“Anixe tin porta”, Constantino Kossifos boomed in his native Greek. “Open this door!”
“Oxi”, came the terrified voice from within. “No, you will kill me”. And he would have. How could she have dishonored him, humiliated him, defied him. He had only wanted the best for her….and himself.
Constantine Kossifos was a rough man raised as a Greek in Asia Minor during a time when the area was rapidly transitioning from a Greek Orthodox city to a Turkish Islamic city. The Turks were not kind to their Greek neighbors and one had to be hardened to the treatment being imposed on Christians by the Moslem population. Kossifos had survived by adopting the harsh and merciless demeanor of his Turkish oppressors. He was by nature a gentle man but gentle men did not survive for long. As a twelve year old, he had adopted a “Turkish” alter-ego and became so convincing that among his Greek peers that he earned the nickname of “The Turk”.
“Anixe tin porta”, he repeated with Turkish ferocity, trying to open the bolted door with the sheer force of his voice. The thundering voice roused a scattering of the curious from their small Greek neighborhood in New Haven, Connecticut.
Inside she trembled, remembering how that voice had always shaken her to shivers of fear throughout her young lifetime. Images sped from Izmir, in Asia Minor, across the Mediterranean, over the vast Atlantic and into the tiny New Haven apartment. Images of him commanding her at age 8 to descend the 462 steps from her hilltop home to the seaport below, pick up two watermelons, carry them back up the steps, and quickly repeat the process. Should she falter, should she delay, should she, God Forbid, arm weary, drop one of the watermelons, she would face the wrath of the man now standing outside her door. That memory and others chilled her…and made her more determined to defy her father. And, in 1916, young Greek girls did NOT defy their fathers.
“My husband has told me to open this door to no one. I will not open the door”.
“My husband.” The words comforted her until she realized that those very words would have on her father. The words infuriated him, his daughter’s defiance before a growing cluster of neighbors made him redden with rage. “Your husband”, he spat. That man is not your husband! I, your father, will say who will be your husband. You have not married this man in the Church. You are living in sin! You cannot have some stranger, a man who is not a priest, say some words and make you married. No holy crowns, no communion, no koumbaro….this is not a marriage!
The crowd of mostly immigrant Greeks could not dispute this logic and some of the old yiayia’s amongst them nodded in support. And yet, they feared for the young girl within for they did not misread the countenance and ferocity of the man. He was dangerous, of that there was no doubt.
Inside, young Polyxene Doukakis, nee Kossifos, felt the wrath of her father doubled by the wrath of God. Was she sinning against God and the Church? The Church, from birth, had been the center of her life. The Greek Orthodox Church was where immigrants from a far away nation gathered together against the often confusing and sometimes hostile environment of their new country. It was where Greeks assembled to help each other deal with the “allophiloi”, the others.
“No”, she thought to herself. “God would not want me to marry those men my father wanted for me. Old men in their 40’s; men with balding heads, gold teeth, broad paunches and seedy suits with gold chains and pocket watches. Her father picked such men because of their wealth and their ability to take care of her.
She was tired of being taken care of by men; being taken care of meant hours and hours of drudgery taking care of them. If that was to be her lot in life, then, at the very least, she would spend her time taking care of a man who cared about her more than he cared about clean shirts, a tidy home and food prepared to his liking.
She could now hear her father in heated discussion with some of the gathered neighbors. Some were supporting his outrage but others were trying to reason with him. “What’s done is done, Kossifos! This is not the old country. We are in America. Women marry who they want here.”
“America…bah!” he responded, with a gesture of contempt. “For hundreds of years the father picks the husband. For hundreds of years, families have grown, the women and children are cared for, and the men are there to do the work necessary to take care of them. My wife’s father selected me for his daughter. Have I not taken care of her? And my children?”
Polyxene gave a half laugh, half sob at hearing these words. She and her father were here in the U. S., but her mother, brothers and sisters were still in Greece. She recalled the night it all happened. There was an urgent hushed murmur of voices in the small kitchen of their home. Her mother was sobbing quietly and, for the only time in her life, she saw her father look frightened. Her godfather, the best man at her parents wedding, was speaking in a screaming whisper. “Deno, you must go NOW! If the police come, they will put you in jail. Then, what good will you be to your family? Take this money and Polyxene and go to my cousin’s in America. You can pay me back later.”
It was not her place to speak, but so distressed was she at what she had just heard that the words spilled forth before she could control them: America? Go to America? Why? Why is it Father and I and no one else? Her father turned his menacing glare upon her but before he could say anything, her godfather quickly approached and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Polyxene, chrysso mou, (my golden one). There has been a horrible accident. A man…a drunken man….stumbled out in front of your father’s tram. He was killed. Your father must leave from here. The police will not listen to a poor man who cannot offer them a bribe. They will put him in jail for a long time. He must go. And someone must go to help him in America. Your mother must stay with the younger children. You are the eldest and it is your duty to go with him.
