"Are you Orthodox?" (Part 3)

I returned to Mount Athos in 1980, partly to see Father Andreas once more.   Getting to him was no easy task.

The "White Tower,"
Thessaloniki's landmark

As my father and I had done four years earlier, I started in Thessaloniki.  This time, however, I took the precaution of obtaining the necessary papers, which were issued by the Ministry for Northern Greece.  In the appropriate office, a cheerless woman, a Greek bureaucrat of the finest stripe, was ready for battle.

To Mount Athos the following day?  "Impossible," she declared.  "You must delay your trip for six days."

This could not be done.  “I’ll be gone from northern Greece in six days,” I informed her, slightly stretching the truth.

From prior experience, I knew to remain polite but stand firm.  I also knew that the rules of engagement with the Greek bureaucracy did not require strict adherence to the truth on either side.

I pressed on.  “I’ve come to see my aging cousin, the former hegoumenos of St. Paul’s.”  It was the truth, but not the whole truth.  Seeing Father Andreas, a first cousin once removed whom I'd met only once before, wasn’t my sole purpose for being in northern Greece.

Still impossible, came the response.  Five more minutes of tactful thrust and parry finally produced an opening through which I could see victory and she could make an honorable retreat.

“Are you Orthodox?” she inquired 

On my affirmative answer she disappeared into an inner office.  About fifteen minutes later she emerged with three official-looking papers, each in its own envelope.  One was for deposit in a nearby gendarmerie.  The other two were for presentation at Karyes, the administrative capital of the Holy Mountain.

Very early next morning I was on the bus to Ouranoupolis seated next to Prodromos, an affable young monk returning to Stravronikita, his monastery.

*  *  *

At Ouranoupolis I boarded the regular boat for Dafni, again a wooden caïque but larger than Ammouliani four years before.  It was crowded with goods and men, many of them monks returning to their monasteries from sojourns “in the world.”

Among the passengers was a tall white-haired man.  From behind I could hear him speaking knowledgeably about Mount Athos in accented English.  Perhaps a Byzantine scholar on holiday, I thought.  On turning around, his open jacket revealed a purple shirt and clerical collar.  He was Bishop van Kleef of the Old Catholic Church of Haarlem, which, despite its name, is an 18th-century split-off from Roman Catholicism now in union with the Church of England.  

While deeply interested in exploring Mount Athos, he criticized its monks for devoting their lives not to the salvation of mankind but to the salvation of themselves, which he deemed a “selfish form of Christianity.”  Even so, he was generous enough to allow (in a left-handed sort of way) that the monks could not be judged with Western logic and had to be accepted in the context of Orthodoxy.

On my other side was a crabbed Greek man, unshaven and wearing a battered fedora.  I didn’t pay him much attention but noticed that every so often, while conversing with one of the monks, he kissed a small crucifix drawn from a pocket.

Now he interrupted my conversation with Bishop van Kleef to ask, "Are you Orthodox?"  My response elicited his apparent need to out-Orthodox me.  "This is my seventh pilgrimage to Mount Athos," he preened.

Then he noticed a book of short stories in my bag.  Its cover, decorated with an image of sensuous red silk, drew his gimlet-eyed inquiry:  “Does it contain erotika?”  I assured him it did not, abandoning the truth altogether. 

What he really wanted was to know about the purple-shirted fellow I had been speaking with in English.   “What business does he have here?” he grumbled, pouncing on the “Catholic” part of my explanation.  He was no kinder in judgment of his own church’s hierarchy, denouncing the Greek Orthodox archbishop in the United States as a no-good and a Mason.

Starting with Docheiariou, one of the imposing monasteries that slides by on the seaward route from Ouranoupolis to Dafni, he began distracting me with his map of the peninsula, tediously pointing to the label for each monastery as if the map required decipherment.  His annoying assault continued intermittently for the remainder of the hour and a half trip to Dafni.

Landing at Dafni

As we disembarked, he unctuously proposed that we explore Mount Athos together.  I declined.

*  *  *

From Dafni, we lurched up the dirt road to Karyes in an ancient bus, the only vehicle I saw on the peninsula.  The road, the first ever built on the Holy Mountain, was opened in 1963 so that Œcumenical Patriarch Athenagoras I, King Paul of the Hellenes, his son Crown Prince Constantine, and the other dignitaries who attended the millenial celebrations that year would not have to walk or ride mules the twelve kilometers to Karyes as their imperial and patriarchal predecessors had done for centuries.  As I was to learn, more such roads had later been built to facilitate the movement of service and emergency vehicles.  Despised by traditionalists, the roads now formed a handy network connecting the major houses.

As it was, the old bus's speed never much exceeded a walking pace, so it took fully forty-five minutes to reach Karyes.  The winding route skirted the monastery of Xeropotamou ("Dry Torrent"), one of Mount Athos's richest in its 10th century heyday, but now much diminished.

