Chapter 2
Greece is in cast.
The first couple of years of the junta was a complete madness from all point saw. Nothing was the same. Nothing felt the same. The heaviness of the first days was now part of our lives and its continuousness created the illusion of its being for ever. Sometimes it was hard to recall how was it to be free in speech and actions, but more over in thoughts and feelings which, also restrained inside you, felt like a fizzy wine trying desperately to push the crock up and explode smashing the invisible force that kept it bottled.
We decide and we order was the usual phrase before each new announcement. Listening on the radio or watching the black and white TV, the new intruder of our homes, was a pain, lots of marches, Greek folk songs, endless hours of football and countless governing messages. They put everything under strict censorship -music, writing, theater, media - everything except their own words which their liberty of speech allowed them to spit out, full with all kind of nonsense, surrealistic politic analyses, insulting lies and provocative declarations: our country was very ill before our take over, and the patient had to go immediately for surgery and get all the necessary treatment. Like every serious operation, this revolutionary change was vital, either wise the patient would not make it. Our country is in cast, but we are determined to save it, save all our ultimate values: Country, Religion and Family! And usually after this phrase a march followed or even the hymn.
Their emblem was as a great inspiration as all the rest, a burning phoenix guarded by a soldier in order not to fly away. You could see it from everywhere and anywhere. A huge one was impaled on the hill of Lycabettus enlightened and visible from most spots of Athens, on the opening or closing of TV programs, on coins - a bird and a soldier printed, painted, photographed, engraved. The 21st of April was declared as a national celebration and the first anniversary was celebrated in the absolute tastelessness of the megalomania of some insane Caesar, the kitsch and the glamorous, the show off of power. While the first people were already tortured in jail or exiled in some deserted islands as anarchists or communists therefore dangerous for the country, while some were restrained in their homes or had flown abroad and others tried to do actions of resistance, the colonels threw a birthday party. They gathered some second-class artists, frighten or opportunist, and a lots of troops, and put up a show equivalent to their political status, a pure slapstick. Soldiers in Greek ancient armors, folk dancers and cyclists of the Greek Military Police doing acrobatics, all mixed in a circus put up to entertain themselves, humiliate the rest of us.
My family had to go through changes in order to survive. First we sold our apartment and we moved to a smaller one in a less fancy neighborhood. That was painful, but not as much as the fact that they had to let go the lady who lived almost for ever with us, as a helper for my mother, as a nanny for me, or rather as a second mother or... was she like a first.
Then my Grandma Cybele gave some money to my father. He got the license to be a mercantile agent and he imported items like watches, pens, link cuffs and lighters. He put his samples in his bag, and every morning he went to the market, in the center of Athens to get orders from the shops. He was proud and brave and determined to support his family with no complain, worried only how to make good sales. Or at least this is what he looked like.
On the other hand, my mother was getting less patient with the situation and menopause was not an ally. She could loose her temper easier now and justifiably, most of the time in bad mood, and the don'ts were gaining ground in the daily routine. She was missing badly my brother and now she had to take care of the house, my father and me, all by herself for the first time.
Between a silent father who never expressed his feelings and a noisy mother who expressed more than she felt I chose studies. And although the cutting of expenses was less clothing, delicatessens, gifts and going out, it never involved a good school, music lessons and languages. I had it all.
"Dad, I want to learn French, can I?"
"But you are learning English, already" my mother replied anxiously instead.
My father's eyes looking neither of us seemed to consider the idea diversely. Math and calculation was his joy and in seconds he estimated the cost, the usefulness, my spare time.
"Ok, if you think you can make it" he said.
"Ok? You said ok? Can we afford it? You are promising now, but can you do it? She keeps asking for something new as if she doesn't realize the situation".
"I can't deny when it comes to learning, it's ok, we'll be fine".
"You are spoiling her! You never say no to her!"
My father's eyes and lips held back a smile and I could almost hear his answer, no need, you do it all the time, it was obvious he was pleased with my desire to learn French, I could see it in his eyes and yes, he was worried about money, but he tried not to show. I felt bad. I wanted to take it back but I thought this would make things worse. Then he would feel bad, not being able to offer me something I asked, not a luxury, but knowledge or, 'ammunition' as my parents used to call all kind of education, ammunition against the battle of life!
After I started my French lessons, ham, bacon and beef visited our house less often. And sweets. My mother, who was a grate cook, preferred making them now herself. She was nagging most of the time and she seemed worried all of it: about money, my brother being away, the political situation and my father who was not supposed to be all day long in the streets for our living. He was not so young for this kind of job and he had diabetes. And although my father was trying patiently to comfort her and convince her that everything was fine and there was no problem, at the end he proved her right. He had his first stoke.
The worst thing with a junta, war or any kind of crisis is that you never know the temporal length of it. You are very well aware of its furiousness, its violence and its effect, but never of its durance. You take every day at a time, and the days pile and they become months and then years. Hope and despair straggle for dominance as you straggle for physical and emotional survival and, with your five, or maybe six senses strengthen and your mind sharpened you create, invent or grab every opportunity to make a small or big change, to oppose or reverse the situation.
Such an opportunity during a junta was the death of a politician of the old times of democracy. The event came just two months after the plebiscite of the Greek people concerning the new 'constitution' of the colonels. The voting was such a fantastic magical trick these shameless army guys had accomplished, that even a great magician, say Copperfield, would envy and make him give up his successful carrier. While the majority of the Greek people had vote NO, which meant disagreement with the so-called constitution, the result came up YES with almost 92% success. Lots of people didn't bother to go voting and accepted the consequences of their opposing and even more voted against fearlessly despite a watching eye.
On November the 3rd of '68, the Old man of Democracy as they use to call George Papandreou, the father of Andreas, passed away. During such a dictatorial period of absolute lack of liberties old political differences towards right or left don't count and, although our dictators had forbidden any gathering at the funeral, everybody went there. Thousands of people flooded the Metropoleos Square all the way to the First Cemetery and the funeral transformed to an act of revolution, a celebration of Democracy and a demonstration against the junta. The crying and the crying out of the human sea were sending waves of sorrow and range, despair and hope towards the tyranny that had abrogate Democracy right into its own birthplace, in the country so rich in denial of its plural hopeful conquers. Brave people, excited and revolved, were shouting with passion Freedom! Down with the junta! Democracy now! The people will win! NO! It was a moment of a strong light trough the darkness fallen the last seventeen months over our country proving that the Greek levendia*, when shown up not individually but as a mass, can produce such a powerful glare that can stun everyone's eyes, even those of the Greek Gods.
I was with my parents in a one of the black limousines of the relatives that followed the funeral. The Old Man of Democracy was the third husband of my grandma and although they had been divorced, my uncle George, the one uncle derived of this marriage, asked my father to join him. So we found ourselves in the beating heart of this enormous crowd, the car moving so slowly that I could see clearly every detail through its windows, the faces, the raised fists, the tearful eyes. Their voices were filling the air with a fragrance of liberty and hope, and for the first time, I was not afraid. For the first time I was surrounded by people who dared to express their beliefs, their feelings, their desires. I could smile at them and salute them but instead I did nothing. I stayed still, overwhelmed, enjoying this historical moment. It was supposed to be the funeral of the dead Old Man of our dead Democracy, but at the end, what it became, was the funeral of our masters.
*manfulness
