History of Europe

The Greek soul... Barba Giorgis Taligaros, freedom in Thessaloniki

October this year came with rain. It rained continuously all week. The sky, gray and heavy, laden with clouds from the steam rising from the swollen river, hung low over the mud-soaked village. Axios, the great river, rushed down its waters towards the sea roaring and foaming. In his path, he swept away everything he found on his way:tree trunks, barrels left on the banks, small holes, uprooted rushes and reeds.

It was a few days ago that he had also demolished the small bridge that connected the two sides of the road that went to Thessaloniki. And this was all that was left after the destruction caused by the Turks, as they retreated towards Thessaloniki, after their defeat in the battle of Giannitsa.

Halastra, built on the plain next to the river bank, just before it meets the sea, barely endured this flood, like so many others. The life of this Macedonian village was closely linked with the river. For centuries now they have walked side by side with the beast, in its blessing but also in its anger.

Just outside the village began the canals, which were now overflowing and their waters spread over the surrounding fields and turned them into small lakes, where the gray sky was reflected. And you could see a sky above and a sky below, immersed in the swampy waters. Sky and swamp had become one, joined by the thick waft of mist that sat over the river. The air was thick, soaked with humidity but also with the sweat of the people, the good people of Chalastrina, traveling over the roofs of the adobe houses.

A lifetime of torture, these people, rooted in this land with the heavy black soil that for centuries now was watered by the abundant river, which sometimes flowed singing its waters among the reeds and rushes, and sometimes again became angry, fierce and roaring down the waters his, same beast... But whatever it was, it was always that. Their river. They loved his anger, as well as his song.

Chalastra has been called their village since ancient times, because this was its fate. The river is angry with you, to spoil everything, both inanimate and living and people. The river had a soul. He was a giant. The good element of the place, its soul. Their jobs, their conversations, everything centered on the river. Their river. That morning, it was late October, the barba got up early to go to his shop, to get to work. He had several orders to finish and time was running out.

He dressed hastily in the semi-darkness of the chamber. The cold bit him. The dampness made the covers and boxes look wet. But all of them were ordinary workers, their bodies weakened by both the cold and the hard toil, and they spent their lives in exchange for toil and work, which they considered a good companion of their life. As soon as Barba-Yorgis had saved his clothes, he bent down in the basement, where he could hear his old woman doing housework in the flickering light of the gas lamp, and he said:

-Hey, babe, did you put coffee and sugar in the zembili?

- Yes, old man, they are ready.

He walked lightly down the wooden stairs that creaked from the weather, and headed to the kitchen. He took the zembili from the table, weighed it in his hand, it seemed heavy.

- Coffee and sugar, I said, babe. What else did you put in?

- Some bread, old man, that I kneaded yesterday and some tulumisio.

- Didn't I tell you? I don't want an offering. You're not listening to me, I'm bam.

And muttering, he took the zembili and went out from below. The air was heavy, laden with the smells coming from the river, from the reeds and reeds that were being dug into the water. The pencil sky. But the rain had stopped. A gray metallic light had begun to flicker in the east. He set off for his workshop, trudging along the muddy road. When he arrived, he stood for a while and looked around at the woods that had been wet from so many rains. They now wanted double work in cutting, planing, and even nailing, so drenched as they were. But George didn't think twice.

He was not afraid of work. He leaned the zembili on the bench and began to carry the boards to a dry place. A couple of plots were half-finished, but he had orders he hadn't started yet. A cart for Grava. The old man wanted it big, big, strong. Gravas had a car, but he wanted this new one for his daughter's wedding, to carry the dowries to the groom's house. He wanted it, therefore, beautiful, scripted, camp work.

He lit a low fire, put on the kettle, brewed a brownie, noisily took a strong puff. He sighed deeply with pleasure, "On the stone to grow." This was George's weakness. Coffee. His only company at work and his rest. "On the stone to grow," he was often heard to say. And he immediately threw himself into work. A worthy craftsman, a strong eye, a sure hand, Giorgis had a name in Chalastra and the surrounding villages for the carts he made, his daligs and plavas, which were definitely drafts and plowed the river winter and summer.

He worked with passion, speechless, with only his kettle and coffee pot for company. But that day he didn't have time to get ready, when an unusual noise began to be heard in the streets of the village as far as outside his shop. He looked up a couple of times without paying attention. But at one point he saw men in military garb rushing past, gesticulating nervously and talking loudly in excitement.

He gave up planing and went outside. He also saw other villagers undressing and heading towards the river. He followed them until, as he drew nearer, he saw something he had never seen before:an army—a great army of Hellenes, gathered on the banks of the river, where before the last floods had been the storm that swept the river and overthrew it.