The Protaton

Karyes, the capital of this theocratic republic, proved to be no more than a tumbledown two-street village.  The bus deposited us near the 10th century Protaton ("The First"), the oldest church on Mount Athos and unusual among Orthodox churches for its basilican plan.

With obligatory stops at the local gendarmerie and then the office of the Holy Epistasia, we presented our papers and were each issued a diamonitirion, the local visa, but only after paying the entrance fee.  In Greek, a cassocked cashier asked “Are you Orthodox?”  My affirmative reply required me to pay 100 drachmas.  Without asking, I was granted a three-day extension of my visit.

My 7-day diamonitirion, signed by the
four Epistatai and dated August 31 (Julian-style)

Behind me, Bishop van Kleef was next in line.  With strained English and an exaggerated smile, the cashier asked him “Aahr ghiou Orthodox?”  The bishop answered truthfully.

“Five hundred drachmas, please,” came the smiling reply, but no extension.

*  *  *

A latter-day view of Iviron,
with its arsanas in the foreground

From Karyes, travelers went their separate ways.  Mine involved another twenty-minute judder in the bus, which labored eastward to Iviron, the monastery of the Iberians.

Set on a broad shingle about two hundred yards from the sea, Iviron was founded in the late 10th century not by the Spanish Iberians but by the Georgian ones.   Particularly instrumental was the warrior-monk John Tornikios, better known as Thornic.  In 979-80, at the call of emperor Basil II (nicknamed Voulgaroktonos, the “Bulgar-Slayer”), Thornic led an army of 12,000 Georgians against the rebel Bardas Skleros, throwing him back into Persia.  With his share of the resulting booty, Thornic established one of the Holy Mountain’s largest and oldest monasteries.

Iviron's katholikon
(the phiale is out of view)

On arrival we were ushered immediately into the katholikon, the main church, sacred to the Dormition of the Virgin.  Conforming with tradition for the decoration and layout of Athonite ruling monasteries, the katholikon is painted the color of the Blood of Salvation and stands in the courtyard by itself, graced with mournful cypresses and the phiale, a ceremonial fountain sheltered in a decorative open-sided pavilion.

Surrounding the courtyard like the curtain walls of a castle are banks of balconied cells.  The brethren are called to prayer by a monk who circles the katholikon three times while balancing the six-foot semandron horizontally at the shoulder.   This stout board he hammers in a rhythmic tattoo echoing the sound of Noah's tools.  His first circuit calls forth the reptiles and crawling creatures, the second is for the four-footed animals, and the third summons the Sons of Man to the symbolic Ark of Salvation.

Facing the altar

A liturgy was underway and we remained for its last twenty minutes.  The late-afternoon light was diffused in clouds of incense, but I could make out boldly colored frescoes on every available surface.  They were arranged in the typical pattern of Athonite churches:  warrior saints in the lowest range, evangelists and fathers of the Church in a band above, scenes from the life of Christ higher still, ranks of Old Testament prophets and kings in the top level, and finally Christ Pantokratoros ("All-Sovereign") glaring down from the lofty central dome.  Underfoot was a beautiful floor of opus Alexandrinum and suspended overhead an immense corona chandelier, at least thirty feet across, elaborately worked in brass and enamel.  On Mount Athos, these coronas are swayed into motion during Christmas liturgies to symbolize the joyous dance of the angels and the saved around the heavenly throne.

Afterward we were led up flights of creaking stairs to a sunny reception room where we signed the guest book and were welcomed with ouzo and spoon sweets dispensed by brother Kosmas, the guest-master.  The room had a magnificent view of the sea but was a complete, though harmless, misfire at worldliness.   Old-fashioned gilt furnishings, mostly threadbare, bespoke a naive and mannish idea of elegance.

More poignant were the ranks of heavy picture frames hung too high on the walls.  They bore sepia-toned portraits of men and women in court dress and orders of chivalry, the mostly defunct royal families of Europe, the Balkans, and Russia.  In the reception room, time had come to a distinct halt around the turn of the century, an aberration in the otherwise timeless aura of the Holy Mountain.

The Kantakouzenos
chrysobull

The coronation of John I Tzimiskes

After our welcome we were invited to tour the library.  Dinner at 6:30 was fast approaching, however, so our tour in slanting late-afternoon sunlight was curtailed to a hasty ten minutes.

Even that, however, was sufficient time to give a hint of the legendary treasures of Mount Athos.  One dusty glazed case displayed a chrysobull bearing the scarlet autograph signature of John VI Kantakouzenos (d. 1383), the historian-emperor.  Another contained a richly embroidered sakkos (dalmatic), part of the regalia worn by emperor John I Tzimiskes at his coronation in December 969 a few days after murdering Nikiphoros Phokas, his predecessor in title.

