II
Within days, Nicholas reported happily that they had collected more than the stolen sum. What remained was to arrange a meeting with Father John next Sunday and tell him that there was no need for bad feelings anymore. In the name of God they’ll forget their misunderstanding and the whole episode would be over.
Unbeknownst to them, however, Father John had a plan of his own for Sunday’s service. It was mid-January and besides a minus ten degrees temperature, the snow fell heavily everywhere Sunday morning. Father John parked his silver Cadillac in his designated spot, entered the church and greeted the old Sexton who limped forcefully, lightening the candelabras before the icons. He then turned on the chandeliers. And members of the congregation started coming, some older women brought a Prosforon, the offering bread the priest would use in making communion; others brought plates of Kolyva, the boiled wheat garnished with raisins and almonds, a reminder that the dead would rise again as the wheat, buried in the earth sprouts out and bears fruit.
Despite the cold weather, one by one the members of the congregation came and filled the oak pews, a full turnout. Their faces reflected Greece’s geographic diversity, which quite often created petty tug wars—just like in antiquity when the country was divided into a myriad collection of city states, usually on bad terms with each other. They had come to Canada from the north-west highlands, with its heavy rainfall and the open rolling plains of Macedonia and Thessaly; from the great provincial cities of Thessaloniki and Volos; from islands like Samos, Lesbos, Lemnos, Corfu and Samothrace; and from the great diversity of the central and southern mainland itself; from the bustling cosmopolitan city of Patra, business-oriented and westernized; to the peaceful towns of the southern Peloponnese, like Kalamata and Gythion. And there were Greeks from so many foreign parts: the Black Sea coast, children and grandchildren of those the Turks expelled from Smyrna—all a people of extraordinary richness and diversity. But when they assembled within this church, and the glittering light from the chandeliers and the golden candles shone on their faces, amidst the colourful icons, the liturgical sounds and wafts of incense, they were one group of people with one faith – all Greeks, Christians and Orthodox – heirs to a cultural tradition of vast antiquity and of the long twilight of Byzantium. Yes, their faith, bequeathed to them by the life and death of others, united them.
“Blessed is our God, always now and forever…” In his brocaded, scarlet vestments, Father John appeared at the Royal Gate of the Sanctuary, the portal decorated with the icon of Christ as shepherd, and started Mass. Throughout the morning’s service, he asked the congregation to pray for the welfare of the poor, for an end to the Vietnam War, for the starving children of Biafra and for the general wellbeing of Canada.
When he started his sermon, he could not resist the temptation to raise the subject of young Pappas’ scandal (in fact he had spent quite some time drafting his sermon the night before). He spoke for twenty minutes on theft, and condemned it as a sin and a crime that should be punished according to Canada’s laws. Drops of sweat glistened on Father John’s forehead. “…I’ve told you my fellow Christians and I’m telling you once again: What you sowed, you shall reap. You are the parents, instruct your children, instill the fear of God in them.” He said the young man’s action should not be excused. His words hurt the Pappas family and its friends; his anger and persistence shocked the congregation.
After Mass, Nicholas Bailis and the other members of the Fund’s executive committee stormed into the priest’s office. “Father, we want a word with you,” said Nicholas appealingly. “You went a bit too far this morning, you not only offended the entire Pappas family, you embarrased all of us. Your obstinacy knows no bounds, sir, you have angered us all.”
Father John, who wore his black cassock now, sprang from his leather black chair, and walked around his desk; he folded his hands behind his back and paced the floor furiously, stopped suddenly and shouted. “Look here, for years I have preached on the importance of morality, justice and decency and all you’re concerned about is your embarrasment. You want to protect a rascal and a thief. Isn’t that what you want to do?” anger surged within the priest, his entire face reddened and his head trembled.
