Monday, July 27, 2015

The Greek City of Ghosts

By David Patrikrakos


Among the Jews of a land in crisis.

THESSALONIKI, Greece — They call this place the City of Ghosts.
For centuries it was a major trading port, second only to Constantinople in the Byzantine Empire. Then in 1430, the Ottomans came, bringing with them Islam and its minarets. Sixty years later, Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain ordered Jews who did not convert to Christianity to get out of their country. Around 20,000 came to Thessaloniki, welcomed by the Ottomans, who had seen them thrive in Spain and believed they had something to offer. They were right. For almost 500 years Jewish life flourished in the city, which sprouted almost 30 synagogues, sitting peaceably alongside its mosques and churches. The Jews even became a majority of the population until Greece reclaimed the city in 1912, driving out the Muslims and resettling Greeks there in great numbers.

Layers of history sit like sediment on Thessaloniki. The minarets that once dominated the skyline — which in their turn had been converted from Byzantine church towers — were almost all taken down. The city’s Aristotle University, built over the old Jewish cemetery, stands, quite literally, on the graves of over 300,000 Jews.
Despite the odd tension the Jews continued to live well alongside the Greeks. The city, which for centuries had produced great Rabbis and mystics, continued to be a center of Jewish life.
Then in 1941 the Germans came.
* * *
Pulling into Thessaloniki by train is a curious feeling. The platform is sparse, almost rural-looking, hardly befitting Greece’s second city. It’s early morning. The sun is not yet a furnace in the sky. I have traveled overnight from Athens, making my way up into Northern Greece where the country meets the Balkans.
thessal_mapBut more unsettling is the knowledge that while many have made the journey into Thessaloniki by train, thousands have left by it, too — many never to return. A little farther south is the city’s old train station, now servicing only goods trains that rumble by with monotonous regularity. But just over 70 years ago the trains carried a different sort of cargo. On March 15, 1943, the first transport of around 2,000 Greek Jews left Thessaloniki to Auschwitz-Birkenau. There were 19 transportations in all. Before the war the city had around 57,000 Jews. An estimated 46,091 were sent to the Nazi death camps. Hardly any returned. Today between 1,200-1,500 Jews remain and I am here to find out what life is like for them in Crisis Greece.
I walk through the streets of the city center. Potted plants and flora of all description line the pavements as florists display their wares. It’s a pleasing burst of colour. But I wonder who has the money, or indeed the inclination, to buy flowers in these straitened times.
Agiou Mina Street is the home of the Jewish museum of Thessaloniki. It’s an austere white building with a large, black entrance that moves upward into a curved arch with wrought iron tendrils; the whole facade resembles a castle drawbridge — to be let down or pulled up at a moment’s notice. I am here to see Larry Sefiha, vice-president of the Jewish community of Thessaloniki (JCT). I buzz and am let in.
Inside, the ground floor is lined with monumental stones inscribed with Hebrew lettering found, so a pamphlet tells me, in “the great Jewish necropolis” to the east of the ancient city walls. Upstairs on the first floor the walls are covered by exhibits detailing the history of Jewish Thessaloniki.
Sefiha is a dapper, sprightly man. He smiles broadly and beckons me into the library where we can talk uninterrupted. As with all Greeks, he explains, the crisis has severely affected Thessaloniki’s Jewish community — perhaps even more so since it has to service particular needs. “We have a lot of welfare programmes,” he explains. “Our motto is that ‘we won’t leave any Jew in need.’” We provide care for the elderly in old people’s homes and cover their expenses; and we give out pensions — especially to Holocaust survivors.”
“[As a community] our greatest income comes from rents we receive from some properties we own in the city,” he continues. “Before the crisis things were OK but since the introduction of new measures we have seen a big increase in property taxes. So on the one hand need is increasing and on the other income is decreasing. We have to support all our institutions: the summer camp, the old age home, the elementary school. And then what about the other communities in, say, Larissa or Volos: what are we going to say to them? ‘We don’t care about you because you’re not from Thessaloniki.’ Every Jew in Greece that has a problem looks to us, but who will support us? That’s the question.”
The Jewish community in Thessaloniki commemorates the Holocaust, March 2015
The Jewish community in Thessaloniki commemorates the Holocaust, March 2015 | EPA
With banks closed since late June and capital controls now in place, things have only worsened over the last few weeks. The JCT traditionally gives out some of its welfare payments in cash and has only been able to cover part of its obligations this month; the organization intends to make them up next month when it hopes the banks will reopen. Nonetheless, Safiha remains upbeat: “In some extreme cases, we may even have to end up cooking food for the most vulnerable so they don’t go hungry. Whatever the problem, we will find a way; we won’t leave Jews in need.”