Following dinner (macaroni swimming in watery olive oil accompanied by bread, olives, and kefalotiri cheese), six of us and a squadron of houseflies were assigned to a spacious corner bedroom for the night.  Our sleep was interrupted three times either by the banging of the semandron or the clanging of church bells announcing nighttime offices at 2 AM and 4 AM and matins at 6 AM.

The next morning I rose at eight o’clock feeling as though the day were already half finished.  Nighttime prayer is more efficacious, we were told.

The image of the coronation of John I Tzimiskes is from a 12th or 13th century manuscript of the Synopsis Historiarum by John Skylitzes (fl. 1081) in the National Library of Spain [http://www.wdl.org/en/item/10625/view/1/327/].

"Are you Orthodox?" (Part 2)

I'd had a glimpse of Mount Athos four years earlier.

On a July morning in 1976, my father and I left Thessaloniki in a rented car and headed east in the hope of meeting his first cousin, Angelos Evangelatos, a monk of Mount Athos.

The trip was organized on a whim, and we had allowed only one day for it.  Our haste left no time to obtain necessary travel permits, so we began the day’s adventure not knowing whether we would be allowed past Ouranoupolis, the last town in Greek territory and the starting point for the boat services that run up and down the peninsula’s western coast.  Our plan was to talk our way onto a boat that would take us from Ouranoupolis to a meeting place somewhere on the western shore where we had been told Angelos was living.

Ouranoupolis with the Prosphori Tower (13th cent.)

The three-hour drive through mountains to Ouranoupolis yielded a cloudless warm day and a calm sea.  We had missed the last regular boat down the coast, however, so we had to scrounge for private passage.  The necessary bargain was struck at the Café Athos, which served as a clearinghouse for local service providers.  Soon we were gliding down the coast in Ammouliani, a motorized wooden caïque, in the company of its captain, two crew members, and Vangelis Tsirbas, the dark scrawny chain-smoker who would be our guide.

Tsirbas and Dad

In view of our lack of permits, Tsirbas said, there would be no point in stopping at Dafni, the sole clearance station on the western coast.  There would also be no going ashore at our destination.  Greek gendarmes patrol Mount Athos, and our captain, he warned, was not about to risk losing his coasting privileges by allowing permit-less travelers to set even one foot onto the beach.

Two of the Three Brothers

About six miles down the coast, we dropped Tsirbas at the Tria Adelphia (“Three Brothers”), a sea-worn protrusion of rocks marking a small landing place from which a gravel path ascended the hillside.  An hour’s climb would lead Tsirbas to a kellion near the chapel of St. Nicholas where, according to what we’d been told, he would find Angelos.

To kill the time, we continued down the coast.   Our captain and one of the two crew members mostly slept, leaving the driving to the other crew member, the captain's nephew.  The boy was no more than thirteen but seemed to know where he was going.

Arsanas of Zographou ("Of the Painter")

Intriguing sights made us deeply regret our double lack of time and permits.  Large multi-storied buildings dotted the shore, the arsanades (landing places) for monasteries hidden inland behind coastal hills.   The arsanades were obviously very old, but their style, an exotic hodgepodge of fortress-like masonry below and half-timber above, was unrecognizable and impossible to date.  Here and there, stout crenellated towers silently testified to an Aegean Sea once infested with Saracen and Catalan pirates.  The structures were uniformly ramshackle and lifeless, but complex stonework and traces of faded color hinted at a more robust past.

Docheiariou ("Of the Steward")

Farther down the coast, monasteries began revealing themselves high up in rocky declivities and down nearer the shore.  They, too, displayed the strange defensive architecture of the arsanades but were much larger.  Some were immense.  Magnificent towering structures slid by in a litany of names and laconic descriptions:  “Chilandariou.  The Serbian monastery.”  “Zographou.  The Bulgarian house.”  “Docheiariou.  Thirty monks.”  “Xenophontos.  Thirty-five.”  “Panteleimonos.  Russians.  We call it Roussikon.  See the big dormitories?  They used to house two thousand.  Only fifteen now.”

Roussikon

Had we gone a little farther, we would have seen St. Paul’s, cousin Angelos’s former monastery, which had thirty-five or forty monks, we were told.  But we had to turn back to the pre-arranged meeting place, a patch of empty beach within sight of Dafni.

Angelos and Tsirbas approach

Just as we arrived, Tsirbas and Angelos were dismounting the mules that had carried them down the mountainside.  Angelos steadied himself along the rocky shore with a length of bamboo.  As he and Tsirbas approached, Ammouliani's captain and crew put down an anchor at the bow to hold us off and led a line ashore to steady the stern.

Full-bearded and seventy-three, Angelos wore a simple black cassock, his long grey hair tied back under a black pillbox cap.  Even from a distance and before he said a word we recognized him from the startling resemblance to Atzouleta, his sister, whom we knew well from visits to Athens.  Hiking up his cassock to avoid the gentle surf, he climbed aboard.   Then, standing upright on the rolling deck, he embraced us teary-eyed and presented a gift of sweet grapes.