“Yes, of course we want to support young Pappas, Father, but that’s not all. We also want to shield St. Paul, our Ekklesia—our church, the household of God and the foundation of truth. It’s first and foremost a family of believers, where the love of God and brotherly love prevail. The faithful who came to worship this morning, our brothers, possess true feelings of togetherness, of close family and relationship. Our church serves their religious as well as spiritual and social needs. That’s why our Greek Orthodox brothers flocked here this morning; they wanted to reach out for something holy…”
“It’s obvious you people do not understand me,” retorted Father John, “and I cannot communicate with any of you. Our positions on this matter are too far apart.”
“But Father we also wanted to inform you that we collected the money, in fact far more than what young Pappas took, everything has been repaid!” Nicholas continued.
“So you have the money, but unless the young thief has his day in court, how will he learn his lesson? How do we make sure that he does not repeat this offense? Oh, what’s the use; let’s not continue this conversation any longer.” Indeed, it got under his skin to see these folks indulge in insubordination. He rushed out of his office.
In disbelief, the men looked at each other and some scratched their heads.
“He’s as hard as iron,” Alexander said.
“A bully,” Basil added.
“What’s to be done?” Gregory asked.
“We’ve tried everything, boys,” old Nicholas responded. “In all the years we’ve known Father John do any of you remember him having changed his mind on anything?”
“Why don’t we form a delegation and appeal to Bishop Constantinos? He’s reasonable, he’ll see our point of view,” Alexander said.
“Indeed, his Grace has a big heart, and he just may be supportive,” Gregory added.
“It may be worthwhile to appeal to a higher authority,” agreed Nicholas. If you’re all in agreement, I’ll arrange an appointment with his secretary and we can drive up to the Diocese.
III
It was minus four degrees in north Toronto and the sky overcast, as the black Chevrolet sped north on Yonge Street, passed Eglinton Avenue, then Lawrence Avenue with the four-men delegation.
“Nicholas, I think you may want to signal and turn right at the upcoming traffic lights…” old Alexander said.
“Yes, you’re right, I see it.”
He parked in front of a white stucco building, the Greek Orthodox Diocese, with its stained glass windows, and evenly trimmed hedge all around the property. All four men swelled with pride as they stepped onto its limestone veranda surrounded by black railing. A tall young priest answered the doorbell and as he led them through a long hallway towards the Bishop’s office, they marvelled at the gold oak floor. The living room’s open door revealed the blue satin curtains, the rosewood furniture and floral carpet—everything about the place was alive with memories for the delegates. Oh, this was their special house! Not just because it housed the Bishop’s office, and not because it had been erected from the hard-earned nickels and dimes of the Greek immigrants. No, there was more to this house, for every inch of it had been constructed with love, and it had a piece of all the Greek Orthodox parishioners’ hearts. Its foundation was solidified with the tears and deep sighs of the faithful; its beams were held together by their sweat, and back-breaking pain; and its well-built roof was strengthened with their patience and care to withstand the heavy snow.
One by one the delegates stepped into the Bishop’s office; his Grace was enjoying the serenity of the hour and all the privileges that came with his position. They bowed to him and kissed his hand in deference.
“May Christ’s blessing be upon you all; shall I send for something?�
� he asked in a polite, dispassionate tone of an official.
“Oh, no, no your Grace, we’re only here for a few minutes,” replied Nicholas.
“Well then, my good Christians, let’s get started, because shortly I have to leave for a fundraising event organized by the Ladies Auxilliary of St. George,” and his hands rested on The Economist on top of his desk.
As Nicholas spoke, his eyes were still bright like two clean mirrors without any stains; they projected purity in his soul. His Grace, a tall, well-nourished figure, who carried his sixty years well, scrutinized them with his small eyes. He made an impatient movement and his weary look turned to perplexity; he found this an altogether unpleasant and tedious business. The visitors gazed in awe at the room’s furnishings and ornaments. They were drawn to the dusky, wooden icon, the one with the Virgin Mary holding her infant son, and the large one depicting St. George slaying the dragon, which was embossed in silver. They were impressed with the red and black cloth-bound tomes with the gilded letters resting on the oak shelves. There was a shrine in the right corner of the room, with a cluster of saints on the wall and a crystal bowl filled with oil hanging from the ceiling; a lighted flat candle floated in the centre of the bowl, its amber flame sputtering tiny sparks. To the visitors, the dimness, the images of the saints and the shrine transformed the room into a sanctuary. They recalled the Sunday Masses and the ringing of church bells in their towns in Greece; they remembered the hymns they used to sing as choir boys, the days of Lent and the procession of the Holy Sepulchre.