I ask Sefiha about what it’s like to be a Jew in Crisis Greece more generally. According to a May 2014 survey by the U.S. Jewish group, the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), Greece is the most anti-Semitic country in Europe — and indeed the most anti-Semitic country outside the Middle East — with 69 percent of the adult population falling into what it described as “the anti-Semitic category.”
He pauses. “I believe that Greek people hold anti-Jewish stereotypes in large numbers, but they have this stereotype without knowing any Jews. So sometimes when I tell people my name they ask what sort of name that is; I say ‘Jewish’ and they say, ‘but you don’t look like a Jew’!’”
“Parts of The Orthodox Church,” he says, “and I stress only parts, play a role in this. It helps to keep negative stereotypes of Jews alive. In some Sunday sermons the Jews are still a very convenient scapegoat.”
And have things worsened in the crisis? I ask. “I have noticed it, yes,” he replies. “The Jews are once again being used as scapegoats. Sometimes our leaders have to complain. Even [Panos] Kammenos [the Defence Minister and Leader of the Independent Greeks party who govern in coalition with Syriza] went on TV and said that Jews don’t pay taxes. You can prove such statements aren’t true but by then the damage has already been done.”
“They love this topic in Greece: ‘the Jews are behind everything; they have the economic power; they are pulling the strings.’ Some of the more extreme media outlets will claim that previous Greek prime ministers are Jews. They’ll snap a photo of one visiting Yad Vashem and wearing a Kippah and say ‘see he is a Jew.’”
Could the type of anti-Semitic violence seen in France come to Greece, I ask. He is sceptical. “In France you have an Islamic element that we don’t have in Greece, but here we have Golden Dawn, which is undoubtedly a Nazi party. And it’s the third largest party in the Greek parliament, believe it or not.”
The rise of Golden Dawn has been arguably the most disconcerting effect of Greece’s financial crisis. As opposed to other far-right movements in Europe like Marine Le Pen’s Front National, the party barely even bothers to disguise its Nazi ideology (the group’s symbol even closely resembles a Swastika). In the 2015 Greek elections it received 6.3 percent of the vote, and won 17 seats in parliament.
A financial crisis, a vigorous Nazi party and a small minority of Jews: the historical parallels are ominous. “Up to now, Golden Dawn has mostly concerned itself with attacking the immigrants: saying they should be sent home, that the Greek state needs to be cleansed etc.,” Sefiha says. “Jews in Greece haven’t yet experienced any physical assaults. But we’ve had graffiti on cemeteries, the smashing of Jewish memorials. It may be mild, but after the immigrants it will be the Jews next.”
After Greek Prime Minister Alexis Tsipras capitulated to Greece’s creditors and pushed the latest bailout package through the Greek parliament austerity is only going to increase. More people will suffer. Anger will grow. Can things get worse?
“It’s tough,” Sefiha admits. “Golden Dawn could rise even further with the harsh new measures. If we stick to a European course we should be OK. But without a European environment all those who are disappointed will find shelter in Golden Dawn and they will certainly grow. One thing I am sure of: staying in Europe is a guarantee of Jewish safety.”
“As a nation,” he concludes, “we Greeks don’t admit responsible for our mistakes: it’s always [the fault of] external forces or other people. If we don’t overcome this mentality, we will never progress. We have to accept responsibility for our actions.”
Our interview ends. I speak to Safiha’s assistant in her nearby office to obtain some archive photos of the museum as they don’t allow photography inside. To her back is a painting: it shows a crowd of Jews, with yellow stars on their arms, being herded onto a train destined for the death camps. A Nazi soldier looks on implacably. I ask her why she has the painting in her office. “Because an artist donated it to the museum,” she says. But why hang it on the wall behind you? I persist.
“So I don’t have to look at it.”
* * *
Waves lap gently by the quayside. Early evening has taken the edge of the heat. I am in the eastern part of the city to visit the Kounios, a prominent Jewish family. I take the lift up to the third floor of a stylish apartment building. Inside I meet Hella and her son Issy (Isaac). They pour me some cold water and we sit down at their kitchen table. I ask them what I asked Sefiha: what’s it like to be a Jew in Crisis Greece? I mention the ADL survey, which named Greece Europe’s most anti-Semitic country.
“If it is it’s a good thing because then Europe really isn’t anti-Semitic,” says Issy. “It’s really not bad at all being Jewish here. You mostly face ignorance. There aren’t really any incidents of violence. Of course we have the desecration of monuments but in everyday life I’m not scared of saying I’m Jewish — even if I met someone who anti-Semitic I don’t think it would manifest itself in violence.”
