Pascha

April 19, 2009

I woke up Saturday morning, after a long and (as far as I know) peaceful sleep, yet feeling utterly exhausted. We took a bus to Mena and Kostas’ house. They weren’t there, but their son, Vasilios, and his wife, Evangelia (“Litsa”) met us there and took us to where Mena and Kostas were, in their village of Nea Syllata. I had some pennies with me, so during the drive to the village, I played the same game with little Kostas that I played recently with my grandsons; Kostas is about their same age. “If I put two cents in your one hand, and another cent in your other hand, how many cents do you have? That’s right, three; bravo! Now if I give you two cents, how many more shall I give you to make four cents?” Etc., etc.

About the time we arrived, Mena departed to the butcher, to pick up the lamb.

The lamb was laid out on an outdoor table; a brand new electric spit was inserted fore and aft and screwed together in the middle. The Lamb was wrapped in a clean sheet and stored – in the bathroom! No, no, no, we all protested. Not there! So someone took it out of the bathroom and stood it by the front door, where it stood all night.

The cause of my exhaustion became clear in the course of the evening, when I developed a terrible sore throat, runny nose, headache, and body aches.

Having already missed the Good Friday services (in effect), I wasn’t about to miss the Anastasis (midnight services) as well! So I dragged myself there.

Hint from Helen: You do not have to be Anastasia’s age to gain a lot from taking two aspirins immediately before the Anastasis! It will benefit your feet and your back.

As we sat in the darkness, waiting for the Holy Light to be brought out, I almost thought we were having our own miracle of the Holy Light, as I watched blue streaks shoot across the ceiling and disappear. But it was only a small boy (or two, or three) sneaking out the keychain laser lights in their pockets and having some quick fun before their mothers could catch them.

Here, rather than describe the same things over again, I’m going to quote from my 2006 journal of this event in the same church:

The church is darkened, as everywhere, and we stand in that darkness an uncomfortably long time. Then the Holy Fire is brought out. But in America, the priest sings, “Come, receive the Light!” and lights the candles of the altar boys, who then move down the aisle, stopping at every row to light the candles of the people in the nearest seat. Here, the priest himself walks down the aisle with a fistful of lit candles, not stopping at all. The result is, you have to be quite aggressive about sticking out your candle as he walks by. You in effect have to snatch the Holy Fire from him. I didn’t succeed and had to light my candle from someone else’s.

Then there is a procession to the front porch of the church, with the lit candles and incense and the Cross and the Book of the Gospels. Again, the people do not form a line as in America; they crowd about the door and push their way outside, where hundreds more people are waiting, who do not want to attend the full service, but do want to carry the Holy Fire back to their homes. I obeyed Mena, who urged me not to try to fight the crowds, just wait inside. I wish now I had gone outside, because of course I missed the reading of the Resurrection Gospel.

Then came the Paschal Hymn we would sing dozens of times more before the end of the service:

Christ is risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death,
And upon those in the tombs bestowing life.

The very first bar of this hymn, which the throngs outside are singing with all their might, sets off pandemonium. Little boys outside the church set off firecrackers and other fireworkds. The bells peal and peal and peal, joyously, as loudly as possible. The dogs howl. The people inside rush about to hug and kiss and greet one another with, “Christ is risen!”

Eventually, the commotion subsides. The people inside take their seats. The priest and cantors and altar boys and the multitude all re-enter the church. The firecrackers are at last expended. The bells take a brief rest. The dogs fall silent. Presumably the cats creep out from under cover and the birds settle back down to see if they can salvage any sleep.

In America, one makes a point to keep ones candle lit until arriving home, to bless ones house with it. The result is that for the next two hours, you are standing in the middle of a spread-out bonfire and you have to hope somebody has thought to turn on the air conditioning. Here, the people extinguish their candles as soon as they are back inside the church. This makes for far more comfort and less danger.

Mena had brought a lantern, so we still had some of the Holy Light, with which, after the service, we re-lit our candles and several other people’s. Best of both worlds.

I suppose it was two o’clock by time we got home, fatigue masking our euphoria.

We weren’t ready to sleep yet! There remained some feasting to do. Mena served the traditional after-church Pascal meal, magiritsa. It’s a lamb stew, with anise. In America, our dear friend Chrysoula makes wonderful magiritsa with lamb chunks, but Mena makes it with lamb liver. I didn’t much care for it.

There was the cheese Demetrios and I had brought, and there was salad and there were the red eggs.

The piece de resistance, though, was the kokoretsi. “What’s that?” I asked.

