7.12.18 The Way to Live a Life
In the post the other day I got my first edition of Arthur Miller’s play A View from the Bridge. The edition was published in 1955 around the time the play was first produced in New York. The thing I love about Miller’s books is not just the fabulous playwriting, but the reflections he offers as a forward in the book . In the treatise for this play Miller writes:
“Especially for the Greek, a dramas created for public performance had to be ‘social’. A play to him was by definition a dramatic consideration of the way men ought to live.”
The way men ought to live.
This line spoke to me. While Someone Else’s War was a story about Olga the spy and the reasons why she got there, it was also the story of the times. It was immediate. When something happened, we were told, either in first person through Olga’s diaries, or in third person with the other characters who were out of Olga’s eyesight.
The play Unbroken is different. It is set fifteen years after the war. Olga is in Sydney, having been in denial of the war for a long time. She is forced to remember her wartime adventures by the arrival of her diary, sent to her from Athens by the son of a wartime comrade.
This remembering becomes a reflection on her life and how she lived it. With the space of so many years, and the vacuum of the elapsed years, she tells the audience more than just facts; she judges herself. The subtext of her thinking is: have I lived the life I ought to have lived?
In the first scene she says:
“But there is one question that I can’t answer. Won’t answer. The one they don’t really want to know the answer to: ‘Why did you leave us? Why did you go to Greece when we needed you the most?’ Everyone asks. Even if they don’t ask, they ask with their eyes. They even ask in the way they turn their eyes away.”
I am writing no Ancient Greek drama. I am certainly not writing a Milleresque play. But Miller’s words instruct. Plays that can consider the way people ought to live can offer resonance. In the case of Unbroken, it can do what Miller says the oldest dramas did: take the Olga character and give it context, give it assessment. It gives Olga her own chance to do that. Was her life lived well? As an author I can only surmise, but it is this surmising that gives a value to the adaptation. It is not just a retelling for stage. It is a critical self-analysis. The audience can leave knowing something of Olga’s long-distance view of herself. Then, from that perspective, they too can make their judgements.
1.12.18 The eNovel is back, with Julie
Yesterday I wrote that the publisher of the ebook version of Someone Else’s War had collapsed. Because of this, the book was taken off iTunes.
I spent the last little while reworking the manuscript into a second edition, correcting a few factual and typographical errors.
I also fixed something that has been niggling me since it was first put on iTunes seven years ago: the cover.
My good friend, graphic artist Julie Ramsden designed a beautiful cover for the novel back in 2011.
Unfortunately I got some advice from within the industry that the cover could be improved with some changes. At the time I took this advice and had an artist from a small firm play with it.
Stupid me. The power of the original cover was lost. The beautiful sepia tones of the Ramsden original were diminished. The strength of my grandmother’s face was lost.
Now that I have put the new edition of the eBook back on iTunes, I reverted to the original cover.
The book is now up on iTunes again. And Julie gets the credit that she deserves.
30.11.18 The loss of a great publisher
Some months ago my publisher, Dennis Jones went out of business.
Dennis is a lovely bloke with a lovely idea. His idea was to subvert a dying publishing industry by supporting emerging writers. He knew that there were many good books out there that were not getting contracts because publishers were finding it hard to make a profit. Authors were being driven to vanity publishers.. paying huge sums to have a small, sometimes disreputable company print and distribute the book. Dennis gave these authors a lifeline. He was much more open to distribute the work of less established authors. And it seemed to be working. He published the works of many authors who went on to do greater things, like the much-loved Jackie French.
He was with me right though the critical phase getting Someone Else’s War into the bookshops. It was only because of Dennis and his extensive distribution team that I could walk into a Crows nest bookshop and see my novel there on the front shelf. He also, though his Port Campbell Press, put out an ebook version of the novel on iTunes.
Unfortunately, the pressures of this tumultuous industry and his willingness to support books that didn’t sell finally claimed Dennis’ company.
I hope that Dennis can now get some breathing time. He’s given so much to the industry and to authors. I still remember his words as I told him my book was getting notice in commercial media and the mainstream press, driving it to a second printing:
“Keep on fighting the good fight.”
Words of a man focussed on others.
Thank you Dennis.
28.11.18 La Trobe grants some help
Putting on the workshop in January is going to be quite a task. Three days of readings, direction, learning for the three actors. Three days of planning and designing by the director Gary Young.
Too many times these days, actors and directors are expected to provide their services free of charge. The producer simply offers that if the production goes ahead commercially they will be strongly considered to offered the roles they took in the workshop.
The truth is that this is a promise that may not come true. Circumstances change. A new director may be appointed by the theatre company producing the play. This new director might have other ideas about who they want acting in the play. Or the play may never be produced.
All this means that the actors who have slaved (and it is slaving) to do a good workshop may be donating their time and never see a financial benefit. This is wrong.
For my workshop the actors and the director will be paid. It will only be equity minimum, but it will be paid. They deserve it, and they deserve more.
Today I found out that the university through which I am doing my PhD, La Trobe in Melbourne, has just agreed to a small grant to help pay the actors and director.
This fantastic news means that the financial burden is off my back, and now I can focus on producing the best possible workshop. It also means if there are other expenses, I will be in a much better position to pay them.
Thank you to Merran Hunt and the Internal Research Grant Scheme at the School of Humanities and Social Sciences at La Trobe for this gift. Lovely people.
18.11.18 The student gives back
Jac has been struggling with Olga.
Not with the character. Not with the writing.
It’s the voice. Jac’s playing Olga in the readings and the workshop, and being the kind of character actor that she is, she wants to make everything about Olga authentic. This means the little things that add up to big things. Posture. Gestures. Cadence of speech. The way her lines are spoken.
You see we all have verbal habits. It’s in the way we emphasise, and it’s in the way we throw away words. My mum used to throw away words like a maestro. She could even show disdain in the way in which she said ‘hello’ to someone she didn’t like. It was more than subtle. People would never know whether this was actually dismissiveness or not. The art was in the indefiniteness of the dismissal (my mum would never outwardly hurt someone).
Jac watched my mum for twenty-five years. She put a bit of what she saw in her Madame Giry in Phantom of the Opera, possibly without knowing it. And again in her Madame Armfeldt in A Little Night Music. Strong characters that needed a definite manner. My mum’s manner, I thought.
In a way watching my mum was good for Jac as she prepared to play Olga, because it was mum who was the closest to Olga. Mum was her eldest daughter, and knew her longer than anyone else. Some mannerisms had to trickle down.
But there is more to being Olga than a turn of phrase or the way she stands erect, and this is Jac’s problem. Olga was born in Athens, and brought up in Alexandria in Egypt. As a child she played with the Greek royal princess. As a young mother she lived in Ultimo in Sydney, serving fish and chips to wharfies and the men from the sugar plant down the road.
So the question, with all these influences, what would her accent have been like?
In the first couple of readings of the play, Jac’s accent searched for an anchor, at times sounding a little like a Jewish dowager from Prussia; at times there was a return to Phantom’s French Madame Giry. Impressive, powerful accents, but probably hardly what Olga would have sounded like. My mum had no Greek accent. She could speak Greek, but being born in Sydney, her Australian voice sounded about as Greek as a girl descended from the First Fleet. So there was no help there.
Then we went to the opening night of the Greek Film Festival. Jac met one of my students, a Greek woman named Christina, who was there to interview me for community radio as one of her assignments (I was launching the opening night film).
Somehow Jac and Christina started talking about the character of Olga, and Jac saw something in Christina’s accent. It wasn’t an Aussie Greek accent. It was European, strong and definite, a mix of influences.
Christina has recorded her voice reading the opening monologues of the play. Jac is having a weeks’ break in Byron Bay, and has taken the recording with her to see what kind of accent she can make of it, perhaps mixing it in with mum’s wrangling of phrases.
What comes out of it may not be Olga’s accent, but we’re betting it is something that tells of a woman who has travelled; a woman who would brook nothing from anyone.
That’s got to be a great place to start.
12.11.18 Finding Olga’s voice
The first job of a playwright, once the story is plotted, is to find a voice.
For my play, I wanted the voice to be Olga’s. But which Olga? Olga the wartime spy? Olga the young mother? I chose to have Olga tell this story retrospectively, from the place of an older woman, remembering her life as her life comes towards its end.
Olga died suddenly in 1960. She was either 56 (her official age) or 54 (her ego age). I decided to set the play a few months before her death. Her voice therefore is one of an older woman, fifteen years removed from war, who has had fifteen years to contemplate the death, betrayal and loss of the war. She is a woman who has found her family again, and to a degree, her self-acceptance.
This is an Olga who I never knew, but from what I have been told of her, this was a woman who was in-your-face, funny, strong and striking. I wanted these elements to come through in every word. For example, below is a monologue taken from the first scene where she talks about how she has reversed roles with her daughter Freda, who has provided her with a home:
She’s always asking me questions though.. and always at the wrong time. ‘Is it true you blew a man’s head off with a shotgun’, ‘Did you really stab a German and he bled to death all over you?’ Where do you think she asks me? At the dinner table. We’re eating our meatballs. So what do I do? I tell them. Then everyone turns green. Little George even vomited into his soup once. Okay, maybe I go into too much detail. They asked. But there is one question that I can’t answer. Won’t answer. The one they don’t really want to know the answer to: ‘Why did you leave us? Why did you go to Greece when we needed you the most?’ Everyone asks. Even if they don’t ask, they ask with their eyes. They even ask in the way they turn their eyes away.
As the play moves through the scenes to the Act II climax, Olga will develop. She will face demons and be forced to remember the things she tried to forget. Her voice will also change as she remembers.
It’s a pretty fabulous going on this trip with her.
8.11.18 Odysseus, Homer and Kazantzakis
As I finalise my play for the next reading, I remember the words of my PhD supervisor Chris Mackie from way back in the early days. He told me that Olga’s story had so many parallels with those of Odysseus in The Odyssey.
Like Odysseus, Olga was away from home for a long time during and after the war, struggling to return, but never quite getting there. In Odysseus’ case, it was a matter of Cyclops and Sirens holding up his return to Ithaca. For Olga, it was the Nazis and the marriage of her husband to another woman back in Australia. In a way it was as if the gods had decreed that she would never get home. But that was where the many parallels end, because Odysseus did make it home, slay his wife’s many powerful suitors, and take back the throne. Olga too did get back to her family, but in one of the most poignant facets of the Olga story, she never was to get back to her husband. He died while she was on the boat home from Greece in 1952.
Odysseus may have rejoined his Penelope, but from my reading of the last books of the story, he was never quite content. Nearly three millennia after Homer, Nikos Kazantzakis went on to write a sequel to The Odyssey, where Odysseus resumes his travels, eventually dying in a foreign land an old, unfulfilled man. There was no happy ending.
Likewise Olga lived another few years, living in a little room at the back of her daughter Freda’s home in eastern Sydney. No-one seems too know if she was fulfilled in these last years. I am told she was confident and powerful, but did she have the end-of-life that she wanted?
It makes you realise that you may know facts about someone, but what lies in their heart is something else again. In the cases of the mighty warrior Odysseus and the clever actor spy Olga, we will see only they choose to let us see. We can only guess what lies within.
30.10.18 Thanks to the Beatles
Today I presented a paper on the progress of the PhD. My supervisors, some former colleagues and a senior researcher came to hear me talk about my PhD, which included a backgrounding of Olga’s story and the issue of telling true stories in a fictional context. This was one of the milestones in my PhD progress.
As I said, there were researchers present, but there was also a well known author. Garry Disher is the author of fifty books, both adult crime and books for young people. After I finished my spiel, there was time for questions. There were plenty of incisive queries about my process and the plan for the PhD. Then Garry asked me: in converting a story from a novel to a play, how do you decide what to keep and what to discard.
This question made me realise just what kind of journey I had been on with this adaptation. It was originally just going to be a conversion from book to stage, but it didn’t work out that way. Pretty early in the writing process I realised that the point-of-view needed to change from that of the novel. The audience needed to have someone on stage to lead them through the story; they needed a point of reference. This narrator, I decided, would be Olga herself. I also chose to tell the story in retrospect. It would open in 1960 (many years after the novel had concluded) and she would remember the events of her life and the war.
At times when you’re on a twisted journey as an adapting playwright, you forget about the day-to-day decisions you have made; about the little things that collectively re-route the direction and style of your work.
It took Garry’s simple question to make me realise that 6 months away from my final PhD submission, I have had a huge convoluted trip to get this far. No doubt with the further readings and workshops, my little bus is still on its Magical Mystery Tour.
19.10.18 Prepping for the workshop
The great news is that we might have a studio where we can run our three day workshop of the play. I have been investigating whether we can use one of the big TV studios at RMIT in Melbourne. Luke, who manages the studios, says it is possible that our state-of-the-art Studio A is free of bookings for January (which is not a great surprise considering that university staff and students are mostly in Acapulco or Disneyland during the year’s break).
Having the TV studio would be wonderful because it would mean we could be able to record the final day’s reading of the play, giving us a record of the play which I’d be able to submit with the exegesis for my PhD.
Now I’ve just got to sort funding for the actors. But overall, things are skipping along!
13.10.18 The First Director’s read
At last the play has had its first read with director Gary Young.
Jac played Olga and Gary read the stage directions, while both Gary and I read the two subsidiary roles.
Gary had comments and suggestions, but these were mainly about how each new character is introduced.
At this stage the play has a lot of movement. In the first act the time moves between 1960 in Sydney (the baseline for the play), then back to 1942, 1913 and 1936.
I went through a moment when I thought he was saying that I had not been clear about changes, or structure, but as it worked out, he was not. He just wanted stage notes in the script so the actors could understand more about the characters they were playing. Gary wanted them to know whether the characters are ghosts in the mind of the 1960 Olga (and thus bring with them the taint of unreality that a memory might bring), or whether they were actually depicting a true event.
So it was about stage notes. Surprisingly little of the script was changed.
And at the end of the read there was silence. From all three of us. Every time I reach the end of this script I cry. It depicts a gentle moment between my mother and her mother, a moment of rapprochement after an estranged sixteen years.
Jac was teary. I think I even saw a twinkle in Gary’s eye.
I hope I wasn’t imagining it.
15.8.18 You are not alone
Support is a wonderful thing.
A few weeks ago I gave the second draft of the play to director Gary Young. Gary is an award-winning writer and director. Here in Australia he won the inaugural Richard Pratt prize for a new Australian musical, and his treatment of the Jekyll & Hyde story won an Andrew Lloyd Webber competition in the U.K. for funding to stage the production some years back.
Gary has been a supporter of the Olga story from the earliest drafts of the novel, but for a playwright it is always a brave thing to pass one’s work onto someone for comment.
I saw Gary the other night, and his reaction was more than I could’ve hoped. He said he loved the work and said there was some beautiful writing in the script. I didn’t discuss specifics with him (it wasn’t the time or place), but as a writer, the joys of such moments stay with you, probably for the rest of your life.
21.5.18 Timing it out
It’s time for me to time the play. You can count words. You can look at the number of pages in a play. But until you actually have a reading of the thing, you really don’t know how long it will go. I have had nightmares where the play has run four hours. That would be a nightmare in itself. For the actors, director and the theatre.
So last night Jac and I did our first ‘out aloud’ reading. She read the character of Olga. I read all the other parts.
Along the way, a few little typos and errors came up, which I could mark or fix on the run. There were also a parts where it seemed to drag.. usually sections where Olga spoke to the audience. I found two places where the scenes would work better acted out. The first was when she was arrested and taken to jail. The second was when a flyer she rescued came to the Stambolis shop in Ultimo and told the family that Olga was alive. I have been working on converting these from speech to action, and already they are looking so much stronger.
Of course the main aim of the reading was to time it out. I was surprised. Pleasantly.
The first act came out at forty-two minutes, and the second was forty-seven. The play will be amended more, especially with the full readings and workshops, but at a starting point, these are good, workable durations.
11.5.18 To the play
The hard thing about doing an exegesis PhD is the fact that you are doing two disparate types of writing at the same time. One part is the thesis itself. It is an argument, an academic explanation of the process of the producing the artwork. This needs to be done in a style that a PhD marker will require. The second type of writing is different, especially in my case, because the style of a play is the opposite to that of an exegesis. In a play you need to tell a story through the voice of your characters. They can be informal. They can be loose. They need not justify what they say. They can, in fact, be unreasonable. There may not be words at all. You will see the story as much as hear it.
Yesterday my PhD supervisors Chris and Nasya told me they were happy with the exegesis part of the PhD. It was now time to focus on the play.
What a blessing. I admit it’s been hard to switch between the two. If I had been writing the exegesis argument, and then go to the play, suddenly Olga’s voice becomes more formal (because that’s where my writing style had been). If I do the reverse and go from play to exegesis, the exegesis takes on a chatty tone, which markers hate.
Now I can live Olga’s voice exclusively for a while. I’m looking forward to it.
30.4.18 Aristotle’s complexity
Here’s yet another parallel with the ancients. These just keep coming up.
My PhD supervisor Chris Mackie lent me his very worn and yellowed copy of Aristotle’s On the Art of Poetry. This is a ripping read, especially for someone engaging in the writing of a performance piece. Aristotle talks about the nature of theatre, drama and comedy. One quote I picked out of it was the following:
” ..the structure of tragedy at its best should be complex, not simple.”
Aristotle even goes as far as to say some critics of his day considered that a “double thread of plot” the best way of presenting a story.
