Soldiers, sailors, and airmen lined the streets and, on the sidewalks, crowds were beginning to gather as we made our way down to the Grande Bretagne. Through the front door, past the potted palms, across the lobby we went and on up to the second floor where we took our place on a balcony overlooking Panepistimiou.
The last time we had attended the Independence Day Parade was on March 25, 1967. From a window on an upper floor of a building at the corner of Amalias Street and Syntagma Square, we had watched the day’s festivities. Crowds had lined the streets and filled the square. Strategically located claques dutifully cheered and applauded as their heroes drove by on their way to the Doxologia at the Cathedral: Papandreou, Stefanopoulos, Kanelopoulos, they had chanted, as the members of the government and political parties were driven by. That year the King accepted the salute as he sat mounted on his horse before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. There had been a moment of anxiety because the year before, it seems, he had encountered some difficulty in controlling his horse which had almost bolted. In 1967, however, the horse seemed particularly well behaved — perhaps, one of our companions suggested, the result of a healthy dose of tranquilizers for breakfast. Whatever the case, he remained calm even when the tanks were heard approaching along Amalias Avenue.
The soldiers standing in the tanks had appeared tall, erect and formidable. When they passed beneath us we looked directly down on them and could see inside the tanks. To our amusement the soldiers were perched on orange crates to give them height and insure that something more than the tops of their heads showed above the openings. They looked harmless. A few weeks later, however, the tanks, with their soldiers no longer standing on ceremonial orange crates, were driving through Athens for an entirely different reason.
Now from our vantage point in the Grande Bretagne in 1975, we could see cars with officials inside driving back and forth. Finally, President Stassinopoulos and Prime Minister Karamanlis drove past on their way to the Cathedral for the Doxologia. It must have been succinct, indeed, because it seemed only a few minutes before they were making their way back followed by the cars of other government officials, and those of the members of the diplomatic corps in what we supposed must have been alphabetical order. Big cars, little cars, grey cars, black cars, a maroon and grey Rolls Royce (the British Ambassador, no doubt) and, not far behind, an immense black limousine (the American Ambassador, of course).
Up Vasilissis Sofias, into the driveway of the Parliament Buildings they all went to deposit their passengers. In a little while the morning-suited gentlemen were gathered before the cenotaph, the wreath was laid, the evzones marched off and the officials took their places. President Stassinopoulos stood on a small podium and behind, looming tall and white-haired, stood the Prime Minister. The parade began.
The bands, the contingents from the various gendarmerie and military services marched past. And then the tanks. We had not seen one of those large, lumbering battle tanks since one unforgettable night in November, 1973.
On March 25 this year, the crowds watched in near silence as they drove by. We wondered what the soldiers in those tanks were thinking as they guided what have become symbols of cruel repression through the streets of Athens. No doubt they, perhaps themselves students not long ago, were thinking of that infamous November night.
A few minutes later other regiments were marching past, but save for the occasional chants that the army should belong to the people, the reaction was restrained. It was a short, subdued procession, and appropriately so.
The parade over, the long line of cars drew up once again, collected the official parties and whizzed off. The ceremonies over, the chairs up high on the landing in front of the Parliament Building where the dignitaries had sat, were unceremoniously handed into the building through the windows.
A Premature Resurrection
THE MEMBERS of the late Junta were militantly religious men who believed that they had some sort of exclusive claim to Orthodoxy. It was not by accident that they chose slogans such as, ‘Greece of Christian Greeks’ or that George Papadopoulos named his seven-volume expedition into the world of letters, Pistevo (I Believe), after the Creed. That particular blitz slaughtered the language, placed reason under seige, and cost the nation five million drachmas to publish. We would like to be able to tell you what he believed but it has yet to be deciphered. Suffice it to say, he believed he had received Divine Inspiration.
In what to the colonels must have seemed like an act of God, the Orthodox Easter in 1968 fell on the 21st of April. As they saw it, Christ, the nation, and the phoenix were all resurrecting together, and just in case we did not get the message, they emblazoned yet another slogan all over the country, ‘Greece has risen’ — after the traditional Paschal greeting of ‘Christ has risen’. To mark the occasion, they went back to the army camps to feast, crack eggs with the soldiers, make speeches and dance the tsamikos and kalamatianos for the benefit of the nation.
It was, however, Our Glorious Revolution’s first Easter and the dictators discovered that their strategy
was miscalculated — neither of the television networks had the technical means to present the spectacle to the nation on Easter Sunday. Thus it was that the niceties of the religious calendar were shoved aside, and thereafter Easter was provided with a prelude in order to accommodate the Junta. It was celebrated on Good Friday at several army camps so that the country, celebrating the Resurrection on Sunday, might watch over television the assorted leaders and military conscripts going through their routines on the same day.