Following the usual custom on becoming a monk, he had abandoned his worldly name and became Andreas.  He did not stand on ceremony, but out of respect we addressed him as Father Andreas.  He had been, after all, hegoumenos (abbot) of St. Paul’s.

Cousins meet

Settled on top of the hold under an awning spread against the sun, we spoke with him for most of an hour.  Within minutes it was clear that he shared not only Atzouleta’s facial features, but also her easygoing manner and penchant for homegrown humor.  With an impish smile he apologized for having just eaten three cloves of garlic to hold down his blood pressure.

In 1936, with Europe on the brink of war, his family had rebuked him for abandoning them and the world.  As the eldest son, he was expected to look out for his widowed mother and younger siblings, not disappear to a life of monastic isolation.  But with the passage of years all was forgiven, and a lifetime on Mount Athos, far from worldly cares, had made Father Andreas sublimely happy.  In forty years he had left the peninsula only a handful of times, lately for medical treatment in Athens.

He hadn’t lived too badly, either.  In anticipation of coming war, the monks had laid in extra stores of grain and other staples.  While the rest of Greece starved, the monks ate well.   Their needs were not very acute in the first place, and their over-supply, he told us, had continued to feed them until quite recently.

He described a simple life lived in total peace:  no cars, no phones, no lawyers, no crime.  His typical dinner was a slice of bread, some chick peas, and olives.  He lived solely to work, pray, and enjoy the beauty of God's creation.  It was essentially the same as how Cristoforo Buondelmonti, the Florentine traveler, had found Mount Athos around 1420:

"Here, in lush valleys, teem bees, figs, and olives.  The inmates of the monasteries weave cloth, stitch shoes, and make nets.  One turns the spindle of a hand-loom through the wool; another twists a basket of twigs.  From time to time, at stated hours, all essay to praise God.  And peace reigns among them, always and for ever."

On mention of my niece, born three years earlier with an ailment that made it uncertain she would walk, he promised to light a candle and pray for her.  He was obviously touched by the trouble we had taken to find him and deeply regretted not being able to show us around.  Sadly, a more prolonged visit was impossible.

Father Andreas parted as tearfully as he had arrived.  Watching him return alone across the beach to his tethered mule was to witness a scene that has repeated itself on Mount Athos for a thousand years.

 The Buondelmonti quotation serves as the epigraph to Robert Byron's The Station (Alfred A. Knopf, New York:  1928), an account based on his visits to Mount Athos in 1926 and 1927.

"Are you Orthodox?" (Part 1)

Many Septembers ago, I had a month to kill between the end of a judicial clerkship and the start of my first law firm job.  What else to do but spend the month in Greece?

Nowadays, memories of that long-ago trip keep flooding back.  Perhaps they're a reflexive antidote to the awful daily news from Greece -- the shattered economy, the austere hopeless future, the overwhelming flood of Middle Eastern refugees.

Zeus, in the form of a bull,
hooking up with Europa

Things were very different in 1980.  Greece was vibrant and full of hope.  European Union membership was less than a year away and seemed to be on everyone’s mind.  At last, Greece was going to take its place as a proper European nation.  The very name “Europe,” Greeks were quick to tell you, derived from cow-eyed Europa, the Theban princess whom Zeus abducted to Crete for amorous amusement.

But behind the bravado, Greeks were unsure of their Western bona fides, which had been compromised by a Byzantine millenium, four centuries of Ottoman paralysis, and a century and a half of spotty Westernization after independence in the early 19th century.  In 1980, Greeks boarding flights to London or trains to Paris still spoke of “going to Europe.”

That September, with Greece on the verge of redeeming its Western identity, I chose to spend a few days exploring Mount Athos, an ureconstructed throwback to Byzantium.  "It was too rewarding a holiday to go unchronicled," as John Julius Norwich, the popular historian of Byzantium, so aptly said of his own 1964 visit to Mount Athos.  I therefore offer this multi-part record of my experience.

But first, some necessary background.

*  *  *

Mount Athos is actually a thirty-mile peninsula that points like an arthritic finger southeast into the Aegean Sea from northern Greece.  Starting from a low plain in the northwest, the peninsula rises gradually southeastward, bursting at its terminus into a majestic 6,000 foot conical peak.

The mountain’s influence on place names extends well beyond the peninsula.  Eighty miles away across the Aegean Sea one of the northern Sporades islands is called Skiathos, the “shadow of Athos.”

Still visible near the mainland, where the peninsula is lowest and narrowest, is the faint transverse scar of Xerxes’ Canal, now completely filled with sediment.  Commencing in 483 B.C. at the outset of his assault on the Greeks, the Persian tyrant spent three years digging a two-kilometer ditch wide enough for two triremes to pass through abreast.  He was determined to avoid the fierce storms that often rage around the end of the peninsula, one of which cost king Darius, his father, three hundred ships and twenty thousand men while attempting the same mission a decade earlier.  Using the canal, Xerxes safely transited the peninsula.  But like his father he met defeat farther south, for which the names Thermopylæ, Salamis, and Platæa echo down the ages.