My grandmother’s tale is, as Aristotle might have approved, a complex story. It is a story with several strands: the war story; the Australian home story; the story of Stambolis’ childhood.
My source novel, Someone Else’s War, told the story with multiple threads. It is a broad book that covers two continents (Europe and Australia) with a variety of settings in each. In Australia the scenes are in three cities: Sydney, Darwin, the country town of Moree. There are also several scenes in side locations, such as a little shop in Ultimo in Sydney The Greek Club, the Markets, Nellie’s rental house in Mosman, the Deaf Institute, the Greek debutante’s ball, and Pyrmont Bridge. In Europe the action moves between Athens, Thessaloniki, Florence, Alexandria and country Greece. There are certainly multiple threads. My question is how does a necessarily complex plot stay on the right side of being confusing for an audience, which will only hear and see the story once in a theatre.
I have, in the second draft, tried to make the play more linear than the novel. have I succeeded? I guess I won’t know until the first reading of the play, which is not that far away.
19.4.18 Really Going the Way of the Ancients
I’ve just had another freak out moment with my supervisor Chris Mackie.
After telling him that I have been converting the play from a one-hander into a three-hander, he said this was an extraordinary parallel with the ancients. He told me that originally, Greek drama had no lead actors. There was just a Greek chorus who told the story. Then one actor.. the original protagonist.. stepped out front to tell the story with the help of the chorus. So far, this mirrored my original vision for the play.
Then comes the Twilight Zone bit.
As Greek theatre developed, other members of the Greek chorus stepped out too. How many? Two more. Greek plays went from being one-handers to three-handers. Just the way I have developed the play.
It was a great moment, matching the one in our very first meeting, when Chris asked me why I wrote the Odyssey through my grandmother’s story. As I have written earlier in this diary, this was a certainly not an aim of the novel. It just happened. Like this three-hander transformation.
Maybe my forebears are up there somewhere, occasionally leaning on my shoulder.
Chris has set me some more ancient texts to study how this change developed in the pre-Jesus days.
Yes, it seems the title of my PhD thesis couldn’t have been more perfect, because knowingly or not, I really am Going the Way of the Ancients.
16.4.18 Loading it on the actors
Having just gone through the roles in Unbroken, I’ve just calculated that while the actor playing Olga will have one character to play, the other two actors, one female and one male, will have, on the current draft, 23 and 18 roles respectively. Some of these roles are quick. Several only have one line. One character actually has no lines (she’s a body on stage). In some cases the female actor will play men, and the male actor will play a woman (for example as a female inmate in Averoff women’s prison).
For a director, this means some quick changes, but for the actors, this means a lot of character work. As the play progresses, I will need to see if this is feasible for the actors. If they are stressed with ever changing lines and characters, perhaps the flow of the play and story-telling with be affected. I must keep an eye on this.
This all impacts the length of the piece too. With so many characters all needing to have this kind of space, the piece may slow, and the duration may blow out. As a playwright, you can make assessments about the durations, but until the actors have the roles in their hands, you can’t know. This is a play that demands space. Some will play it slow. Some scenes may be done with speed, depending on the action and the motivation.
Of course there’s every probability the script will be changed in these readings and workshops. It might need to be reduced, or whole scenes removed. But there’s an equal chance that new scenes will need to be added to fill holes in the story. We won’t know until the first readings.
15.4.18 How much to show
Olga was a fighter. She fought against the German occupation of Greece.
While so much of my novel Someone Else’s War was about her as a person, and about what in her background motivated her to take upon this fight, there was plenty about what she actually did in the war.. the training, the rescues, the spying, the killings.
Looking through the current draft of the play adaptation, I realised that I have not put in very much about what she actually did in the resistance. Like the novel, there’s plenty about her story and what made her the kind of woman who would fight. I was struck that the action is much less.
In several places I refer to what she did. In the first scene, her daughter brings up some of her killings. In the script I choose not to have this acted out. A director may choose to do so, however. There is another early scene where she is crawling through a field with an Allied soldier, chased by Germans. There is a later scene where she barters with a German officer, and another scene where she has to decide whether to kill a collaborator. But I find that I have left the actual heroism out of the book. Except maybe one scene, where she is in Cairo. Service personnel crowd around her, cheering her for saving them. They tell of what they did together. Olga doesn’t remember many of them, and they tell the audience the story for her.
Then again, the play is told through her memories, and a part of the storytelling here is about revelation, to both her and the audience. She has put the horrors of war out of her mind for fifteen years, and the memories come back across the course of the play. In this process of recollection, perhaps the emotional memories are strongest for her. Hence the reaction of the British and Australian soldiers in Cairo will be a marker in her mind. Killing a despised collaborator will probably not be.
So as I look through this draft I need to question whether I need to be more explicit. Do I need to show more of her killing, rescuing, sabotaging, spying? Or would this be overstatement? Ultimately, this is story of a woman. I need to keep in the mind that this is about her mind.
I will look through the draft again with an eye on the action. Perhaps I won’t know if I have the right balance of action until we have a reading, or even a workshop.
I find I am going back to the Odyssey more than more. And Kazantzakis. There’s no doubt that Kazantzakis’ Odyssey sequel does not read as easily as the original. That’s no slight open the great Nikos, but it does mean that you need to be in the story every second. Even his translator felt he had to write a preciś of the chapters, presumably in case you got lost. Maybe it was that the original had an easier flow of words; poetry that pulled you along. It demanded you stay with it, as all great writing does. Homer did this through a range of techniques, the most important of which is a respect for cadence. Lines, words and phrases roll at a tempo that makes your eyes trot with them, and with each step, the story moves too. Cyclists talk about the importance of the leg rotation cadence, keeping the legs moving at the same speed. Go up a hill and you gear down so your legs go up and down at the same speed as they did on the flat. Homer does that with his words.
In the my revision of a passage today, I realised that I was letting words, unnecessary words, get in the way of a good cadence. An actor would find that a tough sell. I am writing the play script on a page, but she would have to bring these words into her own choice of cadence, and therefore into the cadence she is projecting to the audience. Her reading of my words may offer a different interpretation, a different cadence to what I intended. She may pause between lines that I wanted to be a couplet.
But that’s okay. Right now if I can take out words that interfere with a smooth rhythm for the audience, then that’s a good day’s work.
9.4.18 Finding a Motivation
The thing about writing a novel is that motivation needs to be explicit. You don’t need to spell everything out, but the reader needs to understand where the protagonist is coming from. The reasons for their actions need to be understandable and comprehensible. If the character does something in chapter two, and that affects her actions in chapter ten, the reader needs to know this connection.
I am finding that in a play, the playing of the character can draw this link for you. If the character is a selfish bitch, then this can be played in every nuance. The audience can see it. A novel reader may not be able to see this. In a play, so much of the attitude of the character can be left to the actor and director. Of course you have to write the words, but the meaning of those words depend on the way they are played. This morning I was working on a scene where Olga changes her mind about staying in Greece, and decides to return to Australia. She is in Cairo and has met some soldiers she had rescued weeks before. She realises that he has done enough.
In the novel I might’ve had to spell out her change of heart. As I tried to write this for the play, I realised I was overwriting her. An actor could show this change, possibly without any words at all. The audience would understand what was happening to her. It’s another example of that old stage credo: “Don’t tell me, show me”. As I do more revisions of the play, I will look for over-explanation, and look for areas that can be left to the actor and director.
4.4.18 More Characters
Having made the decision to have two other actors on stage with the main protagonist (Olga), I am finding myself expanding the number of characters. Of course most of these are minor characters who appear in only one scene. This morning I was looking at the early draft of a scene which is set towards the end of the play, where Olga’s baby appears to have gone missing. In the first draft, she describes this to the audience directly, as a mother telling a friend something exclusive and personal. With the new liberty of having other actors on stage, I have started changing this scene. Olga starts telling the story, then the actor who plays her mother comes on and Olga plays out the scene with her.
This was developing into a powerful scene, but it seemed to require a new character to help bounce the tension of the moment. Sometimes two people can create the most intimate passage, and you would think that this would be that kind of scene. But yet it needed more. On the spot I invented a man, the mother’s son (and ipso facto Olga’s brother). He developed in a few lines from an observer into a conniving bully (like his mother) who forces the action to move on. Olga changes with this development. Where originally she is worried, guilty and fretting, she now explodes into an anger we have not seen of her. The pressures of everything that crashing around her manifest into her attacking her own brother. She shows herself to be a fighter for her children.
It’s a development that changes Olga and the tone of the play as it moves towards its denouement.
3.4.18 Homer and his Successor
A few weeks ago I decided to use some quotes from Homer’s Odyssey as markers in the play to highlight an emotional climax. I still haven’t decided how they will be used.. whether they will be read by a narrator, our projected onto a screen at the back. In the end it will be up to the director. Tonight I was once again reading the book that inspired me to include Homeric references, Nikos Kazantzakis’ The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel, and came across a passage that would work as a marker for the moment that Olga reads a letter telling her that her husband in Australia has had her declared dead, and remarried:
For a lightning moment she wanted to cry out
To scream and wake her husband, the archons, the guards, the slaves.
Her soul cried out for help, but her heart felt ashamed.
The words are powerful. In Kazantzakis’ book they refer to Helen, who is enamoured with Odysseus, and seduced by him. It is a life-changing moment for her, as is the letter for Olga.
1.4.18 Catharsis. A Greek Word?
Yesterday’s session was really something. But there was still an element missing. It’s a cheap writer’s trick to have a protagonist be convinced in a passage of dialogue to change her life’s position. I needed to make the cathartic change more.. cathartic. In life, people rarely have a road to Damascus moment through a discussion. Even Paul of Tarsis needed a heavenly vision.
For this dilemma, I decided to return to the original story source: my novel. In it I have a scene where Olga is in a cave beneath the Acropolis where rescued flyers are staying until they can be given passage through to Egypt. They recognise Olga and make a fuss of her. Olga doesn’t remember the individual faces. She has had to deal with too many people over the years. So in the play I transfer this fictional scene to Egypt, where Olga has just escorted some flyers to safety. As a British Officer tells Olga that she has done her bit and that she should return to her family in Australia, some flyers recognise her and fete her. Again she doesn’t remember individuals, but this helps her realise that she has saved so many people that she can’t remember them all.
This is Olga’s road to Damascus catharsis. She understands that she has done her bit. This, combines with the kind words and urging of the British officer, resolves her. She will complete this mission, then try to get back to Australia.
31.3.18: A Dramatic Twist
This morning I had a writing session. It was one of those sessions where you feel you are plodding. The dialogue seems trite, the movement slow. I was doing it in Marwin’s cafe Monk Bodhi Dharma in Balaclava. It was pretty quiet for a Saturday. Maybe because it was Easter Saturday. I was trying too fill a hole before the scene where Olga finds out that her husband has had her declared dead, remarried and had two children by his second wife. After an hour of plodding writing, an idea struck. Why not have Olga resolve to return back to Australia? She could be in Cairo after rescuing a group of Allied Servicemen. She gets talking to a British flyer who wants to go back to Athens, despite the danger. He tells Olga he wants to go back because he has a woman there who is refusing to leave her country.
After this conversation, Olga’s resolves to go home to Australia, to her children. She comes to feel that she has done her bit. In a way she believes she has redeemed herself.
That this scene is followed by the letter from her husband, telling her that there is no life in Sydney for her anymore, makes it a powerful switch in action and motivation. She, like Odysseus more than two millennia before her, finds that the actions of others have once again stopped her finding home.
It’s Good Friday and we have a few friends over for afternoon tea. At one point I was sitting at the end of the table next to our good friend Gary Young (author of Jekyll and Sideshow Alley, and director of the Australian production of Mamma Mia). We talked quietly about the role of director in a play like mine. Gary said one of the things that playwrights do that frustrate directors is to over-direct in the script.
He said the playwright must always leave space for the director to do their job. Don’t give stage directions. No “Enter Stage left”, no “gazed wistfully” (not that I would ever write such a bad line anyway..) Just write the story, he said, and the production team will lift it off the page.
As I looked back at my early scripts, I can see that I had done this a bit. It was part of the need, in my mind, to get my vision into the script. I also saw that I didn’t need to do this. The dialogue itself was enough. I will go through the script and simplify the directions. Thanks Gaz. It takes a load off.
25.3.18: A great quote
The other night I opened a book on Australians who fought in Greece and Crete in World War 2. One of the first things I came across was a quote by Lieutenant John Learmonth, 2/3rd Field Regiment. Australian Infantry Forces describing the islands as he came up the west coast of Greece:
A number of pretty little islands have been visible on our starboard quarter since daylight this morning. I have forgotten what little ancient history I have ever read; but I fancy Ulysses must have sailed these seas. I wonder did the sirens live on one of those little islands over there, now slumbering so peacefully in the warm laughing sea; and do those rocks hide the caves of Cyclops, the one eyed giant? What history has been made among these seas; what sagas of the human race have had their setting here. (Reid, 8)
I immediately thought how this could be incorporated into the play, perhaps by having the male actor read it out as Olga sailed into Greece with Nellie and Christopher. I thought it was a good fit, given that Olga was also travelling to Greece for the first time in many years and she would find herself bound, like Odysseus by her own Cyclops and Sirens and unable to come back to Australia for many years. But when I look at incorporating this into that scene, it seems difficult.
I’ll try again tomorrow. At the moment I have incorporated it into when she is taking trapped flyers by boat to Egypt.
24.3.18: Adding the extra characters
I started on the revision of the play this morning, transforming voices into physical characters. I found pretty quickly that in a few cases there is real value in keeping some of the voices as offstage presences. The phrase that came to me was “Voice of God”. This came as I was writing the section where the British officers are deciding about whether to trust Olga.. in effect deciding her future. The effect having two disembodied characters gives them a godlike effect. The interspersing of voice also makes for staging variation, breaking up the visual of several characters dialoguing. I have converted the scene where Olga is playing with the princess into a two hander. I am in two minds. It could have remained as a single-hander, because nothing is added to the story-telling by having the second actor on stage. In the original, the princess says nothing, but Olga reacts as if the words had been spoken. I thought this underplaying was strong, especially as this is a memory for Olga. This are the kinds of decisions I will need to make for every secondary character in this piece.
22.3.18: Expanding the number of actors
Just had a PhD meeting, the first with both Nasya and Chris together. They are going to look at the exegesis Chapter 4: From Novel to the Play. While they are doing this over the next three weeks, I’ll be getting the chance to work on the play. The first thing I’ll do is convert the off-stage voices into presences on stage. This will mean a lot of considerations, including decisions on basic stage directions, and the mechanics of staging this so that a character can move off the stage and the next one move on without it being clunky or too stressful for the actors, especially as only two subsidiary actors are playing all the non-Olga roles.
14.3.18: Dr George, grandson of Lela Caryiannis
I have just heard from Lela Caryannis’ grandson George Pararas-Carayannis who has promised to search through his documents about the Bouboulina network to search for references to Olga. This would be fantastic. He wrote to me about being a witness to mass executions in Greece as a child. He wrote:
EMAIL 1 13.3.18 FROM Dr George: Good to hear from you and to learn about the important role your grandmother Olga played in the Greek resistance. It is very possible that both your grandmother and mine knew each other or even were jailed at the same time at the Averoff prisons. My grandmother, my father Byron my uncle Nelson and my aunts Ioanna and Electra were jailed at Haidari and severely tortured, first at the Merlin street headquarters of Gestapo, then subsequently at the concentration camp. My uncle George was able to escape wounded from the Merlin Street headquarters and continued his resistance work in the mountains. My father Byron, Nelson and my two aunts were scheduled for execution in September 1944, but managed to escape. Grandmother Lela was executed along with 72 other patriots on 8 Septmeber 1944 – month before final departure of the Nazis from Greece. I was left at a park in Haidari while my mother looked for Lela’s tortured body at Xaidari and found it. She had been highly tortured and was only recognizable by the dress she was wearing at the time of her execution. I remember all these as a bad dream including the executions I witnessed as a young boy at an empty lot across my aunt’s house. Anyway, I will look through whatever records I have to see if I can find any reference to the names your grandmother used.
The executions I witnessed through a crack of the window at my aunt’s house were at an empty lot across on Bouboulina Street, next to the National Museum. The Greeks were collected at random by the Germans from the streets, ordered to open a trench in the open lot and then they were lined up, machined-gunned and their bodies were covered up with soil. Days later, I witnessed relatives uncovering the trench and the bodies lined around the perimeter for recognition. In spite of the bad smell of ptomaine, I was playing soccer among the blackened bodies with a ball made of rugs. Strangely I thought that this was how life would be forever – as I knew of nothing else.
12.3.18: Good Muslim Boy
Last night I saw Good Muslim Boy at the Malthouse Theatre. It offered an insight into the possibilities of having other actors on stage with Olga. Seeing how the three actors operated provided a sense of communal storytelling on stage, not just leaving it up to one voice. Here’s what I put into the Conscious Response chapter this morning:
This is an autobiographical play for three actors which tells the story of Sami’s attempt to bring to Australia the body of his father. Sami and his father were Iraqis who had travelled to Iran, then came to Australia as refugees. They return to Iran for a trip, but Sami’s father dies. Much of the play is concerned with the bureaucracy involved in getting permits for his father’s body to be allowed on the return flight to Australia. In the stage production Sami plays himself, and the two other actors play all the other characters. It is a comedy which was adapted from Sami’s memoir. The memoir won the NSW Premier’s Literary Award.
