylae’. New York Times, 4 April. Anouilh, Jean (2007) [1944] Antigone. In Théâtre, 2 vols, 1:627–674. Paris: Gallimard. Antoniou, Yiorgos, and Nikos Marantzidis, Αντωνίου, Γιώργος, και Νίκος Μαραντζίδης (2003) ‘The Greek Civil War Historiography, 1945–2001: Toward a New Paradigm’. The Columbia Journal of Historiography 1 [online]. ———— (2008) Η εποΧή της σύγΧυσης· Η δεκαετία του ´40 και η ιστοριογραφία. The Era of Confusion: The Decade of the 1940s and Historiography. Athens: Estia‐Kollaros. Apostolopoulou, Natalia, Αποστολοπούλου, Ναταλία (1984) Γροθιά στο σκοτάδι· Από την πολιτιστική ζωή των εξορίστων γυναικών. Fistpunch in the Dark: From the Cultural Life of the Female Exiles. Athens: Synhroni Epohi. —— (1997) Περήφανες κι αδούλωτες. Proud and Far from Servile Women. Athens: Endos.

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References —— (2003a) ‘Η προσφορά της Ρόζας Ιμβριώτη’. ‘The Contribution of Roza Imvrioti’. In Μακρόνησος· Ιστορικός τόπος. Makronisos: Historical Site, 2:234– 236. Athens: Synhroni Epohi. —— (2003b) ‘Η Ρόζα Ιμβριώτη κοντά μας’. ‘Roza Imvrioti Near to Us’. In Μακρόνησος· Ιστορικός τόπος. Makronisos: Historical Site, 2:500–502. Athens: Synhroni Epohi. —— (2003c) ‘´Ενα “κρυφό σΧολείο”’. ‘A “Secret School”’. In Μακρόνησος· Ιστορικός τόπος. Makronisos: Historical Site, 2:502–503. Athens: Synhroni Epohi. Arditti, Victor, Αρδίττης, Βίκτωρ (2003) ‘Η καθήλωση στην Ιστορία’. ‘Stuck in History’, director's note dated March 2003. In Πρόγραμμα· ´Αρης Αλεξάνδρου Αντιγόνη· Δύο Θυσίες & ένα Ιντερμέδιο. Playbill Aris Alexandrou, Antigone: Two Sacrifices and One Intermezzo, 6. Thessaloniki: State Theatre of Northern Greece. (p.320) Arditti, Victor (2007) ‘Aris Alexandrou, Antigone (1951)’, 2‐page statement on the 2003 production, attached to personal correspondence of 6 July 2008 [2007]. Arditti, Victor, et al., Αρδίττης, Βίκτωρ, et al. (2003) Πρόγραμμα· ´Αρης Αλεξάνδρου Αντιγόνη· Δύο Θυσίες & ένα Ιντερμέδιο. Playbill Aris Alexandrou, Antigone: Two Sacrifices and One Intermezzo. Thessaloniki: State Theatre of Northern Greece. Argyriou, Alexandros, Αργυρίου, Αλέξανδρος (2000) ‘Η πεζογραφία περί Μακρονήσου και μερικά παρεπόμενα’. ‘Prose‐Writing about Makronisos and Some Consequences’. In Ιστορικό τοπίο και ιστορική μνήμη· Το παράδειγμα της Μακρονήσου, επιμ. Στρατής Μπουρνάζος και Τάσος Σακελλαρόπουλος. Historic Landscape and Historical Memory: The Case of Makronisos, edited by Stratis Bournazos and Tasos Sakellaropoulos, 245–258. Athens: Filistor. Association of Female Political Exiles and Victoria Theodorou, editors, Σύλλογος Πολιτικών Εξορίστων Γυναικών και Βικτωρία Θεοδώρου, επιμ. (1996) Γυναίκες εξόριστες στα στρατόπεδα του Εμφυλίου· Χίος—Τρίκερι—Μακρόνησος—Αϊ‐ Στράτης 1948–1954. Female Exiles in the Camps of the Civil War: Hios, Trikeri, Makronisos, Aï Stratis, 1948–1954. Athens: Kastaniotis. Avdoulos, Stavros A., ´Αβδουλος, Σταύρος Α. (1998) Το Φαινόμενο Μακρόνησος· ´Ενα πρωτόγνωρο εγκληματικό πείραμα. The Makronisos Phenomenon: A Pioneering Criminal Experiment. Athens: Ellinika Grammata. Baharian, Asandour, ΜπαΧαριάν, Ασαντούρ (1996) ‘Αναμνήσεις’. ‘Remembrances’. In Οι μισοί στα σίδερα, επιμ. Βαρδής Β. Βαρδινογιάννης και

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References Gkritzonas, Kostas, Γκριτζώνας, Κώστας (2001a) ΜαΧήτριες του Δημοκρατικού Στρατού· Η τολμηρότερη ιστορία που γράφτηκε στα (p.326) Χρόνια του εμφυλίου πολέμου 1946–1949. Female Fighters of the Democratic Army: The Boldest History That Was Written in the Years of the Civil War, 1946–1949. Athens: Filistor. Gkritzonas, Kostas (2001b) Ομάδες Συμβίωσης 1925–1974· Η συντροφική απάντηση στη βία και τον εγκλεισμό, επιμ. Μαρία Σκαμάγκα. Communes 1925– 1974: The Comradely Response to Violence and Internment, edited by Maria Skamanka. Athens: Filistor. Glytzouris, Andonis, Γλυτζουρής, Αντώνης (2001) Η σκηνοθετική τέΧνη στην Ελλάδα· Η ανάδυση και η ϵδραίωση της τέΧνης του σκηνοθέτη στο νϵοϵλληνικό θέατρο. The Stage Director's Art in Greece: The Emergence and the Establishment of the Art of the Stage Director in Modern Greek Theatre. 2 vols. Athens: Ellinika Grammata. Goff, Barbara, and Michael Simpson (2007) Crossroads in the Black Aegean: Oedipus, Antigone, and Dramas of the African Diaspora. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Goldfarb, Alvin (1999) ‘Theatrical Activities in the Nazi Concentration Camps’. In Theatrical Performance during the Holocaust: Texts, Documents, Memoirs, edited by Rebecca Rovit and Alvin Goldfarb, 117–124. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Goldhill, Simon (2007) How to Stage Greek Tragedy Today. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Grammatas, Thodoros, Γραμματάς, Θόδωρος (2002) Το ϵλληνικό θέατρο στον 20ό αιώνα· Πολιτισμικά πρότυπα και πρωτοτυπία. Greek Theatre in the Twentieth Century: Cultural Models and Originality. 2 vols. Athens: Exandas. Griffith, Mark (1977) The Authenticity of ‘Prometheus Bound’. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. —— (1983) Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Grivas, Periklis, Γρίβας, Πϵρικλής (1980) ‘Ο διπλός πολιτικός ρόλος του θϵάτρου ϵνός στρατοπέδου συτγκέντρωσης’. ‘The Double Political Role of the Theatre of a Concentration Camp’. In ‘Το θέατρο στη Μακρόνησο· Αφιέρωμα’, επιμ. Περικλής Γρίβας. ‘Theatre on Makronisos: Special Issue’, edited by Periklis Grivas. Θεατρικά—Κινηματογραφικά—Τηλεοπτικά, Theatrika—Kinimatografika —Tileoptika 38–46:32–34.