When Nicholas finished relaying the scandal involving young Pappas, the Bishop fixed his dark eyes on his visitors and said in a low, and measured tone, “I assume my good Christians that you’ve discussed this affair with Father John?”
“Oh, of course, your Grace,” replied Nicholas.
“And what is his position?”
“Well, your Grace it’s like this…he, Father John, thinks this is strictly a legal matter and wants us to turn it over to the Canadian law,” replied Nicholas.
“And you don’t agree this is a matter for the law, Bailis? Do we not have clear and reasonable laws in this country?” asked the Bishop with a tinge of impatience.
“Oh, yes, of course but the law, well the law only represents…you know…wordly rights, it can’t go beyond…”
“Can’t go beyond? Explain yourself Bailis,” said the Bishop; his eyes met Nicholas but they did not connect.
“The inner…, the human instinct, your Grace, you know the compassion. The obligation and force that love creates: to love and be loved. Young Pappas needs love and understanding from all of us now; soul is more bruisable than flesh, and the young lad is wounded in every fibre of his spirit. Society’s law won’t help the poor boy…why he may end up in jail if we turn him over to the courts…”
“And what do you propose we do, Bailis, just bury everything under the carpet and pretend the lad committed no crime? Shouldn’t he be taught something for this crime, even if it lands him in jail?”
“Please, your Grace, this boy cannot go to jail; it’s such a soul-destroying place, his heart will harden…”
The Bishop fretted, fixed his fiery eyes on the delegation, and his whole conscious effort centered in the act of dominating his guests’ will. And he succeeded. In a low, calm admonishing tone he said, “My good Christians, let’s be the model Canadian citizens this country expects of us, let’s observe its laws and let justice take its course.” On hearing this, the delegates felt their presence was burdensome and out of place. The Bishop’s position seemed to be closing in on them, obscuring the light, and cutting off the air. They rose with a vague sense that the end had come. Yes, they were not welcome! Their host was an important and busy man; someone who was perhaps more at ease with big businessmen, real estate agents and politicians. Nicholas Bailis thanked him for having received them and the group said their farewells. With heads bowed, they walked with weary steps toward the front door. As they stepped out on the sidewalk, the air was raw, gentle soft snow fell like regret; they turned up the collars of their coats and entered Bailis’ Chevrolet pensively. He turned on the ignition, stepped on the pedal and drove south on Yonge Street.
“After all our appeals and the wishes of the entire congregation, we’ve not had any success with this, gentlemen,” Nicholas said.
“Yes, I agree, it feels like we’ve hit a wall of moral blindness,” added Alexander. “Why is it so hard for some to overlook and forgive the young man’s misfortune? ‘Forgive and show mercy,’ didn’t we learn this as youngsters in the old country?”
“Oh, let Father John and his superior report young Pappas,” snapped Basil, “let’s take the boy under our wing and guide him.”
“Of course we’ll guide him, he’s a man of God,” replied Nicholas, “but in the meantime, I propose that we collect character letters, you know, get some professionals in our community to write a few kind words for the boy, so we can show the judge.”
“Great idea,” responded Basil, “my son just graduated from the University of Toronto as a chartered accountant, he’ll be glad to draft some letters.”
“Good. And my daughter who’s a lawyer will give us additional letters and will tell us how to proceed with the whole thing,” Nicholas said.
IV
Young Peter Pappas did have his day in court, and was sentenced to serve three months in jail. But because it was his first offense, and so many good reference letters were submitted on his behalf, the judge ordered him to do community work for six months. Later, Nicholas Bailis and his group paid for Peter’s education and he obtained his business degree with honours from Wilfrid Laurier University. Eventually, he became the leading fundraiser within the Greek community and helped to establish more churches.