Although there are many parallels between Sami’s story and Olga’s story (the Homeric prevention of a return home due to factors beyond the protagonist’s control (Iran bureaucracy, the necessity for bribes), the most interesting fscet for the staging of Unbroken comes from the use of the actors. The central character (Sami) is a constant. It is through him that we take our journey. There are two other actors on stage, one male and one female. These actors play all the other characters in the play, from Australians waiting for a tram, to Iranian officials, to beggars, to family members on the phone (during which they are always seen, although off stage in the semi-dark), to soldiers with semi-automatic weapons. These actors give Sami someone to work with and against. The audience on the night I saw the play were just as reactive to these secondary characters as they were to Sami. Also, the rapid changing of characters adds to both the tension and the comedy. Having seen this play, I have decided that the secondary characters in Unbroken should be seen on stage and not just heard. The secondary actors play characters of both sexes. This is an interesting device, as having a woman play a masculine soldier, for example, can break the barriers of the typical male-female divide. This may be a useful device in the production of Unbroken where there are depictions of resistance women working as operatives in the underground, giving orders to kill, and killing. In the war scenario of Unbroken the gender lines have been broken and men and women carry out the same tasks. Women have been celebrated for it, as outlined above in 5.2.3. (a). I have considered having the actors share these cross-sex roles, but ultimately this will be a decision for the director of the play.
I ran by Chris the possibility of having quotes from Homer on the wall between scenes. Chris agrees and has offered to find some quotes if I give him context for the scenes. I have found some quotes and sent them to him.
I was reading Nikos Kazantzakis’ The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel and was struck by the word play and similar feeling to the original work. I then remembered my supervisor Chris Mackie’s first words: Why did you decided to tell the Odyssey through your grandmother’s s story? Of course I hadn’t. But with Chris’s guidance I noted these parallels. Now, more than a year later, I suddenly see scope for the play to be linked with Homer’s piece.
16.12.17: The trip Ends
As we move back to Athens, I can say that this research trip has given me so much more than I expected.
I have identified that the uniform my grandmother Olga was photographed in was not British, but Greek, and in fact Greek naval.
(Photo: Stambolis Family Collection)
This could mean many things. It could be that she was at some stage on a Greek naval vessel. That would fit with the information I gained about Lele Caryiannis, who did similar work to Olga in the same place at the same time. Lela used to rescue allied flyers and soldiers caught behind German lines. Lela used to travel with the rescued soldiers by boat to Egypt. Perhaps this uniform demonstrates that Olga did the same.
I also saw where the Germans committed savage acts. These weren’t just acts of war, but war crimes, such as the 1944 massacre of hundreds of civilians at Distomo in central Greece:
(Photo: Distomo. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
I also saw where the resistance fought back, exasperating the Germans, such as the blowing of the Gorgopotomos bridge near Lamia:
(Photo: Gorgopotomos Bridge. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
I saw the frigid passes the resistance and the British Special Ops had to walk in the middle of winter:
(Photo: Katara Pass. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
And I saw how the Greeks have remembered the terrible times, but also the help of the British and the other Allies:
(Photo: Theodoriana. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
Then there were the Greek women. The fighters, the helpers, the rescuers. They were revered within the resistance, and are revered to this day:
(Photo: Courtesy the War Museum of Rendina)
And Sofia Vembo, the woman who sang the Greeks into fighting back:
(Photo: Courtesy the War Museum of Thessaloniki)
So as I end this journey, I remember all these people.
The next stage is the updated draft of Unbroken, my one woman play adaptation of my novel Someone Else’s War. It may have some Vembo music. It may incorporate Lela. It will certainly have an authenticity of place, time and events that it would not have had before this trip.
Thank you to my supervisors Chris Mackie and Steinar Ellingsen for supporting this journey, and to Lawrie Zion who suggested this blog. And thank you to all the people I have met and continue to meet on this trip. It’s been wonderful.
15.12.17: When a buck means a buck
As my research trip comes to a close over the next day or so, I have to get all the things I have discovered into perspective.
For example, today I saw stories about how the unemployment rate in Australia is 5.4%, which economists say is still above the acceptable level. In Greece unemployment is at 21% (a big improvement on 28% two years ago, but still, 21% is no economic oil painting).
Australian inflation is low and has been for some time. In Greece it is also low at 1.1%. This means prices are kept manageable, but growth is still not where the government would like it to be.
But let’s compare this to what happened to Greece in WW2. According the CNBC, German occupation pushed the value of the drachma through the floor. It did this by forcing Greece to loan Germany the equivalent of billions of U.S. dollars (which many argue was never paid back), and at the same time trade with other countries was disallowed by the Germans, so there was no way Greece could right its economy.
To give you an idea of how the currency sank, in 1940 this 1000 drachma note would buy one gold sovereign:
But immediately after the Nazis took over Greece, you needed one of these for that sovereign:
Yes, an invasion can make your currency go to a fifth of its value. Overnight.
But, for the Greeks things were to get much much worse. Inflation over the years got to ridiculous levels. In one month in 1944, price rose by 14,000%. Not 14%. 14,000%. In a month.
As you’d expect, you need to start printing more notes, or add a few zeroes.
This is the kind of note you’d need:
It looks a lot. A five million drachma note. One of these before the war, and you could’ve bought a house or two or ten.
But soon even these notes meant nothing. The government started issuing notes worth 100 trillion drachma.
The other day I stopped in an antique shop in Metsovo in central Greece and found this:
Piles and piles of 5 million drachma notes. Monopoly money. How many businesses, shops and traders lost it all, we can never know. We do know it was a long road back. A road that some might say Greece is still walking 70-plus years on.
Yes, it’s another tragedy of war that the delicate balance of an economy is the first thing to be destroyed when another country decides to make an empire of its neighbours.
14.12.17: A myth set in stone
Greece is full of myths: Zeus sat on Mt Olympus; Oedipus married his mum; Odysseus was seduced by a goddess.
They’re everywhere. But here’s a modern tale that is so extraordinary that some believe it had to be a fable. Many though, believe it is true.
It goes back to the times when the Ottomans (today’s Turks) ruled most of Greece (up until 1821 or so). The muslim Ottomans had little time for the teachings, philosophies and religious belief of the Greeks. Education in Greek history was banned.
Greek educators and priests became terrified that this edict would mean that their culture would die.
So the story goes that in the areas where the Ottomans did not have control, such as the hard-to-access Pelion Peninsula on the very east coast of Greece (think across the Aegean from Gallipoli), at least one priest set up a secret school to educate men in the ways of the Greek. Greeks reportedly came from all over Ottoman-controlled Greece to be educated in the ways of their forebears.
Of course the priest had to be careful, so he set the school in a almost unaccessible place in the side of the cliff in Tsangarada. Even today the path is almost impossible:
(Photo: The path to the Hidden School, Tsangarada. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
But myth or not, there is a cave set into the side of the cliff, which has plenty of signs of ancient habitation:
(Photo: Hidden School, Tsangarada. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
And if you look closely, you can see what might just be a classroom laid out in stones inside the cave:
(Photo: Hidden School, Tsangarada. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
And the remnants of a priest’s shrine built next to the classroom:
(Photo: Hidden School, Tsangarada. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
Now I’m not saying this was the fabled secret school, but the locals in Tsangarada all seem to know the story, (and their families have lived for as long as the story has existed). They all have opinions on whether the cave school was real. Some are in two minds and will recite the arguments for and against whether it is nothing more than a fable.
This argument has been going to more than a century. In the 1880s, the painter Nikolaos Gyzis depicted the scene of a secret school, which looked a little more flash than our cave in a cliff:
(Photo: From the Nikolaos Gyzis painting “To krifo scholio”)
What remains of this story, be it fable or not, is tale of resistance from oppression, a desperation to keep one’s culture alive, bravery and ingenuity.
I really hope this story is true; that there were these ancestors of the WW2 andartes, who resisted not with guns but with knowledge, and in doing so kept alive the tie between modern and Ancient Greek.
13.12.17: The voice that sang a nation
In writing the play of my grandmother’s story I had to consider a lot of things in making the transition from novel (Someone Else’s War) to stage (Unbroken).
Writing for the stage is as different from writing for the eye, as painting is from sculpture.
The stage play must create a mood, a sense of the times. It’s as much about showing the emotion of events as telling the facts of what’s happening. That’s because an audience will remember what they felt long after the facts are forgotten.
To give this sense of the times, I decided early that music must be an important part of the play. It won’t be a musical or anything like that, but it will have the central character (my grandmother Olga) making musical references, singing snatches, maybe playing some music on a wireless.
I just needed to incorporate a kind of music that would work for the play. Perhaps a singer who spoke of the times. Someone who was as sassy as Olga, and sang of the period in a way that would help Olga tell the story.
I initially thought of rembetika, northern cafe music.
(Photo: From a mural in Ioannina. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
That was indeed sassy, a kind of blues, but it didn’t speak to me of the times. Rembetika was more Salonica than Athens, and more 30s than 40s.
In driving to war hotspots around Greece, there was just one voice that represented all this, a woman who spoke to Greeks in 1940-5 and, as a bonus, was a motivator for Greeks under stress. Because her stirring songs spurred Greece onto defeating Italy in 1940, she became known as The Songstress of Victory This woman, a simple singer/songwriter was considered so dangerous by the occupying Germans, that she was banned from singing political songs, and had to flee to Cairo.
Her name was Sofia Vembo:
(Photo: Courtesy the War Museum of Rendina)
Her most famous song was “Children of Greece”, a motivating song for Greece after the Italians invaded Greece. Some historians credit that song with having a lot to do with the Greeks pushing Italy back across the Albanian borderland most of the way back to Italy too.
Such is the power of the right music for the right time.
She also used that most powerful of verbal weapons: satire. She speaks of the “Master Macaroni’ Mussolini, how he’s going to lose to the Greeks and lose Rome as well. She was certainly edgy, which is why there is a shrine to her in just about every war museum in the country. This one was in Thessaloniki War Museum:
(Photo: Courtesy the War Museum of Thessaloniki)
Yes, sassy, taunting, rude and in-your-face. Just the kind of music for my Olga.
12.12.17: A 74 year old Memory
Litochoro is a village on the east coast of Greece. It is in the foot of a massive pass next to Mount Olympus, the most majestic mountain in Greece, an Everest in stature to Greeks and greater than it in mythology, for this was where Zeus sat as the god of gods. Its shards and many vertical snowy peaks certainly suggest this is not a place to be easily reckoned with:
(Photo: Litochoro, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
But plenty of people do reckon with it. Mostly hikers or ambitious tourists trying out their new climbing shoes. But in the war, recreational climbing wasn’t really on the agenda. The country was occupied by the Germans, Bulgarians and Italians; starvation was everywhere and the Greek andantes were using mountains like these as places to launch raids on the invaders.
And the invaders fought back, as you’d expect.
I had been told about the old Monastery of St Dionysus. It lies 13 kilometres up towards the Mt Olympus peak, and has lay there since 1542. It’s been pillaged at times, but always survived. Until, I was told, the Germans thought it was being used as a base for resistance operatives.
They sent in the bombers in 1943.
Climbing through the mountain pass today, the first glimpse of St Dionysus’ was one of majesty befitting the monastery of Mt Olympus.
(Photo: Near Litochoro, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
But getting closer, you can see it resembles part of the decaying Roman Coliseum:
(Photo: Near Litochoro, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
Until finally you can see where attempts have been made to make new buildings behind the old:
(Photo: Near Litochoro, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
But the truth is that much of this graceful old monastery is the same as the day it was bombed. There is a new Monastery of St Dionysus a few kilometres down the road. Services can no longer be conducted here. There are danger signs everywhere. yet the walls stand as they have done for nearly 500 years.
The people who made the decision to bomb this sanctuary have long passed. It is probable the pilots and the men who pressed the button that dropped the bombs have too died.
The broken walls of St Dionysus prove who stands the longest and proudest.
They will stand for a long time yet, continuing to make sure we never forget.
11.12.17: The Cap. One riddle solved. Another opens
My grandmother didn’t have many photos of her time in Greece during the war. In fact there were only two. One was of her waving the Greek flag on the day of liberation from the Germans in 1944, and this photo of her wearing a military outfit:
(Photo: Olga Stambolis circa 1943., The Stambolis Family Collection)
A couple of weeks ago I asked if anyone could identify the cap she was wearing. I got a few guesses but no cigar yet.
Over the week I visited a couple of military museums in western and northern Greece, and spoke to some Greek army personnel, but no-one could identify it.
Then yesterday we were walking through the flea market area of Thessaloniki and we passed this shop:
(Photo: Thessaloniki, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
It that sold military stuff.. German helmets, dented WW2 water bottles, moth-holed old jackets with buttons missing. You know the kind.
Jac suggested asking the owner. There’s no-one like a military buff/nerd for this kind of trivia.
He knew straight away. He identified her cap as Greek from the badge in the centre, and the white top meant it was naval, probably from lower rank. Her shirt was also Greek and could have been summer dress come from several of the services.
He even pointed to a cap that has similar origins although with a badge of a different era:
(Photo: Courtesy Ioannes Tzelepithes, Thessaloniki)
So there you are. Or ‘oriste’ as they say in Greece when serving you your dolmades.
The question now is: why was she wearing that outfit?
We know she rescued British flyers and got them out of the country. So was she on a ship escorting them to Cairo? Or was that a uniform she was given when being trained?
Or was the photo just a bit of play. A bit of dress-up during one of the less intense times? Could it even have been taken after the war perhaps?
I suspect we’ll never know. On the back of the photo my mum wrote that this was Olga in British uniform. Obviously this was conjecture. Wrong conjecture.
Olga never told her, or probably anyone, about the nature of the photo.
I guess we’ll just have to take the photo for what it is, a display of sassiness from a woman who could wear an umbrella and make it look good.
10.12.17: A Possible Breakthrough
My grandmother Olga Stambolis worked in the resistance in Greece, rescuing trapped British, Australian and New Zealand flyers, and like all andartes (resistance fighters), killing when she needed to.
Information about her has been scant. She died when I was a couple of months old, so I could never talk to her. Finding anything in Greece that mentions her name (apart from pass applications and money documents) has been fruitless. You see, resistance groups hardly kept records. They’d be pretty poor underground operations to do that.
So for half my life I have been searching for anything that might pinpoint she she did and who she worked with.
Today I found the story of a Greek woman, whose parallels with the story of my grandmother was extraordinary. It was almost as if it was my grandmother’s story with the names and a few other details changed:
(Photo: Bust of Lela in the War Museum of Thessaloniki. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
Before the war Lela Carayannis (in Greek: Eleni Karayanni) was an Athens housewife. In the early occupation days she formed a resistance group (called Bouboulina). For a person untrained in organisational operations, she did a freakish job of putting it into sub-groups for rescue, sabotage, espionage and other operations:
(Photo: Courtesy of Dr George Carayannis)
The similarities between Lela and Olga were amazing. They both were involved in rescue of British, Australian and New Zealand flyers. They both were based in Athens at the same time. And like Olga, Lela was captured by the Germans, even staying in jail for the same amount of time: six months, in the same year (1941). Like Olga, when she was released, which in itself was a miracle, she returned to resistance work.
Here there story differs. While Olga’s children were safely out of there reach of the Nazis in Australia, Lela’s children were much closer. In fact six of them (three boys and three girls) worked as operatives with her. And where Olga was lucky enough to stay alive for the rest of the occupation, Lela, her children and her close associates were caught after a mistake by a person in her organisation. Lela was interrogated and tortured for three days by a notorious German inquisitor. Then she was executed. Her children, who were kept in a different part of the Haidari prison, were given help by an anti-Nazi German and were able to escape.
The more I read this story, the stronger the possibility became that my grandmother worked with Lela’s group.
Lela’s grandson found a list of the names of some of the people in Bouboulina. There were 100 people on this list. This morning I took it to an English speaking Greek I know here in Thessaloniki to see if Olga’s name, or any of her possible aliases were on it:
(Photo: Courtesy of Dr George Carayannis)
Olga wasn’t on it. The chances that Olga will be on it were always slim.
But this is the closest I have come to finding my grandmother’s group.
The search continues.
9.12.17 The Little Carpark of Horrors
This research was a never going to focus on the treatment for Jews in Greece in WW2, but the more one looks at life under the Nazis, the Jewish decimation comes up everywhere.
Nowhere more so than in Thessaloniki. This was the city that was so Jewish that it was known as The Mother of Israel. Half the population of Thessaloniki were Jewish. They had been here for 1000 years and were central to life in the city. As in the nearby city of Veria, Jew, Musilm and Christian lived peacefully. It was an example the world could look at today.
Like in Veria, like in Ioannina, Nazis called the men of the place into a square, and after being belittled, bullied and treated like slaves, were shipped out of the country. To a place called Auschwitz.
Let’s look at that square. On the day all male Jews aged between 18 and 45 were called there, it was called, ironically, Liberty Square.
Some men, the elders in the community, some business people, people of high esteem, were mocked, and forced to do pretend calisthenics. Not for their health. To belittle them:
(Photo: Courtesy of the Jewish Museum of Thessaloniki)
Today Liberty Square is far different to that important square of the pre-war years. It has become a car park:
(Photo: Liberty Square, Thessaloniki, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
The only thing that speaks of its terrible history is a beautiful and celebrated sculpture in one corner that honours the Jews that died in that war:
(Photo: Liberty Square, Thessaloniki, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
I don’t know why a square, usually a place in Greek cities that honours victory over oppressors, has been allowed to become a place to leave the car while going shopping.
