Walking on Air by George the Greek: A Gentle Exposé

By George Livieratos

This book is a story about the
life of George Livieratos, whose success personified the American Dream. It is
a story of an adventurous life filled with endless involvements. As a young
child in Greece he becomes an orphan during World War II when both of his
parents were killed during a German bombing attack. Joining the merchant
marines George traveled around the world and enjoyed the experiences of many
cultures. At the age of 21 George immigrated to the United States. After 35
years of hard work and a lot of good times he reaches~ a financial plateau of
rich and fame. He had become the Chairman of one of the fastest growing penny
stock companies on Wall Street. In 1983 George became one of the first targets
of the United States Organized Crime Task Force. This action brought him and
his family into the lowest level of human despair, when ultimately led to the
death of his son and the destruction of his financial empire. The story is very
exciting, it tells how he made his deals and can help to mature students of
business overnight. His deal making shows a simple way to do business using
common sense and golden rules. George is a capitalist with a liberal heart. It
takes courage and power to face the forces of evil, to defy them, provoke them,
and ignore their ruthless power. The transcripts of his trials prove his
courage and statements. This book tells how he stood up for his principles of loyalty,
pride and self -respect. Sacrificing himself and
taking a fall. Discover how the resolve of this Greek immigrant's mind and soul
empowered him to defy incarceration and even death from his compelled
oppressors. In 1986 when he was incarcerated and refused bail, pending his
appeal, his morale remained as furious as ever. This story details how the U.S.
Justice Department prosecuted and convicted Mr. Livieratos and his
co-defendants. The story indicates that interpretation; politics and selective
application of the law can lead to the conviction of the best intentioned,
while protecting the potentially less desirable. His description of the Federal
Prison System is in such detail and simplicity that it can be used by inmates
as a Federal Prison manual. His characterization of governmental regulatory
agencies depicts them as large bureaucratic quagmires, which complicates and
destroys the interest of the victimized citizens. Although considered
outrageous by some, he provides opinions on how he thinks organized crime and
the mafia was a better alternative to the current drug infested street crime.
His human instincts will open the public's eyes and hearts for a better society
based on love and care for all humans. The author hopes this book will wake up
Americans to strive for equal justice for all, regardless of your social
status, color, or religion. The Authors main point is to expose his
characterization of the hypocrisy of government officials who don't care about
the people, but only the power they posses. His colorful sexual encounters and
lustful desires add some levity to an otherwise tragic Greek epic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 26, 2003
• ISBN: 9781414039794

George Livieratos

"Walking On Air" was written by George Livieratos. George prepared this book, his first book, while in prison in 1987. The majority of his writing in "Walking On Air" is based on actual events from his very colorful and controversial life. He was born sometime during World War II, approximately 1937, in Athens, Greece. He was a leader in Penny Stocks while working with deals on Wall Street and initiated what turned out be a very controversial one-penny per share stock, Worldwide Family Restaurants. Having become a target of most federal law enforcement agencies in the United States, he was convicted in 1987 for a stock swindle involving the Lasor Arm Corporation. However, George has always maintained his innocence. In another case, involving the Federal Flushing Bank, George found himself forced to plead guilty. George, along with his partner Jilly Rizzo, an alleged Frank Sinatra bodyguard, was convicted. Among other things, George has been accused as being an associate of organized crime by a federal court, although George maintains it is the courts opposition to his association with people in power.

Book preview

Contents

BOOK SYNOPSIS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

MY BEGINNING

GROWING UP IN GREECE

MY FIRST DISAPOINTMENT

BOLIVIA CONNECTION

BRASS INTERNATIONAL

MERCHANT MARINE

THE FEDERAL FLUSHING SCHEME

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

This book is dedicated to the memory of my son, Georgie, a4nd all of the oppressed people on our earth.