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References Grivas, Periklis, editor, Γρίβας, Περικλής, επιμ. (1980) ‘Το θέατρο στη Μακρόνησο· Αφιέρωμα’. ‘Theatre on Makronisos: Special Issue’. Θεατρικά— Κινηματογραφικά—Τηλεοπτικά, Theatrika—Kinimatografika —Tileoptika 38– 46:31–42. Hall, Edith (2004a) ‘Aeschylus, Race, Class, and War in the 1990s’. In Dionysus since 69: Greek Tragedy at the Dawn of the Third Millennium, edited by Edith Hall, Fiona Macintosh, and Amanda Wrigley, 169–197. Oxford: Oxford University Press. (p.327) —— (2004b) ‘Why Greek Tragedy in the Late Twentieth Century?’ In Dionysus since 69: Greek Tragedy at the Dawn of the Third Millennium, edited by Edith Hall, Fiona Macintosh, and Amanda Wrigley, 1–46. Oxford: Oxford University Press. —— (2007) ‘Aeschylus' Persians via the Ottoman Empire to Saddam Hussein’. In Cultural Responses to the Persian Wars: Antiquity to the Third Millennium, edited by Emma Bridges, Edith Hall, and P. J. Rhodes, 167–199. Oxford: Oxford University Press. —— (2008) ‘Putting the Class into Classical Reception’. In A Companion to Classical Receptions, edited by Lorna Hardwick and Christopher Stray, 386–397. Oxford: Blackwell. Hamilakis, Yannis (2002) ‘ “The other Parthenon”: Antiquity and National Memory at Makronisos’. Journal of Modern Greek Studies 20 (2): 307–338 [revised and reprinted as ‘The Other Parthenon: Antiquity and National Memory at the Concentration Camp’ in the volume below, 205–242]. —— (2007) The Nation and Its Ruins: Antiquity, Archaeology, and National Imagination in Greece. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hariati‐Sismani, Katerina, Χαριάτη‐Σισμάνη, Κατερίνα (1975) Γυναίκες από όλη την Ελλάδα. Women from All over Greece. Athens: n. p. Haris, Petros, Χάρης, Πέτρος (1949) ‘Προβολή εθνικών δυνάμεων’. ‘Projecting National Forces’. Νέα Εστία, Nea Estia 46 (532): 1093–1100. Hart, Janet (1996) New Voices in the Nation: Women and the Greek Resistance, 1941–1964. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Hasapi‐Hristodoulou, Efsevia, Χασάπη‐Χριστοδούλου, Ευσεβία (2002) Η ελληνική μυθολογία στο νεοελληνικό δράμα· Από την εποΧή του Κρητικού Θεάτρου εως το τέλος του 20ού αιώνα. Ancient Greek Myth in Modern Greek Drama: From the Era of the Cretan Theatre until the End of the Twentieth Century. 2 vols. Thessaloniki: University Studio Press.

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References Dramatic Writing: Fifteen Studies on Greek Theatre, 493–507. Athens: Idryma Kosta kai Elenis Ourani. Pehlivanos, Miltos, Πεχλιβάνος, μίλτος (2003) ‘Για τη διαλογική “Αντιγόνη” του Ά´ρη Αλεξάνδρου (μάρτιος 2003)’. ‘About the Dialogic Antigone of Aris Alexandrou (March 2003)’. In Πρόγραμμα· Ά´ρης Αλεξάνδρου Αντιγόνη· Δύο ϴυσίες & ένα Ιντερμέδιο. Playbill Aris Alexandrou, Antigone: Two Sacrifices and One Intermezzo, 31–33. Thessaloniki: State Theatre of Northern Greece. —— (2004) ‘Jean Anouilh & Ά´ρης Αλεξάνδρου· ςτοιχεία για την Αντιγόνη στα πέτρινα χρόνια (μάιος–ςεπτ. 2002)’. ‘Jean Anouilh and Aris Alexandrou: Components for the Antigone of the Stone Years (May–September 2002)’. In ϴυμέλη· μελέτες χαρισμένες στον Καθηγητή Ν. Χ. Χουρμουζιάδη, επιμ. Δανιήλ Ι. Ιακώβ και Ελένη Παπάζογλου. Thymele: Essays Offered to Professor N. H. Hourmouziadis, edited by Daniil I. Iakov and Eleni Papazoglou, 323–368. Irakleio, Crete: Panepistimiakes Ekdoseis Kritis. Petrakis, Marina (2006) The Metaxas Myth: Dictatorship and Propaganda in Greece. London: Tauris. Petridis, Pavlos, Πετρίδης, Παύλος (2000) E.O.N.· Η φασιστική νεολαία μεταξά. The National Youth Organization: The Fascist Youth of Metaxas. Thessaloniki: University Studio Press. Porfyris, K., Πορφύρης, Κ. (2008) ‘Ακροναυπλία—Πνευματική αντίσταση στην Ακροναυπλία’. ‘Akronafplia—Spiritual Resistance in Akronafplia’. In Κείμενα για τον πολιτισμό, την ιστορία και την πολιτική, επιμ. Δημήτρης Δ. Αρβανιτάκης και Κωνσταντίνος Α. Παπαχρίστου. Texts about Culture, (p.337) History, and Politics, edited by Dimitris D. Arvanitakis and Konstandinos A. Papahristou, 189– 233. Athens: Benaki Museum–Platyforos. Poulantzas, Nicos (2000) [1978] State, Power, Socialism. New ed., introduced by Stuart Hall. London: Verso. Poulos, Margaret (2009) Arms and the Woman: Just Warriors and Greek Feminist Identity. New York: Columbia University Press. Puchner, Walter, Πούχνερ, Βάλτερ (2000) Διάλογοι και διαλογισμοί· Δέκα θεατρολογικά μελετήματα. Dialogues and Dialogisms: Ten Studies on Theatre. Athens: Hatzinikolis. Raftopoulos, Dimitris, Pαυτόπουλος, Δημήτρης (1984) ‘Το κίτς ως φασιστό‐ μετρο’. ‘Kitsch as a Measure of Fascism’. In Κάτι το ‘Ωραίον’. Μία περι‐ ήγηση στη νεοελληνική κακογουστία, επιμ. Δάφνη Κουτσίκου, et al. Something ‘Beautiful’: A Guide to Modern Greek Bad Taste, edited by Daphne Koutsikou, et al., 68–99. Athens: The Friends of the Periodical Αντί, Andi, Polytypo.

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References —— (1996) Άρης Αλεξάνδρου, ο εξόριστος. Aris Alexandrou, the Exile. Athens: Sokolis. —— (2003) ‘Φωτογραφία ταυτότητος’. ‘Photo ID’. In Πρόγραμμα· Άρης Αλεξάνδρου Αντιγόνη· Δύο ϴυσίες & ένα Ιντερμέδιο. Playbill Aris Alexandrou, Antigone: Two Sacrifices and One Intermezzo, 8–9. Thessaloniki: State Theatre of Northern Greece [consists of relevant excerpts from his book in its 1996 ed.]. Raftopoulos, Lefteris, Ραϕτόπουλος, Λεϕτέρης (1995) Το μήκος της νύχτας. μακρόνησος '48–'50· Χρονικό—μαρτυρία. The Length of the Night. Makronisos, 1948–1950: Chronicle—Testimony. Athens: Kastaniotis. Ricks, David (1989) ‘Aris Alexandrou’. Grand Street 8 (2): 120–128. —— (2004) ‘The Shadow of the Greek Civil War in the Poetry of Takis Sinopoulos’. In The Greek Civil War: Essays on a Conflict of Exceptionalism and Silences, edited by Philip Carabott and Thanasis D. Sfikas, 223–237. Aldershot, UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Rodakis, Periklis, Ροδάκης, Περικλής (2002a) ‘Σαν εισαγωγή’. ‘By Way of Introduction’. In Τάσος Τσέλλος, Πολιτιστική ζωή και δραστηριότητα του Στρατοπέδου Πολιτικών Εξορίστων του Αϊ‐Στράτη (1950–1962), επιμ. Παναγιώτης Μοσχονάς. Tasos Tsellos, Cultural Life and Activity of the Camp for Political Exiles of Aï Stratis (1950–1962), edited by Panayiotis Moschonas, 11–15. Agrinio and Athens: Moschonas, Paralos. —— (2002b) ‘Τάσος Τσέλλος, 1920–1986’. ‘Tasos Tsellos, 1920–1986’. In Τάσος Τσέλλος, Πολιτιστική ζωή και δραστηριότητα του Στρατοπέδου Πολιτικών Εξορίστων του Αϊ‐Στράτη (1950–1962), επιμ. Παναγιώτης μοσχονάς. Tasos Tsellos, Cultural Life and Activity of the Camp for Political Exiles of Aï Stratis (1950–1962), edited by Panayiotis Moschonas, 17–23. Agrinio and Athens: Moschonas, Paralos. (p.338) Rodocanachi, C. P. (1949) A Great Work of Civic Readaptation in Greece. Athens: n. p. Roilou, Ioanna (2009) Performances of Ancient Greek Tragedy and Hellenikotita: The Making of a Greek Aesthetic Style of Performance, 1919–1967. Saarbrücken, Germany: VDM Verlag Dr. Müller. Roisman, Hanna M. (2005) Sophocles: Philoctetes. London: Duckworth. Rotas, Vasilis, Ρώτας, Βασίλης (n. d.) Ναζή το Μεσολόγγι. Hail to Mesolongi. In ϴέατρο για παιδιά. Theatre for Children, 15–54. Athens: Bouras.