Maybe it is that the Greeks of Thessaloniki did not have the heart to keep this place and its memories alive. Maybe that day 9000 innocent men and their families lost everything is too much to remember.
Or maybe they just needed a car park.
8.12.17 A 2000 Year old Tale
In the northern Greece city of Veria, there was a vibrant Jewish community that had existed in there since BC became AD. It is mentioned in the bible. The apostle Paul even tried his hand at trying to convert Veria’s Jews to Christianity.
Writer Mike Arkus puts the result of these Paulian preachings this way:
“The Book of Acts says they were quite receptive to his preachings that Jesus was the Messiah until the larger Jewish community in Salonika, who had already kicked him out because they were ‘jealous,’ got wind of it and had him booted out of Veria too.”
So despite the efforts of Paul and his like, the Jewish faith remained intact here for 2000 years. Veria has the oldest synagogue in northern Greece. Not down the block or in the next street, but right there in the centre, on the doorstep of just about every house:
(Photo: Jewish Quarter, Veria, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
1500 years later more Jews were invited here by the Ottomans to help build the city. The Ottomans admired their fine skills in weapon-making and other arts.
Veria’s Jewish quarter has a lot of Ottoman (now Turkish) architecture. It is a beautiful little village where Jewish people were integrated in the wider Greek community.. the kind of integration that comes through centuries of co-existence and co-respect.
Then came WW2 and the Nazis.
Like in Ioannina (see blog of 1.12), these members of the community were rounded up on the 1st of May, 1943 and sent out of Greece, to places no-one should ever go.
Before the invasion there were 600 Jews here. 150 lived to return after the war.
Then, in 1948, and the establishment of Israel, many of these people went to their new homeland.
A few return to Veria for visits because their family homes are still there. Some places have been restored to things of beauty:
(Photo: Jewish Quarter, Veria, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
And some lie neglected because there is no-one to claim it, even after all these years:
(Photo: Jewish Quarter, Veria, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
I know they are only houses, but you can feel the hole left by the pogrom. These places where babies were conceived, feasts were eaten, stories told and children raised. All this to stop so cruelly, so swiftly.
The old synagogue rarely opens now. Many houses accommodate tourists or are used by the government departments. It really is a Jewish quarter in name only. The Nazis succeeded where evangelists could not.
Tomorrow I go to Thessaloniki, the Greek capital of the north. The Nazi treatment of the Jews and the Greek people generally is still a hot topic there. I look forward to seeing what I find.
7.12.17: The Battle for the Pass
When my grandmother was trained by the British in WW2, she would’ve learned many skills, including self-defence, how to kill, and perhaps how to sabotage.
Sabotage played a big role in the war in Greece.
I have already written about the Gorgopotomos Bridge in eastern Greece, which was destroyed to disrupt the German supply route to the south.
Not all sabotage was for such a direct reason. The British and Greeks blew up the Katara Pass, north of Metsovo in central Greece simply for a diversion. A red herring.
The Brits were trying to fool the Germans into thinking the Allies were going to invade Greece from the west coast. But there never was such a plan. Instead, the Allies were planning on invading Sicily, and wanted to distract the Axis into thinking Greece was the target.
To make this deception work, the Brits and the Greek resistance blew up the main road west to east over the mountains: The Katara Pass. The Germans would then think (and did think) that the Allies were trying to stop the Germans having any way to go west to meet these mythical forces invading Greece.
The Katara Pass was a difficult path even in 1940. It’s been closed for years, and visiting it in the snowy conditions today, I could see where the road has fallen away:
(Photo: The Katara Pass, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
I found some of what was probably the original road that followed the telegraph lines, and it frankly looks like Siberia:
(Photo: The Katara Pass, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
And pity the poor donkey that had to walk on this in 1943, especially with the ice making it impossible to walk without slipping.
(Photo: The Katara Pass, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
So it was hard to cross in 1943. Blowing it up made it impossible.
British Brigadier Eddie Myers afterwards described how his team blew up bridges culverts and even blew out the cliff faces and mined embankments.
It succeeded… for a while.
Eventually, as different factions in the resistance started fighting each other, the Germans were able to get through to the west and they took over this very pretty village of Metsovo.
The West was lost.
(Photo: Metsovo, 2017. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
6.12.17 SIDENOTE: The Self Preservation Society
This has been a pretty intense research trip: driving from Athens across the country to the central mountains, through tiny villages perched in folds of hills (inaccessible by car in WW2), then to the far west, and up cliffside dirt tracks.
Today we began the next stage, which is cross country towards the northern capital of Thessaloniki.
Are we’re doing it all in Mini Cooper:
(Photo: Near Vourgareli. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
I grew up in a Mini Cooper S. My brother Terry Kaff was a groovy 1960s dude. He was a singer in Sydney, a regular on TV and a member of Channel 9’s Bandstand team alongside Little Pattie and Col Joye. He was on stage with the Easybeats, and the Atlantics and the Delltones used to come around to our house all the time. It was enough to turn a little kid’s head. And it did.
It followed that this flash singer drove a flash little car. And there was no flashier car in 1970 than a Cooper S.
It was tiny. Terry would drive all over Sydney, me crammed in the back seat, trying my best not to throw up. I often failed. Many a time we would be on the side of the road, the little back bench seat pulled out to dry after my lunch was hosed off.
Go forward 47 years and Terry drives a Mercedes, Mini is made by BMW, my stomach is settled, and here I am driving around sheer mountains in a.. Mini.
(Photo: Near Vourgareli. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
And thank God. It may be bigger than the original, but when you’re meeting a bus on a three metre dirt road that has mountain on one side and 100 metre drop on the other side, you are glad your car is as thin as a piece of toast. It helps that it handles like it’s on rails.
Then there’s the risk of landslides. There’s no ‘if’ about it. It happens all the time. Guess who has to clear the road:
(Photo: The road to Theodoriana. Taken by Jackie Rees-Kafcaloudes)
Back to the Mini. My favourite childhood movie was the original The Italian Job, where three Minis traversed stairs, buildings and sewers to get Italian bullion out of Milan after an audacious heist:
The movie ends with the Minis being repayed for their efforts by being thrown off the Italian alps.
As we climb these mountains everyday (I’m writing this in Mikro Papigo which is a town that is at the end of a McCartneyish long and winding road), I remember the scene as the Minis are flung into the abyss. We sing the song that accompanies that travesty: “We Are the Self Preservation Society” and just hope we are not going to be joining them.
We won’t be. Our Mini is looking after us just fine.
(Photo Vourgareli, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
5.12.17 When one word says it all
There are war memorials everywhere in Greece. Almost every village has one. Quite often it’s a small marble obelisk.
Not at Kalpaki in western Greece, the place the Greeks made the frontier in the battle against the Italian invasion in 1940.
This one, on the hill over the town, is huge. It would rival the Colossus of Rhodes:
(Photo: Kalpaki, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
This statue commemorates the soldiers who stood on this hill and watched westwards for the Italian Air Force planes coming from Albania.
Just as I was leaving, I looked the hill opposite, the hill in the direction where the watchers would have been staring:
(Photo: Kalpaki, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
There was something tiny written on the hill. In rocks, I thought. Out came the telephoto and I saw what it was:
(Photo: Kalpaki, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
It reads “OXI”
That’s the Greek “No”.
It commemorates the famous refusal by Greek Prime Minister Ioannis Metaxas to the demands of the Axis powers.
I depict this famous refusal in my novel, Someone Else’s War. It happened like this:
The Italian ambassador Count Grazzi knocked on the door of the Metaxas residence at 3am on the 28th of October 1940. He demanded that Italy be given full access to Greek lands. In effect an occupation.
Metaxas, a former military man who knew his country was not prepared for war, made one of the biggest gambles any politician had made in WW2.
He said no.
He reportedly said it in French. Then in Greek.
Grazzi then told Metaxas that in three hours, the Italians would invade across the Albanian border.
Greece was at war.
I wrote yesterday about how Greece fought hard with old equipment, and won that part of the war.
Up until then, Metaxas was not a loved man in Greece. He was a fascist who took power illegitimately, jailed his political opponents and shackled the press, jailing left-wing journalists.
But that one word, that “no” is celebrated to this day on the 28th of October every year.
Greece was to be ravaged by the Germans the following year, and then torn apart by a terrible civil war after that, but people remember the day that one small word was uttered.
It was the day that a small country stood up for itself.
4.12.17 Now this is the Thing About the War in Greece..
In the 1940’s there wasn’t one. There were three, each following on straight after the other:
The Italian War of 1940, when the Italians invaded through Albania.
Then, when the Greeks pushed the Italians two-thirds of the way back through Albania..
The German invasion. Then, after the Germans were routed in 1944..
The Greek Civil War which ran from 1945 through until 1949 and killed more Greeks than the Germans had done (and the occupying Nazis weren’t squeamish about blood).
But as I say, it started in 1940 with the Italian invasion. It came quickly, with only three hours notice (more on that tomorrow), but it was carried out by an army that, on paper, was formidable. Today a young Greek soldier in a war museum in Kalpaki told me just how superior were the Italian numbers.
Mussolini’s forces had 4000 planes. 400 of these were devoted to western Greece. Greece had 150. And most of those were not military. Many were crop dusters. Seriously.
Italy had battalions of tanks. Greece had none.
Italy even had smart technology. Its soldiers didn’t have to rely on horses and mules. They had bicycles that were light and built for all terrains. More importantly, they were foldable, so soldiers could sling them over their shoulder when the going got rough.
And when we talk about guns, the contrast was amazing.
The Greeks didn’t have a lot of machine guns. The ones they did have were from WW1 like this one:
(Photo by Phil Kafcaloudes. Courtesy of the Kalpaki War Museum, Greece.)
They looked powerful, but the technology was from the very beginning of automatic weaponry. They could fire 20 rounds or so, then the barrel would be so hot that the gunners would have to wait 30 minutes for it to cool down before it could be used again. 30 minutes is several lifetimes in a battle. Gunners would shove snow in the barrel to speed up the process. That was how desperate they were.
In contrast the Italians had the latest in machine gunnery, such as this model made by Fiat (yes, the car maker) which had been ordered to convert its automotive ingenuity into weapons manufacture:
(Photo by Phil Kafcaloudes. Courtesy of the Kalpaki War Museum, Greece.)
When the barrels of those machine guns got too hot, the Fiat engineers designed them so that they could be detached and replaced with a cooler one. Hence the Italians could keep firing, while the Greeks were cooling off.
The Italians got some pretty sophisticated automatic rifles too. Germany had supplied them with automatics. Just pull the trigger and dozens of bullets would fly:
(Photo by Phil Kafcaloudes. Courtesy of the Kalpaki War Museum, Greece.)
Meanwhile the Greeks made do with some rifles barely out of the Victorian era. Single shot. Well worn. Well used:
(Photo by Phil Kafcaloudes. Courtesy of the Kalpaki War Museum, Greece.)
These weapons the Greeks supplemented with axes, scythes, pitchforks, and knives. Hardly encouraging.
But the Italians had a number of enemies in this war, only one of which was the Greek people. The biggest enemy was their own lack of desire. This was not a great war of expansion. It was a vanity project by Mussolini.. an attempt to show Hitler that he too was a great warrior. His soldier’s must have known this. Why else would Italy be invading its Ionian Sea cousin? They had no beef. Their hearts and souls had not been won. they were sent into atrocious conditions at the beginning of winter. More than a few might’ve questioned the tactics and the need.
Italy’s second enemy was Greek local know how. Bringing tanks into wet Greece in November was not horses for courses. One smart Greek general baited the Italians to cross a river near Kalpaki. The general, who was disobeying orders in carrying out this strategy, had banked on the November rains flooding the river. The Greek rain gods complied. It poured, and the Italian tanks were bogged. As the Greek soldier told me, the Greeks commandeered the tanks after the Italians abandoned them. But the Greeks had never seen a tank before, so they took some photos of themselves draped on the tanks, and then left them to go chasing the Italians on foot.
Which all goes to prove my mother’s old saying (which she may have got from her mother who would’ve known about these things), you might have all the weapons in the world, but its not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.
3.12.17: How Comes Greece Looks Like New England?
I’m doing this Greek trip as part of an PhD. I’m writing a play about my grandmother the Greek spy in WW2, and the PhD is being done on the process of creating the play.
So I’m in Greece to see the places she might’ve been trained by the British, and the places she might’ve worked rescuing British, Australian and New Zealand flyers who were trapped behind lioness the Nazis moved south through to Athens in April 1941.
Part of what I am looking at is the terrain. What would she have encountered? What was the landscape like? I’m here as the weather is turning into wintery conditions (so it’s not your ideal holiday). Yesterday we had flash flooding, ironically on the same day we had flash floods home in Melbourne. This Greek flash flooding was a different beast to the antipodes though. When it rains here, it keeps raining. Little village lanes became rivers; roads became lakes; mountainside dripways become waterfalls. And it never seemed to end. This was only the start of winter. The snows will be here soon, and much of the andante work in WW2 was done in the snow. It is easier to escape when you know what lies beneath the white blanket.
What surprised me though was the foliage of western Greece. Here there are a lot of deciduous trees some of them very brown/golden of an oak variety:
(Photo: Vourgareli, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
Plane trees are also common, and have been for many years, like this one that has survived in this little flood and snow prone plateia (square) in Difolo for 400 years:
(Photo: Difolo, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
This interspersed with the many fir and olive trees in the hills gives a mottled landscape that is very dense. The mix of colours and foliage would provide camouflage.
(Photo: Kallithea, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
And there is a contrast where the wooded hills stand against snowcapped Alps. A mix of terrain that must have made pursuit difficult. Notice how it’s hard to know where alp ends and cloud begins:
(Photo: Vourgareli, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
All this is that its highest in late autumn when the leaves are green and the mountains are getting their first snow. This could be the time when I set the central Greece action in the play.
The paths in central Greece in many cases are rough where rocks have fallen off the hillside. Many are hard and sharp, especially the shale or marble mixed in with the other rocks on the ground, and the tendency for the mountains to landslide. But often there is no other way around:
(Photo: Tymfi, Greece. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
These paths can be difficult to negotiate, which is what the andartes wanted. Germans carrying heavy backpacks would’ve found this very hard especially as the paths are steep leading down from the mountains or up the next hill.
I’m not sure how I will incorporate these factors into the play, but they set a context for me. I have walked in the paths of the andartes (resistance fighters) and seen what they must’ve seen. My mind’s eye is closer now to my grandmother’s. And that is something important for a playwright.
2.12.17: The Smart Kid Who Kept His Head
In times of terror some good things can happen.
Take in 1940 in western Greece. Hitler’s ally, the somewhat limited Benito Mussolini decided to invade Greece. He didn’t do it for any particular reason. He just did it. Actually he did have a reason of sorts. As the Nazis were swathing through Europe, he wanted to impress Hitler that he too was a warrior.
He invaded through Albania only three hours after the Greek prime minister Ioannes Mexatas had refused Mussolini’s demand that Italy occupy Greece.
What Mussolini isn’t know was Greeks, especially the mountain Greeks of the west, don’t take kindly to someone trying to take them over. So, as I write in my novel, they fought against the Italian halftracks and machine guns with aged rifles, pick-axes and scythes, and forced the Italians back over the border.
It was an embarrassing defeat for the Italians and led to Hitler invading Greece.. ruining his plans for an autumn invasion of Russia. He had to push it back to winter.. leading to his first big defeat.
But in that initial Italian invasion, Mussolini sent over bombers to help his ground troops. As they attacked the western town of Perama, the locals raced to find shelter.
In the rush, an 11 year old boy discovered that air was rushing through a hole in the side of the rocky cliff that abuts the town’s main road:
(Photo: Perama. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
Some residents dug it out and found a massive internal cave full of the most beautiful stalactite and stalagmite formations:
(Photo: Courtesy of the Perama Caves)
The locals used this cave to hide during the bombings, and later, in 1944, when the occupying Germans started rounding up Jews for deportation to concentration camps, the Perama Cave once again became a place of refuge.
The Perama Cave is now a tourist attraction:
(Photo: Perama. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
Travellers come from around the world to see the massive tite-mite formations, and the site inside where the remains of an ancient bear were discovered after the war. The speculation is that the bear must’ve been fallen in and been trapped all those thousands of years ago and sadly starved to death.
But for me, the fact that this place saved so many people makes it much more than your usual tourist attraction.
And all this is owed to a little boy who kept his head in a time of terror.
1.12.17: A Terrible Secret in Paradise
In Someone Else’s War I wrote a chapter where my grandmother goes to Thessaloniki on a reconnaissance mission to find out whether the stories of the mistreatment of Jews there were true. In the novel she gets there too late. She witnesses Jewish families being loaded onto trains and sent to concentration camps in the countries to the north.
Although I have no indication that my grandmother was actually sent on a mission like this, I put this into the novel because the horror of the Jewish pogrom in Greece was such a big part of the occupation that no story of the war in Greece could be complete without it. I wanted, through the eyes of my characterisation of Olga, to bring this terrible event to readers. I also intend, with the play Unbroken to again refer to this.
In a week’s time I’ll be in Thessaloniki to see where that exile occurred. But the pogrom did not just just happen in Salonica. Today I was in the beautiful acropolis above Ioannina, which is the main city in western Greece, a magical city on a lake with a fortress wall that surrounds an old city known as the Kastro.