A few centuries later, the architect Dinocrates proposed to sculpt the entire tip of the peninsula into an immense statue of his king, Alexander the Great.  The king's left hand would hold a city of ten thousand inhabitants; from his right hand a mighty river would flow into the Aegean Sea.  Fortunately for the age of monasticism, Alexander demurred.

 

*  *  *

Because Mount Athos is home to the most important center of Eastern Orthodox monasticism, Greeks call it Aghion Oros, the “Holy Mountain.”  Its borders are entirely within the territory of Greece, but the Holy Mountain is completely independent.  For more than a thousand years its right of self-governance has been protected in turn by Byzantine emperors, Ottoman sultans, Balkan princes, Russian tsars, and now by Article 105 of the Greek constitution, which ordains that Mount Athos shall, “in accordance with its ancient privileged status, be a self-governed part of the Greek State, whose sovereignty thereon shall remain intact.”

To enter Mount Athos in 1980 was to return to the Middle Ages.  There was no electricity, hence no telephones, radio, or television.  The silence was punctuated only by natural sounds; and at night the complete absence of ambient light made the stars particularly brilliant.  What little running water was available had to be pumped from wells or collected at springs, but it was refreshingly cold and delicious.  Save for one old bus and the caïques that ran up and down each coast, there was no motorized transport.  But the necessity of walking or riding a mule from place to place gave you time to notice an unusual flower here or the detail of an arch there.

As in the Middle Ages, the wider world receded completely away.  Local concerns were all, and life became intensely Christ-centered.

Simonopetra (13th cent.), one of the
Holy Monasteries of Mount Athos

Monks lived humble and simple lives in a variety of residences.  The monasteries themselves, built in times of great faith, were grand and capacious.  But for upkeep they depended on large and vigorous populations and on the regular benefactions of emperors and kings.  The demise of imperial Russia and the collapse of the Balkan kingdoms had taken the expected toll on recruits as well as resources.  So in 1980, even though the monasteries still had income from metochia (ancient holdings beyond the peninsula), they were, with few exceptions, unkempt, dilapidated, and thinly peopled with aging monks.  Some of the larger ones were in ruinous state.

Monks also lived outside the monasteries, some in one of twelve sketæ, village-like communities, some quite large, dependent on an associated church.  Others lived in kellia, small farms, often with their own chapel.  Kalyvæ were similiar to kellia but smaller, and the monks were occupied with handicrafts rather than farming.  In a kathisma, usually one monk lived alone dependent on a nearby monastery.  Finally there were the hesychasteria, isolated hermitages in desolate spots, some in caves, others clinging at dizzying heights to steep cliffsides, approachable only by tortuous paths and steps.

A hesychasterion at Karoulia, the "Place of the Pulleys"

 *  *  *

Mount Athos is perhaps best known for its ban on women.  In fact the ban extends to all female creatures, though obvious exceptions are made for wild animals, birds, and insects.   For practical reasons, certain monasteries also allow female bees, she-cats, and even hens.   The ban also extends to eunuchs and the "beardless," meaning young boys, though the latter ban is widely ignored and the former is of limited utility these days.

The ban on women comports with traditional Eastern Orthodox practice, which bars women from monastic establishments.  Rightly or wrongly, it is believed that minds will refrain from dangerous thoughts if eyes cannot wander to shapely distractions.

Over the centuries, the ban has acquired mythical proportions.  In one version, the Virgin Mary, sailing from Joppa to visit her friend Lazaros on Cyprus, was blown off course to Mount Athos.  When she came ashore, the peninsula's pagan idols recognized her immediately and, admitting their falsity, shook themselves to bits.  Before leaving, Mary pronounced the peninsula her private garden and forbade it to other women.

Whatever the ban's origins, it has been strictly enforced through the centuries.  Since 1953, Greek law makes entry of any "female creature" onto the territory of the Holy Mountain a crime punishable by imprisonment.  Where this leaves the likes of Caitlyn Jenner is anybody's guess.

*  *  *

Mary, as Theotokos ("God-Bearer"),
crowning emperor John I Tzimiskes

Monastic life on Mount Athos is based on rules laid down in a series of typika, imperial charters.  The first and most important of these is the so-called Tragos (literally, "billy goat"), a nearly ten foot long roll of goatskin parchment.  Granted in 971 or 972, it bears the autograph signature of emperor John I Tzimiskes ("John in Christ our God faithful emperor of the Romans") and is kept in a strongbox in the archives at Karyes, the Holy Mountain's administrative capital.  It was last removed during World War II.