The Greek army, advancing victoriously from Western Greece where it had liberated one city after another from the Turks, was now marching towards Thessalonica, but the river blocked its way. There was no other road to Thessaloniki and the gyofiri was destroyed. New bridges had to be built for the army to cross, but this work required time and time did not exist.

The Bulgarians were marching from the east towards Thessaloniki and were already close. One or two days' journey, the information said, they were from the beautiful city, which seemed to be waking up from its long sleep and was preparing to receive whichever of the two allies entered first and took its key from the Turkish commander, Taksin Pasha. Hence the embarrassment and nervousness among the staff. Another enemy was the river, which had to be defeated in order to progress further, But how?

They were destroying plans that were more time-consuming than others. The Mechanic in Effervescence. He could make bridges. But plans had to be made, materials had to be found, collected and the execution started. But all this needed time and alas... there was no time. The minutes ticked by torturously.

George could see the embarrassment, he heard the conversations over there as he stood and thought:"The river is not an enemy, it is a friend; get a little angry, but calm down. It doesn't block their way. Yes, this is how it will work, it will bend down and become a way for them to pass. How; Well, it's not difficult. In a day or two he may have them through. Not one, but two more, so that they pass faster".

The officers laughed a bitter laugh. Who the hell is he and what nonsense is he telling them? Can't he see that they have no time to waste? But he also talks to them about serious work. He wants to help them. Do they want a bridge? They will have it. Just let him do what he knows and help him only where he asks. The officers looked at each other. Time was passing by... So and so they were lost. What more did they have to lose? So they called him, among them, to tell them clearly what he has in mind.

- We need pits, he tells them, as many pits as the village has and those that are still around the river. And kara; all the kara of the village. We will weld them over the river, from one bank to the other and we will lay logs on top to make a bridge for the army to cross. I have wood. But another will be needed. There are many warehouses in the village. They will all open, to pave the way for you to pass and go to hell. Get in first, get ahead of the Bulgarians. It's a day's work.

They listened thoughtfully. It wasn't crazy talk. They were measured conversations. They had sense. And the man seemed to know what he was talking about. They asked a couple of provosts:What kind of person is he? Is he mocking them? The answer reassured them:

-Good craftsman. Since he said it, he will do it.

That's it. An order was given. It will be what George the Taligaros said. The soldiers must do whatever he asks. They all went to work.

All the wood in the village was collected. Large, small logs, from warehouses, from houses, from workshops. The warehouses and houses of the village were emptied. They all collapsed near the river. George started the work. Silently, with tight lips, full of will and stubbornness, he tied one cart to another, one wagon to another and moved on.

The waterway was getting longer and before the next day dawned, the first bridge was ready. He immediately started work to build a second one with all the wood that was left.

He worked all day until the carts, the wagons and the wrecks were saved. Then George asked for barrels and boats and painters to be brought from the houses. Every household had something wooden in their homes. The barrels and boats were collected. The second road got longer and longer until it too ended. The two bridges were ready over the river. By the time it got dark on the second day, the entire army had crossed to the opposite bank and was marching at full speed the eighteen to twenty kilometers that separated it from the beautiful city. On the other side, from the east, another army was marching at its own speed, with the same longing towards Thessaloniki. It was also one of those unique duels in history, where within a few hours or even minutes of the hour, the fate of a place and a people is played out.

It was dawn on the 26th of October, the day of Saint Demetrius, when the Greek army appeared to flood the plain north of Thessaloniki, at the Key, the Bridge, Agios Athanasios.

A stone's throw from Derveni and the Bulgarians. But the Greeks were the first to set foot on the blessed soil of the Bride of the North. Thessaloniki was Greek. On the day of Saint Demetrius, its Patron Saint. The key to the city was symbolically handed over to the Greek General Staff officers Dousmanis and Metaxas by Taksin Pasha, at the Topsin villa in the north of Thessaloniki.

Giorgos Taligaros was awarded a Medal of Outstanding Deeds. But the good craftsman did not know about medals and decorations. He did what his mind and heart told him to do. His Greek heart. They did it, it goes, it's over. The medal was a piece of paper that he didn't even know how to read. Tradition says that when the rains started again in the village, somewhere in a swamp half-buried in the mud, a paper with large calligraphic letters and many important signatures and seals was constantly found. And as long as it got wet, the ink faded and the letters faded. And the paper, stuck whole in the mud and disappeared.

SOURCE:CLASS OF 1971 ALUMNI ASSOCIATION