“But…..” “It is your duty. You must go. Tonight. First on the boat to Lesvos and then to Piraeus. Then, as soon as possible, to the home of my cousin in America….Springfield, Massachusetts. I will give your Father a letter for my Cousin. He will understand. He will help.”
She was overwhelmed. In an instant her life was overturned. She was separated from her mother and siblings. And she was to travel with the man she feared more than anything on earth. Her father. A man so ill-tempered and fearsome that he had earned the nickname, “The Turk”; a name meant to call up images of the brutality with which the Turks of Asia Minor had treated the Greeks during the 800 year reign of the Ottoman Empire.
“Where is the man you ran away with?” boomed her father’s voice through the door. Shaking from her reverie. Where is he now, can he protect you now? Only a man can protect a young woman like you, Polyxene, not a boy like Christos.”
“Christos, she knew, had gone to the local barber shop for a haircut. He was, indeed, not much more than a boy. So handsome, she thought, with such tender eyes. But when he had left her an hour earlier, he took her hand, and those tender eyes became firm and serious. “Open this door for no one while I am gone.” He was well aware of “The Turk’s” reputation and knew full well that he would come looking for his daughter. He knew that what they had done would enrage the man. Defying the father, running away to another city and getting married by a Justice of the Peace. Good Greeks, good people did not do such things.
Then, with a start, a new thought entered her mind. She had been so worried about her own safety that she had forgotten that Christos would soon be returning from the barber shop. He would see the gathered neighbors and be worried….and then he would see her father, “The Turk”, and his blood would run cold with fear, she imagined.
She was wrought with guilt. How had it come to this? Her mind leaped backwards in time. Two weeks ago her father had brought one of these gold chain, gold teeth men home for dinner for the fourth time. Andreas was not a bad man, a shoemaker, with his own shop. But he was a sad man, or at least that was the expression he wore except for a brief moment each time he met her. Then, he would smile and flash his 2 gold teeth. He would try to say something polite, make some small talk but he was, for lack of a better word, awkward. He was 42 years old with a big droopy moustache and a dark, swarthy complexion, both features contributing heavily to that sad expression on his face. In fact, not only did his moustache droop, Polyxene had thought, but it seemed like everything about the man drooped; his eyes, his shoulders, his posture….everything sinking earthward. And that is precisely what Polyxene’s heart did each time the man had come for dinner.
But now it was the fourth time. She had not complained about him the way she had about the others and her father took encouragement from that. She knew that the time was near at hand when her father would make an arrangement with Andreas. Something had to be done….and soon.
Polyxene formulated a plan in her mind. The very next morning she would go to the home of the young married woman who had befriended her when she first arrived in Springfield from Europe. Ekaterina Bassos had taken Polyxene under her wing and taught her how to cook, how to sew, and in general, how to keep a home in America for her father.
Ekaterina, nearly 10 years older, had become her mother, her sister and her best friend. Her father would not be suspicious of her leaving the house to visit Ekaterina after she had prepared him breakfast. She wanted to talk to Ekaterina about Christos. Ekaterina knew about Polyxene’s attraction to Christos. They had talked, and giggled about him often.
Though Polyxene and Christos had never been on what might be considered a “date”, they had seen each other often. They had never spent time alone, just the two of them, but they had occasion to speak after church on Sunday, at weddings and christenings, and church dances. He was clean shaven and had a smooth, fair complexion, and was, she thought, strikingly handsome. When they spoke, his voice was soft and gentle and he made her laugh. He was as witty and charming as Andreas was awkward and dour. She liked him. And more to the point, he had given every indication that he really liked her.
After fixing her father his breakfast, complete with a pot of thick Turkish coffee, she hurriedly cleaned up the dishes and asked permission to visit Ekaterina, explaining to her father that there was a special recipe for Sunday dinner that she was going to learn from Mrs. Bassos.
She tried to act casual as she left the house. Once out of her father’s line of sight, she nearly broke into a run as she hurried the three blocks to Ekaterina’s house. “Ekaterina”, she shouted through the screen door as she raced up the five steps to the front porch. The older woman quickly appeared behind the screen door wiping her hands on her apron. “Ti eene, Polyxene, what is it? as she held the screen door ajar for the younger woman to race in.
Once in the house, the breathless Polyxene started sobbing and much to the dismay of Ekaterina, was unable to speak, leaving the young housewife to imagine all manner of calamity. Finally, Polyxene gathered herself sufficiently to blurt out, “He will tell Andreas he can have my hand in marriage. Today, tomorrow, the next day, but soon. Very soon.” And here, Polyxene acted on the plan she had devised the night before.
“Ekaterina, you must help me”.
“But what can I do about such a thing”, sighed the older woman helplessly as she raised her palms skyward.
“This is what you must do. And you must do it today. I want you to find Christos. I want you to tell him what my father is about to do. And then you must say to him, ‘If you do not wish this to happen, Christos, then you must do something now.’
Ekaterina nodded slowly in agreement. She saw the reasonableness of Polyxene’s plan. She believed Christos was enamored of Polyxene. She had seen the way he looked at her Even her husband, Costa, had noticed the younger man’s attraction to Polyxene. “Yes”, said Ekaterina, “I will do it.”