“People of my age have no idea of the history of Thessaloniki,” he continues. “They’ll say ‘oh you’re Jewish so you’re from Israel.’ One person insisted that if I was Jewish I wasn’t from Thessaloniki but from Israel. I couldn’t change his mind.”
The mayor of Thessaloniki, Greece, Yannis Boutaris (C) has a piece of paper pinned on him, showing the star of David and the word "Jude", during his inauguration day
Thessaloniki’s mayor, Yannis Boutaris | EPA
Both Issy and his mother are fans of Thessaloniki’s mayor, Yannis Boutaris. When a mayor is elected, they explain, it is typical for a clergyman to come and give a blessing. Boutaris insisted that a rabbi bless him, too. It was a bold statement. He also organized an event to commemorate 70 years since the first transport to Auschwitz. He is well-liked amongst Thessaloniki’s Jews.
“But Greek society is generally not very tolerant,” says Hella. “The younger generation tries to be more so — but when you dig below the surface you see traditional attitudes are at work; they have their prejudices, but they want to learn at least. Social media like Facebook enable people to learn about new things.”
In terms of the crisis, both understandably fear the rise of Golden Dawn. But Issy has a further worry: “It’s not just right-wing extremist parties that are potentially dangerous,” he says. “The center parties are starting to adopt right-wing rhetoric to appeal to voters, like New Democracy [the main opposition party] has done. Even PASOK — when they were still relevant — turned rightwards, especially on the immigrant issue. It’s scary that right-wing rhetoric is becoming mainstream.”
I ask what they think of how Germany, Greece’s leading creditor, is behaving toward the country now. “Over recent decades Germany has tried to rehabilitate its reputation — and it was doing very well,” Hella says. “But recently the Germans have changed a lot: I look at the way they have behaved in the Greek crisis — especially the last agreement — and they are displaying a very inhuman face again.”
Issy agrees: “Greece has made a lot of mistakes — and Germany has made its own mistakes, too. Every country has made mistakes. I’m not a huge fan of relating Germany today with Nazi Germany as it diminishes what they did back then, but you do see them distancing themselves from human suffering again.”
Hella continues: “I understand that a lot of our problems are our own fault. But recently we had the case of the trial of [Oskar Gröning] the accountant of Auschwitz, who was confronted by a survivor in court, who actually hugged him. When a woman who has suffered all this at the hands of the Germans can forgive, then perhaps the Germans should learn to forgive a bit as well.”
We finish our talk and go next door to where Hella’s father, Heinz, lives. He was born in 1927 and was only a teenager when the Germans came. Can you remember the day they put you on the truck to the camps? I ask. “How can I forget,” comes the reply.
“It was 15 March, 1943,” he says. “All the trains from Thessaloniki left from the same place: the old railroad station. I didn’t know where we were going, they never told us. On the contrary, they said: ‘don’t worry, you’ll find good people where you’re going; you will stay with your families, you will not be separated. Just obey the rules and you will have ample food to eat.’”
Heinz was transported together with his parents and his sister. They went directly to Auschwitz. It took eight days. They made only one stop just before the border of Yugoslavia. The conditions in the train were horrific. Eighty people were pushed inside the wagon. Most had to stand as there was no place to sit.
“We were lucky to be part of the first transport with the poor people who only spoke Ladino [a dialect spoken by Sepharadi Jews]. When we arrived at Auschwitz the doors opened, and the SS roared at us to come down. There were three companies of them with machine guns. They started beating us. But no one could understand them. Then the Germans asked if anyone spoke German — and that saved us.”
Heinz’s mother was from the Sudetenland in Germany and the family spoke German at home. Heinz and his family became translators in the camps. “We were beaten, we were starved, but we survived,” he says. “All four of us survived.”
When the family returned home to Thessaloniki they found their house filled with refugees. It took months before they left. Most of the Jews never returned. Their property was taken over by Greeks. Nobody spoke about the Holocaust. But the ghosts still remained.
I ask Heinz if he thinks it could ever be repeated. “The Greek people are not anti-Jewish today,” he replies. “But how many of us are there? We are so few, why would anyone bother?
What, I ask, does he see when he looks at Golden Dawn? “Golden Dawn is the SS,” he replies without hesitation. 109565. The tattooed number from Auschwitz is faded but still clearly visible as it stretches across his lower arm. “The crisis is getting worse but it will be OK…” he adds. “The Greek people love liberty too much.”

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