During my first winter in Crete I became friendly with an elderly English
couple who were regular customers at the taverna by the lake where I was still working part time. they told me they came every winter
for about six months and stayed in Hania. Each year they drove to
Crete from Britain, travelling
through France and Italy, stopping at little villages on the way. I
hoped that I would be so active at their age. Mollie was in her mid
seventies, short, petite, with her hair up in an untidy bun. Ron was
over eighty, tall, and suffered from arthritis which made walking any
distance rather painful for him.
They invited me to
visit them in Hania and I accepted.
Winter is very different in Crete to the summer, the day I went to visit Mollie and Ron it was stormy,
the waves crashing over the harbour
walls and flooding the tavernas and shops along the waterside.
Fortunately, most of them were closed for the winter. The few still
open were battening down the hatches and battling to keep the water
and flying debris out.
Some local lads
were racing around the edge of the harbour
in their cars trying to beat the waves. I heard later that there was
at least one tragedy every year when a car would get swept away into
the sea…
The house that
Mollie and Ron were renting was just off the Venetian
harbour; it was old and narrow and built
into the old city walls. After sharing a delicious lunch of asparagus
soup and olive bread in their tiny living room, prepared by Mollie in
their even tinier kitchen, we decided to go for a drive in their car
to the mountain villages behind Hania. They wanted to show me a
particular war memorial that they had found on their previous
explorations.
“It is a very
unusual statue,” Mollie told me, “but I suggest that you don’t
show it to any German friends you have.”
I wondered what on
earth she could mean. We drove through many small villages including
Therisso, the site of the Cretan uprising in 1905, and former home of
Eleftharios Venezelos, the Cretan politician who became prime
minister, and brought about the unification of Crete with Greece in
1913.
Driving up into the
mountains above Hania we passed slopes covered with a carpet of
fermenting oranges.
“The EEC won’t
take the oranges,” said Ron, “I was reading it in the paper. They
are the wrong size, or shape, or something equally stupid. So the
farmers are dumping them in the mountains.”
“Probably the
wrong colour.”
quipped Mollie
“
Or they want them
square.” I added “What a waste.”
As we approached
the village of Panagia that we had been heading for I could see, in the distance,
what appeared to be a very pleasing statue of three, or four, Cretan
men dancing.
“It looks like a lovely
statue,” I remarked.
“Just wait till
we get closer.” said Mollie, as she parked the car. “You might
change your mind.” We walked over to the statue.
When I could see it
clearly, I gasped. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” I
exclaimed. It was indeed a beautifully sculpted piece of work,
perfect in every detail. The Cretans were depicted in full
traditional dress. The shock came when I realized on what they were
dancing. It was the body of a dead German soldier, complete in every
detail. His throat had been cut, his skin flayed, and his entrails
showing. The muscles and skin were portrayed in minute detail.
“I can see why
you wouldn’t want to bring any Germans friends here.” I said,
shaken, my eyes still fixed on the statue. “It’s a marvelous
piece of work, but the subject matter is a bit grim.”
“It must have
been done by someone with very strong feelings.” Ron pondered
aloud, “Of course, some of these villages were all but wiped out
during the war.”
“Perhaps this was an
area where a lot of the people were massacred.”
“It’s terrible
to think what the Cretans have suffered at the hands of different
invaders,” Said Mollie “The Venetians and the Turks and the
Germans and who knows who else before that.”
We left the little
village with mixed emotions, such beautiful work but such a savage
vision.
