CHAPTER 11
In the summer of 1993, I still had one more year before I would have my bachelor’s degree and could begin my gradual retreat from the restaurant life. That summer we would go to Greece with the expectation of buying a house in the heart of Margariti, inside the town square. Vangelis had called that winter. Nick told me about the conversation.
“He says there’s an old house, only eight thousand dollars. It’s small and it needs a lot of work.”
A place of our own—I thought about it. In the U.S., we lived in my parent’s house-apartment. I knew I’d never own anything. But a home in Greece? Did we dare?
“I don’t know, Nick. Where will we get the money?”
We discussed a loan, but our credit was horrible. We were restaurant workers with low incomes, and this was long before the bank scandals of the new millennium where credit would be handed out like candy. We convinced my parents to take a loan on their house and worked out a payment plan. Then we prepared for our trip to Greece to become home owners. The thoughts of closing a door and having my own space or of having a bathroom inside the same dwelling where we slept, were such exciting ideas. So with the money in hand, we began the journey with our little second grader and fourth grader.
This was also the year when, a few weeks before, we had sat at the kitchen table, a letter signed by the school principal sitting on the flat surface between us, accusingly. We had discussed its contents—the strong recommendation for Nikki to go to summer school—neither of us quite sure of the weight a poor standardized test score could carry, and thus still able to foster an awe of learning in our children.
“We’ll go to Greece instead,” Nick had said, “and we’ll show them history.”
He was a firm believer in the Greek-cure for all ills, and given the choice of staying in the all too familiar grind of the sweltering summer kitchens or going to Margariti, it was an easy choice.
We stayed in Athens for a few days. Starting with a climb to the Parthenon, we walked around the Acropolis and the ancient Agora. We listened to stories about the Olympics while sitting in the Panatheniac Stadium, then investigated the artifacts in the Athenian Archaeological Museum, and afterwards examined the Temple of Olympian. We compared the attributes of Roman and Greek architecture while standing beneath the Arch of Hadrian, and ate our evening meals at the plaka, with the Acropolis lit in colored lights above us. We walked through history and spoon fed it to our children until their heads were full and their eyes glazed over. Then we began the trek north—the eight hour bus ride, snaking over hairpin turns, bouncing on the rutted road as the wheels smacked the pavement and our insides churned.
Weary, into our seventh hour, I thought I saw something up on the mountain top from the bus window, but I wasn’t sure. It seemed to be a series of large white buildings. So a few days later, after we had settled into Margariti, we borrowed Fotis’ car and found our way back to that turn in the road. Across the expanse of farms, as the greenness bent upward, there stood, on the edge of a mountain ridge jutting out through the trees, several large white structures made of marble—giant nondescript blocks of stone connected to each other at the top by thin appendages. They were about two-stories high and from the road they looked like what they were supposed to symbolize—women dancing in the traditional Greek steps. According to Nick, we were looking at the monument that had been constructed in memory of the women and children who had been trapped on the rim of that steep cliff, after having fled their enemy during the Souliote War of 1803, and they had chosen to dance off the edge, rather than be captured by the ensuing Turks.
I don’t remember how we got up there. We must have driven, but I clearly remember standing with my neck craned, looking straight up at the massive structures.
I imagined being one of the fleeing women with my two small children, coming to that precipice and suddenly knowing that there would be no future. Then having to make that decision, in that time and in that place—the rawness of life and cruelty of war—incomprehensible to me, having been coddled in my twentieth century American world. Looking from Nikki to Thomas, as they listened intently to their father’s story, my heart tightened and I felt my eyes blur with tears. A warm breeze swept my hair off my ears and I heard the women singing. They were next to me, hand in hand, the rhythmic movement of their legs kicking against the wool skirts, as their feet brushed over the ground.
“We will remember you,” I whispered. “We will keep you alive.”
* * * *
Souli was a village high in the remote Pindus Mountains of Epirus. The Souliotes were tough people who were in constant conflict with Ali Pasha, the ruling Ottoman leader of that area. The European powers were interested in weakening the Ottoman power, so they encouraged those conflicts by providing the Souliotes with weapons and ammunition through the port of Parga. But in the winter of 1803, after much fighting, they were badly beaten by Ali Pasha’s fighters. For their surrender, the oppressive ruler had promised them a safe retreat to the Ionian Islands—enough time to gather their possessions and then a departure without fear of harm. The Souliotes accepted the offer, though wary of their enemy's promise, and they began their journey to the coast.
Anastasia, a young girl of twelve, was among those in that retreat. Her last moments in her home had been spent wrapping food and possessions into a cloth, to be tied into a sling-like carrying case. In the rush, she had forgotten to take her jeweled head scarf, given to her by her yiayia. As she departed in the haste, she looked back, thinking to retrieve it but her mother pulled her along and there was only that last longing look. One last time, her eyes took in the familiar stone walls of the house, and the large almond tree that hung next to it brushing against the tiled roof on that windy day.
