The Icon Hunter

by Tasoula Georgiou Hadjitofi

  We were taught that in some countries there were people equating reverence for icons with idolatry. But in the course of the Greek Christians’ long spiritual struggle to find a correct, balanced attitude to these images, a very subtle understanding developed. Distinction was made between worshipping or praying to material objects, which is unacceptable, and venerating objects that navigate us to God, which is legitimate. As a child, though, I could not imagine anybody arguing over religious images. I simply could not have conceived a church without them.

  Vasilios stands just behind the royal doors, ready to assist his abbot. It’s time to receive communion, and children always go first. I close my eyes and pray that my sins may be forgiven.

  The abbot dips a long, thin spoon into a silver goblet where consecrated wine is mixed with tiny pieces of equally consecrated bread: as my parents have explained to me, tasting these holy gifts is the nearest we will come on earth to meeting our Savior. Vasilios stands just off to the side holding a plate of uniformly cut bread; these are fragments from the same loaf as the consecrated bread and they too bring blessing, albeit of a lower status. I step forward as the priest proffers the spoon and gently addresses me: “The handmaiden of God, Anastasia receives the body and blood of Christ.” Tasoula is the Greek diminutive for the name Anastasia, which means resurrection in Greek. Tilting my head back slightly, I consume the sacred gifts and step toward Vasilios to take an additional piece of cubed bread, which adds to my feeling of purity.

  After the ceremony, Vasilios, who is dressed in a simple black robe and a black cap or skoufos, greets us. “Come, let us pay our respects,” he says as he escorts us to the grave of Saint Barnabas. He stops to fill several bottles with holy water pumped from a well next to the burial place. In keeping with Cypriot tradition, Vasilios hands my mother additional bottles of blessed water, which she will use for protection and to mix with flour to make the dough that will make bread for my family for the rest of the year and provide us with protection. He also asks her to convey some bottles to his own mother.

  We enter a cavelike structure, and as we descend several steps, the temperature drops while the scent of raw earth rises. After we pray in a small, square space, my brother Andreas asks Vasilios in a whisper, “Is it true what they say about the saint’s bones?”

  Vasilios smiles. He is used to being asked this question and loves to share his spiritual knowledge, especially with young minds. “I see you know your studies, Andreas.

  “Like many saints of that time, Barnabas was martyred for his religious beliefs, and his remains were buried in an unmarked grave. He sold all of his wordly possessions to spread the word about Christianity. That’s why he was given the name Barnabas, which means ‘son of encouragement,’” the young novice explains.

  “Will you be an archbishop one day?” I ask as we climb the stairs back into daylight.

  Smiling, he says “I wish to be of service to God, not to climb earthly ladders.”

  As a competitive fourteen-year-old, I add, “It must be hard to be a monk.”

  Along the coast from the monastery, where Barnabas was born, there is an even older settlement. Salamis is an ancient city by the sea that dates back to 1000 B.C. with a history of conquerors who have fought to possess the island. But even their large armies could never douse the fire that lives within the spirit of the Cypriot people, who have fought for their independence and to preserve their Hellenism since the earliest days of their existence. The fields are full of daisies, poppies, wild orchids, seasonal vegetables, and all kinds of herbs. We pick artichokes raw from the field and eat them with homemade tahini and bread while taking cover under a nearby tree.

  Our playground was among Greek and Roman ruins—an ancient gymnasium, the king’s palace, even an amphitheater became the backdrop for my siblings and me to reenact the actual battles fought in Salamis. When the Venetians ruled Cyprus in the fifteenth century they built and fortified the city’s walls. After Famagusta fell to the Ottomans, they kept the walled city of Famagusta for themselves, prompting the Greeks to build another settlement next to it, and this became the town of Varosha. But the older generation that drilled us in that history failed to anticipate that the past would repeat itself during the Turkish invasion of 1974. On this occasion, Varosha was fenced in and declared off-limits to its inhabitants. Varosha, the place where I came from and where I belong. These ancient landmarks heightened my awareness about my Greek Cypriot culture, history, and mythology, which fueled my imagination and enforced my identity. We lived our day-to-day lives walking in the footprints of kings and saints who had come before us.