Legally speaking, Mount Athos is a theocratic federation governed by twenty "ruling" monasteries, each of which sends an elected representative to reside in Karyes for a year.  Together they form the Holy Synod, which has supreme administrative authority.  Day-to-day executive power is exercised by the Holy Epistasia, a committee of four selected from the Holy Synod.   Each of the four Epistatai holds one quarter of the Holy Synod's official seal, which validates the committee's documents only when all four pieces are united.

The Holy Mountain’s continuous independence since official foundation in 963 A.D. makes it the world’s oldest surviving republic by far.  Spiritual jurisdiction lies with the Greek Orthodox Œcumenical Patriarchate in Istanbul.  And just as Mount Athos has outlasted most political regimes, it has also outlasted Istanbul’s former name, Constantinople.

I turn again to Viscount Norwich:

"For the fact is that Athos is something infinitely greater than the sum of its monasteries.  It is not a community so much as a concept; and the grandeur of this concept, however misguided it may ultimately prove to be, can have a profound -- at times almost a shattering --  effect on those who wander within its range.  They find themselves by turns entranced and revolted, bewildered and enlightened, depressed and exhilarated, terrified and consoled.  . . . As they learn more of the Mountain, so they also grow to understand more of themselves; and they emerge beset with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and impressions that can only be resolved on paper."

Quotations are from J. Norwich & R. Sitwell, Mount Athos (Harper & Row, New York:  1966) at p. 14.

An American Dream Cut Short

The 19th-century view from Patras castle

For centuries, westward voyages from Greece have often started from Patras, the country's main western seaport.  Still today, Patras's ancient castle -- erected by the Byzantines in the mid-6th century and re-built by Franks, Venetians, and Ottomans in turn -- oversees the busy harbor's comings and goings.  So it was completely unremarkable for an oceangoing ship, the S.S. Laura of the Austro-American Line, to sail from Patras on August 17, 1907.

That day, Laura was en route to New York.  She was engaged in the lucrative immigrant trade and had two classes of accommodation:  first class for 130 passengers and third class for 1,350.  There was no second class.

S.S. Laura

Her voyage had started two days earlier in Trieste.  On arrival in Patras Laura was already loaded with 770 Russians, Hungarians, Croatians, Dalmatians, Austrians, Slovenians, Bulgarians, Poles, Magyars, Servians, Montenegrins, Jews, Germans, Roumanians, Bosnians, Herzegovinians, Ruthenians, Turks, Slovaks, Italians, and one Albanian.

After embarking 979 more passengers at Patras, mostly Greeks, Laura would proceed to Palermo and take on 89 Sicilians (including three stowaways) for a total of 1,838 passengers, 358 more than she had accommodations for.  Then this overloaded assembly of nations would chug and sway uncomfortably across the Atlantic at a laborious sixteen knots.

Laura reached New York on September 3.  For the ship's owners and a handful of non-immigrant passengers, Laura had merely completed another westbound Atlantic crossing.  But for the vast majority of souls on board -- the anxious third classers not among the 147 turned back for one reason or another by U.S. immigration officials at Ellis Island -- Laura had fulfilled dreams of starting new lives in a new world.

*  *  *

Jerry Marketos
(date unknown)

Among the Greek immigrants who boarded seventeen days earlier in Patras was a stout moustachioed man in his late thirties, brown-eyed and five feet eight inches tall.  He could read and write and had $12 in hand (or maybe $10 -- read on).  He was an unmarried laborer from Angona, a tiny village on Cephalonia, one of Greece's Ionian Islands.  His name was Gerasimos Marketos, and he was my paternal grandfather, the very first of my direct ancestors to immigrate to the United States.

He would never see his native country again.  In his new homeland he would come to be known as "Jerry."

* * * 

George Horton (1859-1942)

A clutch of first-class passengers also came aboard Laura in Patras that day.  One of them was George Horton, the U.S.'s 46-year-old consul-general in Athens.  An ardent Hellenophile, Horton was returning to the U.S. to give a series of public lectures on the current state of affairs in Greece.  Nineteen years later, his book The Blight of Asia (1926) would condemn the Turkish atrocities that in 1922 ignited the 20th century's first holocaust and ethnically cleansed 1.3 million Greek and Armenian Christians from their centuries-old homelands in Asia Minor and Eastern Thrace, a genocidal tragedy that affected some of my mother's relations (see  "An Icon").

It's intriguing to wonder whether Horton and my grandfather met during the voyage or had occasion even to notice one another.  Horton was fluent in Greek and was probably inclined to engage with the Greek immigrants aboard and help them navigate the perplexities of their new world.  But shipboard classes rarely mingled in those days, so it's more likely they did not meet.

The Horton and Marketos trajectories did not intersect again for 101 years (2008) when I represented Horton's daughter, Nancy, in the sale of her Washington apartment.  A remarkable woman in her own right, Nancy wasn't yet born in 1907.  But she lives today, more than 100 years old.  [Update:  Nancy Horton died in Athens on February 18, 2016, aged 103.  I was present at the interment of her ashes next to her father and mother in Oak Hill Cemetery on April 18, 2016.]