BOOK SYNOPSIS

This book is a story about the life of George Livieratos, whose success personified the American Dream. It is a story of an adventurous life filled with endless involvements. As a young child in Greece he becomes an orphan during World War II when both of his parents were killed during a German bombing attack. Joining the merchant marines George traveled around the world and enjoyed the experiences of many cultures. At the age of 21 George immigrated to the United States. After 35 years of hard work and a lot of good times he reached a financial plateau of rich and fame. He had become the Chairman of one of the fastest growing penny stock companies on Wall Street. In 1983 George became one of the first targets of the United States Organized Crime Task Force. This action brought him and his family into the lowest level of human despair, when ultimately led to the death of his son and the destruction of his financial empire. The story is very exciting, it tells how he made his deals and can help to mature students of business overnight. His deal making shows a simple way to do business using common sense and golden rules. George is a capitalist with a liberal heart. It takes courage and power to face the forces of evil, to defy them, provoke them, and ignore their ruthless power. The transcripts of his trials prove his courage and statements. This book tells how he stood up for his principles of loyalty, pride and self-respect, sacrificing himself and taking a fall. Discover how the resolve of this Greek immigrant’s mind and soul empowered him to defy incarceration and even death from his compelled oppressors. In 1986 when he was incarcerated and refused bail, pending his appeal, his morale remained as furious as ever. This story details how the U.S. Justice Department prosecuted and convicted Mr. Livieratos and his co-defendants. The story indicates that interpretation; politics and selective application of the law can lead to the conviction of the best intentioned, while protecting the potentially less desirable. His description of the Federal Prison system is in such detail and simplicity that it can be used by inmates as a Federal Prison manual. His characterization of governmental regulatory agencies depicts them as large bureaucratic quagmires, which complicates and destroys the interest of the victimized citizens. Although considered outrageous by some, he provides opinions on how he thinks organized crime and the mafia was a better alternative to the current drug infested street crime. His human instincts will open the public’s eyes and hearts for a better society based on love and care for all humans. The author hopes this book will wake up Americans to strive for equal justice for all, regardless of your social status, color, or religion. The Authors main point is to expose his characterization of the hypocrisy of government officials who don’t care about the people, but only the power they posses. His colorful sexual encounters and lustful desires add some levity to an otherwise tragic Greek epic.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

There are several reasons I decided to write my autobiography, however it took over two decades to make the final decision. I believe that every individual is comprised of two personalities. On one side we all think and act without exposing our thoughts to society. On the other side we talk and act openly according to society’s expectations. I came to the conclusion a long time ago that the first side, the private side, is the sincere one and the second side is a hypocritical one.

I always strived to live my life in a sincere way, but in order to protect the many innocent people involved in the course of my life; I have sometimes been forced to comply with some of Society’s hypocritical standards. Applying this rationale to the dilemma of writing my memoirs, without hurting innocent people, I have decided to label Walking on Air as fiction with a question mark.

I was born fearless of anyone or anything, including death, but also I was born a very sensitive man. I have always been concerned about the feelings of the people around me, even some of the bad ones. So I feel free now to write about real events in my life by changing the names of the others involved. I will leave it up to the reader to guess the truth and validity of the book. I realize that the thousands of people who know me will easily recognize the true facts.

The main reasons for writing my memoirs is to excite and educate the readers; to defend myself against the law enforcement prosecutors and to satisfy myself with the creation of a beautiful book. It will make the reader realize the hypocrisy that exists in every level of our lives.

I was not educated in the United States so it is very difficult for me to write a book in the language, which I learned, on the streets. Although this appears to be a disadvantage I don’t regard it so, since I want most to reach the people on the street whom most of which are represented by people like myself.

This book relates the experiences of every aspect of my whole life. Having truly lived this exciting life no research was necessary, other than compiling information from the court records of my criminal cases. Also in this book, I am trying to express my strong opinions about the existing social and political situations that concern me.

Although I consider myself a common, humble person, my stories and events will show a tremendously adventurous life. Since I was a teenager I have averaged only a few hours of sleep per night. I utilized the rest of the time for entertainment, adventure and everyday activities. With so much time on my hands it will be easy for the reader to understand how I was able to live this busy lifestyle and experience so vast variety of situations. So ride with me, with an open mind and great understanding and I will try to guide you in every sentence and page so you will be able to re-live my life and taste the experiences that I did.

Finally, the title of this book is Walking on Air because that is the story of our lives. We run, we walk, we climb and we descend, but no matter how carefully we do it, we cannot achieve a permanent state of success, because each and every one of us Walks on Air. Even when we are temporarily drunk from an ultimate high of achievement of our dream, even then, the ultimate fate of our universe, our death erases our dreams. So life, no matter what quality it is, should be enjoyed every moment and let every experience you meet in your walk sooth your mind, soul and love.