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References —— (2005) ‘Forgotten Theater, Theater of the Forgotten: Classical Tragedy on Modern Greek Prison Islands’. Journal of Modern Greek Studies 23 (2): 335–395. —— (2007) ‘Translating—or Not—for Political Propaganda: Aeschylus’ Persians 402–405'. In Modes of Censorship and Translation: National Contexts and Diverse Media, edited by Francesca Billiani, 117–141. Manchester, UK: St Jerome. (p.341) —— (2010) Liberating Hellenism from the Ottoman Empire: Comte de Marcellus and the Last of the Classics. New York: Palgrave MacMillan. —— (In press a) ‘Myth, Mystique, Nietzsche, and the “Cultic Milieu” of the Delphic Festivals, 1927 and 1930’. Stockton Hellenic Studies Papers 1. —— (In press b) ‘ “Suspect always, like the truth”: The Antigone of Aris Alexandrou on the Urban Stage of Thessaloniki, 2003’. In Mobilizing ‘Antigone’ on the Contemporary World Stage, edited by Helene Foley and Erin Mee. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Varnalis, Kostas, Βάρναλης, Κώστας (1933) Το φώς που καίει. The Burning Light. Athens: Estia [revised after first edition Alexandria, 1922]. Vasilakakos, Yiannis, Βασιλακάκος, Γιάννης (2000) Ο Ελληνικός Εμφύλιος Πόλεμος στη μεταπολεμική πεζογραφία (1946–1958). The Greek Civil War in Postwar Prose (1946–1958). Athens: Ellinika Grammata. Vasilas, Yiannis, Βασιλάς, Γιάννης (1982) Το βιβλίο του πόνου, της ντροπής, και της λεβεντιάς· Μακρονήσι. The Book of Pain, of Shame, and of Courage: Makronisos. Athens: Foivos. Vasileiou, Areti, Βασιλείου, Αρετή (2004) Εκσυγχρονισμός ή παράδοση; Το θέατρο πρόζας στην Αθήνα του Μεσοπολέμου. Modernization or Tradition? Prose Theatre in Interwar Athens. Athens: Metaihmio. Venezis, Ilias, Βενέζης, Ηλίας (1971) [1944] Μπλοκ C· Δράμα σε τρεις πράξεις και τέσσερις εικόνες. Block C: Drama in Three Acts and Four Scenes. 6th ed. Athens: Estia‐Kollaros. Vervenioti, Tasoula, Βερβενιώτη, Τασούλα (1992) ‘Οι Ελληνίδες πριν τον πό‐ λεμο, στην κατοχή και τον Εμφύλιο’. ‘Greek Women before the War, during the Occupation and the Civil War’. In Η Ελλάδα των γυναικών, επιμ. Ευτυχία Λεοντίδου και Sigrid R. Ammer. The Greece of Women, edited by Eftyhia Leondidou and Sigrid R. Ammer, 44–56. Athens: Enallaktikes Ekdoseis. —— (1994) Η γυναίκα της Αντίστασης· Η είσοδος των γυναικών στην πολιτική. The Woman of the Resistance: The Entry of Women into Politics. Athens: Odysseas. Page 27 of 30

References —— (2000) ‘Left‐Wing Women between Politics and Family’. In After the War Was over: Reconstructing the Family, Nation, and State in Greece, 1943–1960, edited by Mark Mazower, 105–121. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. —— (2002) ‘Οι μαχήτριες του Δημοκρατικού Στρατού Ελλάδας’. ‘The Female Fighters of the Democratic Army of Greece’. In Ο Εμφύλιος Πόλεμος· Από τη Βάρκιζα στο Γράμμο (Φεβρουάριος 1945–Αύγουστος 1949), επιμ. Ηλίας Νικολακόπουλος, Ά´λκης Ρήγος, και Γρηγόρης Ψαλλιδάς. The Civil War: From Varkiza to Grammos (February 1945–August 1949), edited by Ilias Nikolakopoulos, Alkis Rigos, and Grigoris Psallidas, 125–142. Athens: Themelio. (p.342) Vervenioti, Tasoula (2003) Η ιστορική ανάγνωση. The Historical Reading. In Διπλό βιβλίο· Η αφήγηση της Σταματίας Μπαρμπάτση / Η ιστορική ανάγνωση, επιμ. Τασούλα Βερβενιώτη. Double Book: The Story of Stamatia Barbatsi / The Historical Reading, edited by Tasoula Vervenioti. Athens: Vivliorama. —— (2008a) ‘Γραφές γυναικών για τον ελληνικό Εμφύλιο· Οι συλλογικές μνήμες και η αμνησία’. ‘Women's Writings about the Greek Civil War: The Collective Memories and the Amnesia’. In Η εποχή της σύγχυσης· Η δεκαετία του'40 και η ιστοριογραφία, επιμ.· Γιώργος Αντωνίου και Νίκος Μαραντζίδης. The Era of Confusion: The Decade of the 1940s and Historiography, edited by Yiorgos Antoniou and Nikos Marantzidis, 345–383. Athens: Estia‐Kollaros. —— (2008b) ‘Μνήμες και αμνησίες των αρχείων και των μαρτυριών για τον ελληνικό εμφύλιο. Η Αθήνα και η επαρχία, η ηγεσία και τα μέλη’. ‘Memories and Amnesia of the Archives and the Testimonies about the Greek Civil War. Athens and the Countryside, the Leadership and the Members’. In Μνήμες και λήθη του Ελληνικού Εμφυλίου Πολέμου, επιμ. Ρίκη Βαν Μπούσχοτεν, et al. Memories and Oblivion of the Greek Civil War, edited by Riki Van Boeschoten, et al., 81–102. Thessaloniki: Epikendro. —— (2009) Η δεκαετία του 1940· Αναπαραστάσεις της ιστορίας μέσα από τα αρχεία του Διεθνούς Ερυθρού Σταυρού. The Decade of the 1940s: Reconstructions of History from within the Archives of the International Red Cross. Athens: Melissa. Vlahos, Yeorgios Angelos, Βλάχος, Γεώργιος Ά´γγελος (1946) ‘Το Εθνικόν ϴέατρον’. ‘The National Theatre’. Η Καθημερινή, I Kathimerini, 4 May. —— (1947) ‘Πολιτικά’. ‘Political Matters’. Η Καθημερινή, I Kathimerini, 4 January. —— (1948) ‘Μια παρένθεσις· Το Εθνικόν ϴέατρον’. ‘A Parenthesis: The National Theatre’. Η Καθημερινή, I Kathimerini, 13 June.

