By Asher J. Matathias
Tonight, as the first candle of the Hanukkah Menorah (candelabra) is lit, fourteen days before Christmas --- frequently but erroneously thought as comparable: the former is minor in the Hebrew lunar calendar, celebrating the triumph of spirit over ancient oppression; the latter the genesis of the Messiah who defines Christianity --- I reflect intensely how the precious gift of life my parents Jacob and Nina were to give me that very day could have been very brief, ended arbitrarily, perhaps most brutally.
The sequence of dramatic events in the Balkans begun with Italy's Mussolini demanding safe passage into Greece from Albania, and the outnumbered, outgunned Greeks writing a brilliant chapter of military history with their thrilling "OXI" the now known "NO" that would derail the Fascist Benito's plan, rekindle Greek nationalism, and divert Hitler's forces from the Caucasus, fatally compromising his dreams for a Reich to last a thousand years!
Life under the Italians was preferable, for they shared a Mediterranean joie de vive, seeking to enjoy wine, women, and song even in wartime, frequently drawing unwelcome comments, earning even contempt from their erstwhile Nordic ally. With Il Deuce's prospects declining, his eventual fate in the hands of partisans and the awaiting hanging tree, the Germans took control and proceeded to systematically end the two-millennia Jewish presence in Greece by prosecuting the Final Solution that would eventually claim 87% of the country's Romaniote (Greek-speaking) and Sephardic (Ladino-speaking) Jews (including my mother's parents and two younger brothers)!
Desperate circumstances occasionally evoked uncommon compassion from Christian fellow citizens. One such family was the childless couple Phroso and Yorgos Stamos, who, fully knowing the dire consequences were they to be found harboring Jews, did not hesitate to take them from Volos, in Magnesia Prefecture, to a refuge in a Mt. Pelion cave. The family frequented my father's retail store on Ermou Street, Volos, purchasing the famed Panagos schemes imported from Paris, hand- embroidered by maidens on their way to the altar, and seen in fashionable homes. Their leap to courageous stardom among those called the Righteous Among Nations may be seem the normal expression one would have for the dearest of friends, or business associates. Still, the rhetorical question remains for each of us: given a similar crisis, would we have the fortitude to place our own person and / or family in jeopardy?
It was there, in Ayios Lavrendios, that a midwife, traversing the heavily-snowed paths from a nearby village came to help deliver a baby boy. (Years later, I would learn that the ritual circumcision performed on a male eight days after birth was postponed for … eight months!)
German troops had first rounded the majority of Jews making up the famed Jerusalem of the Balkans, Thessaloniki, fulfilling the request of their spiritual leader, Rabbi Tzvi Koretz, who had counseled that the crisis facing his flock would be resolved were his people to "get along, by going along," with official orders to report for resettlement. The panic that spread among the remaining Jews upon learning the fate of their brethren, was palpable. There were no transports to America, or a State of Israel to welcome refugees.
Thus, with kindness and the befriending of would-be participants in the coming Greek civil war that would grip the nation for additional years after liberation, young Jewish families found respite from flight in the rough mountains that dot the landscape. However, as German patrols began to comb the countryside for hideouts, some crying babies betrayed their parents; in rarer instances, infants' noises were muffled by pillows that unintentionally snuffed their lives. In the event, I have been told, I was heroic by knowing to keep silent.
Still, there came a day when my father was absent, collaborating with the underground movement, and Mom was left with her baby as a German patrol discovered our seeming major. Anything could have taken place; deportation, separation of the two (with the child raised German), or instant execution, for their Jewish identity was obvious. Instead, and while staring at the babe, the leader having a flashback of the image of his own boy he left in Hamburg, smiled and demanded all "rouse," "out" never to bother the family again! The irony is inescapable: a virtual Nativity scene, replete with pathos, as his compatriots were getting ready to usher the holiday with prayer, the psalms of praise and salvation, other units were engaged in the inhuman task of genocide! His magnanimity might also be indicative of the troubled psychological state faced by the German adherents of Martin Luther, and the genesis of Lutheranism in opposition to the 1517 doctrinaire and corrupt Roman Catholicism. Surely, the soldier's refusal to participate in rounding up innocent Jews was replicated elsewhere; it is a matter of regret, however, that such examples were not widespread!
Wishfully, I have thought of that officer, and how his life might have turned out. Other ideas have made me grapple with notions of collective blame, guilt, even hatred. We now know that Hitler had willing executioners, in Germany and elsewhere, Greece, too, to be able to undertake the colossal, heinous crime that is uniquely called Holocaust. Yet, there were individuals, including that anonymous German officer, whose generous gesture has saved me from hating his people and his country; Further, whenever in Germany, I seek to engage residents of a certain age and pointedly ask: where were you, and what did you do during World War II? It seems I am entitled to the inevitable discomfort my questions engender, don't you think?
Yes, the events described are miraculous, days from witnessing my first Hanukkah and Christmas. There would ensue other miracles: surviving the aforementioned civil war, our family intact and growing; and, in the 1950's, the devastating earthquakes necessitating a six-month living arrangement in a tent; culminating in our emigration, and arrival in the blessed shores of America, on January 30, 1956! Fully conscious of such existential experiences, I have embraced Eddie Cantor's immortal link of the two words love / live; switch a single letter, and they are just the same. Is it accident, I wonder, that the two words are almost interchangeable?
The author is an adjunct professor of American Government at St. John's University, president of B'nai B'rith in the Five Towns, a columnist, and frequent public speaker. He and his wife Anna live in Woodmere, NY.