  “Don’t forget to pull some rizarka,” father cries, hoping his voice will carry over the sounds of my siblings and me teasing each other as we run through the fields. The rizarka root, as we call it in Cyprus (known in English as madder or rubia tinctorum), grows high in the moist soil near the sea. I find some and tug until the earth releases the root. The rizarka, daisies, and onion skins will be boiled and turned into red, yellow, and orange dyes, which we will use to color our Easter eggs once we arrive in Mandres.

  The picturesque drive to the village of Mandres circles around the Kyrenia mountain range toward the Pentadaktylos peak. Passing through the Turkish village of Agios Iacovos, we carry a sense of guardedness because of the heavy history our two communities share.

  “Do not look them in the eyes,” my father would say. “If their eyes happen to meet yours, smile politely and look away.”

  Prior to the invasion of ’74, the Greek Cypriots made up 78 percent of the population, Turkish Cypriots 18 percent, with Armenians, Maronites, and miscellaneous groups making up the remainder. Tensions between the two cultures stemmed from a three-hundred-year history of Ottoman oppression but more recently had to do with some Greek Cypriots wanting union with Greece (Enosis) and some Turkish Cypriots wanting unity with Turkey, or else partition. Under the treaty that granted Cyprus independence, from 1960, the Turkish Cypriots were given a 30 percent share of power, which Greeks saw proportionately as too high, and the arrangement broke down violently after three years. For the most part, the majority of Greek and Turkish Cypriots lived in relative harmony, but the extremists on both sides stirred the pot regularly.

  As the truck continues to make its way up the mountain road, the village of Mandres finally comes into view. It’s set into a cliff on the mountainside and has spectacular views that stretch down to the sea and beyond. It is a small village with a population of a few hundred people comprised of farmers who grow everything from watermelon to tobacco leaves. Each family raises animals, mostly rabbits and goats, and donkeys are used as a mode of transportation. There is a wholesome simplicity to country village life where everything revolves around the local church and the coffee house where the village men play backgammon, exchange news, and debate politics.

  After a warm welcome from the extended family, we get to work coloring the eggs for Easter as work both in the fields and in the house will halt tomorrow in observance of Good Friday.

  Afterwards we head for the village church, to assist the priest and his young helpers drape long black linens over every sacred image in the interior of the church, to signify our mourning the death of Christ. The entire Orthodox community actively participates in this week leading up to Easter. This profound experience instills within me a rich sense of belonging.

  Later we attend the evening service, in which we learn how Jesus Christ is betrayed and how he takes on every aspect of the character of our human vulnerability, including hopelessness. The priests and servers are all dressed in black. A large wooden cross is already present at the front of the church. Some people kneel and pray before it, showing their respect for the dead as they would at any funeral.

  At the end of the ceremony people line up to pay their respects to the cross once again. We return to my aunt’s home after the service; there is a little time for some lighter tasks, such as placing the colored eggs in bowls and positioning unlit candles
around the house. If this were not Holy Week, we would perhaps take turns playing the flute and mandolin, or singing and dancing to folk songs.

  The next day is Holy Friday, the day Christ died on the Cross and was buried.

  “Reflect on your sins today. Don’t forget to ask for forgiveness,” my mother instructs. We allow ourselves to eat diluted lentil soup (no olive oil) for nourishment while we consume small amounts of vinegar, the bitter drink Christ was offered instead of water while he was on the cross. The children play an integral part in preparing for the funeral procession. During the day we go from house to house and collect beautiful and aromatic citrus flowers, which we then use to decorate the Epitaphios, the wooden structure that is used in the evening service to represent Christ’s coffin. The base of it is covered by a tapestry that bears the image of a man wrapped in a cloth in preparation for his burial; that too is covered in flowers. We sprinkle rose water over it as a symbolic substitute for myrrh, which is traditionally used to embalm the dead. We use string or pins to make bundles of lavender and citrus blossom to decorate every square inch of the Epitaphios which occupies center stage in the drama of our Good Friday devotions.