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Index as translator  155 alfamites  99 n29 Alimisis, Stathis  132 Amorgos, Cyclades Islands  5 Anafi, Cyclades Islands  41, 126 ancient Romans  4–5 Anderson, Benedict  40 n8 Andronikos (character)  158–61, 164, 166, 168 Andros, Cyclades Islands  4 animalism  75–6 Anninos, Bambis  33 Annunciation  37 Anouilh, Jean  29, 155, 157, 159–60, 162–3, 165, 167–8, 67 n2, 155 n6 anticommunism  8, 25–6, 46, 60, 65, 69, 85, 89, 93–5, 103, 106–7, 121, 123, 126, 137, 141–2, 144, 147, 309, 313, 315; 8–9 n9, 155 n5 Antigone (Alexandrou)  3, 19, 24–5, 29, 31, 69, 76, 150–71, 310, 315–17 Act One  159–62 Act Two  163–7 contents and structure  157–67 in English  239–306 in Greek  172–238 Intermezzo  163 1951  3, 19, 24–5, 29, 31, 69, 150–8 2003 staging  29, 151, 167–70, 316 Antigone (Anouilh) (1944)  29, 155, 157, 159–60, 162–3, 165, 167–8; 67 n2, 155 n6 Antigone (character)  3, 15, 36, 67–71, 104, 109–11, 122, 129, 145, 152–4, 158–67, 309– 10, 316 Antigone (Sophocles)  2–3, 26, 28–9, 31, 35–6, 44, 55, 65–70, 104, 107–11, 129, 150, 155, 157, 160–2; 108 n4, 164 n10 and adult education  108–13 Makronisos production (1948)  35, 65–70, 104, 150, 312–13 (p.346) Trikeri reading  28, 107–10, 129 Antigonemodell (Brecht)  168 Antikewelle (German)  125; 125n26 ‘antinationals’  9–10, 90, 103, 115; 10 n11 Antoniou, Yiorgos  4 n2 Apostolopoulou, Natalia  20, 118; 107 n1, 118 n15 Arditti, Victor  29, 151, 165, 167–71; 151 n2 Argentina  105 n37 Aristophanes  32; 87 n16 See Lysistrata Ta arravoniasmata (The Betrothal) (Bogris) 49 artists  15, 18, 27, 33, 35, 50–1, 56, 61–3, 65, 81, 93, 95–6, 98, 116, 130, 132, 137, 139, 148–9, 166, 171; 10 n13, 42 n12, 110 n5, 151 n2 Association of Female Political Exiles  109 Association for Greek Theatre (Etaireia Ellinikou Theatrou)  54 n28 Athens Festival  148, 313 The Athens Review of Books  4 n2 Atossa (character)  51, 132, 134

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Index audience  15–19, 21, 28, 35, 48, 54, 57–8, 60–1, 66, 71–3, 77–8, 85, 87, 95–6, 99, 101–2, 104, 110–11, 128, 130, 132, 134–5, 137, 140–1, 149, 151, 163, 167–70, 307–13, 315; 86 n14, 87 n16, 94 n24, 102 n34 Augustus (63 BCE – 14 CE)  5 n3 authoritarianism  11, 28, 36, 41, 54 Avdoulos, Stavros  80; 102 n35 Averof prison (Athens)  21, 31, 37, 111–13; 31 n1, 102 n35, 150 n1 Ayios Efstratios, See Aï Stratis Babylonia (Vyzantios)  54, 56 Bach, Richard S.  111 n7 Baladimas, Kostas  1, 53–4, 56, 132, 149 Balkans  7, 143 Bandit from Washington  34 The Barber of Seville (Beaumarchais)  54, 56 Barmby, John Goodwyn  125 n22 The Basil Plant (Matesis)  55 Bastias, Kostis  44 ‘bastinado’  75 n5 Battalions of Makronisos See First, Second, and Third Battalion Beaumarchais, Pierre  54, 56 Benas, Takis  37–9, 58, 78 Benjamin, Walter  45 Berlin Wall, fall of (1989)  24 The Betrothal (Bogris)  49, 55–6 Bia (character)  114, 116 Bien, Peter  101 n30 Birkenau concentration camp  311 n4 Block C (Venezis)  31; 31–2 n1 Bogris, Dimitris (1890–1964)  47–50, 55–6, 60 Bourdieu, Pierre  147 The Bourgeois Gentleman (Molière)  54 bourgeois values  32–3; 12 n15 To bourini (The Squall) (Bogris)  49–50 Bournazos, Stratis  13, 14, 27, 47, 77, 83, 88, 90–4, 103, 120–1, 123, 142, 153; 9 n9, 10 n11, 13 n18, 20, 18 n26, 20 n27, 23 n30, 43 n13, 73 n4, 81 n9, 85 n13, 99 n29 Brecht, Bertolt  29, 155, 157, 167–9; 125 n22 British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC)  88 Buchenwald concentration camp  311 Bulgaria  8 The Burning Light (To fos pou kaiei) (Varnalis) (1922)  55, 125–6 Byzantine Empire  41, 46, 158; 5 n5 camp authorities, See prison authorities The Capital Dweller (Roussos)  81 The Capture of Miletus (Phrynichus)  156–7 Carnival productions  53, 113 censorship  2, 16, 23, 38, 44–5, 52–3, 58, 61, 107, 115–16, 170, 314, 316; 87 n16 Chekhov, Anton  31–2 The Cherry Orchard (Chekhov)  31–2 Christianity  34, 37, 81, 83, 94–5; 46 n20, 124 n20 Page 3 of 16

Index Christmas productions  53 classical drama  1–3, 11–12, 15–19, 22–4, 26–7, 35–6, 41–4, 54, 61–2, 65, 70, 79, 86, 109–10, 115, 140–1, 147, 308–9; 12 n15, 108 n4 as ‘collective property’  22 contextualizing  3 as ‘cultural capital’  147 and education  109–10 and ‘Greekness’  11, 308–9 metatheatrical nature of  16 (p.347) and prisoners  22–3 tragedy  1, 12, 26, 41–3, 61, 65, 86 Classical Greek Drama Festival (Athens)  43 Clytemnestra (character)  86, 146; 86 n14 Cohen, Sarah T.  5 n3 Cold War  7–9, 11, 29, 138–49, 150, 171, 308, 310, 316; 73 n4 communism  1, 6–9, 10–13, 17, 24–6, 33–4, 39–40, 60, 73, 83, 85, 88, 91–5, 98, 103, 106–7, 120–4, 127, 132, 137, 139, 141–5, 151–6, 313; 4 n2, 8–9 n9, 10 n13, 12 n16, 73 n4, 84 n12, 88 n17, 102 n34, 115 n12, 120 n16, 125 n22, 152 n4, 166 n11, 309 n3 See also anticommunism concentration camp  6, 130, 311; 93 n22, 308–9 n3, 311 n4 Connelly Theatre (New York City)  111 n7 Constantakopoulou, Christy  5–6 corporeality  61, 75–6 Creon (character)  36, 65–9, 111, 122, 153, 159, 165; 67 n2, 108 n4 Crime and Punishment (Dostoyevsky)  54 Cyclades  4–5; 12 n17 Daniil, Tasos  77 Danklis, Hristos  132–4; 21 n28 Days without End (staged 1949) (O'Neill)  31, 34; 161 n9 ‘declaration of repentance’  28, 51, 119–23, 129; 92 n21, 99 n29, 111 n7, 152 n3 Deep Soul (Voulgaris)  317 n6 defeatism  12, 28, 59, 71, 131, 145–6, 156, 314–15; 12 n16 Democratic Army  106 n1 democracy  1, 25, 28, 35, 41, 56–7, 62, 66, 69, 79, 104, 106–7, 109, 112, 137, 143, 145, 149, 150, 159–60, 242, 308, 310, 313; 44 n14, 88 n17, 134 n5 Derveki, Loula  112; 112 n9 Dodecanese  141 A Doll's House (Ibsen)  54 Don Carlos (Schiller)  54 Donkas, Makis  142 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor  54 Doumanis, Nicholas  118 n15 I drakaina (The Ogress) (Bogris)  49 Drosou, Kaiti  153 EAM, See National Liberation Front Easter productions  34, 94; 161 n9 Efthymiou, Nikos  33–5, 58, 60–1, 77, 81, 88, 94–6; 15 n23, 95 n25 ELAS, See National People's Liberation Army Electra (Sophocles)  43 Page 4 of 16

