the journey to Greece – Kobi Shmuel, chapter 3
I take out the cell phone while spontaneously stopping at the side of the walk in Saloniki, a quick dial to my grandmother who was born in Saloniki, I’m here, long minutes of conversation and reminders for the past, a past of pain and a stop on life routine and rich culture here in Saloniki before less than a century. A mixed feeling of anger and long silence.
On my right the port of Saloniki that is remarkably similar in shape and nature to port of Tel Aviv of all places, with the Jewish port workers from Saloniki arriving to the city and building it in the 30’s of the last century, indeed a master piece. We can only hope that the last remains of Tel Aviv port won’t be swallowed by the greasy machine that is capitalism. I continue to slowly drive along the walk; on the right I can see the blue sea and boats that decorate the horizon. I get closer to the white tower that was founded by the Othman in the 13th century as a fort protecting the water front. With time the tower began to serve as a prison. In 1826 prisoned Janissaries were massacred by Mahmud the second, and then the tower received the name “The Blood Tower”. Another interesting point, after the independence declaration of Greece, the tower was painted by a Jewish prisoner, Nathan Guidili, in return for his release, as a symbol for the erasure of the Turkish ruling (Wikipedia).
With first light I leave Seloniki after a wonderful hosting of Tzadaka family. We will be back to them and city of Saloniki for documentation and photography.
Last turn to a 50 mile long road after almost 250 miles of drive, some of it is quite poor. I’m on my way to the farthest point of Greece communities, Didymoteicho. I pass many miles along the Turkish border, Greek soldiers and a considerable amount of army vehicles are in sight. While passing the army convoy I wave hello as though I’m in a battle plane that fly low above them, and they wave back as sort of silent alliance according to which the bikers of this world are peaceful, loving and passionate about open spaces, and politics are not their strong suite…
In front of the monument for the victims I lower my head in a bizarre place, a path of agony this community has underwent, it was important to me to arrive here off all places, to thisdistant place, in order to discover, know and acknowledge as many as possible.
I say goodbye to the high road and turn right to the road’s twists. I’m declining towards a beautiful city; houses are gently terraced and almost touch the sea. I’m in Kavala, there are fishing boats in the port. The old city is impressive with its colors. Alleys with no end, steep ups and downs are not making in it easy to ride the bike. I’m magnetized by the city, crossing the entire old city, in every quick look my eyes encounter an endless postcard that constantly changes. The evening twilight adds a soft pastel color, shades of orange cover the roof tops, pieces of sea between the houses seem as blue dots that balance the complexity of the endless texture in this masterpiece.
It’s evening, I’m in a little neighborhood’s eatery with old wooden chairs. The color on the walls is somewhat yellow. I point on one of the pots that seem interesting and receive a meat meal that is served in a deep bowl of olive oil, vinegar and all sorts of spices. Half of big yellow lemon on the side of the plate, a small glass of ouzo, a bowl with roughly cut salad with juicy tomatoes, purple onion and sliced pepper… so simple and unsophisticated, this is the way to live with minimalism that enriches the soul without having to chase the “gold veal”.
The distinguished Mr. Cohen, I am Kobi Shmueli, I arrived to Kavala to see the remains to Judaism from other times, rich times, in the community of Kavala. This is the call I made to this honorable man that left me with feelings of sadness and some kind of acceptance with the situation. The only Jew that lives in the city of Darma happily answered and took me to the cemetery in Kavala. We had a long chat and he told detailed stories on the historic events while I stayed quiet and listened, and then he said one sentence that got me to think: “after me, there is no one to take care of cemetery here in Kavala and in Darma, life goes on and I live in a past of life that no longer exists”, sorrow has been following me as a friend for years…
In the morning of a new day, I go to see Mr. Jack in his resident in the city of Darma, I follow him to a garden surrounded by a stream, a memorial for the victims. Several years ago, he offered the mayor to build a monument for the memory of the victims and the mayor complied. And here I stand in this place, looking at a tangle of nothing that was left from this community, lower my head and with small steps accompany Mr. Jack to the exit. There are two cemeteries in Darma, I go through names of past and lives as someone who touches history and the elimination of this glorious community and culture.
I’m in a street corner of this distant city that is near the Bulgarian border, merely 15 miles and I’m in Bulgaria. The buildings are magical and I photo some of the ancient architecture. A big guy with a child’s smile comes over to me and reaches out his hand for a shake. “I’m Makis, I’m a biker and I invite you to sit with us”, and so I feel at home among a group of Greek bikers, an undeniable fellowship. All over the world, in distant countries, in my meetings with bikers I always encountered the will to help and take care, this is bikers’ way of life, photos, phone numbers exchange and a warm invitation to ride in our small country.
Siman Tov Tzdaka, the warm and welcoming man from Saloniki who knows everything about the magical sites of the city, restaurant, authentic tavern, far away from the plastic tourism, manages an online radio with the best Greek songs of all times, with audience and listening ratings that match a large radio station with 4000 KHz. Invitation and warn hosting in his home for the few days of the holiday. His partner, Merula, cooks the best of the traditional dishes with love for art and history of Saloniki.
It’s the holiday evening and I wear a white shirt, just by the book. Guests, songs, Greek music, holiday table beautifully decorated, a prayer for next year and several glasses of ouzo… and I go to the balcony that overlooks Saloniki and see the many little lights of a city that underwent upheavals of victories and failures with pain and suffering, and I think that without those survivors who made it through the hell of war and built our home – the Jewish country – exile and suffering would have been part of our lives to this day.
(From “Saloniki, city and mother in Israel”)
4061 Jews from Turkey and Greek Macedonia were given to the Germans by the government of Bulgaria in 1943 in the port city of Lom.
None of them survived. None of them came back. No one knows who their killers are. No one tried to find out the identity of these criminals. No one punished them. No one knows where the ashes of one of thousands victims are buried. No one put flowers on their graves. No one tried no revenge their blood!!!
May their memory be blessed.