This acropolis contains Byzantine buildings which were added to by various Ottoman leaders. It is a quiet, gentle place, even on a rainy day when the clouds come across to this high-lying city. With its old buildings and the tomb of the brutal Ali Pasha (in the cage on the right), this is a place a photographer can spend whole days:
(Photo: Ioannina. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
At the end of the acropolis is a Byzantine museum and across from that is a silver museum. Yes, this is a place for tourists and those interested in crafts, as well as the remnants of millennia past:
(Photo: Ioannina. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
The place chilled me out. Then I saw the plaque on the wall of the Byzantine Museum which tells a story at odds with what is there today.
I share this story here: https://youtu.be/DUtqVV1iPMw
In short, the plaque says that in the spot where I stood, the Jews of Ioannina were forced to present themselves on the 25th of March, 1944. From there they were put onto trucks and sent across the north of Greece and taken to the same concentration camps as those unfortunate people of Salonica. The only Jews who survived were the ones who managed to escape the city when the edict came from them to come to acropolis. Others were hidden by Christian families, who risked their own safety to help them.
On this day, as I looked over the grass towards the museum, the poignancy of this place changed with that one plaque. It became so much more than the untended and patchy grass that greeted me. Lest we Forget.
(Photo: Ioannina. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes)
30.11.17: SIDENOTE: Loving the Dogs of Greece
It was once said that you can tell a country’s humanity from the way they treat their dogs. Actually, I might just have made that up. But I think it’s true.
In Australia we fawn over our dogs, make sure they get the very best food at regular times, pick up their poo on their scheduled walks, and stand around in the dog park talking to other proud dog-parents watching our little ones play with the other furry little-ins.
It doesn’t quite work that way in Greece.
Some people have dogs. They are collared, controlled and named. But there are many many more that are not owned. They wander the streets of the small villages, walking from house to house little a mobile guard service. And they do their job well. Anyone unusual walking down the road causes a barking frenzy. Not an angry frenzy like you see from chained and yarded Australian dogs. Just a few barks to let everyone know that (1) A stranger is around, and (2) That this dog is doing its job.
Most of the time however, the dog will come to you, maybe a little wary (you may not be a dog person, and be a little too willing to show them your sole), but easily losing that wariness once you give them a warm hello (in either Greek or English. It doesn’t matter. They know.)
Take these characters for instance. Today in the archeological site of Dodona, just south of Ioannina. We had just got out of our car when two dogs joined us. Not for food. They just wanted to say hello.
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Once we got inside the site, the feller dog decided he liked me very much:
(Photo: Jackie Rees-Kafcaloudes 2017)
That’s how it’s been this whole trip. When we arrived at Montenema in the Karditsa region a week ago, we were met at the front gates by a large wolfish dog who smiled at us, pushed against our legs and almost directed us to reception. They next day we started a hike to a 16th century church, St George’s, three kilometres up and down the forest. We were only 200 metres into the walk when a white sight came up the track behind us. It was the same dog. He stayed with us all the way up to the abandoned church. When we went inside, the dog walked around the grounds. We stayed for about an hour, taking pictures of the decaying frescos and icons inside. The dog waited for us. Then she stayed with us for the long return walk. Back at the hotel the manager told us that this is what “Bou Bou” did. She made sure every walker got there safely, and got home safely. She wasn’t trained to do it. She just did it, and always had.
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Now I know we think we know what goes on in our dogs’ heads. Maybe we think they are after food; that they get jealous; that they are simply protectors of their territory.
Nah. Shakespeare wrote that there were more things in heaven and earth. Creatures like Bou Bou are proof that he wasn’t talking through is hat.
29.11.17: Vourgareli: A bombing remembered
We are in the western Greek town of Vourgareli which is a place that really is on the ceiling of the world:
(Photo: Vourgareli. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
I mentioned yesterday that Vourgareli that was bombed by the Germans in WW2. They were after the British Operatives like Brigadier Eddie Myers who were working from nearby Theodoriana.
That’s only 74 years ago, so you’d have to think that such a momentous event would stay in the DNA of this small town. As we walked through the place we saw many shells of buildings that no-one bothered to rebuild, even after all this time.
(Photo: Vourgareli. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
The church St Georges on the plateia (town square) shows two dud German bombs out the front, scrawled roughly with the date of the bombing raid, beneath a monument to those who perished:
(Photo: Vourgareli. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Yes, it would be hard in Vougareli to forget that war and that bombing.
Costas and Irene have not forgotten. Irene runs a restaurant (not a taverna, she insists this is a restaurant) on the road into the village. It’s a sparse place with half a dozen tables, a blaring TV in the corner, an upright wood heater near the TV and surprisingly, a dusty jukebox. There’s also a wood fireplace burning on the opposite corner, but Irene and her husband Costas use the upright for their warmth, and when we walked in they encouraged us to share the upright with them because they insisted the fancy open wood fire wasn’t warm enough.
I say they ‘insisted’. They insisted by gesture because they couldn’t speak a word of English. It followed that they could not understand vegetarianism, let along veganism. When I explained it was no meat, horice tiri (“without cheese”) and horice avgo (“without egg”), Irene slapped her head in disbelief, as if to say ‘how could people live like this?’ She had lived with meat for her 69 years.
She then supplied us a feast of Greek chips, salad, pasta, thick bread, kokkino (red) wine and olives. We may have been weird vegans, but she made sure we were fed well.
Across the room, Costas ate and watched the Greek parliament on TV. It’s his routine now. At 82, it’s what he does.
Through my mottled Greek we learned that Irene was a grandmother of 3 girls and two boys, and that the children were becoming masters of the iPhone, do things she could not understand. When I needed to use google translate for a word, she thought the fact that the word came in the screen in Greek was hilarious. We laughed together a lot.
She brought us some gratis preserved fruit for dessert and she wrote down our translation that the fruit was called quince in English. Then she went off to tidy up, although I should say the little eatery was pretty clean as it was. No dust would survive under Irene’s watch.
Irene told us of this quiet town’s place in war history. It was the scene of a revolution against the Turks in 1821 where the priest was shot in the head. They demonstrate the bullet going in the forehead as if they had seen it themselves. I write down the date 1943 on a piece of paper for her and they animate. Yes, the Germans destroyed everything. Costas was 8 years old. Irene, who wasn’t even born when it happened, is annoyed that there have not been reparations. But she says, this year it might happen.
Irene and Costas have the war in their blood. Their parents lived through it. Although far from the German epicentre in Athens, the bombings brought the horror to this place here on the top of the world. And the horror of it goes on still.
28.11.17: Betrayal in Theodoriana
My grandmother was given up to the Germans in 1941.
She believed she was given up by the one person she thought she could trust.
I’ll explain via the story of Theodoriana. This was the mountain village that British Special Ops leader Brigadier Eddie Myers chose for his base in 1942 in planning operations against the Germans. He and his team walked and donkeyed it from the east, through snow and rain. He describes the village as beautiful, and waxed about the colour of the trees and the peaks that surrounded it. You can see what he means:
(Photo: Theodoriana. Taken by Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Myers and his team had a joyful time in Theodoriana. He writes of waking to see the sun highlight the tops of the mountains, then the almond-coloured trees, then the white buildings of the little town. It was a village of hospitable people who were grateful that Britain supported the Greek people. The village was also special because its doctor was a man of vision who organised for the village to have electricity.. an amazing feat considering so much of Greece in those days had no electricity, and this village was so far from any large town, and was only accessible from small passes at each end of the village. The people lived in their own bit of paradise.
This peace wasn’t to last. Myers tells that the Germans found out their location. He suspects it was when a local trader brought three women into the village for the services of the British men. The Brits refused those services. Just as well. One of the women was a spy. The locals put her on trial, and had her shot. Right there in paradise. The other two were handed to the andartes and disappeared. Myers hoped they were jailed, but he couldn’t be sure.
Either way, the Germans knew the Brits were in Theodoriana, and conducted two air raids on the village, blowing up houses. The Germans than attacked the closest town, Vougareli, killing many people.
How did the people of Theodoriana react to these Brits who had brought so much misery?
With acceptance, support and continuous hospitality.
My grandmother met and worked with people who were just as brave and caring as the Theodorians. Then again, she had to battle the constant possibility that maybe some of those nearest to her were not on her side. It would only take one whisper for her to be undone.
It happened. She was given up to the Germans. She never knew for sure, but she believed she was betrayed by her own sister.
I met that sister when I was a child. Of course I knew nothing of the betrayal allegation. I just knew this pleasant little woman and her giant of a husband who had moved to Australia in the 1950s. They were quite exotic to the younger ones of us in the family because they lived in Melbourne (the rest of us were in Sydney).
When I first heard the allegation against this smiling woman, I couldn’t relate her to such an act of treachery.
But this was war. And this is the thing about war: it forces people into action. They act with the greatest of intention or with the greatest of fear. The Germans’ greatest tool was the constant threat. If your friend, cousin.. or even sister.. was in the resistance, then the tool of the occupiers was to make you just as liable. It is this kind of implied threat that forced people to betray those they love.
This may have happened to my grandmother. It may have happened to Eddie Myers.
The thing is though, that for every person that committed betrayal in WW2 Greece, there were many more who risked their lives to protect new friends.
War does that. As I wrote in the novel, it turns life upside down.
27.11.17: Olga’s cap
This trip is a magical mystery tour. Every day I’m finding new things about the war and the Greek people. Like a couple of days ago I learned how much women were essential to the resistance effort. They weren’t just members of teams, but they were in charge of units, trained other andartes, and had reputations as being really tough. Considering the horrors that were happening across Greece at the time, it’s no wonder they were this way.
I know that my grandmother Olga also killed people. In my novel I write a scene that was almost verbatim as it was told to me: she was standing with another resistance worker in a queue at a shop, when she saw a collaborator several places ahead in the line. At that moment the man looked back and saw Olga and the other woman together. He twigged that because they were together these two must’ve been working in the resistance. He left the shop. Without stopping to think or hesitate, Olga and the other woman broke out of the line and followed the collaborator. They needed to stop him before he could get to a police station or German headquarters. As he came to a lane, they grabbed him from behind, pulled him into the lane and stabbed him to death. They then walked on like two friends on a day out.
You did what you had to do. If they had been caught, the Germans would’ve extracted everything from them.. names, places, safe houses, hideaways, plans.. and then killed them.
As I say, they did what they had to do. And what they did was replicated hundreds of times in this war.
Being in the resistance meant there were no records kept. Very little was committed to paper, even by the British. It would’ve been dangerous to everyone, providing just the kind of evidence the Germans would need to reprisals against families and acquaintances.
So it was unusual that a photo survived of Olga in uniform. On the back of the photo it says she was in British uniform:
But I can’t be sure. Looking up some shots of other caps, the closest British one was a naval cap that bears some similarity. It’s worn here by someone whose face I know, but..
This is a Greek WW2 hat. Wrong colour but it matches in other ways:
And to make matters just a bit more confusing, women andartes wore a range of caps, but none seemed like the one Olga wore:
(Photo: Courtesy of the Rendina War Museum 2017)
Alas, just another mystery in the long journey to find out more about my grandmother. I wonder what tomorrow will hold.
27.11.17: A Greek Family
I saw a lovely thing this morning. It wasn’t momentous. It was just a little window into a relationship and a jogging of the memory.
We were sitting breakfast in our little mountain taverna. At the next table was a young Greek family: mother, father and daughter who could not not have been more than 15.. the surly age. She sat away from her parents and scowled every suggestion they made. Nothing unusual in that for that age. Then another family came to share the table, so daughter had to sit next to her mother. The surliness continued. The girl didn’t look at her parents and barely acknowledged them.
Neither her mother nor father took any notice. They knew it was just the nature of a teenager and was probably nothing different to what they themselves had gone through.
The extraordinary moment was, in its way extraordinary in its ordinariness. It was when the mother leant over and dipped her bread into her daughter’s egg yolk and mopped it up as the girl was eating her eggs. The daughter didn’t react; she just kept eating. In many places this would’ve been the crossing of a line; an invasion into personal space, but even for this surly girl, this was fine. That was what her family did. It was okay. Then the father made a joke of something and the mother and daughter burst out laughing. That’s family life for Greeks. Hormones might affect you, but in the end you adore those in your gene pool, and they adore you. What happened at that table wasn’t momentous. It was just a nice moment and a memory of a childhood long past.
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
26.11.17: Montenema’s Hiker
One of the challenges in organising this trip was working out how to visit the villages where so much of the action happened in WW2. In those days many of the villages were inaccessible by car. That’s why the resistance and the British Special Ops organisers chose them. The Germans would find it too difficult to get troops to these places, and would only be able to do it by traversing paths that would leave them exposed to the andartes.
The man who led the British operations was Brigadier Eddie Myers. He used to walk from one part of central Greece to another. Occasionally he was lucky enough to have a grateful villager who would lend him a donkey for the trip. But mostly it was all on foot.
Today, may of these villages are easier to access. Some homeowners rent them out to tourists for the ski season, so there needs to be a relatively safe road.
I wanted to visit a couple of these villages in the Karditsa region, but being so isolated it presented problems for accommodation. Or so I thought.
Five years ago a hiker walked into the mountains and when he stepped into a clearing what opened up before him was a beautiful vista between two mountainsides. He decided there and then that this would make a great spot for an eco-village. So in a time of economic meltdown in Greece, he got funding, made plans and built what he called a “handmade village” complete with restaurant, cafe, animal farm, crops and accommodation, which consisted of individual homes.
Standing on the cafe balcony you can stand on there spot where he must’ve stood when coming out of the forest:
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
So Montenema has offered us a place of peace and sanctuary after hours of winding up and down roads. It is also a great spot to recoup before the movement further into the mountains.
We went for a walk this morning and what we saw was history. In the hills are the ruins of homes that are hundreds of years old. These are homes that go back to the days when the Turks ran this land, before the Greek revolution of 200 years ago. These homes were probably occupied when the andartes controlled these hills, and planned the assaults on the invaders. But now they are empty, not much more than piles of rock. There are still goat farmers in these hills. St Georges church survives in the folds of the mountains, its roof caving but its icons still watching and its candles still burning. There is celebration in Montenema because news has just come through that the national government is going too pay to have it restored.
But no such luck for the old homes. Economic times and tourism have done that war and oppression couldn’t: move out the old to make way for tourism and the visions of enterprising hikers.
25.11.17: Rendina and the Power of Women
I’ve had two inspirations for this research trip. One was my grandmother Olga Stambolis, who was a spy in Greece in WW2, and whose major role was rescuing British, Australian and New Zealand flyers who were caught behind enemy lines. She was trained in the arts of the resistance fighter by the British. I don’t know where and when, but it was likely it was in the mountains in central Greece, in the hills where the andartes (resistance fighters) felt safest.
My other inspiration was my godfather, Nick Manning, who was a teenager in the war. He was, like so many others, caught up in the action, and started to follow the communist leader Aris, a tough man who had little time for people who disagreed with his ideology. Nick the teen was told that his training would be in central Greece, so he did what so many other andantes did. He walked there. From Athens. That’s hundreds of kilometres, many of them through the mountains. Unfortunately for Nick, when he got to Rendina, the trainers had moved onto Karpenisi (see post of 2 days ago). So he walked to Karpenisi.
Today we drove this Rendina road. It seemed interminable with its twists and turns, and back in the day it would’ve been even more twisty. We pulled over and saw part of the old track, perhaps the very track Nick would’ve walked:
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
It’s pretty spectacular, and would’ve been in 1943, if you weren’t looking over your shoulder for Germans.
Once we reached Rendina, we found, like with so many other villages, that the war still hangs heavy. There are memorials. In this case, like Koryschades, the memories are of the atrocities of war, but also of the achievements and bravery of the locals. There was a war museum here too. We had to bother the local cafe owner to open it for us, but his semi-reluctance lifted when I showed him a photo of my grandmother in uniform:
(Photo: Stambolis family archive)
It was then that I noticed that of the hundreds of photos of andartes in the museum, many featured women, some fierce looking, some looking seriously dangerous with rifles, and others were like this shot, where a woman andante was teaching men about dismantling and cleaning their weapon:
(Photo: Courtesy Rendina War Museum)
I still search for anything that might reveal news of where Olga worked, but I’m not hopeful. This was war in a country under occupation. The war was followed by a civil war that took many lives. There wasn’t much time for the keeping of lists of personnel, especially in a secretive underground movement. What I’m hoping for is anything of her. A photo like the above with Olga in the background somewhere. What a joy that would be.
24.11.17: Our Marriage in Greece
This research trip is my sixth trip to Greece. The first time was in 1988, and it was pretty frantic. We had wanted to get married, and thought it would just be a case of turning up to the church. Not to be. Just like the scene in Blues Brothers where the Mother Superior’s doors were slammed on Jake and Elwood, the priest in Santorini shut the church doors in our faces. After much translation and negotiation involving a local hotel owner, we were given a list of tasks to complete. Do these things, they said, and the priest might marry us. So we traipsed to Athens, made promises to the archbishop, posted banns in newspapers we couldn’t understand, paid monies to more people than we needed to, translated documents into English and back to Greek, and donated to churches. After seven weeks, just as our time to return to Australia loomed, we finished the to-do list and returned to Santorini. The priest took our package of evidence and didn’t even look at it. He knew what we had been through. Yes, he said, he’d marry us. Our hotel owner, Lefteris (of the Hotel Galini) agreed with tears to be our best man (it is a great honour in Greek culture), and we planned the wedding for the Wednesday, June the 8th. When the day came, the whole village of Firostefani turned out. They had been watching our fight to be married and over the weeks they had come to cheer for us. Lefteris and Lambrini lent us their home to get ready. Jac somehow came up a million dollars:
(Photo: Lambrini Roussos 1988)
Gorgos and Christina were fascinated by these aliens who took over their bedrooms. They are now two beautiful people probably with kids of their own. We seen them occasionally on Santorini. They are family you see. A best man becomes a brother, and if we had children Lefteris and Lambrini would have been their godparents. So we have a family on the other side of the world. A lovely culmination to an adventure, an adventure that continues..