The Fine Art of Demonstrating
AS FAR as demonstrations go, January was a good month, February so-so, and March rather dull. What has concerned us most, however, is that they now appear to be an activity largely restricted to the very young. Some of our best friends, once old hands at the game, have even been heard to express annoyance and exasperation when their cars have been stuck in a traffic snarl resulting from a gathering on Panepistimiou Street. When we have asked them for an explanation, and wondered if perhaps middle-age were upon them, they have clammed up and refused to respond.
We decided that the only person likely to provide us with an honest answer would be someone old enough to have completed the transition from youthful fervour to contented old age, and one who could look back, with satisfaction, upon a glorious career of observing protests and demonstrations.
With this in mind, we went in search of our old sage, Kyrios Stelios. We knew that he and his cronies were now holding their councils at the new Byzantion Cafe on Kolonaki Square. We sat across the street in the plana to wait for him, whiling away the time admiring the determined obstinacy of that strictly male kafenio.
No compromises here! All around the neighbourhood, sweet shops and restaurants were transforming themselves into slick and fashionable establishments, and old buildings were coming down and being replaced by modern apartment houses. The Byzantion, temporarily displaced when its former quarters were dismantled and a new building erected on the spot, had re-established itself with a vengeance. Separated from the glamourous Ellinikon sweet shop by the entrance to the new Zoumboulaki Gallery, the stalwart Byzantion stands gritting its teeth on the corner — its interior painted in the traditional creamy white and filled with men sipping their ouzo and metrio as they resolve Karamanlis’s problems to the accompaniment of the click-clack of a rousing game of tavli.
As we sat contemplating the fact that certain things, after all, do not change, we saw our old friend emerging and called him over. He sat down next to us and in reply to our questions proceeded to explain why demonstrations are not what they used to be.
‘Of course, it is not the place, nor the size but the style that counts,’ he said, punctuating this last with a sharp gesture that set his koboloi dancing. Delivering a hard blow to his chest, he added, ‘You must /eeVwhatever you say. It must come from here,’and with that he clutched his abdomen with both hands.
‘Not long ago I decided to observe a demonstration outside the American Embassy. I was very disappointed. They were shouting the usual things… you know… Exo e Amerikani and so on.’ With this he shrugged his shoulders, gazed with embarassment at the ground for a while as he drew down the sides of his mouth in consternation. We said nothing, understanding his distress: we had heard him many times in the past holding forth on the values of the Truman Doctrine and the need for the American Presence. In a moment he had pulled himself together and continued.
‘Others were shouting Exo Ο Tsilis and I thought to myself for an instant that I was really out of touch.’ His hands sought his moustache and gave it a couple of reassuring twirls. He sat up straight and with a casual wave of a hand and an air of confidence, noted that he knew that Mr. Tasca’s successor was not Mr. Tsili and, anyway, he had never heard of him. He asked one of the demonstrators near him who this Mr. Tsili was and the young man responded by pointing to a banner.
With this Kyrios Stelios’s eyebrows leapt up to his hairline in a look of astonishment. With his face thrust forward and a finger poking the air in front of him he exploded. ‘Do you know what the banner said?’ he demanded. We were about to admit that we did not but before we could answer he raced ahead, ‘Chile! Allende and Chile!’
We hastily relocated ourselves in South America and mentally consulted our catalogue of coups, counter coups and alleged CIA activities, while making the transition from Mr. Tsili to Chile, and vigourously nodding our head in acknowledgement. By this time Kyrios Stelios was out of his chair and adjusting his topcoat, which he wears draped like a cape over his shoulders. Before we could ask him if the ignorance of some demonstrators accounted for the malaise, he had consulted his watch, observed that it was two o’clock and hastened home for lunch and siesta.
The Perfect Disguise
IT WAS with some concern that we read in a March issue of the Sunday Times (London) that Mr. Karamanlis had actually had to hide on a caique last fall in fear of assassination. Our Prime Minister, after all, is not someone who can be easily lost in a crowd or passed unnoticed. His eyebrows are unique and he is conspicuously tall. While he solved the problem at that time by spending several nights on a boat, what could he do if a sudden emergency arose in the future?
We finally hit upon a solution. The Prime Minister, it is known, divides most of his time between his offices at the Parliament Building and his apartment down the street from the Palace on Irodou Attikou. Both these places have something in common: evzones on guard or strutting back and forth. While we are not aware of any special requirements regarding their eyebrows, we all know that evzones must be tall. We would feel much more at qase, therefore, if we knew that our Prime Minister kept one of the evzone uniforms handy and that he was prepared to don it at the first sign of any trouble and rush down and join the guards. They are such a familiar sight that even zealous putschists would overlook them.