  The evening service is a moving tribute to the slain Christ, tinged with hope that he will rise again. The most heartrending part is the series of hymns of lamentation, beginning with the familiar words “I Zoi en Tafo,” (Life itself in the Tomb), sung to a haunting Byzantine melody that everybody knows and joins in, singing softly. The words elaborate the theme of Mary’s suffering, giving parents who have ever had to bury a child the opportunity to mourn anew.

  Several of the faithful pick up the Epitaphios by the handles and carry it in procession around the church and outside. We young girls have baskets of flowers to hand out to the other worshippers, which they will continue to use in various rituals throughout the year. As a young Orthodox girl, I am mesmerized by the procession and reenactment of the Savior’s burial. The experience gives me a kind of inner strength, something that will always remain with me.

  On Saturday morning, the mood changes. The solemnity dies down, and there is tingling anticipation instead. The local ladies roll dough into squares and triangles and then place a mixture of cheese, egg, raisins, and mint inside to make flaounes, a traditional Easter pastry. The sides of the dough are folded and we children brush them with egg yolk and then sprinkle them with sesame seeds. The wood ovens are then fired up, and within hours the scent of the freshly baked pastries lingers in the village air. My stomach, tested by fasting, reacts with a wanting growl.

  Arriving at church for the first service on Saturday morning, we immediately notice that the priest and his helpers are no longer wearing black. The atmosphere is lightening. They remove the black drapes from the icons.

  Although we only half understand the liturgical Greek words, an extraordinary, enjoyable story is being told in the service that now unfolds. Christ enters the kingdom of the dead. The prince of darkness lets him in, thinking this is just one more mortal coming to be enclosed forever. But far from being captured by death, Christ immediately begins liberating the dead, sending hell’s master into a rage. “You have tricked me! Why was I so foolish as to let you in?” the devil rails.

  With suitable gusto, the bishop rings the bells as we stamp our feet and rattle our wooden seats, our way of showing that the powers of death are being conquered at that very moment.

  Back at the house, we watch my grandmother and mother prepare a delicious avgolemono soup, made of chicken broth, rice, egg, and lemon, the perfect first dish to ease our stomachs into accepting rich food again.

  We try to rest a little before we head back to church toward midnight and finally connect to the Holy Light of Jerusalem, the resurrection light that will illumine us for the rest of the year. We walk in procession through the village with our lanterns and candles to celebrate the return of Christ. Before we enter our home, my uncle makes a black seal with the smoke from our little piece of holy light, placing it to the right of our door to bring the Easter blessing to our home. Inside we light the kandyli, which is a glass jar filled with water and oil upon which a small wick is floating. It will illuminate our prayer corner, adorned with icons old and new and photographs of family members who have passed away. The Holy Fire is now within our domain, and its miraculous power has come to our home to protect us.

  The celebration can begin. We have our soup and flaounes to break the fast, and each of us children will select a colored egg. We knock each other’s eggs to see whose will crack first, saying “Christos Anesti” all the while.

  The following day, I watch my mother and aunts assemble the mouthwatering Easter feast of roast lamb and think about the day when I will carry on this tradition in my own home. Even today, I cherish these memories of Cyprus as if they were priceless personal antiquities, unwilling to let them fade as things naturally do with the passage of time. If only I had known the war was coming and that this would be my family’s last supper in Mandres.

  My eyes bolt open. I frantically call the front desk of the hotel.

  “Why didn’t I receive a wake-up call?”

  “Madame, it is only two in the morning.”

  I shower and dress for the sting operation and lie back down fully clothed, waiting for the alarm to signal the true start of this day.

  OCTOBER 8, 1997

  The Munich police station is a flurry of activity. An officer takes photographs of Lazlo to circulate to his men, to go alongside the images of Veres and Rossi. Kitschler escorts me into his office.