23.11.17: The Koryschades Conference. So much Promise. So Much Unfulfilled.
This stop: Karpenisi. This is a central Greek town that I first heard about from my godfather Nick Manning. As a young wannabe resistance fighter in 1942-3, he walked from Athens to here to be trained. More on that in a couple of days. Karpenisi bore a lot of action in WW2. First it was controlled by the Italian invaders, then the Greek leftist ELAS group took over the town. The term ‘scorched earth’ really applies here because Karpenisi was flattened in all the fighting. The nearby village of Koryschades was saved, simply because it was surrounded by mountains and thus was inaccessible to German bombers. In 1944 Koryschades hosted a convention attended by the left and rightist resistance members and the British to try to work out a future post-war government structure (remember that before the war Greece was in a dictatorship).
This conference happened in this former schoolhouse:
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Unfortunately, the detente didn’t hold. The leftists wiped out the rightist andarte group EDES when the Nazis were driven out, infuriating the British. Images exist of British snipers on the acropolis picking out communist fighters in downtown Athens. Everywhere there were reprisal killings. Family members were against family members. Nicholas Gage’s book Eleni tells how his mother was murdered by the leftists in a small village simply because her husband and son had fled to imperialist America. There were many of these kinds of cases in 4 years of civil war that killed more Greeks than the Germans had done in their brutal occupation.
All the hopes generated in this little building in the Greek countryside came to nothing.
22.11.17: Gorgopotomos. The Resistance Strikes Back.
Pilgrimages are odd. You go to see something you have only imagined maybe for your whole life, and when you reach the destination, it is often something so different to what you expected. Smaller maybe. Less grand. Today, the Gorgopotomos bridge in central Greece was not at all like that. I had been wanting to see this valley and the huge rail viaduct since I first read about in many years ago. The viaduct spans the valley and carries the major rail line that runs from north Greece to the south. In WW2 it was more than just a rail line. The Germans relied on it to supply their troops, carrying food, fuel and ammo down to their forces in the Mediterranean, including those in North Africa. No surprise then that Churchill wanted it destroyed. He dropped a group of Special Operations soldiers into the area, headed by Brigadier Eddie Myers. Their job was to blow the bridge and cut off supplies to German soldiers. But this mission was never going to be simple. Myers had to negotiate for help from the Greek resistance, which had by this time split into the communist ELAS and the more right wing EDES. These two groups were so opposed that ELAS spent as much energy trying to wipe out EDES as it did in attacking the Nazi invaders. Somehow Myers talked them into co-operating for this job and the bridge was blown in November 1942:
Of course it’s been rebuilt, and is a majestic wonder. It took me a while to find the bridge today, but there was the glorious moment when I walked through bramble to almost stumble onto the tracks at the top. Luckily when no trains were nearby:
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
But it was from down below that the power of this bridge, and the magnitude of the sabotage work was apparent.
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Despite a bit of Greece being destroyed on that day in November 1942, the locals celebrated, and still celebrate the destruction to this day. In a local taverna there are pictures on the wall of Brigadier Myers that were taken when he revisited Greece 15 years later. I suppose any spit in a Nazi eye was worth a thousand bridges.
21.11.17: Delphi and the Nature of Truth
On this trip we are going to visit some of the places where the Greek resistance plagued the Germans during the war. They did it all over the country, even though in many cases the reprisals were terrible (see my entry for 20.11). It seems that almost every village we have passed through saw some horror at the hands of the invaders. Just today our guesthouse owner told us of a mass killing of 25 civilians by the Nazis at the nearby village of Kalami. Strangely though, the invaders did seem to have some respect for Greek antiquity. They posed on the acropolis like conquering heroes, and they visited the ancient site of Delphi, so close to the sites of their most brutal activities. Delphi has a history that goes back to the earliest days of written stories. Herodotus and Homer wrote of it hundreds of years before Christ. Herodotus in particular talked of the Kastalian Spring which is on the road near Delphi. It was a luxurious bathing house in the BC days. Now it is really a hole in the ground:
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Yes, it would have been something special when Herodotus wrote of it. Herodotus features heavily in my PhD study because, like me, he wrote history but in a non-fiction way. This fictionalising was controversial in his day. While he was known as the Father of History for his Histories, he was also dubbed The Father of Lies by Plutarch for using a flourishing style. As I write the play of my grandmother’s story, I need to tread the same path as Herodotus (hence the name of my PhD: Going the Way of the Ancients). I need to constantly question how far I should go when turning fact into fiction. Does the narrative need of a stage performance justify changing a story? If I don’t have facts, do I have the artistic licence to add in parts? For my novel Someone Else’s War (which is the primary source for the play) I took this licence, making it clear on the cover that this was a novel, not a non-fiction piece. Even so, at writer’s festivals, launches and even book club events, the first question I was asked was about which parts of the novel are absolutely true. Few people asked about my grandmother’s spying, her killing, her sabotage or her rescuing of trapped allied fighters. I suppose that’s what led to part of this PhD including a discussion of the nature of truth in art. It’s an honour to think I am a tackling the same questions that dogged Herodotus, the man who could fairly be said to have founded the recording of history.
20.11.17: The Horror of Distomo
This trip is only three days old, and we’ve found an extraordinary story of the second world war, almost by accident. It was the kind of story that makes it easy to understand why my grandmother Olga Stambolis decided to risk her life to undermine the Nazi invaders. This photo was taken at the top of a little village called Distomo which is close to Lord Byron’s favourite place, Delphi in central Greece. On the 10th of June 1944, only four months before they were expelled by the Allied forces, the Germans went through the homes of the people from Distomo and killed 218 of them. The youngest was a one year old baby. The oldest was 84 years old. This artwork at the memorial captures the anguish of the village’s women:
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
And no wonder. The memorial has a wall of the names of the 200 killed. 32 of them have the same surname. If they were from the same family (and in a small village, it’s a good chance they were) then this family lost infants aged 2, 4 and 7, as well as the family matriarch, an 80 year old woman. The Germans must’ve known the end was near, and just like their Norwegian ‘scorched earth’ retreat, this was an act of of bitterness and spite. Many of the children they killed that day were girls. (See below: 3 year old Maria and 5 year old Katina). Reports were that a baby was shot in her mother’s arms; children were bayoneted in their cots, pregnant women were stabbed. All because the SS wrongly suspected the townspeople of abetting an attack on Germans troops. This kind of loss must stay in the village DNA.
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
Postscript: I just came upon this extract from a book by Sture Linner, who in 1944 was the Head of the International Red Cross in Greece. He had been to Distomo just after the massacre and had found the desecrated bodies of many victims. He returned to Distomo some months later as the Germans were in retreat and met a remarkable man. He records:
When we reached the outskirts of the village, we were met by a committee led by the elderly priest. He was an old fashioned patriarch, with a long, wavy, white beard. Next to him the guerilla captain, fully armed. The priest spoke first and thanked us on behalf of everybody for the food supplies. Then he added: “We are all starving here, both us and the German prisoners. Now, though we are famished, we are at least in our land. The Germans have not just lost the war; they are also far from their country. Give them the food you have with you, they have a long way ahead.”
Forgiveness. With people like this Greek priest, Greece was able to find a way back.
My godfather’s father was a victim of a massacre. He was one of 200 prisoners executed on Hitler’s orders on the 1st of May 1944 in Kaisariani, Athens. It was in reprisal for the resistance killing a German general.. I doubt my godfather ever was so forgiving as this priest.
19.11.17: A scene from my Novel
(Photo: Phil Kafcaloudes 2017)
These two Athenian churches featured in my novel Someone Else’s War as the site where the resistance started building an tunnel to get supplies and people out of Athens under the noses of the German occupiers in WW2. In the novel the tunnel was sanctioned by the local priest. However, this action was a fiction. I wrote it into the novel to demonstrate the ways the Greeks were thumbing their noses at the Nazis, even when it was a great risk to do so. The clergy often secretly supported action against the occupiers. There were also collaborators who co-operated with the Germans, but there were so many who risked everything. For my grandmother Olga, she risked her life everyday as a spy for the resistance and the British, but the risk was hers only. If the local Greeks who worked with her were caught, not only they would die, but their families. The Nazis didn’t see families; they saw groups of human hostages. They didn’t see villages; but opportunities for reprisal shootings.
18.11.17: Coming to one of my homes
There’s something special that happens to me when we land in Athens. If my Greek roots go back thousands of years, then touching Athenian concrete probably has some kind of osmotic cosmic effect. After all, a lineage of 500+ forebears must leave some electricity in the ground. Three hours ago that electricity shot through me as our Airbus something-or-other banged on the tarmac. It was drizzly, the plane’s windows were foggy and it looked quite miserable outside. But it could’ve been Christmas for how I felt. Just 20 hours before that moment we were in St Kilda. Now I was in my second favourite place on earth. I’ll take the tube into Athens tomorrow morning. The last time I was in Athens the mood was as miserable as today’s weather. Let’s see. I’ll let you know this time tomorrow. Tonight it’s a taverna next to where we’re staying in Peania, just S-W of the city. There’s Retsina to be had and whatever kind of vegan they can manage. The adventure begins.
17.11.17: The start
I’m sitting in a plane waiting to take off from Melbourne. I am beginning a month-long research trip for my exegesis PhD. It’s about the production of a performance piece based on the activities of my maternal grandmother, who was a spy in Greece during world war two. She was a resistance fighter, rescuing Australian, British and New Zealand airmen caught behind enemy lines in central, western and northern Greece. While I have conducted research from Athens and London on many trips over the years, this will be the first time I’m visiting the sites of the resistance work in central and northern Greece.
This will be a driving trip, starting with Athens, and following the routes of my grandmother’s rescue routes, visiting each town where she would have worked.
This trip also involves going to the sites of the resistance fighting during WW2, and includes the sites of other resistance centres such as Rendina and Karpenisi where the resistance cells were based (even though my grandmother did not work there). I will also visit the site of a turning point for the resistance (the blowing up of the Gorgopotomos Bridge). In Greek Macedonia I will go the sites of the Jewish deportations. These will provide essential background for the thesis, especially for the factual background for the writing of the performance piece, and also for the staging of the scenes, some of which will be set in the areas to be visited.
(Photo: from To Greece by McClymont, WG, New Zealand Department of Internal Affairs, Wellington, 1959)
The drive will start to the east of Athens, move north across Thebes to Lamia (where the Gorgopotomos Bridge was blown in as British operation, then west to the resistance strongholds in the Pindhos Ranges towards Ioannina. Then north again to where the greek resistance factions (the left wing ELAS and the royalist EDES) fought for control. Then we go eastwards towards Salonika (Thessaloniki). We then move south through the Aliakmon Line, through the Pinios Gorge, following one of the routes of the April 1941 German advance.
Can’t wait. But I guess I’ll have to. This plane trip will be a long one. Not as long as my forebears who took months to get to and from Australia by boat back in the day. I suppose I can’t complain really..
6.11.17: From Teacher to Student
I returned to La Trobe Uni today for my Research Progress Panel. This is a meeting where we look at the progress of my PhD and to see if there any problems. It was odd. One of my supervisor is a former teaching comrade, Steinar Ellingsen, and the chair of the panel is my former boss, Lawrie Zion. There was a moment before we started when I felt about six years old. Would my work be good enough. Have I been too lazy? Have I been too scattered? Would I get the ruler? Nothing like that of course, but it was a great proverbial whack on the head, a reminder that the lot of a student is one of constant self-doubt, challenge and correction.
I have always loved my students, but I might come back to semester 1 next year even kinder now.
29.10.17: Teaching and PhDing
At last I have finished my marking for my students at RMIT in Melbourne. It’s one of the prestige journalism teaching institutions, and it’s got some fabulous facilities (just a few weeks ago I met Prince Andrew on the first operating day for our new TV studio).
But it’s the students that make this place special. No matter what we throw at them, they take it all (there are occasional tears, but hey, they’re 19 years old!) and produce some great stuff. I haven’t had the chance to work with them from first year, leading them through TV and radio, but they picked up so much in this semester. So to Lou, Josh, Meg, Elena, Hayley, Thea, Eliza and all the rest of my new friends, it’s been great being with you for this part of your journey. You’re going to be so fine.
Now that the teaching and the marking is over, I can focus on the PhD. For a little while at least.
24.10.17: Planning the big PhD trip
Next month we are off to central and northern Greece to see the places where the Greek andartes (resistance fighters) operated in the second world war.
Yes, the Greek mountains in winter. Madness. But being an academic doesn’t give you much room. The June break is too short, and I really need to do this trip for my PhD which I hope to have finished by next June anyway.
My godfather Nick Manning (originally Maniarizis) was one of the resistance fighters, and he wrote about walking from Athens to the training centre in Rendina. When he got there, the trainers had moved on to Karpenisi to the south. So he walked there too. No chance of a cab, not that he could afford it anyway in those days of Nazi-imposed austerity.
At the same time my maternal grandmother was spying under the British Special Ops (the SOE), possibly in the same area. They met, but nit until both were safely in Australia many years after the war.
Nick Manning died a few months ago. He was a lovely gentle man. I hope he’ll be with us as we explore his roads and his villages. With minus degree temps and possible snow, we’ll need every angel looking over us.
18.10.17: It’s not about royalties
I was contacted on LinkedIn by a most amazing woman the other day. Maribel Steel’s eyesight has been getting worse since she was 15. She now, 40-odd years later, has very little sight left, but she still works, publishing books, giving inspirational talks, and generally helping others who have far less to complain about than her.
Maribel has suggested that the book be made into a audiobook for the vision-impaired, which would give it a whole new audience, an audience that I would love to have read it. It’s not about royalties. I really couldn’t care whether 100 people read the book because they bought it full price from a book store, or whether they borrowed it from a library. I am lucky enough to have a full-time job which allows us to feed the dog, eat out every so often, and download the latest Rolling Stones record.
I know there are plenty of authors who rely on their royalties, but I am sure all of them would rather the library readers have their book than none at all. We write because we want to share our art. If we can make a living out of it like Tim Winton or Peter Carey, then wonderful. But for me, to have one Maribel say they were touched by the story would mean far more than the two dollars in royalties for that sale
Thanks Maribel. I hope you’ll be able to hear the book soon.
12.9.17: Anthony. And good old Kevin
The novel has done it again. I have written earlier in this blog about how the book has brought me back in contact with family members I had not seen in many years. Well in the past 12 months I have had two people contact me.
One is my cousin Anthony, grandson of my Auntie Freda. Anthony and I had probably never spoken. We were a generation an half a country apart. But Anthony has found a cache of photos and documents that belonged to Freda, and the joyful lad has been sending them to me. In them is plenty of information which shines even more of a light on Freda and her father (my grandfather Michael). When you’ve been writing a story like mine, you start to see your characters in your sleep. Anthony’s information and photos has given me a new perspective.
Also contacting me has been Kevin Plumb, a lad I had almost forgotten about from my teen years. In 1976 Kevin and I were in a student acting group that toured to the Adelaide Festival. We became good friends, and indeed I became more than good friends with a girlfriend of his. Kevin and I lost touch, as you do when school and geography intervenes. Recently Kevin got in contact through Facebook, thirty-something years on. I am just mailing hi ma copy of the novel.
I’m sure that back in those amateur acting days in 1976 I never would’ve dreamt that he would be reading a novel of mine. Life really has twists, and some of them are magical.
21.5.17: Surrounded by Greek Women
This novel is about women. My grandmother Olga, the war hero spy Nikotsara, my step-grandmother Jean, my mum Nellie and aunties Tina and Freda.
I could never have known that this book would lead me into a web of Greek women. In the past few months women have been the ones who have pushed me along on my journey. Greek societies in Sydney and Melbourne have organised launches for the Greek version of the book. A fabulous Greek bookshop in Sydney (The Greek Bilingual Bookshop) has hosted two events for me. It is a shop run at a bare profit by two wonderful women, Eleni and Christina. They are examples of people who do what they do because it will make the community stronger. There can be no greater motivation. While so many of us count our pennies, they are counting the number of books they can offer to the people. Their shop is in fact more of a library. This is a coffee shop where customers can flock through the books for sale.
When I was a kid I was surrounded by women, my aunts, my mum and Jean. It is now so many years later, and I again am surrounded by Greek women. It’s just wonderful.
Here’s a lovely photo of Eleni and Christina and I after the launch. Our faces say it all.
21.2.17: The Joy of being Greek
Every Friday I receive a slab of tweets on my twitter account @philkafcaloudes from a bunch of people in the USA. I have never met these people, and have only every personally communicated with one of them, Maria Karamitsos, who is a journalist with a huge love of books and authors. She reviewed Someone Else’s War some time ago.
By meeting Maria I was drawn into a wonderful web of Greek people who don’t expect anything from you. They are want to support you and to be a friend. Every Friday, their greetings and wishes for a good weekend are a lovely part of my end-of-week routine now. I don’t always get the time to reciprocate, but I think they probably know.