His ardent supporters did not forget the whole episode though, and neither did the entire congregation. The membership dues and the contributions to St. Paul Church declined sharply. More and more of its members flocked to other Greek Orthodox churches for their weddings and christenings. And those who had money to spend on Memorial Services or Feast Day celebrations frequented other churches. To confess and take communion, many attended other parishes miles away.
As the congregation of St. Paul dwindled, the church’s coffers depleted. Father John was crushed to see his worshippers abandon him, and everyone wondered whether he’d have his day of reckoning when they heard that Bishop Constantinos summoned the priest to the Diocese. To the amazement of the St. Paul faithful though, Father John was not demoted or dismissed as they anticipated. Instead, His Grace felt that Father John’s patience had been tried with the entire scandal. Indeed, the priest had paid his dues. Within six months, the Bishop transferred Father John to the Cathedral of St. Nicholas, whose well-to-do congregation welcomed him warmly and its board of directors raised his salary.
Divided Loyalties
Deathly pale, Marika’s husband Yanni faced a firing squad. She heard the dog barking wildly. Her brother Pericles, tall and heavy, stood on the side staring; he appeared to be smiling. Yes, smiling. His teeth were shining, two rows, like strings of pearls. It was terribly cold and windy. With terror in his eyes, Yanni looked old and shriveled. Suddenly, he grew smaller and smaller to the point where he became invisible. Startled, Marika awoke. Her vivid and mysterious dream frightened her. Perspiration drenched her body and her temples throbbed unbearably. Anxiety gripped her. She blinked her half-shut eyes and tried to find her bearing in the dim room, as she sat up and crossed herself.
Yanni’s deep breathing reassured her that he was alive. He slept soundly at six in the morning on that Friday in late August, 1946. Marika studied his gaunt swarthy face, as she pulled her chestnut hair back: the scattered scars on his forehead, his thick eyebrows, which matched his black hair and mustache, deceptively portrayed an unfriendly man, a warrior of old. Other than a firm belief in hard work and its rewards, he was a man of few convictions. But he was a loyal husband and devoted father, with a kind h
eart and generous spirit, who usually yielded to Marika’s wishes. She could not live without him.
When Marika slipped out of bed and dressed, her strange dream still lingered in her thoughts. What did it mean for her brother Pericles? Recently, her concern for his safety had consumed her; for eighteen months he had been hiding in the mountains with other members of the Communist-backed National Liberation Front and its military wing, the National Popular Army. All those brave men, who had resisted the German occupation in the early 1940s, were now engaged in a bitter civil war. King George of Greece and his government, who had fled to the Middle East during the invasion and had signed an armistice with the Germans to establish a collaborationist government in Athens, had now returned to the capital to rule the devastated country. The collaborators, who had worked alongside Germans, were now rounding up and imprisoning all those who took part in the resistance.
Thousands of police and gendarmerie of the Royalists were commandeered and their mission was to destroy all the Communist organizations by any means possible. Just four days ago, the police had questioned Marika about her brother’s whereabouts and warned her to turn him in if he should contact her.
And what about her husband, Yanni? What did her dream portend for him? Was he in danger? As these questions spun in her mind, Marika remembered that her husband had planned to go to the family’s olive grove today. He was to pick the ripe pears and grapes, as he usually did this time of the year. At this realization, Marika sensed a cold sweat on her back, and thought of ways to persuade Yanni to stay home. Yes, that’s what she would do; she would convince him that she should go in his stead.
Before going downstairs to prepare a modest breakfast, Marika glanced at her three angels (Penelope was seven, Petros, five and Theodore, three). She studied the trio’s peaceful sleep and couldn’t help but admire their smooth, sun-burned skin and the wisps of dark silky hair. How innocent and vulnerable they appeared in their scrawniness! Food was scarce, but they had ample hugs and kisses. Wrapping her arms around their tiny bodies came easily to Marika. She had an alert and sweet face, and her quick heart and concern for others endeared her to the other inhabitants of Metamorfosis, a village in the south-east of Greece’s Peloponesse peninsula.
The Buses and Other Short Stories Page 11