I also decided to write my book the way I talk because my feelings will be more genuine. I signed this book George the Greek because society gave me this flamboyant name, without choice, as result of my activities, my nationality and as convenience of my long Greek last name. But I love it! Although I was raised Christian (Greek Orthodox), after my experiences, and especially after a major personal tragedy, I molded and reformed my original religious upbringing and beliefs to a new personal opinion. What I believe in, without doubt and fear of God is that when we die we don’t go to Paradise or Hell. No human religion has convinced me about its dogma. Our life on earth in comparison with mother Universe’s age and magnitude is non-existent. Our deeds, dreams, love, hate are leaves blown by strong winds in all directions with no meaning. Good or bad, hot or cold, life or death, are all the same to humans. I am not an atheist. While I respect my parent’s God and choose right from wrong, life over eternal death, I have no doubt that there is not life after death. It is horrible to come to this conclusion, it is destructive to believe that all of us will be destroyed and become dust, it is heartbreaking to kill the burning hope and desire to join our loved ones who have already passed away. This is the reason that I concluded, against my human desire for life after death, that our lives are nothing more than Walking On Air. So in case I am right my friends, walk on air, but enjoy every single moment of the way.

Life… it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing

Mac Beth.

Recommendation letter from Oliver Stone’s company.

September 28, 1993

Mr. George Livieratos

P.O. Box 938

Orange, NJ 07051

Dear George:

Thank you for submitting your book, WALKING ON AIR, for Oliver Stone’s consideration. Your stone is one of both triumph and injustice and has the makings of a potentially intriguing project. Unfortunately, it is not a story which compels us to commit the passion and energy necessary to move this forward.

We thank you for thanking of Ixtlan and wish you the best of luck in setting WALKING ON AIR up elsewhere.

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MY BEGINNING

Newark Federal Court, July 2, 1987. This Jury after a short deliberation gave their verdict: Guilty. I turned my head instantly in the direction of my poor son and daughter. That moment’s picture of both of them will never weaken in my mind. They were shocked and destroyed. My son’s face was red and lost. His tears were running behind his eyeglasses, his mouth got tight and he stared at me with a silent message of his despair. He held both hands together tightly in front of him magnifying the stiffness of his body by this unexpected injustice. My daughter was, as always, calm and controlled staring with sweet sadness and mental support. The prosecutors were moving to positions of celebration shaking hands with each other and the FBI agents. The defense lawyers attacked with desperation for a last minute motion for bail, pending sentencing of their defendants along with emergency motions to correct the wrongs of the trial itself. Judge Lechner with a mean, red face denied all motions. Within seconds, the US Marshals chained us up and refused to allow me to even wave to my kids. I was ordered to turn around and face the wall while the chains were put on my wrists, belly and legs. My agony and passions steamed my brain and explosions of feelings and thoughts were bursting in my brain. I was lead away outside the courtroom to a holding bullpen and locked in a dirty cell for processing. I found myself alone when the Marshall locked the cell doors. I looked around the cell’s bars, the exposed dirty toilet and the bare wooden bench, the graphite covered gray walls and I panicked. I suddenly realized that I was locked up like an animal by the system, my whole life was attacked and destroyed, my dependents and my loved ones were left alone in the jungle of society facing survivorship without the means to defend themselves, because of their sheltered life caused by my protective care.

Claustrophobia overwhelmed my anger. My entire powerful style weakened and crumpled. I sat on the end corner of the bench away from the door, I leaned my head back against the gray roach infested wall, closed my eyes and I let my mind to take me back, way back to where it all began:

It was sometime near 1940, 1 recall my first conscience of my existence. It is a memory very uncertain, fragile and painful every single time it came to my mind. A little masonry house some place in Athens, a beautiful woman standing in the room. She had long black hair and white skin. She is crying hysterically as she embraces a man dressed in an army uniform, he is very upset and he seemed helpless to calm her down. He looked down at her red face, because there was nothing to do other than let her cry from his eminent departure to the front lines of the War. This is the first memory of my life and from this moment my life begins.

The years that went by could not change, erase or clarify this scene. I was approximately three years old at that time, I was very upset and silent and after watching the young couple experiencing their last moments of their life together I sensed next to me my little sister, probably two years old, crying. I remember, I turned around, took her little hand and walked slowly toward the front door with tears in my eyes and a very painful feeling inside my chest and brain because I felt unable to help my beautiful young mother’s feelings, my young father’s despair and my baby sister’s cries for attention, We walked outside the little house and crossed the front yard to the street. We must walked slowly together, holding hands, a couple hundred feet or more. I was upset about the family’s tragedy and I was at the same time feeling a very powerful responsibility for my mother and little sister’s protection of their world. It is so incredible how a little child at that age could feel so tall and mature even without ever having experienced a similar situation or had any kind of knowledge.