Thank you my friends.
21.12.12: The Book is now in Greek!
Some time ago I went to Athens to sign a contract for Someone Else’s War to be translated into Greek for the european market. At first they said the book would be coming out in April 2013, but then I got an email from the publishers (Psichogios Publications) telling me that the date had changed. I expected this bit of news. After all, Greece was in a time of terrible financial turmoil. In the back of my mind there was an expectation that the book would be out off until next August, then the following year, then infinity.
But no. They told me that the publication date was being brought forward to December 2012! In the world of publishing, this is a fast turnaround. It meant only 5 months from contract signing to publication. Granted, the book was already written, but they had to translate it, give it a new cover that would appeal to the Greek market, and go through the manuscript and check any slight factual errors that wold be picked up by Athenian residents (and yes, there were a couple).
So yes, the book is now available in Olga’s homeland, and across the world as an ebook on iTunes. The good people at Psichogios publications have changed the name of their Greek version to “Olga’s War” (it translates much more smoothly in Greek than “Someone Else’s War“). I love the cover too. It is a different species of artwork to Julie Ramsden’s original concept, but they are both terrific. I hope you like it.
10.9.12: To my Uncle Johnny
About a year ago I blogged about my Uncle Johnny. I wrote about how he waited in the queue to get his copy of Someone Else’s War signed.
I wrote about how I felt an odd wrongness at seeing him standing there, slightly hunched, with the book under his arm.
I wrote how I felt I should be the one waiting in a queue for him, since he was the last son of my grandfather Michael. He lived as part of the family of the book.
This morning I found out that Johnny died today.
So many things go through your mind when something like this happens. You think you should’ve spent more time with him, you think you should’ve talked to him more. You realise that there is not one person left in the family of that generation. That the genes of your grandfather exist now only in the diluted form of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Johnny and his brother Jimmy, who died some years ago, were born of my grandfather and his second wife, Jean. Michael had married Jean during the war, when he and Australian officials believed Olga had been killed in Greece. As we know, Olga was still alive, working with the resistance, and this marriage to Jean was, I suppose you could say, a polygamy. But it was an accident of the times, and a victim of the fact that the British were unable to pass the news of Olga’s survival to Australian authorities because she was working too deeply in the resistance, and it would have been a risk to her safety to pass on this information.
The beauty of this confusion was the marriage to Jean, which was a marriage of love and devotion, and the births of my half-uncles Jimmy and Johnny.
Johnny was a beautiful man, probably the only true Greek-looking man in our family. Think of an even more perfectly chiselled version of Victor Mature, but with more animation, a passion for life, quick to hug, easy to indulge, always wanting to play. I remember the family days at Bondi Beach when Johnny would creep up behind me and toss me into the surf. I think I once got angry about it, but a look at Johnny’s playful face, and the anger was replaced by a need for him to do it again.
I hadn’t seen Johnny for about fifteen years until the book launch last year, and then I saw him again at my mother’s funeral only two months later, when he posed with the rest of the family for photos. Typical of Johnny, he was at the front, sitting on a chair, making himself the centre of attention.
He was a man who loved the good times, who loved his family, and always kept some of the child with him.
He lives on through his beautiful children, John, Anthony and Michelle.
I will miss him.
30.8.12: Thank goodness for good friends
Being an author is an up and down thing.
There are the journalists you never hear from, not even acknowledging that book you sent them.
There are the book awards you enter, always hoping for a little candle of approbation, one that rarely comes.
There are the dark nights of the soul when you worry that no-one likes your book.
This might be enough for any observer to wonder why we do it.
The answer I might’ve given you two years ago is that we do it because writing is worth every doubt, every dark night, every rejection from every publisher, award panel, or forgetful reporter. In writing this novel I have come to the belief that writing, or any act of art is probably the closest we come to God, whatever your God is. Writing is a spiritual soaring.
Now, after a year of publication, a reprint, a translation, and two Writers Festivals, I have to add that there’s something else that makes it worthwhile/ I’m talking about the people who travel the publishing journey with you.
I came to realise this when I was doing some homework for a Reiki Master level course I was doing some months back. One assignment involved me choosing something important to my life, and then listing all the people who have been supporting me. I chose to be thankful for the people who gave support to me and my book. The exercise was supposed to take ten minutes. My list took me forty minutes. Friends, family, publishers who believed in my writing, the agent who stayed with me for most of the journey, the prominent people who launched it, the people who came to the launches, the people who bought it, the people who sought me out to tell me they loved it, the book clubs, the radio people who interviewed me, the Greek community who took ownership of the book. So many people. So much love.
Thank you all, and thank you to my story for bringing these people into my life.
1.6.12: I met the loveliest of men the other day
He is the founder of a Greek publishing house, who offered to translate the book into Greek for the European market. He also happens to be the publisher for the Greek versions of the Harry Potter books, Graham Greene and Salman Rushdie.
As I walked through the foyer of his office in northern Athens, the books of these great writers lined the walls. Clearly this is a publishing house proud of its authors, in love with its authors.
As I went upstairs and met Mr Psichogios, I was struck at how this man, at the forefront of the Greek book trade for thirty years could be so much like everyman’s Uncle Leo, a gentle and warm man who seemed as thrilled to be in my company as I was to be in his.
The Greek financial woes are pretty bad. Greece is currently got a yearly debt that is 130% times its yearly national production. In other words it will never be able to pay its current debt.
It’s people like Mr Psichogios who may be affected by all this. As things get more difficult, people will cut luxuries, and sadly when it is a choice between petroleum and books, books are the luxury.
I thought of this as I sat there in that office, signing the book contract, my name adjacent to that of Mr Psichogios, the man who refuses to let years of Greek government ineptitude close him down and stop him wanting to get Greek stories out to the world.
I now understand the artists who dedicate their work to their producer, director or editor. There is something in realising that there is someone in this with you, someone who has said they want to be with you for the journey.
My regret, my only regret, was that I forgot to get a photo of me with Mr Psichogios as we signed our names together.
Still, it wasn’t a day for regrets. It was a day of sunshine in Athens that afternoon when I was back on the footpath.
A good, sunny day.
16.4.12: My Auntie Freda died today
If you have read the novel, you would know Freda as my mum’s very lively and passionate sister, the one to whom attention needed to be paid; the tough-minded and acerbic one; the one who was quick to anger and quick to cry.
Freda played a big part in my childhood. My mum worked for Freda and her husband Leo Bayss in the Bayss’ restaurant in Chalmers Street near Sydney’s Central Station. Mum would take me, the too-curious three-year old to the shop with her. This was in the days when to take a toddler to work with you wasn’t a workplace faux pas. Freda and Leo loved having me there. Uncle Leo would make me a little hamburger for lunch, and Freda would then take me up to her bedroom so we could have an afternoon nap together.
It was a time of kisses and hugs, passionate squeezes. Freda was always so much more public than mum. Her pace was fast, her annoyances more obvious, her jokes and laugh so much louder.
I drew a lot on these memories for the Freda in Someone Else’s War, because I believe a character is a character. We may pull our head in a little as we learn the lessons of life, but we are who we are.
It was actually pretty easy to take the character of Freda back into childhood; she had so many of the traits of an unaffected child. If you stripped away a few years, and some of the disappointments that life must have brought, it was easy to see the young Freda in this woman and mother of my young life. After Olga, Feda was the most interesting character to draw.
Freda had not been herself for some years. A stroke took that away. Over the last five years, Freda moved between remembering our times together, and not knowing me at all. Such are the ways of age.
But Freda was a big part of my life, a character that was large in our family of large characters.
You will be missed and always remembered Freda.
4.4.12: The Ups and Downs of the Book Festival Circuit
It is mostly ups.
Getting to meet people who love books, and who want to grill you about your work. The questions are endless and intuitive. It takes you out of the mechanics and grind of the book-selling business. You are elevated to the spiritual level, the kind that you experienced when you were writing in the first place. The story is the thing, the inspiration, the character motivations.
And the what-ifs. What-if the character made a different decision; what-if an antagonist was slightly different. The audiences want to know what would have happened to the central character, Olga. What-if.
As the author who has completed the book, a what-if might seem irrelevant, but it surely is relevant. These sorts of questions prove that the reader has become subsumed; their mind has wondered. There is nothing more that you can hope for in an author-reader exchange.
Yes, I love writers festivals.
But it can be a roller coaster. Last week I received a note from the Ubud Writers festival in Bali, letting me know that they think my book is brilliant (which is a lovely thing to say), but that it would not be invited to be on the program this year.
I admit I felt slightly downcast. Call me spoiled. I probably am. I felt guilty at feeling I had a right to be invited to a writers’ festival.
Then, on the same day, came the invitation to appear at the Brisbane Writers Festival.
As Ian Gillan of Deep Purple once wrote in one of his lyrics, “Heaven wouldn’t be so high I know, if the times gone by hadn’t been so low.”
He’s right. The Ubud email made the Brisbane invitation all the sweeter. My publisher was thrilled. Certainly the prospect of book sales is greater in Brisbane, and the likelihood that the attendees will have read my book will be higher, and so the discussions are bound to be fabulous.
And as I said at the beginning, I just love that.
23.1.12: Going into Reprint!
Yes, after only five months on the shelves, my publisher tells me that we have sold out our first run of Someone Else’s War.
When this happens, you need to get more printed. It is not just a case of getting a few more run off. In the publishing industry, when the first run is sold out, you reprint.
This means you have chance to correct any factual errors (and there was one in the first edition: somehow the great Greek Gorgopotomos bridge went to print as the Gotopotomos bridge. Obviously that clanger had to be corrected (if you are looking for a first edition, that is a giveaway clue). There were also a few typographical errors that were found.
The result is that I have been working over the past week or so to get these corrections to the printer in time for the reprint to be set.
I also was unhappy with a couple of details on the cover. Only small things, like the comment from the Booker Prize winning author Tom Keneally (who won the prize for his masterpiece Schindler’s List). His comment was a lovely endorsement, but in the first printing, it could barely be read. It was dark and faded into the background. If you’re going to have a Booker Prize winner cheer on your work, you want people to be able to read it. We fixed that, and a few other small things you’d need a microscope to see.
The printer, as he sat with me at the proofing table, casually said that it was unusual for a novel outside of a New York Times selection, to need a reprint so soon.
As I wrote in an earlier blog, writing a novel can be full of surprises. Here was another one.
12.1.12: The Surprise of Dreams Unanticipated
When you write a novel, your head can’t help but be full of dreams.
You dream that people will buy it, that they will like it, that they will tell their friends.
You dream that the media will bother to read it, that they too will like it, and that they will tell their readers or listeners what a great read it is.
You might also dream that people involved in motion pictures will read some of these reviews and clamour to get you book’s rights for a film.
I must admit that some of these standards dreams popped into my head too, just as thy took the mind of generations of writers before me.
But the cliche ‘truth is stranger than fiction’ became true for me; with a slight amendment. It should have read ‘ truth is more wonderful than fiction, because what has happened to me is the following, all things I didn’t anticipate:
People have cried at my writing
Novelists I love have told me they love my writing.
A man who was in Greece in the war told me I got the times and feeling of the place perfect.
I have had my relatives, some of whom I hadn’t seen for nearly two decades, come to support me for the launches of the book.
I had a cousin cry because she recognised a family characteristic revealed in the book, and came to believe, after 60-odd years, that she really did share a commonality with the rest of us.
My mother, who no longer was capable of understanding photos, reacted to the book’s cover with a lucidity and recognition. This happened the last time I saw her conscious, just weeks before she died.
All these things were all surprises. They were undreamt-for. They just happened.
For these alone, the hours, days, weeks, and years of writing were worth it.
8.12.11: The Death of a Gentle woman
My mum died today.
If you have read the novel you would’ve picked up that Nellie was, like her mother, a pretty powerful woman. She almost single-handedly brought up her family, kept them together, and somehow stopped them from turning into police-botherers.
But there was another side to Nellie Stambolis-Kafcaloudes. She could also be a nervous woman, forever wringing her hands at family get-togethers, worried that everything was going to fall in a heap. She was a mother who, when you told her you were going on holidays, would immediately fret that you would be fired while you were away.
This kind of thinking obviously goes back in part to her own mother Olga, who disappeared one night from the little family shop in Ultimo in 1936. We know now that Olga was working as a spy in Greece and was doing good work for the Allies against the Nazis, but can you imagine what must have gone through the mind of the 13 year old Nellie? Basic psychology tells us that the fears of an adult are often built on the terrors of the child. The young Nellie could possibly have believed her mother dead or abducted. Just as any parent of a disappeared child will say it is the not-knowing that is the hardest part for them, the same thing must apply for the child who has lost a parent. Or worse, for children have the power of imagining things without the limits of reason that adults learn.
If there is anything good to be said about dementia, it is that with Nellie in her last years her dementia removed all these fears from her mind. She was incapacitated to a degree, but the brain damage did not affect her capacity to love. We have just spent a day farewelling the nursing home staff, who had been coming to us one by one, telling us how Nellie would raise her arms to them for a cuddle, and kiss them repeatedly on the sides of their faces. As a very aged woman, she had again become a child.
I feel honoured that I had the chance to see that part of mum before her journey on this planet was over. My brothers Terry and Michael, and sister Sylvia have all said the same thing.
You were gorgeous mum. Just gorgeous.
3.12.11: Tom Keneally and the Art of Surprises
Booker prize winner Tom Keneally played an important role in this book. He was an early supporter and encourager of me and my story, because years ago he told me to keep up with it, and not to get discouraged by the vagaries of the book trade. Art isn’t easy, he told me in on not so many words, even going as far as to say that if he had begun writing today, he would not have been published, such is the state of the publishing industry today.
These were words that helped me in the darker hours of the publishing process. So now, let’s go forward to this year. I dared to send a message to Tom to ask him if he’d be kind enough to read some of the novel and perhaps give me a quote that I could use on the cover. He fired back an email saying he would be honoured to write something for me. I remember the moment well. Jackie and I were sitting at Manira’s lovely veggie cafe in Prahran market in Melbourne, having just done a pilates session. The email from Tom came through, and I wept at the kindness of it, that this man who must have so many demands on his life, took the time to send such good thoughts across the ether, and to also promise to spend more time reading a work of a first time novelist. It was a moment in life was is glorious. I still remember the feeling. I doubt I ever felt such a humility before. Thanks to Tom I am one of those who can add it to my packet of emotional memories.
Tom was as good as his promise. It didn’t take him long to reply with a quote that sits proudly on the front of the book.
This week I spoke again with Tom, about his latest work, a non-fiction examination of the history of the Australian peoples from the Eureka Stockade to the end of the first world war.
As I greeted him outside the studio, Tom’s first words to me were, believe it or not, an apology. He said he was sorry that he had not written more for me, or done more to help me.
Just when I thought there was no more a human could do for another, Tom surprised me by doing even more. A lovely human being.
28.11.11: The Joy of Book Clubs
Book clubs are always an interesting experience for an author. The other night I gave a talk to a club run by a great friend of mine, Margie Gillett. She is the young-un in her book club, she’s only been with it for a few years. Some of them have been talking books together for decades, so it was surprising to learn that I was their first author, the first to appear in their book club. I turned up on time to find half a dozen women in a circle in Margie’s lounge-room, all with copies of my novel, leaning over canapes and wine, ready to fire questions that had undoubtedly been brewing for the last month.
The questions were very broad, from my Greekness and the impact of researching Olga on my attitude towards my heritage, to the difficulty in researching such a story. I have written elsewhere here about how hard it was to find details about Olga, given that she was fighting in an occupied country, one of many many people in a strung out and semi-autonomous resistance.
What surprised me, and probably should not have, was how one person in particular kept bringing up detail in the books, the things that Olga did and had happen to her, and wanting to know if that bit was true. At first I answered whether it was true or not, but after a while it was, I fear, getting into dangerous territory. After all, this is a novel. It is based on Olga’s story, and every true fact about Olga is in the book. If I ever had a choice between writing a truth or a slightly more exciting fiction, I stuck with the truth. But clearly it is set in fictional settings. At functions I say to my readers that I really don’t know what Olga was doing on September the 18th 1942. I had an idea of what she was doing around that time, but if I couldn’t be time specific and exact in her deeds, then I was never going to claim that everything in the book was absolutely true. Hence the sub-title “A Novel” on the cover.
To that night though. In the end, when yet another truth or fiction was asked by the woman with the dog-erared copy of my book, I had to laugh out loud and say: “It’s a novel! Let’s not destroy the mystique. Enjoy the ride.” And she was quick to say that she really did enjoy the ride, it as just that her curiosity was diving her mad.
I’m sure Tom Keneally got the same treatment about Schindler’s Ark, which told of Oskar Schindler in a novel form. Fictionalising is probably the most rewarding way for an author to tell a story. It brings the reader into the mind of the characters. I just read Frank Moorhouse’s fabulous new concluding novel in his Edith trilogy. In it he tells of 1950s Australia, the communist witch-hunts and the struggle of Australian women for recognition. His Edith is fake, a concocted character, but Moorhouse has done his work and the book oozes authenticity. Through it we learn a little of the society that preceded, and informed, ours. Like any good novel, it taught me something about where I am and perhaps a little about why I think the way I do.
That’s a pretty neat accomplishment. I love being a novelist.
15.11.11: The Surprising Listener
Sydney has been so very welcoming to me and the novel. There have been invitations to cocktail parties, requests to speak to book clubs, offered opportunities for signings.