Index Elliniki Dimiourgia (‘Greek Creation’) (periodical)  47, 146 Embros (Greek newspaper)  95 Enomenoi Kallitechnes  42 n12 See United Artists EON, See National Youth Organization Epictetus (ca. 55–135 CE)  5 n3 epimorfosi  109 epitheorisi (popular revue)  34, 53, 113 EPON, See United Panhellenic Youth Organization ‘ethniki agogi’ (‘national education’)  17–18 ‘ethniki niki’ (‘national victory’)  141 ‘ethnikofrones’ (‘national‐minded’ patriots)  9, 85, 142 ‘ethnikofrosyni’ (‘national conviction’)  94, 142, 147; 85 n13 Euripides  3 European Recovery Program  143 Exo ap' ta dondia, Not Mincing Words (1937–1975) (Alexandrou)  150 Farsakidis, Yiorgos  140–1 female prisoners  57, 93–4, 99–100; 107 n2 female productions  20–1, 28, 30–1, 39, 51, 109 See Averof prison; Trikeri Feraios, Rigas (1757–1798)  37, 40 See also Velestinlis Festival of Ancient Greek Drama at Epidaurus  43, 148, 313 First Battalion of Makronisos  100 first‐person narrative  23 Fleming, Katie  153 Floundzis, Andonis I.  23 n30 The Flower of the Levant (Xenopoulos)  31 Fokas, Andonis  48 Foley, Helene  29 foreign plays  2, 15, 26–7, 31–2, 54 Foucault, Michel  90; 16 n24, 73 n4 Frankias, Andreas  91 n19 Frederica, Queen  90; 90 n18, 91 n19 Fugard, Athol  29, 108; 108 n4 (p.348) Gavriilidou, Nitsa  109; 81 n9 German Democratic Republic (1949–1989)  125 Glinos, Dimitris  126 Goldhill, Simon  153 Grammos, battle of (1949)  131 Great Britain  7, 32, 88, 126; 101 n33, 102 n35, 133 n3 ‘Great National School of Makronisos’ (article) (Bournazos)  83 Greek Civil War (1946–1949)  1–14, 21–3, 25, 32, 50–1, 59–60, 68, 71, 74, 76, 86, 93, 103–4, 106, 120, 124, 131, 138, 141, 145–7, 150–4, 156–8, 162–4, 169–70, 307–10, 313, 315–16; 87 n16, 106 n1, 107 n1, 110 n5, 111 n7, 115 n12, 143 n12, 153 n1, 166 n11, 291 n2, 317 n6 Greek Communist Party  8, 25–6, 32, 51, 120; 26 n31, 152–3 n4 Greek communists, See communists Greece culture in the 1940s and 1950s  6–11, 26–8, 52–4, 147–8, 150–7, 308, 316; 10 n13, 22 n29, 137 n7, 155 n5 Greek folk culture  31, 33–4, 50, 54, 113 Greek history  2, 7, 24, 36, 39–40, 49, 59, 62, 131, 144–5, 158, 163, 165 Page 5 of 16

Index Greek language  11, 15, 118 Greek Left and the classics  11–12, 22–3, 28, 36 collective identity and military defeat  131 as component of inmate theatre  31, 36–41 criticism of  151–70 and ‘declaration of repentance’  121 and the Hellenic patrimony  36 identity of  2 institutionalized oppression of  10–11 ‘noble’ struggle of  24 and prison islands  6 and Prometheus  125–8 repression of  3, 5 and resistance  10–11, 17, 36–41; 11 n14 Greek Ministry of Culture  307 Greek Ministry of Justice  52 Greek National Theatre, See National Theatre of Greece Greek nationalism  2, 7, 8–10, 12, 16, 28, 38–49, 52, 62, 86–7, 94–5, 98–9, 103, 109, 115, 121–4, 131, 138–9, 141–2, 144, 146–7; 10 n11, 40 n8, 118 n15, 143 n12 nation‐building  12, 46, 95 nation as family  95 See ‘antinationals’ Greek Orthodox Church  7, 34, 90, 123–4, 314; 46 n19, 118 n15 Greek patriotism  2, 8–12, 16, 19, 34, 38–41, 45–8, 62, 67, 81–3, 85, 87, 90–1, 99, 104, 115, 118, 120–5, 129, 131, 138–48, 157, 310, 314–15; 40 n8, 87 n16, 149 n15, 308 n3 Greek prison islands  1–9, 12–13, 17–18, 24–6, 35–6, 58, 80–1, 148, 307–8; 12 n17, 308– 9 n3 See Aï Stratis; Makronisos; torture; Trikeri Greek prison island theatre  1–61, 76–88, 94–5, 101–3, 307–8, 311–15 and ancient Greek drama  1–3, 41–7 communal experience of  15 cultural phenomenon of  14–19 differences between  30–3, 311–15 as education  58–60 first period of  30, 33–6 historical context of  3–14 and infantilism  46, 48–9, 94–5 ‘inspection’ visits  80–8, 101–3 monitoring of  16–19, 28 occasions for  36–41 and prison authorities See prison authorities and psychological survival  57–8, 77 reasons for success of  57–61 and record keeping  19–22 as ‘rehabilitative’, See ‘rehabilitation’ and ‘repentance’, See ‘repentance’ and resistance, See Greek resistance reticence to discuss  21–3 second period of  30, 50–7 selections of  33–6, 50–7 Page 6 of 16

Index sources and methodology  19–26 specifics of  12–13, 14–15 theatre itself  76–80 three components of  31–2 See Greek folk culture; Greek Left; ‘high’ culture three traditions of  41–50 types of, See foreign plays visitors to  80–8, 101–3 Greek resistance  10–11, 17, 25, 29, 36–42, 50–1, 58–61, 70, 72, 74, 77, 95, 104, (p. 349) 106, 110–11, 118, 134, 139–41, 145, 151, 162, 167–8, 310, 312, 314–15; 11 n14, 72 n3, 87 n16, 111 n7, 115 n12, 143 n12, 155 n5, 6 Greek revival tragedy, See revival tragedy Greek Revolution (1821)  36–7, 39–41, 47, 49 Greek Right and classical antiquity  11, 27–8, 138 and Cold War politics  7–9 control over theatre  41–7 and denial  23 and framing  16–17 and ‘rehabilitation’, See ‘rehabilitation’ and ‘repentance’, See ‘repentance’ and the United States  6–10; 13 n19 See ‘declaration of repentance’; Greek patriotism; propaganda Greek state anticommunism, See anticommunism Greek theatre history  1–3, 15, 20, 24, 40–1 Greek tourism (1960s)  3, 15 Greek translation business  15 Greek War of Independence (1821–1833)  38–40, 46 ‘Greekness’  11–12, 28, 308–9 Griffith, Mark  114 n11 Grivas, Periklis  20, 58–60, 66, 82 Gryparis, Ioannis  132 Gulag Archipelago  154; 309 n3 Hail to Mesolongi (Rotas)  31, 37–9; 38 n7 Hall, Edith  148 n15 Hamilakis, Yannis  6, 14, 62, 83, 103, 142–3, 151, 313, 316; 7 n7, 16 n24, 22 n29, 23 n30, 73 n4, 93 n22, 23, 143 n12 Hamlet (Shakespeare)  54 Happy Day (Voulgaris)  91 n19 Hariati‐Sismani, Katerina (1911–1996)  20–1, 106, 116, 119, 122; 116 n13 Haris, Petros  86 Hart, Janet  111 Hatzipandazis, Thodoros  47 n21, 49 n24 Hellenism  36, 41, 43, 46, 49, 51, 62, 141–3, 160, 308; 44 n14, 46 n20, 49 n24, 91 n20, 120 n16, 124 n21 Heracles (character)  44, 74, 122, 126 Herodes Atticus Theatre  43, 86, 148 Herodotus  154, 160 Hesiod  114 ‘high’ culture  31–2, 34–5, 54; 149 n15 Page 7 of 16