Suddenly, the sirens start ringing with a horrible loud noise. It was the first time in my memory ever to recall such noise. I got scared and shaken. I stopped, took my little sister and embraced her. I looked her in the eyes and I stayed idle leaning on the exterior fence wall of a neighbor’s house. I slowly started walking with her back towards our little house, scared and wondering what was taking place. Just as we saw the front of the house, the skies got dark and thundering and right that moment the house exploded. I only remember an animal fear with no thoughts. We were thrown on the ground by the shock of the explosions from the bombing. My two young parents were killed, my mother’s despair for eminent separation was answered and she stayed united with my soldier father eternally. The tears of fear there were repeated time after time to me but now tears of sadness of my fate’s developments. A few moments of my life’s beginning, left scars in my emotional world that will last until I die. What a tragedy, how different than an average individuals beginning. I continued to recall these early events with fog in my eyes and mind, the scenes come stronger and stronger, the sadness and fear becomes apathy and helplessness. These memories continued, recalling my sister and I, physically unhurt. After unknown time we slowly got up all dirty from the debris and dust and started dragging our little bodies away from our house. The sky was full of planes, debris and demonic voices. It was constant rain of burning wood and objects falling around us from the bombing and explosions. We walked for moments, hours or days to the unknown, searching for something silently, something like food, our house, our parents, something like love and our mother’s care and embrace, something like a star where life does not begin like that. My little sister was very weak and she was constantly crying softly. She said nothing other than constant asking for our mother. We were stumbling on dead people blocking every step of our way, the streets were full of bodies torn in pieces bombed buildings and people running in panic. The streets looked like back alleys of big brick factory buildings with black walls and me and my little sister (I do not remember her name) we kept walking. We kept dragging our little feet and skimpy bodies between all these horrible obstructions. I can go on forever describing these memories of my beginning, but I will end it now because I cannot stand the pain in my heart and soul remembering this part of my life for even a few more pages. After an undisclosed time since the bombing and kill of our mother and father, the authorities of the city of Athens or some civilian found me laying on the streets half dead and unconscious with my little sister’s body lifeless embraced with mine. She was not strong enough to stay away from our mother. She joined her and my young soldier father in the heavens or any place of the universe that our loved ones go when they die. I suffer a lot for the three of them and I suffer for every innocent human’s pain and hurt feelings. I did not even remember her name or how her little face looked, but I will love them as strong forever and I will care for any human who needs care and help. It seems all the suffering and pain worsened when I grew older.

I was placed in a hospital and I was treated for tuberculosis. I recall sleeping in a huge ward with other little kids. I remember a funny smell of alcohol and bedpans and remember how skinny we all were. The Government was in trouble because of the way they fed us honey and weight us everyday nude. Even then I was embarrassed to stand in nude in front of the nurses. I remember how sweet all the nurses were. Sometime after a long stay in the hospital I was placed in an orphanage. I assume I stayed in the hospital over a year because I recall my first day in the orphanage I was about five years old. I did not like it there. The hospital had caring nurses, who provided attention, hugging and kisses, and somehow took care of my mother’s absence, but the orphanage was over crowded and the people who took care of us were few. So I was sad and lost. I must have stayed there a few months but all of that time left a big blank in my mind. One evening in the orphanage a middle-aged man came to me and told me quietly that he was going to take me with him. That night he took me away from the other orphans and put on me a nice hand knit warm sweater and he told me that he would take me to a house where some people would give me caramels and chocolates. I was emotionless since the tragedy with my family. Even then I was not afraid of the unknown because I had my whole world shattered, so my apathy that followed, even until now, could be transformed to fearlessness of everything, even death. After some business dealings with one of the orphanage’s help, he took me secretly from a window in the dark, and left in the brisk night for my unknown destination. We walked from tree to tree the distance between the main building and the outside gate and with no other incidence, we went to a little truck and we traveled for long time in the night. I fell asleep in my seat. He woke me up and after he hid the truck behind a building, we walked to a new location. I was awake and uneasy now. Something inside me was feeling strange, I questioned him about how much more time it would take to get to our destination. He kept telling me soon. Sometime after we left the truck, he saw a roadblock of German patrol and he fell to the ground and pulls me down next to him. I was cold and tired, disappointed. I wanted so much to receive the chocolate and get warm. I also had an expectation of something that would soothe my apathy and lack of care, by one or two or even three persons. My loss of my father, mother and baby sister brought to my soul, an attraction for fulfillment of care and love by a small group not a large group of people such as the hospital or the orphanage situations.