Her father is buried in Georgetown's Oak Hill Cemetery at the foot of the slope that descends into Rock Creek Park.  A glimpse of George Horton's creek-side grave -- easily seen while driving through the park, especially in winter when the trees are bare -- is a comforting reminder of my family's first footsteps in America.

*  *  *

There is confusion about the year of my grandfather's birth.  An official Greek register says he was born in 1868 in Angona, the child of Panteleontos.  But his daughter Nicoletta's birth certificate says he was forty-three at her birth, meaning he was born in 1871.  And Laura's passenger manifest says he was twenty-six, i.e., born in 1881.

*  *  *

Apart from the unlikeliness of his being twenty-six, there are some other very strange entries associated with Jerry on Laura's manifest.  First of all, he is recorded twice:  once on line 4 of page 67 and again on line 16 of page 68.  The page-67 information has a line drawn through it, which everywhere else on the manifest signifies denial of admission.  The page-68 information is not stricken through.  Did Jerry perhaps board Laura twice in Patras, having to be re-recorded after retrieving some forgotten item on the dock?  Were there possibly two Gerasimos Marketoses aboard Laura, one of whom was turned back at Ellis Island?  There's no way to know.  But the perplexities don't stop with his being recorded twice.

On page 67, he named his nearest relative in Greece as his father, "Panagiotis Anastasiou" (given name followed by patronymic), of Lixouri, Cephalonia.  But his father was Panteleontos Konstantinou of Angona.  In response to the same question on page 68, he named his father as "Dionyssios Marketos" (given name followed by surname), also of Lixouri.  Same problem of erroneous location, and why did he switch forms of naming and give two different names, neither of which was his real father?

On page 67, he said he would be joining his brother "Alsarsis Marketos" (the given name is hard to read) at 59 James Street in New York City.  On page 68, the brother's name is given as "Olivetos Marketos" (again, the name is hard to read) at the same New York address.  But none of Jerry's brothers ever came to the United States, and his only known brothers were Konstantinos and Christos.

On both pages, Jerry is said to have been born in Lixouri, Cephalonia.  But by every other account I know of, he was born in Angona.  And there's one final discrepancy:  on page 67 he declares he has $10 in hand; on page 68, $12.

Could this be the wrong Gerasimos Marketos?  I don't think so.  According to my aunt Nicoletta, her father Jerry came to the U.S. aboard Laura.  That much seems certain.  Using variant name spellings, I've searched every New York arrival (not just Laura) for every Marketos and Kalavitis (his other surname -- read on) prior to 1911, when there's positive proof of Jerry's being married in Syracuse, New York.  The result is that I don't find any arriving Marketos or Kalavitis named Gerasimos other than the one who arrived September 3, 1907, aboard Laura.  So unless he used a completely different name for purposes of emigrating, I'm as certain as I can be that the Gerasimos Marketos who arrived in New York aboard Laura that day was my grandfather.  I simply can't explain the aberrations on the manifest.

*  *  *

There's also something of a mystery about his surname, but it doesn't seem so mysterious now that I've seen various contemporaneous records.  In Angona he was known as Kalavitis or Marketos-Kalavitis.  On Laura's manifest he appears as Marketos (both times).

I've heard different explanations for why the Kalavitis surname disappeared when Jerry came to the U.S.  One is that Marketos was a clan name while Kalavitis was a family name, and that on emigrating from Greece he adopted the more prestigious clan name and dropped the family name.  Another story is that there was some kind of altercation in Angona (in one version he drew a knife or a gun against his future father-in-law), which required him to change his name when leaving Greece.

Half a century later, during my childhood visits to Angona in the 1960s, Jerry's name change made me a mystery to the village's old-timers.  When they asked my name, the answer "Marketos" drew blank stares.  But the coda that I was the grandson of "Kalavitis" brought understanding nods.  The additional detail allowed them to place me properly in the village's network of families.

*  *  *

S.E. Tzannatos's bill for three gold rings (July 18, 1911)

Jerry married twenty-six-year-old Eleni Panagiotatou Livada (also from Angona) in Syracuse, New York, on October 5, 1911, less than two weeks after she arrived in the U.S. (Sept. 23, 1911).  Presumably she brought along the three gold rings purchased for her in July by Jerry's brother Konstantinos from S.E. Tzannatos, a goldsmith, diamond-seller, and watchmaker in Argostoli, Cephalonia's capital.  Tzannatos's bill -- for a betrothal ring, a lady's ring engraved "E.M.", and a lady's diamond solitaire -- names the purchaser (Jerry's brother) as "Konstantinos Marketos Kalavitis."