  “The two hundred thousand Deutsche marks ($114,000) have not been posted to my account. I’m worried about the money reaching us in time.”

  Kitschler reassures me, “We can change the plan. The intermediaries will tell Dikmen they will return with more cash after they view the inventory. It actually works better for us.” I trust Peter’s judgment. A feeling of relief washes over me knowing I won’t be required to spend another dime of the Church’s money to secure these artifacts.

  We shift to the subject of Van Rijn.

  “To secure Van Rijn’s safety he must keep his anonymity,” Kitschler says. “The intermediaries must leave Germany as soon as the operation is completed.”

  “I will advise Van Rijn.”

  “Are you ready, then?” Kitschler inquires.

  I rise to shake his hand. “You have no idea how ready I am.”

  A few hours later back at the Hilton Hotel suite, Herman, my bodyguard, and I nervously wait for Van Rijn to return from the lavish lunch he promised his men last night.

  The phone rings. It is Kitschler.

  “You have to stop Van Rijn! He’s in the car with the intermediaries on their way to Dikmen’s.”

  “What?” I scream. “I’ll call you back,” I say, trying to camouflage the terror I feel. Van Rijn answers on the first ring.

  “Get back to this hotel!” I say as if I am reprimanding one of my children.

  “I have to be there,” he says, sounding inebriated.

  “Are you insane? If you don’t return to this hotel immediately, I will have you arrested on the spot.”

  There is an awkward silence.

  “Step out of the car,” I say with all the authority I can muster.

  “Okay, Tazulaah. You win.”

  With trembling hands, I dial Kitschler.

  “I have a police car escorting him back to you.”

  This latest fiasco proves that Van Rijn is his own worst saboteur and possibly now mine. As he walks through the door of the hotel suite, I know my job is to get him focused on the matter at hand. I pour him a glass of water, and motion for him to sit.

  “We have come a long way, you and I. If we don’t succeed, we fail your father, and my people. Are you ready to get this job done?”

  The telephone in the suite is ringing. He answers coolly, “This is Eftis.”

  I hold my breath as I hear Veres describe what he is being presented.

  “Frescoes from the
Church of Antiphonitis. Exquisite.”

  Van Rijn interjects, “Tell him you love the Frescoes.”

  “Eftis is interested in your Fresco collection,” says Veres. There is a long pause. I search Van Rijn’s face to see if there might be a problem, but he seems perfectly relaxed.

  “Ah, an icon . . . Virgin Mary holding the Christ child, but the eyes are scratched.”

  “Ask him if he knows the origin,” says Van Rijn.

  Veres repeats the question to Dikmen.

  “Cyprus,” is heard in response to the question.

  “Good, tell him you’re thinking about it and want to see more,” instructs Van Rijn.

  Veres repeats to Dikmen what Van Rijn instructs him to say. There is another long silence. Then we hear Lazlo react to what he is being presented.

  “Eftis, there is a mosaic of unprecedented beauty . . . very old.”

  “Good, ask him from what period,” instructs Van Rijn.

  “Saint Thomas, 525 A.D.,” we hear Dikmen say in the background.

  The situation looks more and more promising.

  Veres inquires, “Is that from the Church of Kanakaria?”

  “Yes,” Dikmen responds.

  Veres continues, “Do you have anything from the Monastery of Antiphonitis?” Both of these churches had treasures from the fifth and seventh centuries and were located in the Turkish occupied area of Cyprus heavily targeted by looters.

  “Ask him the price,” says Van Rijn.

  “One hundred and fifty thousand Deutsch marks,” says Dikmen.

  “Good,” Van Rijn whispers to Lazlo, “Now ask him to see more.”

  Dikmen continues to show the intermediaries artifacts.

  “Tell him that you will take all the frescoes and the mosaic, the icon with scratched eyes, and the coins,” Van Rijn whispers into the receiver.

  Veres informs Dikmen, and Dikmen requests to see their cash.

  “Now tell him you were not expecting to purchase as much. You must return to the hotel to get more money from Eftis.”