Index Histiaeus of Miletus  160 History of the Hellenic Nation (Paparrigopoulos)  46 History of the Peloponnesian War (Thucydides)  44 n14 Hitler, Adolf  41–2 Hölderlin, Friedrich  168 holiday productions  30, 34, 36–41, 53, 92, 113, 139; 37 n4 Homer  63, 92, 103 ‘How I Spent My Time on Makronisos’ (article)  143 ‘I Converse, Therefore I Exist’ (poem) (Alexandrou)  155 Ibsen, Henrik  31, 48, 54 The Idiot (Dostoyevsky)  54 I ieri floga (The Sacred Flame) (Bogris)  49 If You Work You'll Eat (Tsekouras)  31 Ikaria  12, 121; 12–13 n17 Iliadi, Mary  132 n16 The Imaginary Invalid (Molière)  54; 31 n1 Imvrioti, Roza  115–16, 125; 110 n6, 115 n12, 116 n13 Independence Day productions  37–41 intellectuals  6, 12, 15, 33, 43, 59, 80–2, 85, 95, 98, 117–18, 145–6, 152–5, 157, 170; 10 n13, 44 n14, 87 n16, 110 n5, 155 n6 ‘internal exile’  3–7, 14, 22, 29, 92; 85 n13, 150 n1 International Committee of the Red Cross  137; 80 n8, 137 n7 Intrigue and Love (Schiller)  54 The Island (Fugard) (1973)  29; 108 n4 Italian rule (1912–1947)  139–41 Itzedin‐Kalami prison (Crete)  37 Japanese Americans  309 n3 Jesus Christ  49, 83, 94 Journal of Modern Greek Studies  143 n13 Julius Caesar (Shakespeare)  54 Kainouria Epohi (Greek journal)  150 Kainouria zoi (New Life) (Bogris)  49 Kalaïtzi, Glykeria  42 n12, 49 n24 Kalo, Kali  121–2 Kalyvas, Stathis N.  4 n2 Kamarinou, Kyriaki A.  5 n4, 110 n6 (p.350) Kambanellis, Iakovos  91 n20 Kambanis, Aristos  72 Kambanis, Fanis  132, 149 Kanellopoulos, Panayiotis  82–3; 87 n16 Karamanlis, Konstandinos G.  10 n13 Karousos, Tzavalas (1904–1969)  1, 53–6, 132, 134, 137–9, 148–9; 50 n26, 53 n27, 54 n28, 56 n31 Kathimerini (Greek daily paper)  7, 86–8 Katrakis, Manos (1908–1984)  1, 27, 53–4, 56, 100–1, 127–8, 134, 137–40, 148–9; 101 n30 Katsiva‐Kiskira, Nitsa  81 n9 Katsiyeras, Mihalis  65 Katsounaki, Maria  317 n5 Page 8 of 16

Index Kavvadias, Stamatis  127–8 Kazantzakis, Nikos  55, 100–1, 126; 101 n30, 126 n23 Kenna, Margaret E.  22 n29, 153 n4 To kokkino poukamiso (The Red Shirt) (Melas)  48 Kornaros, Vitsentzos  34 Koromilas, Dimitris  31 Kotopouli, Marika (1887–1954)  84–7, 146–7; 86 n14, 87 n16, 147 n14 Kotsopoulos, Thanos  49 Koumandareas, Menis  87 n16 Koun, Karolos (1908–1987)  148–9; 42 n12, 148 n15 Koundouros, Nikos  27–8, 71–2, 81–2, 84–6, 90, 99, 102, 134; 85 n13, 87 n16 Koutifari‐Frantzeskou, Argyro  100, 107, 115 Kratos (character)  114, 116 Kusnetzoff, Juan Carlos  105 n37 Kyriakidou, Maria  123 Kyriakopoulos, Vasilios  102 n35 Lazaris, Vasilis  99 Leeper, Reginald  102 n34 Lehrstücke (Brecht)  168 Lemnos  21, 70, 72–3, 75–6, 150 n1 Levi, Primo  93 n22 Loundemis, Menelaos  36, 69, 307; 14 n21 The Lover of the Shepherdess (Koromilas)  31 ‘loyalty certificates’  8 Luisa Miller (Schiller)  54–6 Lycabettus Hill theatre  49 Lysistrata (Aristophanes)  87 n16 Maddox, Gloria  111 n7 Makronisos, as symbol  23 Makronisos (island) prison  17–18, 23, 27, 35–6 Makronisos (island) prison theatre  2, 12–14, 16–20, 23–4, 26, 27–8, 30–1, 33–7, 48, 52– 3, 57–63, 64–105, 120, 123, 127–8, 130, 142–4, 150, 155, 307–9, 312–13, 316; 13 n18, 14 n21, 15 n23, 16 n24, 22 n29, 23 n30, 54 n29, 83 n11, 84 n12, 107 n1, 2, 124 n20, 141 n10, 143 n12, 152 n3, 161 n9 Antigone (1948)  35, 65–70, 104, 150, 312–13 and authorities, See prison authorities and female prisoners  93–4, 99–100; 23 n30 and ‘inspection’ visits  80–8, 101–3 limits of  16–19 literature  23 locations of  76–89 moralizing plays  16–18, 27, 31, 33, 48, 53, 65, 92 the ‘New Parthenon’  83; 83 n11, 84 n12 occasions for  36–7 ‘phenomenon’  64–5, 76, 81, 86, 98, 105 Philoctetes (1948)  35, 66–7, 70–6, 104 as ‘Pool of Siloam’  83 and Prometheus  127–8, 307–8, 312–13 and propaganda  89–98 Page 9 of 16