Eleni's "E.M." ring

The Marketos family (c. 1917)

In Syracuse, Jerry and Eleni lived at 338 East Genesee Street and later at 511 South State Street.  They had two children.  Leon (my father, baptized as Panteleontos) was born in 1912.  My aunt Nicoletta came along two years later.

In 1915 the young family moved to Utica, New York.  I think their first home was at 208 Blandina Street. 

27 Genesee Street (1970)

In Utica, Jerry opened a retail tobacco, candy, ice cream, and fruit business, which he operated from a small store leased in March 1915 from James Trask for $50 a month.  The store was downtown at 27 Genesee Street in the now-vanished neighborhood of Baggs Square.

In 1916 the family moved to 416 Mary Street.  That year Jerry paid a premium of $10.85 to the American Eagle Fire Insurance Company of New York for $700 of insurance on his business.  The insured property included a cash register, refrigerator, show cases, mirrors, office and store fixtures used in the business, and a stock of candies, cigars, and fruit.  At some point he learned to make his own candies, including chocolate Easter rabbits and a chocolate-covered confection he called the "Coconut Bullet."  By 1918, the family was living at 125 Washington Street.

With Leon and Nicoletta (1919),
possibly at 412 Elizabeth Street

On June 26, 1919, Jerry purchased 412 Elizabeth Street from Paul and Lucy DeBernardis for $7,500.  As part of the deal he had to consent to the continued use of the property's double garage by William Owen, the next-door neighbor, who a year earlier had sold the property to the DeBernardises.  Alerted to the impending sale, Owen urged Jerry's real estate agents, Jackson & Spitzli, to "keep in mind the importance of our having respectable neighbors."  Owen apparently considered Italian neighbors respectable, but the prospect of Greek ones gave him doubts.  Two years later (May 26, 1921), Jerry sold the property for $8,000.  That's probably when the family moved to 33 Auburn Avenue.

On May 25, 1922, Jerry bought Martin Curley's confectionery and grocery business at 1039 Albany Street for $1,400.  Less than a month later (June 8), Jerry sold a half interest in the business to Peter Livadas, a fellow Angonan living in Utica.  Curley had promised "not to engage in the wholesale or retail business of confectioneries, ice cream or groceries in the immediate vicinity of 1039 Albany Street at any time hereafter."  But  Jerry and Peter soon discovered Curley was competing with them at 1006 South Street.  They sued and got a judgment (Nov. 27, 1922) holding Curley to his promise not to compete.

On August 10, 1922, Jerry and Peter Augustinos leased 163 Genesee Street (at the corner of Bleecker) from the United Cigar Stores Company of America.  Apparently they did so in order to flip the lease to Louis Weiner, which they accomplished five months later (Jan. 15, 1923), securing the landlord's agreement to allow the new tenant to operate a retail jewelry business on premises that had been leased as a retail fruit and confectionery store.

"3 for 10¢" at 27 Genesee Street (1923)

Judging by Jerry's rolled-up sleeves, the outdoor fruit and vegetable display, and the straw boater worn by the man reflected in the plate glass window, the photo of Jerry standing outside his Baggs Square store was taken in summertime.  Next to an item of produce is a "3 for 10¢" price tag.  Tags like that must have been the source of his wife Eleni's sing-song response to questions she didn't know how to answer.  According to my father, she'd say "I don't know kai three for ten" (kai meaning "and" in Greek).

My father and my aunt remembered their father as warm-hearted and jovial.  He was also a practical joker.  My aunt recalled Jerry and some friends timing each other on dashes inside the house, probably at 33 Auburn Avenue.  They started in the kitchen, ran up the back stairs and down the front stairs, and finished back in the kitchen.  When it came Jerry's turn, he took off fast like the others.  But when he got upstairs he laid down and took a nap, leaving the others to wonder what had become of him.

*  *  *

Leon and Nicoletta
at 33 Auburn Avenue (1924)

Jerry died prematurely in 1924.  On a fall day he came home early from work not feeling well and went upstairs to lie down.  On fetching him for dinner, my father (who had turned twelve just three weeks before) found Jerry unresponsive and "all blue."  The Utica Observer-Dispatch for Saturday, September 6, 1924, carried the following notice:

Returning from his place of business, 27 Genesee Street, yesterday noon, complaining of illness, Jerry Marketos, aged 59 [i.e., born 1865?], proprietor of a fruit and candy store, passed away at his home, 33 Auburn Avenue, last evening.  Heart disease was pronounced the cause of death by Dr. H.W. Thomssen, coroner.  Mr. Marketos was born in Greece, a son of the late [P]anteleon and Catherine Marketos.  He came to America in 1904 [sic], taking up his residence here in 1915.  He was a member of the Greek Orthodox Church.  He [is survived by his wife] Helen Livada, a daughter, Nicoletta, and son, Leo; three sisters and two brothers.

The funeral was held at his home the next day.  He is buried in Utica's Forest Hill Cemetery.

Some of the contents of this post were circulated privately on September 3, 2010.