That afternoon, Ekaterina found Christos as he was leaving the little diner in which he worked as a cook. She pulled him by the sleeve of his jacket to a small bench outside a barber shop and explained the situation to him. “If you do not do something soon, it will be too late and Polyxene will become the wife of that sad shoemaker, Andreas”.
The thought of Polyxene with the shoemaker, her bright smile hidden under the droopy man’s gloom was more than he could bear. He sat very still for a very long time, so long that Ekaterina thought that she had put him in a very awkward situation and that he did not WANT to respond. But, when finally he spoke, it was with a calm voice and a little smile. “Tell Polyxene to meet me at your house in one hour.”
Ekaterina looked at him. “Will you ask her to marry you?” She pressed.
Another smile, “One hour,” he said as he hurried away.
Polyxene was at home darning some of her father’s socks when Ekaterina arrived. “Did you find him? What did he say? What will he do?” Her father would not return from work for another four hours.
“Yes, I found him. I told him about Andreas and told him he must do something.”
“What did he say? What did he say?”
“For a long time, a very long time, he said nothing”.
“Nothing!?”
“Nothing, I felt like Medusa and that my words had turned him to stone.” But then he spoke. “He said for you to meet him at my house in one hour…now one half an hour”. “Did he say what he intended?”
Polyxene was crestfallen, “That’s it?”
“That’s it. When I asked him what he would do he said “one hour” and left. There was something else though. “What? What!” “He smiled.”
Thirty minutes later the two women had already been waiting at Ekaterina’s home for 20 minutes, wringing their hands and going over Ekaterina’s encounter with Christos for the 10th time. The knock on the door nearly jolted them out of their chairs.
Ekaterina went to the door while Polyxene waited in the parlor. When Christos entered, he was wearing his Sunday suit, his shoes were polished to a high shine, his rosy cheeks suggested a fresh shave and in his left hand he carried a small bouquet of flowers.
“Can I get you anything, some coffee, some water”, asked Ekaterina, always the perfect Greek hostess.
“Where is she”, he asked, brushing past her….and smiling.
“I am here, in the parlor, Christos”, came Polygxene’s timid voice. She had not seen him, had not seen the way he was dressed or that he carried flowers. She did not know what to expect. He went straight to her, got down on one knee in front of her, and offering her the flowers, he said: “Polyxene, I have thought about this many times but I have always been too scared to speak of marriage. But now, there is no time for fear. Now there is only time to do what the heart has been insisting. I am asking you, I am begging you, to be my wife.”
Polyxene’s head was in a whirl. Yes, of course she wanted to marry him. It was her plan, wasn’t it? But now, overcome with the sheer swiftness of events, her mind was filled with questions which she blurted out one after the other.
“But how will we be married? Where will we go? He will kill me. Yes, Christos, I will marry you, I want to be your wife, but how will we do it? No time for the Church, for a priest. We must run away. But where? Yes, Yes, Yes. But how?”
Slowly he stood and gently embracing her, he spoke to her in a soft, calm voice.
“I have a plan”, he said smiling. We shall go to New Haven, Connecticut, where I have a good friend. A married friend. We will leave tonight, before your father gets home. We will stay in my friend’s home. In the morning, we will go to the judge, how do you say it, the Justice of the Peace, and he will marry us. Then we will find a nice house to rent. My friend has told me there is one very near his home. I have saved enough money. Your father will look for us in Massachusetts, but we will be far away in Connecticut. It is a good plan, Polyxene, a good plan. And, I will be your husband, and you will be my wife. We will be married, we will have children, and we will grow old together. It is a good plan”, he smiled.
“It is a good plan”, she smiled.
The commotion outside broke her reverie and brought her back to the present. Again, she could hear her father shouting, but the shouts were followed by a firm, calm voice. Christos had returned and was confronting her father. “It is too late now. We are married. We meant no disrespect to you but you would not have allowed me to marry Polyxene.” “You are right”, her father bellowed, “Because you are a boy, not a man. You have no money to take care of my daughter. You did not even get married in the church. This is not what I want for my daughter.”
“Mr. Kossifos”, Christos replied, “come into the house, give Polyxene your blessing. Give us your blessing and we shall be married in the church. Soon. We want your blessing on our marriage.”
Others in the gathering of neighbors murmured their assent to the reasonableness of the proposition. An old woman dressed in black from the shawl on her head to the shoes on her feet kept saying, “It’s too late, my child. They are married now. It’s too late.”
The Turk’s shoulders slumped as he looked at the young man before him. “He was not afraid of me”, he thought. “He will take care of my daughter. And he wants my blessing. Maybe it is ok. Maybe.”
“Anixe tin porta, Polyxene,” Christos said quietly. “Anixe tin porta”.
The deadbolt slid out of its hasp. The door slowly opened and the Turk stood face to face with the wife of Christos Doukakis, Polyxene Kossifos Doukakis.