Index reasons for success of  57–9 referred to as  83–4 as ‘rehabilitation’  16, 27 and resistance  17 as ‘school’  83 statistics on  13 n18 theatre selections  33–6 and torture  14 n21 See Battalions of Makronisos Makronisos literature  23 ‘Makronisos phenomenon’  64–5, 76, 81, 86, 98, 105, 312–13 Makronisiotes  13, 33, 35–6, 48, 59, 61, 70, 92, 307 Malamut, Elisabeth  5 n3 Mamoulaki, Elena  12–13 n17 Mandela, Nelson  108 n4 Marantzidis, Nikos  4 n2 (p.351) Margaris, Nikos  18, 89, 98, 136; 18 n26, 50 n26, 101 n31 Marshall Plan  143; 7 n7, 143 n13 Marxism  11–12, 25, 27, 32–3, 109, 117, 125–6; 12 n15, 117 n14 and art  12 n15 and the classics  11–12, 33 and optimism  32–3 See Prometheus Matesis, Andonios  55 Matthaiou, Anna  4 n2 Mavroeidi‐Pandeleskou, Aphrodite  99 Mayakovsky, Vladimir  155 Mazower, Mark  6 n6, 8 n8, 9 n9, 10 n13, 115 n12, 120 n16 McCarthy, Joseph  8 The Measures to Be Taken (Brecht)  168 Mechelen (Malines, Belgium)  80 n8 Mee, Erin  29 Melas, Spyros (1883–1966)  47–8, 60, 146–7; 47 n21 memory  2, 4, 15–16, 19, 21–4, 28, 47, 50, 59, 69, 72, 76, 117, 127, 130–1, 138, 145, 307, 314; 4 n2, 22 n29, 118 n15 collective memory  2, 15, 24; 4 n2, 22 n29 Merchant of Venice (Shakespeare)  33, 54–6, 97; 56 n31 Mesolongi, siege of (1826)  38 metatheatre  2, 16, 19, 28, 65, 77, 82, 87, 98, 103, 163, 169, 312–14 Metaxas, Ioannis (1871–1941)  5, 30, 33, 41–7, 63, 95–6, 110, 126; 9 n9, 37 n5, 42 n11, 44–5 n14, 15, 115 n12 and Greek patriotic drama  41–7 methodology  19–26 Miner, Robert  98 The Miser (Molière)  31, 33, 54 The Mission Box (To kivotio) (Alexandrou)  154, 166 Missios, Hronis  23–4 Mobilizing ‘Antigone’ on the Contemporary World Stage (Foley and Mee)  29 Molière  31, 33, 54; 31 n1 My Little Own Self (Eaftoulis mou) (Psathas)  31 Myrivilis, Stratis  139, 141–2, 147; 141 n10 Page 10 of 16

Index National Geographic Magazine  88, 91 National Liberation Front (EAM)  10, 51, 83, 102 National People's Liberation Army (ELAS)  10 National Resistance  11; 11 n14 national security  9, 74, 147, 310; 73 n4 National Theatre of Greece  27, 38, 41, 43–5, 48, 55–7, 62, 86, 128, 134–49, 169, 308, 310; 136 n6, 151 n2 Persians  55, 134, 138–46 National Youth Organization (EON)  45, 49 Nazi concentration camp theatre productions  18, 311 Nazi Germany  8, 10–11, 18, 25, 31, 40, 139–40; 8 n8, 93 n22 Nazi Occupation  10–11, 25, 139–40, 145, 150–1, 157–63; 8 n8, 67 n2, 106 n1, 110 n5, 111 n7 Neoptolemus (character)  73–4 ‘New Parthenon’  83; 83 n11, 84 n12 Nietzsche, Friedrich  127; 126 n23 Nikodimos (character)  158–61, 164, 166 Nikolaïdou, Elli  116 No (play) (Efthymiou)  34 Nouhakis, Yiannis  67 O'Neill, Eugene  31, 34, 155; 161 n9 Oceanus (character)  114, 116, 119, 122; 116 n13 Odysseus  76, 122 Odyssey  103 Oedipus  35, 117; 76 n6 Oedipus Rex (Sophocles)  55 Office for Moral Education  96–7 Ohi Day productions  34, 139 Oresteia (Aeschylus) (458 BCE)  28, 86, 146, 310; 147 n14 Orthokosta (Valtinos) (1994)  24 Othello (Shakespeare)  54–6 Pagoulatou‐Loverdou, Regina  122 n19 Païzi, Aleka  108–10; 111 n7 Palamas, Kostis  100 Pallis, Alexandros  56 Panathenaic (Kallimarmaro) Stadium  103 Panourgia, Neni  6, 8, 32, 35–6, 77; 4 n2, 3, 6 n5, 7 n7, 9 n9, 14 n22, 22 n29, 23 n30, 26 n31, 42 n11, 54 n30, 73 n4, 75 n5, 76 n6, 81 n9, 83 n11, 99 n29, 120 n16, 121 n17, 308– 9 n3 Papadouka, Olympia  21, 31, 113 Papaflessas (Melas)  47 (p.352) Papailias, Penelope  24 Paparrigopoulos, Konstandinos  46 Parthenon  82, 97–8, 143; 84 n12 Paschaloudi, Eleni  4 n2 Patrikios, Titos  130 Patterson, Michael  18; 80 n8 Paul, King  86 Pehlivanos, Miltos  167; 155 n6, 161 n9 Page 11 of 16

Index Peloponnesian War  14 n44 ‘percepticide’  105; 105 n37 performance and the creative life  6 ephemeral nature of  23 and identity  19 limits on  16–21 and mistreatment  107 n2 and politics  2–3, 14–15, 315 power of  27 and prison officials  14–17 and torture  17 performativity  14–19 Persians (Aeschylus) (472 BCE)  2, 26, 28, 51, 54–6, 130–49, 308, 310; 132 n1, 137 n7, 149 n15 Aï Stratis production (1951)  28, 54, 130–8, 148, 308 Ioannis Gryparis translation  132 and Karolos Koun  148–9; 149 n15 National Theatre productions  55, 134, 138–46 as nationalist tract  138–9 photographs of  133, 135, 136 Persians 402–5, 140 Petropoulou, Zoe  109 Philoctetes (Aristos Kambanis translation)  72 Philoctetes (Sophocles) (409 BCE)  2, 26–8, 35, 51, 66–7, 70–6, 104, 123; 72 n3 Makronisos production (1948)  35, 66–7, 70–6, 104 translations of  72 Philoctetes (character)  15, 36, 69, 71–5, 104, 122, 145–6, 309–10, 312–13, 316 Phoenician Women (Euripides)  3 ‘Phrynichus’ (poem) (Alexandrou)  156–7 Plato  85 n13 Plutarch  5 n3 Polemi, Popi  4 n2 political detainees  15, 109–10, 114, 156, 312, 316; 11 n14, 37 n4, 112 n9 Politis, Fotos  55 Pool of Siloam  83 The Poor Man's Sheep (Zweig)  81 prison authorities  14–18, 27, 30–1, 38–9, 58, 60, 64–70, 77–88, 93–5, 107–8, 311–12 prison islands, See Greek prison islands prison island theatre See Greek prison island theatre prisoner ‘rehabilitation’, See ‘rehabilitation’ proletariat (working class)  32–3 Prometheus (character)  15, 28, 32–3, 36, 69–70, 110, 114–17, 119–29, 145–6, 307–13, 316 Prometheus (dress rehearsal) (Trikeri) (1949)  20, 119 Prometheus or The Comedy of Optimism (Rotas)  32 Prometheus Bound (Aeschylus)  2, 26, 55, 107, 110, 114–29, 307–8; 114 n11 as leftist  125–8 and Makronisos  127–8, 307–8 Page 12 of 16