She followed closely at her mother’s side as they made their way to the outer rim of the village, with thoughts of an uncertain future in a new home, for they were creatures of the mountains and to leave those peaks for the sea was troubling. Her stride was labored under the bundle slung across her back. And as they continued on, a shepherd from across the peak reached them breathlessly as they descended from the village square. He talked excitedly to the men, his arms waving, crying as he spoke—telling them of Ali Pasha’s betrayal, the rapes, the mutilations—innocent blood spilled as the warriors carved a trail of mayhem in their advance toward Souli. The exodus became a frenzy of fear as the women fled with their children and the men prepared to defend them from the approaching fighters.
In their earlier preparation for retreat, Anastasia had known that she could take only what she could carry, and had put on every article of clothing she owned, but as they fled, it became a heavy burden and she fought to keep pace with the others. They climbed the heights and descended into ravines, only to climb again and again. And the moving mass heard death’s approach in the echoes of the mountains as smoke began to billow above the peaks in the distance, but they kept moving. Over one mountain and then another. Small children on the backs of older ones. Tired, hungry, breathless, they pushed forward. There would be no rest.
Hours later, in the dim light of dawn, from the height of their position, they could see a band of moving horses and men approaching with a speed that could not be matched. They cried for their sons, their brothers, their husbands and continued their retreat, fear pushing them onward, knowing what had befallen those who had not escaped.
Suddenly, they came to a stop; the deadly ridge lay before them. Their mindless fleeing had trapped them high above a green valley with no hope for retreat. If there would be no escape for them, then death would be a kindness. There was no panic, no crying, only silence as the December wind came up the side of the cliff and called to them. One of the older women began to sing.
“Take my farewell little springs, forests and high peaks . . . ”
And slowly, one by one, the others began.
“The fish cannot survive on land . . . ”
“As the flower cannot survive in the sand . . .�
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Connecting to each other with outstretched arms, the women slowly began to dance, “and the Souliete women cannot live without freedom.” Arm in arm, they danced; babies bounced in sarmanitsas.
And then that older woman disappeared over the edge while the others continued with the smooth sound of their song.
And then one more was gone, and another.
Anastasia watched the edge grow closer. She did not understand that death awaited until her mother’s hands grasped her tightly and she was hurling through the empty air, and then they were separated as the wind pulled them apart and Anastasia felt something—perhaps the branches of a pornari tree—dig deep into her forehead and the warm blood running into her eyes. Her body, encased in the layers of clothing, hit against rocks, down, down. Pain. Breathless. And then it was over.
Her back lay against the green grass. Her eyes, a warm liquid seeping into them, stared upward. They were lost in the blueness of the sky.
But she was alive!
Unable to move, she lay for some time, fighting for breath and slowly the air found passages to her lungs, filling her with strength as she pulled herself to her feet.
Chevi’s great grandmother, Anastasia, would live her life and share her story!
Our drive back to Margariti was filled with questions from the children. They were just beginning, as was I, to understand the colorful history of their family. And it was that summer that I realized something about my father-in-law.
Tomas was a hoarder. He spent much time laboring over what Nick called shacks, which he built in different areas of the yard to keep his stuff. Each time an olive oil container was emptied, he would flattened it into a sheet of tin and squirrel it away. He dragged home random pieces of wood that he found on his walk to town or on the farm or among the olive trees. Nothing was thrown away: shards of metal, plastic containers, rusted nails and bolts, old roof tiles, broken tools. And when one shack was full, he’d start constructing another, which in itself was made from random junk like the rotten wooden shutters his children had replace on the little house which he had taken and stuck together with wire and tree branches to form a wall for one of the shacks.
The process infuriated Nick, as he watched the older man labor intensely in a way he had never seen him do when he and his siblings were growing up hungry and poor. It seemed that with each new improvement that the brothers and sisters attempted—the cement driveway and courtyard, the indoor kitchen and bathroom, the roof for the old house—Tomas would argue, hinder the labor, chase the workers away and then create yet another shack and fill it.
One day, at the onset of a rare passing summer rain, I scrambled to take cover in the little house with Nikki, Thomas, Marianna and Dina. As the giant drops began to splatter on the courtyard cement, Nick found his way to us. I sat with the children on an unkempt bed. The little house consisted only of two rooms, both being bedrooms. Nick paced restlessly, waiting for the rain to subside.
“There’s no place for us to go,” he mumbled.
I had been painfully aware of that fact from my first moments at the family house, nine years before, but I hadn’t realized it was a frustration for him also.
He was also reeling from the disappointment, as was I, from the change in price for the house we had intended to buy. Someone had convinced the owner that the price was too low and he decided that he wanted double the money, pushing it out of our reach. Eventually the town would buy it and turn it into the Margariti Museum—a good use for it. But at that time, it was a great disappointment.
As the clouds parted for the returning sun, Nick walked briskly across the courtyard to the other house and instead of going into the front entrance that then led to the indoor kitchen, he opened the door next to it and attempted to enter the storeroom.
