UNDERGRADUATE PAGE
Easter• in Athens: 1949
By RENFORD BAMBROUGH (St. John's College, Cambridge) ANDLES for the Resurrection ! Candles for the Resur- rection ! " It is Easter Saturday in Athens, and in Metropolis Square at 11 p.m. an impatient crowd is gathering to wait for the great event which is due at midnight.
From my stand at the junction of Metropolis Street with the square I can look along the steps of the Metropolis itself, or up to the Acropolis, where the floodlit Parthenon presides placidly over an alien rite. In the middle of the Square is a huge canopied platform, decorated with Greek flags, blue and white bunting and festive flowers and lights. Between the platform and the crowd-barriers is a wide empty space, which forces all but the first arrivals back into the mouths of the numerous streets that open on to the square. The cries of the candle-sellers, harsh and loud lilce all Greek noises, make with the monotone of the mourning bell, and the sung dirge coming faintly through the cathedral windows, a tense disharmony which the mutterings of the crowd do their best to muffle.
Yesterday the street lamps wore black crepe for the funeral procession and the entombment. The Epitaphios, or coffin of Christ, lay in state in the cathedral, elaborately covered and canopied with flowers, to be seen and kissed by the faithful. On Good Friday evening I watched the procession from the roof of the Tameion building in University Street, the headquarters of the American Mission for Aid to Greece. A mile away I could see the thousand-foot rock of Lycabettus, with its chaj3e1 of St. George from which another procession, looking with its candles like a fiery dragon as it wound down the zig-zag path of this fairyland fortress, had come to divert us as we waited. Around me Greeks held their long narrow candles, expectant, with matches and lighters ready on the parapet.
At nine o'clock we heard behind us the dull sound of a military band playing a brassy version of Chopin's Marche Funebre, and we turned our eyes along a side street to see the procession moving slowly through Constitution Square on the first stage of 'a round tour which would bring it at last directly beneath us. It took more than thirty minutes to pass. As the head of the procession reached us, spectators on the roofs, at the windows and in the streets lit their candles, although the procession was beaded, not by the Epitaphios, nor by the Archbishop, but by a company of infantry with rifles at the slope.
A band followed, the first four or five playing the Marche Funebre in different times but with one single impressiveness and sincerity. Between them marched contingents of police, soldiers, and sailors, with rifles and sub-machine guns ; troops of boy scouts and girl guides carrying banners ; formations of maidens in national costume, or dressed in blue and white and arranged to look, from above like Greek flags ; choirs singing beautiful songs of mourning ; General Papagos, Commander-in-Chief, representing King Paul, and pre- ceded and followed by the largest military contingents of all, and by the shouts and cheers of the crowds ; the Cabinet and a group of M.P.s ; and at last the Epitaphios itself, and the ecclesiastical core of what had looked like a military procession.
Before the bier walked a choir singing the Virgin's lament over her dead Son: the acolytes with torches, and finally the lofty, priestly figure of Archbishop Damaskinos, ex-Regent, ex-wrestler, impressive with black beard and splendid in archiepiscopal robes. Up and down the sides of the procession moved police officers with walkie-talkie machiges, endeavouring to keep the units in step, and the bands, if possible, in time. The column grew as it passed through each street, and spectators became walking mourners, following the Epitaphios back to the cathedral. The self-denial of Lent had reached its climax in this day of fasting and lamenting.
But now, in Metropolis Square, we have less than an hour to wait for release: release from Lenten restrictioitis, release from the bondage of death. At 11.15 a ground bass of tramping feet is added to the orchestra of noises, as infantry and police march into the square, perform some squad-drill round the dais, and then fill the open space in packed formation. They are our guarantee that the Resurrection (anastasis) will not be the occasion of insur- rection (epanastasi). The mourning maidens of yesterday, more gaily dressed, encircle the dais, with floral missiles at the ready. Bands tune up for the music of triumph: a distant church practises already its peal of joy.
The chief witnesses begin to arrive. As each car draws up and adds its ambassador, general or politician to the platform party, all other noise is drowned in the order and execution of a resounding "Present arms ! " and the cheers of Athenians for their heroes. Each dignitary is provided with a candle and a place of honour on the dais. Admirals look nervous in the H.M.S. ' Pinafore ' costume they have not worn since last Easter. Foreign officers and diplomats look puzzled at the unfamiliar style and scale of a Greek church parade. Flower maidens form a ring on the platform, chattering constantly and smiling prematurely. Fifteen minutes to go: and now the great doors open, and youths with five-foot torches line the Cathedral steps. The dirge grows louder as the choir comes out into the square, but is still silenced by the reception given to each official car. The Archbishop and General Papagos arrive together, the one from his cathedral, the other from his car: the crowd excels itself.
During the last solemn minutes of the ceremony the voice of the Archbishop predominates, always muffled by the crowd's eagerness, sometimes cancelled by its greeting to a late-comer. His candle, lit at the altar, burns unaccompanied. He chants and reads: the choir sings dolefully. The cathedral clock booms a significant mid- night. From neighbouring churches we hear the peals of other people's bells, and from all quarters the noise of other people's fireworks, other people's shouting. The Archbishop and the choir go on chanting. The Resurrection is due, but the King is late
The crowd, silent with impatience, becomes a congregation. Foreigners are perplexed and embarrassed. Then a dozen motor- cycles shatter the new silence, roaring through the square and out again, followed by the royal car, which stops at the dais. Arms are presented fortissimo. The worshippers become _subjects, and acclaim their king con brio. Twelve more motor-cycles make a noisy rearguard. The King accepts a candle, and takes his place at the right of Damaskinos. Before the noise dies, the Archbishop has announced: "Christos aneste . . . Christ is risen!" Thousands of hoarse throats renew their efforts. Behind me and in all the side streets small arms and fireworks join in the rejoicing: multicoloured rockets compete with the Doric white of the Parthenon. The Arch- bishop lights the King's candle from his own, and the altar flame passes from King to Cabinet, from Cabinet to General Staff, and on in ripples to the shore of the crowd, until a few disappointed outsiders fumble for matches in despair.
When the maidens have spent their last flowers, and the Arch- bishop and the choir have chanted their way back into the cathedral, the glorious company retires in reverse order, from the King, still sandwiched between motor-cycles, to the last junior minister. While arms are still being presented at ten-second intervals, we turn into Metropolis Street, which is perilous with crackers, and make for the restaurant in Constitution Square where we have already seen the notice, "Ham and eggs immediately after the Resurrection."
At every table a joyful party is breaking the Lenten fast on plates of ham crowned with "eye eggs." Their candles, stuck to the sides of tables, still burn in readiness to carry the flame of the Resurrec- tion to every home. "Christos aneste ! " is everybody's greeting, and the reply, " A nesten alethos. . . . Truly He is risen." As we walk home in the early hours of Easter Sunday, in every street we meet happy Athenians, nursing still their precious candle-flames, and we wonder how many of them will be up in time to see the Evzones of the Palace Guard break their coloured breakfast eggs, or to hear the Easter gun salute from Lycabettus.
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