“That’s something very delicious that you eat without asking,” was Demetrios’ reply.

“That’s what I was afraid of!” Yes, I had remembered correctly. It’s sheep gut. That is to say, it’s the entero, large intestine, of a sheep! (“Enterologist.”) Demetrios assures me that it is washed with exceeding care, but as it is all meat with virtually no hole in the middle, I don’t see how that is possible. I passed. I know, I know, my rule is just taste it and don’t ask. After all, it’s the taste that counts, and everybody here thinks the taste worthy of a Pascal meal, the most important meal of the year. Too bad. Here, I make an exception to the rule.

My astonishing reluctance to try this delicacy had to be explained to Mena. Demetrios kindly did that for me. But then at the end of that little exchange they both sort of smirked and giggled. I looked down at my lamb stew in horror.

No! No, they said, it had only been a passing thought. There was absolutely no kokoretsi in the stew; there was only liver.

I still couldn’t eat it. Having looked forward for so many weeks to being able to eat again, I went to bed still rather hungry.

This year after church, Mena, remembering I don’t care for either the magiritsa or the kokoretsi, had made me some beef meatballs instead. They were delicious. We cracked some eggs and ate some sweet Pascha bread (tsoureki) and went to bed as quickly as we could. That is, Mena and I did. Kostas and Demetrios stayed up another hour to talk and laugh. And sing, for all I know. I don’t know, because I took a sleeping pill and put in my earplugs and didn’t know a thing until morning, except that I was having a hard time breathing through my stuffed nose.

I don’t even know what time it was when I woke up. Nobody was home except Kostas and his friend Spiros. Kostas was making coffee. Spiros was superintending the cooking of the lamb, in the outdoor fireplace. Mena had gone back to Thessaloniki, just long enough to pick up his wife, Eriphili, and her mother, Hilda.

I wandered out to the patio to have some tsoureki and water; and didn’t have to wonder for long where Demetrios was, for I could hear his voice, speaking German. German? Demetrios? Yes. The church service was being broadcasted over the whole village via megaphones, and it’s that service in which the Gospel is read in as many languages as the local congregation can manage.

I still felt horrible, so after breakfast, and listening to the service for awhile, with Demetrios chanting, I went back to bed until everyone else arrived: Eriphili and her Austrian mother, Hilda (whose 91st birthday it was!), and Mena’s children and their spouses, and little Kostas.

It was all a blur. I remember trying to play with little Kostas; I told him, “I am going to catch you, and then I am going to kiss you, so you’d better beware! Run, run! I am the kissing monster!” And then I tried to growl, but all that came out was a strangled sounding mew, and I couldn’t really run, either. After a while, the little kid let me catch him. Spiros remarked, “It looks like you have to work very hard to move,” and it occurred to me that this was true. So I gave up that idea.

Tried to be sociable with Hilda, a very sweet woman, since I speak her native German. She’s got a fair amount of dementia, so doesn’t much use Greek anymore, even though she was married to a Greek for 30 years and once knew it fluently.

She kept having trouble with her food. “I don’t know what to do with it,” she said.

“Put it in your mouth,” I said.

“Yes, of course, but—“ meaning, “but where’s that?”

“Der Mund ist da,” said Eriphili, touching her mother’s mouth. “The mouth is here.”

So Hilda would put in a few bites and then have to be coached some more. I remember my father having similar trouble remembering what to do with his food.

Christos came, and with him, a lovely young woman I didn’t recognize, but who looked like a young Audrey Hepburn (but with a prettier jaw line). Much to my joy, it turned out to be Danai! She is Christos’ stepdaughter, the daughter of his now former wife by her previous marriage. Christos had no legal rights concerning Danai when he and her mother were divorced, and that is why I had given up ever seeing her again. But guess what? She’s a young woman now, and thinking for herself, and not necessarily taking her mother’s word concerning Christos. So she came to visit him during her little Pascha break. She’s living in London now, taking a Ph.d. in theater, but she is on a temporary assignment in Athens.

I’m impressed. I don’t know when, if at all, his daughter Vicki has visited Christos from Venice, where she lives. Danai tells me, by the way, that Vicki, this very day, has been declared the ping-pong champion of Italy.

The lamb was done to perfection, and everything else was delicious, too: oven-baked potatoes, tossed salad, Russian salad, beet salad, beef meatballs…I don’t remember what all else. I couldn’t eat much and I went back to bed shortly after the meal. And slept, too.

Christos took us home early and we went to bed early.