One of the more memorable nights was at the War Memorial in Hyde Park. I had been asked to give a keynote speech to mark the eve of Oxi Day. The word ‘Oxi’ is an English approximation of the Greek word for ‘no’. It was on the 28th of October 1940 that the Greek dictator and strongman John Metaxas was given an ultimatum by the Italian ambassador Grazzi. The ultimatum demanded that Greece allow Italian forces occupy whatever parts of Greece they wanted. Metaxas took little time to say ‘no’, and thus put his country at war with its much more militant and military-capable neighbour.
Because all this happened when my grandmother was in Greece, I tell this story in the novel, central as it is to the demise of Greece in those years. Except this was no demise. The Italians did invade only hours after Metaxas’ famous ‘no’, and the Greeks fought them with a fire the Italians could not have expected. So powerful were the Greeks with their farm tools as weapons, that they pushed the Italians out of Greece and way back into Albania where they had come from.
At War Memorial on this night I told this story, which the audience must have already known and heard every Oxi Day since they were children, but they listened, intent.
There was one man though who listened more closely than most. He was a stooped man who once had been very handsome and still was to an extent, but even now in his eighties he had those Greek shining eyes that seemed both intent and far away. He clapped loudly at the end of my speech, and afterwards waited patiently as others came to speak to me of their own mothers, fathers and grandparents. When he did eventually get to me, he shook my hand and congratulated me.
I have blogged elsewhere that I often feel a little undeserving of congratulation. I simply tell stories. The reward is in the writing and telling, and I am rewarded well by this.
I thanked him for his good wishes and said I talk for a living, so this is not so hard.
No, he said. Congratulations on getting the book right.
You see, he was a child in Athens during the time of the invasion. He walked the streets during the famine. Every day he saw the Nazis and the Italians. He may well have been present at the executions.
I thanked him again and said that I try to get the facts as right.
No, he said again. Not just the facts. More important. You got the feeling right. You painted Greece as it felt back in those days. You took me back to my youth.
I was very touched, I cried a little, and maybe so did he.
It was a lovely gift, him telling me this, and I realised that those shiny eyes of his as I told the story that night were indeed faraway eyes. He was remembering a life long past, and who knows what things were back in his eye.
Sometimes being a writer is just glorious.
25.9.11: The First Time
A couple of minutes ago I went into a bookstore and for the first time I saw Someone Else’s War on a bookshelf. Now I have been published twice before, and I have had countless articles of mine, or about me, appear in magazines and newspapers, but that moment of seeing your work out there on the market is really something.
My God, I almost became a teenager again. It felt like I had seen a girl I had a crush on walking towards me alone on a street. It felt like Christmas, and it was also strangely frightening. Back then I didn’t know what to do: to speak or not to speak, to pour out my feelings or stay cool.
So many years on, in that bookstore just now, I had that same feeling. Would I look a fool if I told the shop assistant that this book was mine? Should I take a photo of the book on the shelf and risk looking a dork, or at worst a piracy operative?
In the end a moment of inspiration came. I would go to the shop assistant and tell them I was the author, and ask them whether they would they like me to sign the copies.
They weren’t aghast. Or suspicious. Yes, please, they answered. They’d put a little ‘signed by the author’ sticker on them. In fact they went out the back to find their entire stock for me to sign.
So if you’re passing by the Constant Reader bookshop in Crows Nest in Sydney, who knows, you might be able to pick up a little bit of that gem of a moment.
18.9.11: Of Premiers and Greeks
I’ve just come across the blog that former NSW premier Bob Carr wrote about the book. He launched it at Dymocks in Sydney a few weeks ago and, as I’ve written in an earlier entry, he was gracious and caring.
His blog shows just the same type of humanity. I might have already written that my brother and sister, who have never been known as Labor supporters, came away from the launch Carr fans.
Bob spoke of the terrible war in Greece, and of how so many Australians started life in that war before migrating to Australia. My own neighbours in Melbourne, Peter and Arreghti, lived through that war, as did the lady down the street. They came to this country, somehow managing to live with the nightmares of those times, building new families, helping build a new Australia, and showing a generosity of spirit that must’ve infected St Kilda East. For like so many areas where immigrants have settled, there is a feeling of hope in our town; the sort of feeling that can come from people who have seen the worst of life, and know that the petty woes of our times are often overblown. Compared to Greece in 1941 they certainly must seem so.
For Bob to pay tribute to Arreghti’s generation, the forgotten generation from a forgotten war, was just so right. He expands on this in his blog.
Bob’s blog is at: http://bit.ly/pXxi69
Check out the photo. The reason Bob is beaming is because I had just given a special thank you present: A signed copy of a book written by Senator Joe McCarthy (yes, the anti-communist guy). Bob was thrilled, but no more than me after his gracious speech.
15.9.11: Old Home Week
I’m in beautiful Byron Bay, trying to make a publicity tour into some kind of holiday. I’ve succeeded, to a degree.
Mornings I take Bella (our kelpie cross) for a long walk into town for a Chai then to the most fabulous doggie beach I have ever seen. It goes for miles with nothing but dunes to one side and the ocean to the other. This is the eastern-most point of Australia, so all we have to the north, south and east is ocean. It’s clean, remarkably cool and fresh early in the day. The only noise is the ocean, except when my publicist, Alan Davidson, sends me an SMS to say there’s another interview scheduled, so can I send the program/newspaper a high resolution photo of Olga as soon as possible.
Holiday evaporates with the ocean spray.
Yesterday I had a bunch of interviews in Brisbane. The first was what we in the business call a ‘tardis’. This is when we go into a studio in the station so we can speak, studio quality, with a radio show in another state. The studios are called ‘tardis’ because, like Dr Who’s police box, they appear small to anyone outside, but they are deceptively big inside, and can, at a pinch, accommodate whole bands of musicians. Just.
Yesterday my tardis interview was with The Guestroom, an hour-long program that comes out of radio 105.7 in Darwin. Yes, an hour. What a joy it was to be able to speak about Olga and my mum for all this time. The host, Kate O’Toole, was terrific. Unlike most interviewers, she had read most of the book, so she had plenty to ask. Since my dad’s side of the family started in Darwin, and my mum met dad in the town, there was an extra dimension to the talk.
The Brisbane visit also gave me a chance to catch-up with old comrades from ABC NewsRadio. When I worked at NewsRadio, it was a truly nationally-produced station. I was the Melbourne bureau; Sydney produced the mornings and afternoons, and the evenings came from Brisbane. Staff were encouraged to do their segments when interstate, so on one morning we had sport from Perth, international news from Adelaide, me in Melbourne, and the anchor in Sydney.
It’s not so national anymore, but it was great to speak again, after all these years to Terri Begley, and my old weekend co-host Graham Cairns. Love those guys.
Again a case of the book giving me a chance to break out of the rapid-fire life. That’s got to be a good thing.
2.9.11: Mixing it with the Best
Today I was on a panel at the Melbourne Writers Festival.
The other guest writer on the panel was Stephen Daisley, who wrote the highly acclaimed first novel, Traitor. It’s the fictional story of a kiwi soldier in World War One who forms a friendship with a Turkish prisoner, and eventually helps that prisoner to escape. It is a story of great heart that takes you into the mind of the young New Zealander.
The session we shared was called Handling the Truth, and we were put together because in our own way, we were covering some similar themes: love and loss; the need for friendship in war; the ease with which people turn good and bad; the regrets.
Stephen is just like his novel. Sensitive, quiet, measured, benign. In the first moment of meeting, I told him how much I loved his novel, and that it made me cry. Like the self-effacing man I expected he would be, he rushed in to tell me he loved MY novel.
Later, as we started our session, he told me he was anxious about doing these kinds of events. You wouldn’t think it to watch his performance before the crowd. He spoke eloquently about the way people think in wartime. He showed a deep understanding of people, probably a deeper understanding than most of the psychologists I have known.
The chair for the session, Rebecca Starford from Affirm Press was the perfect host. She had not only read both our books, but drawn the parallels between them. She was also an incisive questioner. If she ever wants a gig in radio, she’d be great.
The audience was lovely too. Every time I spoke I saw faces eager and smiling. Book lovers are people who don’t just want a diversion; they want to understand a little more about life. They come to these events to to find out more of what was going on in our heads as we wrote, to understand us and our works a little better.
It was a good day, a day when I too learned just a little bit more.
29.8.11: Friends to the Rescue
The value of friends is priceless.
At the Melbourne launch of the novel, my friend Jon Faine, who also happens to host the sometimes top-rating morning talk show in Melbourne, was due to do me the honour of being the master of ceremonies.
The best laid plans of rodents and humans do come unstuck, and so it was with Mr Faine. Early on the day of the launch we spoke, and he said that because of a family problem he might not be able to do the gig after all. Being a man of honour he said he would do his best to be there, but he wanted to warn me that he might be needed elsewhere. And of course, ten minutes before the doors opened for the perfectly-planned launch, I got the phone call from him to say that he couldn’t get there.
I needn’t have worried, because I have found that during this whole publishing process, friends come from everywhere to help. My mate Bob Sessions, the former head of Penguin books, was to be seen walking up the aisle of Readings bookstore towards us, expecting to have a drink and snack and give polite applause in exchange.
My wife Jackie, who has never been one to let a chance go by, grabbed him and asked if he would be willing to help out with the speechly duties.
He hesitated not a moment. Of course, he said. He has seen hundreds of authors launch novels, but he was enthusiastic, and bear in mind that I was not from his own stable of writers.
On stage, Bob was terrific, and as I looked over the faces gathered for the launch, faces from the writing world, from the ABC, from our circle of friends and professional associates, I saw nothing but love and encouragement. My producers Babs, Sabrina and Artan, my music programmer Kim, Julie who designer most of the cover, Dan who gave us the layout, Margie who has been pushing me to give book club talks, my publicist Alan Davidson taking photos, Jill Morgan and Claudia Escobar of Multicultural Arts Victoria, who were there just to support me, our closest friends Gary Young, John O’May, Robyn Arthur and many many more.
Yes there was love in that room, so much love that they queued for the best part of an hour as I signed their books. On a Friday night when bistros and bars awaited.
And of course Uncle Bob Sessions was standing by me, with the kind of support and mateship that will keep the book publishing industry alive.
Thank you all, and thank you Bob.
28.8.11: Mixed Emotions
It was Uncle John’s day, yet there was a sorrow.
As the writing of this novel got underway, it morphed from something that was a ripping yarn about my grandmother into something far bigger. It became a story about humanity, good, bad, spiritual, indecent, loving, hating, caring and indifferent. You see these contrasts every day on the train or bus, but they are never so obvious as in war time. In Greece in WW2, family members were at war with each other, often because of political differences, but tragically, it also happened because of ridiculous petty jealousies.
My grandmother knew of these things; she may have been a victim of it. But in that terrible war, for every bad deed done, the good ones were many and more powerful. Olga and her underground comrades knew how to love. They staked their lives on that love. Every time they went on a mission, up to a dozen people risked death to save one trapped and frightened airman caught in a barn somewhere. Day after day these rescuers took the same risks. It had to be for love tinged perhaps, as my grandmother says in the novel, with the opportunity to spit in the eye of the German invaders.
Yesterday the book was officially launched in Sydney by the former NSW premier Bob Carr. Seated in front of us were family members I hadn’t seen for up to two decades, all there with a shared love of our grandmother, but also they were there for me. My cousins Jodie, Jenny, Michelle and Tennielle, as well as my brother and sister and nephews and nieces. Uncle Johnny was there too. He doesn’t get out much these days, but he came to this launch.
Bob Carr strode to the rostrum in that confident manner that he showed when he was NSW premier and when I was a humble member of the media gallery, working for ABC TV news. What he said yesterday was wonderful. He spoke with warmth of the Greek diaspora, and of the Greeks in his former electorate. He read excerpts from the novel in a way that could not but bring tears to the eyes of the audience. And to me.
Later, as I spoke from the rostrum of the grandmother I never knew, I saw those tears were still there. This is what this novel is about, the humanity, the story of life that is being played out today in so many countries around the world. Today in Libya as the rebels are poised to evict a tyrant; in Syria where thousands continue to defy another, facing down their own mortal peril. These are stories of people, not numbers and death tolls.
The tears that I couldn’t break away from as I spoke were those of my Uncle Johnny. I was telling the story of his mother and father, his brothers and sisters. And later when he stood in the queue waiting with everyone else for me to sign his copy, I felt a strange shame.
No, Uncle Johnny should not have been standing in a queue for me. This was his story. This was his moment as the last of the generation. He should not have been standing in any queue.
Maybe this explains why the sorrow I felt at that moment. I really don’t know. That sorrow is with me today. Like I said at the beginning, the writing process didn’t start this way. I suppose these things just take on their own spirit, and you just have to live with it.
Thank you Uncle Johnny.
19.8.11: The Lovely Circus Begins
I have my first two interviews for the book tomorrow. One is for the Greek newspaper Neos Kosmos, and the other for my colleague Geraldine Coutts at Radio Australia. It’ll be funny being on the other side of the microphone. I am interviewed as a guest on ABC News Breakfast TV regularly, doing their newspaper wrap, so I suppose that qualifies as being interviewed. But tomorrow will be different. I will be asked about my family, my grandmother, my feelings, my writing. And despite what every journalist tells you, there is a little bit of acting involved in being a presenter. You keep your emotions to yourself, especially on a public broadcaster like the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. You are always secondary to the story. This makes it easier when a guest attacks you, because you haven’t laid your personal self open to attack.
Being an author lays you open. You are susceptible to criticism, to the enquiring mind, and to that ballistic missile that finds the flaw in your reasoning.
I was interviewed for my last book, which was a collection of short stories. The book, The Chequered Lady (Federation Press), was a bit of fun, and was never going to be in line for the Booker Prize, but the questions were penetrating still.
I wonder what’s in store for me tomorrow. Be kind, comrades.
12.8.11: In My Hands
Last night when I got home there were some boxes on the front verandah. The books. Just days out from the Sydney and Melbourne launches, the books were printed and elsewhere across the country, other copies of Someone Else’s War were on their way to the bookstores. Was this how the book industry usually worked, I asked the ever-helpful Christine Gordon from Readings in Carlton (which is hosting the August 26 Melbourne launch). Yes, she said. Razor’s edge, she said. Closer than any other business deal you could image, she said. Books often arrive the day before a launch. Palpitations are apparently a normal and expected part of the book game. I don’t like palpitations. I host an international radio program on Radio Australia every week day. I often go to air still with our major interview yet confirmed. They almost always come through (I have some very good producers), but I never get palpitations in the radio biz. To get such heart murmurs over the publication of a book, which has so much longer a lead-in time, just doesn’t make sense. In radio we have two hours planning time every morning for our major interview (which is based on the news of the day). So it’s a case of two hours in radio versus six months for a book.
But the books are here. They will be at the bookstores for the launches, and my faithful publicist, Alan Davidson, and distributor Dennis Jones are ensuring that there will be plenty in stores as I tour Australia next month to do interviews.
First stop though are the launches. If you are around, feel free to drop in and say hello. The first is at Dymocks in George St in Sydney on Tuesday August 23 at 10am. Former NSW premier Bob Carr will be hosting. Three days later comes the Melbourne launch: Friday August 26 at 6pm at Readings bookstore in Lygon St, Carlton.
It’s been a long journey folks, for Olga, for me, and for my family. The launches will be more than a chance to tell the story of Olga. They will be celebrations.
26.7.11: Bringing Us Together
One of the joys of a project like this how it brings people together. Over the last few weeks I have been emailing with long-lost cousins. Actually they were never ‘lost’. Rather, we just fell out of contact. It happens with big families. As kids, I used to spend every Christmas, Boxing Day, Easter and New Year with the families of my aunties and uncle. Back then there were the usual jealousies and trouble-making (or as much trouble as seven-year olds can make). While our mothers sat around a table watching, talking and scolding, we would explore the yard, dragging out old pieces of wood or corrugated iron, making what we considered to be a shelter, chased every moment by whichever dog was around. Gorgeous times they were, but times that passed as we grew and started devoting time to our own friends and partners. Then the time came when our beloved mums and dads passed on. That seemed to be it. We who were so close as kids, would go from year to year without seeing each other. From decade to decade perhaps. So it has been a beauty of my life that through Someone Else’s War, cousins have again come together. Many are coming to the August launches, and an event in September hosted by the Greek community. I can’t wait to see them all again.
13.6.11: Revisiting the Kiwis
I am in negotiations to do an author tour in New Zealand in September. I have been the Australian correspondent for Radio New Zealand for almost half my life. At one point I was asked to host RNZ’s flagship Morning Report current affairs program, but I couldn’t bear to tear myself away from Australia on a permanent basis. Still the Kiwis were very welcoming and I did the program for a few weeks alongside long-term co-presenter Geoff Robinson. Over the years I have been invited across the Tasman to do the odd art gallery opening or comedy debate (including one for the Auckland Comedy Festival, with the inimitable Bill Bailey as referee, and with Aussie comics Greg Fleet and Denise Scott on my team). My wife has performed 2 extended seasons in Phantom of the Opera in Auckland, so it really is one of our homes. I’ll look forward to the media circuit.
22.5.11: Making the List!
I just found out I will be involved in two sessions at the Melbourne Writers festival in August-Sept. On the second weekend I will be part of a forum featuring Someone Else’s War, but also on the first weekend (August 27) I will be chairing a session to do with multicultural writing. Love that chairing stuff. Hope you can get along.