Index and ‘Memory’  117 and nonrepentance  119–25 Trikeri production  107, 110, 114–25, 129 propaganda  13, 18, 27, 60, 67, 82–4, 88–98, 103, 137, 141, 143–4, 146, 308; 42 n11, 81 n9, 143 n12 Psathas, Dimitris  31, 33, 53 psychological survival  57–8, 77, 119–20, 311–12 Raftopoulos, Dimitris  153; 97 n27 Raftopoulos, Lefteris  70–3, 76 record keeping  19–22, 33; 110 n6 Regime of the Fourth of August (1936)  42, 49 ‘rehabilitation’/‘re‐education’  13–14, 16–18, 26–8, 79, 81, 85, 90–2, 94–5, 98–9, 101, 121, 123, 129, 313; 13 n20, 85 n13, 111 n7 ‘repentance’  16, 28, 65, 90–2, 101, 115, 119–25, 127; 92 n21 See ‘declaration of repentance’ revival tragedy  27, 35, 42–3, 104, 147–8, 314; 40 n8 (p.353) Rhodes  92, 140; 91 n20 Ricks, David  158 n8 Rigas Velestinlis (Rotas)  26–7, 31, 37–9, 40, 55–6, 58, 69; 37 n5 Ritsos, Yiannis  132 Robben Island  108 n4, 309 n3 Rondiris, Dimitris  43, 56, 86, 134, 139, 141–2, 146–8; 139 n8 Rotas, Vasilis (1889–1977)  26–7, 31–3, 37–42, 55–6, 126, 310; 38 n7 See Hail to Mesolongi; Rigas Velestinlis Roussos, Yiorgos  81 Royal Theatre (1932)  43 Rufus, Musonius  5 n3 Russian Revolution (1917)  8 The Sacrifice of Abraham (Kornaros)  34–5, 94 Sakellarios, Alekos  81 Salamis, battle of (480 BCE)  131, 134, 140, 144 satire  31, 34, 44, 53, 58, 81; 91 n19 Schiller, Friedrich  54–6 Scott, James C.  101 n32 Second Battalion of Makronisos  33, 65, 81, 84, 93–4, 96–7; 15 n23, 88 n17 ‘secret school’ (krifo scholeio)  118 Shakespeare, William  32–3, 44–5, 54–6, 97; 50 n26, 122 n19, 133 n3, 311 n4 Simas, Yeorgios  120 n16 Simonides of Keos  154 Sisyphus  35–6 Skapanefs (Makronisos journal)  20, 65, 67–8, 92, 96–7, 127, 142–3; 81 n9, 143 n12 Sophocles, See Antigone; Electra; Oedipus Rex; Philoctetes Soviet Communism  8, 24–6 Soviet internment camps  154 Soviet Union  24, 26, 31, 90, 143, 151, 154; 4 n2, 26 n31 Spartans  49 ‘Special Rehabilitation Schools for Civilians’ of Makronisos  16 stage directing  33, 47, 50–1, 53, 55–6, 60, 81–2, 132 State Theatre of Northern Greece  151 Page 13 of 16

Index State Theatre of Thessaloniki  55–6, 169 Stefanou, Pagona  107 n1 The Storm (Velmyras and Velimezis brothers)  61, 94–6, 104; 95 n25 Strangeways, D. I.  101 Sulla, Lucius Cornelius  4–5 n3 ‘to Syrma’ (‘the Wire’)  14 Syros, Cyclades Islands  4 Tartuffe (Molière)  54; 31 n1 Taylor, Diana  105; 105 n37 Theatre of the Mountains  27, 41–2, 310; 42 n12 Theatrika—Kinimatografika—Tileoptika (Greek journal)  20 Theodorou, Victoria  128–9, 134; 110 n6 Theotokas, Yeorgios  43 Theresienstadt ghetto  311 n4 Thermopylae, battle of (480 BCE)  154 ‘Thiasos of the Exiles of Aï Stratis’  50–7, 63, 132, 138, 141 Third Battalion of Makronisos  65, 70, 73, 89, 94 ‘Third Hellenic Civilization’  41–2 Third Reich  41–2; 80 n8, 311 n4 Thomson, George  126 Thrylos, Alkis  86 n14 Thucydides  44 n14 Tiberius, Emperor  5 n3 torture  6, 17, 25, 60–1, 66, 75, 77–8, 80–1, 88, 98–103, 106, 114, 119–21, 127–8, 154, 309–10; 9 n9, 13 n20, 14 n21, 22 n29, 75 n5, 93 n22, 99 n29 of each other  120–1 of men  100–1 of women  99–100 theatre as  98–103 See ‘declaration of repentance’ tragic hero  15–16, 27–8, 36, 62, 69–75, 105, 135, 309–10 See Prometheus Trikeri (prison island)  12, 20–1, 26, 28, 39, 57–8, 76–7, 99, 101, 106–25, 129, 134, 144, 314; 92 n21, 106–7 n1 Antigone (reading)  28, 107–10, 129 and camp administrators  107–8 and class disparities  109, 112–13 and education  108–114, 117–18 and female solidarity  110 and nonrepentance  119–25 and older prisoners  113 Prometheus Bound (stage production)  107, 110, 114–25 and sexism  106–7, 109 Trisevyeni (Palamas)  100 (p.354) The Trojan War (Yiannakopoulos and Sakellarios)  81 Truman Doctrine  8; 7 n7 The Truth about Makronisos (Zoannos‐Sarris)  93 Tsakiroglou, Nikitas  307 Tsekouras, Nikos  31 Tsellos, Tasos (1920–1986)  18–19, 21, 27, 30, 42, 50–5, 57, 63, 123, 126, 132–4, 136–7; 57 n32, 108 n3 Page 14 of 16

Index on theatre troupe ‘Thiasos of the Exiles’  50–5 Turkish Occupation  49 Twelfth Night (Shakespeare)  54 Twice Greek (Koumandareas)  87 n16 tyranny  37, 44, 48, 75, 90, 98–108, 114, 122, 138, 159, 162 Tzanetatos, Yeorgios  94 United Artists  42 n12 United Panhellenic Youth Organization (EPON)  51 United States  6–10, 88, 143–4, 147; 13 n19, 114 n11, 133 n3, 309 n3, 317 n6 Unprofitable Line (Agonos Grammi) (Alexandrou)  155–6 Valtinos, Thanasis  24 Varnalis, Kostas  125 Vasilas, Yiannis  23 n30 O Vasilikos (Matesis)  55 Vassileiadis, Aristotelis  17 See Aris Alexandrou Veakis, Aimilios  122 n19 Velimezis, Aimilios  60, 95 Velimezis, Theodoros  60, 95 Velmyras, Kostis  60, 95 Venezis, Ilias  31; 31–2 n1 Vengos, Thanasis  35, 81–2 Velestinlis, Rigas (1757–1798)  37, 40 See also Feraios Verfremdungseffekt (distancing technique)  168–9 Vervenioti, Tasoula  106 n1, 137 n7 Vitsi, battle of (1949)  88, 131, 142; 142 n11 Vlahos, Yeorgios Angelos  7, 147; 147 n14 Voglis, Polymeris  8, 14–15, 24–5, 31–4, 40, 65, 83, 85, 90–1, 94, 98, 107, 121; 7 n7, 8–9 n9, 10 n11, 12, 11 n14, 12 n16, 13 n18, 20, 16 n24, 18 n26, 20 n27, 23 n30, 26 n31, 37 n4, 38 n6, 46 n19, 73 n4, 92 n21, 93 n22, 97 n27, 102 n35, 110 n6 Voulgaris, Pandelis  91 n19, 317 n6 Vrahiotis, Petros  20, 34–7, 48–50, 58, 60; 139 n8 Vyzantios, Dimitris  54–6 Walton, Michael  145 Well, You Were Killed Early on (Missios) (1985)  23–4; 169 n12 ‘White Terror’ (1945–1946)  9 n9 William Tell (Schiller)  54 Williams, Maynard Owen  88, 91; 88 n17 The Woman and the Wrong Man (I yinaika kai o lathos) (Kambanellis)  110 n5 World War II  7–8, 10–11, 41, 43; 44 n15 Xenopoulos, Grigorios  31 Xerxes, King of Persia  131–2, 134, 139, 145 Xyftilis, Andreas  152 n3 Yatromanolakis, Yorgis  126; 126 n23 Yiannakopoulos, George  81 Yiaros/Yioura, Cyclades Islands  4–5; 4–5 n3, 5 n4 Yiolasis, Yiorgos  132 Zakynthos island prison  37 n4 Zeus  114–15, 122, 126–7 Zoannos‐Sarris  93–6, 144; 84 n12, 95 n25, 120 n16 Page 15 of 16

Index Zografos, Tasos  96, 100; 101 n30 Zweig, Stefan  81

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