I had never given much thought to that door. It was a pest-eaten wooden door that scraped the ground noisily as it was pushed inward. Inside was a large rectangular windowless room with a dome-like ceiling. There were a few sacks of flour and some cans of olive oil but mostly it was filled with old wood, pieces of plastic and metal, broken shoes and an array of other useless items.
Nick stepped up onto the dirt floor, squeezed into the crowded room and began throwing items out into the courtyard.
“Come here. Help me.” He motioned to the children and we all worked until we had a pile of junk in the courtyard and an empty storeroom. Fotis heard the commotion from the room above the kitchen that he had created for himself and he came down. He called his friend, Kolios to help. The three men worked with shovels to dig out the dirt floor, attempting to make it level with the other rooms.
At some point Tomas came home and saw the men working. Memories of the events as they happened that afternoon are a little murky, but the argument that ensued is as clear as the crystal sea.
Tomas began yelling and flailing his arms about. Nick met his father’s words with the hot anger of crackling oil in a frying pan. The two were face to face—violent words passed between them. Fotis and Kolios retreated to the background as Nick continued spitting his fury, his father meeting it and throwing it back. The children stood and stared. My father-in-law was pointing at my husband, yelling, stomping his feet but Nick would not back off. After some long heart-pounding minutes, Tomas shook his fist at his eldest son, cursed his future and retreated up the stairs, his back to his children, disappearing through the old entrance. The air was electrified. Nick slowly turned toward me.
He winked, smiled, grabbed a shovel and disappeared into the storeroom. The two other men followed. Once the floor was level, Nick decided a window was needed, so he took a pick and began knocking large rocks from the middle of the stone wall.
“No, no, no, no. . .” Fotis came running over, “the room above is going to fall in.”
Above the storeroom was the one room that remained from the original structure, the room that had not been destroyed by the fire and it was still piled high with possessions.
“You’re weakening the structure.” Fotis implored his older brother to stop.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nick said as another blow landed on the wall, sending several large stones to the ground outside and creating a large opening that flooded the room with sunlight.
With a grin from ear to ear, Nick stood up in the opening and raised his two fingers high, showing a peace sign. I snapped a photo.
Poor Fotis. As was the habit in those days, Nick left the mess for him to clean up. We departed the following week for the U.S. and the cement truck was ordered a few days later. Fotis would oversee and pay for the new floor, the new window, the fresh paint and the furniture that would create a much-used living area for many years.
Tired and dirt-stained, Nick took a break from the digging. We sat together on the step outside the little house.
“Nick, what is this property here?” I pointed to the tangled overgrowth between the little house and the dirt road.
“What do you mean? It’s just dirt.”
“Well, is there enough room to build here?”
“Uh—” His eyes registered a hint of understanding. “Build?” He hesitated.
“Yeah.” I continued. “Maybe we could add onto this little house. Make a bathroom—maybe a living room or kitchen.”
He stood up slowly and walked to the metal fence, put his arms on the top and looked over the property—considering. He was nodding his head but said nothing. I stood next to him.
“So, what do you think?”
“Yes, it’s a good idea,” he said. “I’d have to get my father to split the property and give me this piece.”
“Oh.” That sounded like an impossible task.
“Don’t worry. He’ll cool off. Tomorrow, he’ll be looking for money for ouzo or someone to pay for a taxi. He’ll do it."
Tomas did split the property. He gave his two sons the houses and split some farm land between his daughters but Fotis would not find out that his name had not actually been put on the house—but
only one half of the property—until ten years later when he would apply to the European Union for grant money that was being given to homeowners to create a tourist business—the house being used as proof that the applicant was serious about building and wouldn't just take the money and leave. But Fotis would be denied that opportunity, as he was told that he did not own that house on that property, but rather Tomas did. Tomas would refuse to sign the application, telling his son that he was saving him from debt. And Chevi would lose her last child as Fotis realized he would have to move away in order to make a life of some means.
But at that time, the children went to the lawyer’s office in Igoumenitsa to sign the new deeds and they thought they understood the consequences. On the return bus, Vaso accompanied us back to Margariti.
“I need to talk to my sister. I’ll be right back.”
Nick moved into the seat ahead and the two talked for most of the ride home. Then Nick returned to my side.
“What was that about?” I asked him.
“I just wanted to be sure she was okay with the whole deal. You know, she helped me and my father build that little house. I told her she could have it, if she wanted. I would sign it over to her if she wanted it, but she said no.”
I was relieved. I didn’t want to alter our plans and I knew that Vaso did not like the village. Each time she came to rescue me when I was there alone, she would bring me back to her home and ask if I wanted to wash the village off of myself. She said it with a joking smile, but she seemed to feel Margariti was a place that she needed to escape from. Years later she would confront Nick, frustrated by some financial problems, and she would accuse him of being a neglectful brother, not having sent her the money that could have helped her, angry at having worthless Margariti farmland.
The Nifi Page 11