We crawled on our hands, feet and knees in some field of cauliflowers and other vegetables. After a short time, we arrived in a row of seven nice townhouses. He lifted me up, straightened out my clothes, cleaned my hands and knees with a handkerchief after he wet it with his spit and told me that we were there. We walked to the third house from the corner. He made me sit on the top marble step, he reminded me about the caramels and chocolate and he told me to tell the people who will answer the door that my name was Yoyos is the baby name for George in Greek. Then he rang the doorbell and he ran away in the dark night, leaving me alone again in the unknown. It took a long time for the door to be answered, it seemed a century. My little head was confused. I was there sitting in the cold marble step, with my bare legs. The only contact to my uneasy security in the orphanage ran away without an explanation. I did not know where the orphanage was, if it had a name, or a town or even a Country. I was like a puppy with sad eyes lost in the strange cold night. The door opened very slowly and I looked up from my seat on the step and my cute, serious face searched for good signs in the new faces I was staring at.

A blonde woman in her forties and two tall men looked at me for a few moments, grabbed me fast and pulled me inside the expensive nice house. They shut the heavy iron door fast, but carefully enough not to create noise.

They took me to a large room in the back of this nice house. It was first time that I was in a house since my own little house, which was destroyed. In this new room were another ten men gathered around a radio listening carefully the low sound of the unit. When I was brought in, everybody turn toward me with curiosity and annoyance for the interruption of their listening. The blonde woman asked me my name; she lifted me, held me and was kissing me constantly. She was excited. One of the tall men who opened the door was next to her looking at me observing me like I was from another planet.

These two people were my new parents until their death in 1978, over 30 years later. I never knew how I got to them. I never knew if they had stolen me from the orphanage. I will never know if they paid money to get me. One thing I do know, they raised me with extreme care and love until they passed away. With all the love and care they gave me, I still cried night every night over my natural father’s and my baby sister’s tragedy. My adopted mother’s name was Katina and my poor adopted father’s name was Spiros. I loved them more than my natural parents because I had plenty of time to be with them and because of my natural family’s unfair destruction gifted me with endless love

GROWING UP IN GREECE

The night that I was left at the doorstep of the nice townhouse was my last night of uncertainty malnutrition or hunger and fears of my first tragic years of my life. Next morning, I woke up in a nice warm bed covered with several handmade colorful blankets and big quilted pillows. It was a beautiful warm feeling. The Athenian friendly sun was all over that house. Katina the lady that almost drowned me in kisses and hugs had spend all night preparing for me a two piece cotton short suit and even a blouse from her own clothes. She was waiting next to me with admiration observing me with love and care. When I opened my eyes slowly, I stared at her shyly and happy. I was sensing the coming of better times. The room where my low cute bed was was her living room and my bed was a big wooden box used to store the household linens, blankets and other household articles of knitted materials. It had no mattress other than heavy woolen blankets but I was tucked in with several decorated hand made bright colored pillows. My whole side against the wall was lined up with these pillows and the other side of the bed the fluffy warm woolen blanket was tucked in, under the under laying blankets creating a tight embrace of my skinny little tortured body.

I was so happy of the bright sun flooding the interior of the room creating a holiday event especially perfumed with gardenia, jasmine and other exotic smells from the flowers inside the house and invading from the several huge open windows, from the gardens. She took me in her arms with kisses and gave me a bath in a big metal tub. She was boiling big pots of water in the stove and mixing them with cold water to achieve a temperature that my young body would comfortable accept. I was very embarrassed with all this care while in the nude, but I was content. After a long process of bathing, she sat me on a straw chair and dried me, dressed me with snugly clothes, made just for me. Meanwhile, the house was like a carnival with a heavy traffic of friends and neighbors to look over her new arrival], mostly young girls and ladies. A photographer was running in and out the house looking busily for the right spot with the right background for the first picture of my whole life. I was the protagonist in a very happy, beautiful magic dream. My whole life’s ambitiousness, love and character were formulated that single day.

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The photographer finally found the desirable spot for me to pose. The whole noisy group followed me and the photographer to the tiled floor patio in the back of the kitchen, facing the jungle looking backyard full with flowers, vines, fruit trees and jasmine plants growing wild all around the house all the way to he red ceramic French tiled roof. He placed me next to a big ceramic pot and snapped, after a long pause, my first picture. Just looking this picture, almost fifty years later, you can see on my face, my excitement and happiness. I resemble with a third world country poor native child who several non-profit organization publicize on TV advertisement in order to raise funds for their cause. This picture next to the big pot with the red hot pepper plant is my most favorite picture of my young years.

Even that day I remember cautiously questions from all these people bombarding Katina, how I got there. Katina was giving them all kinds of answers and I recalled each one was different than the other. I suspected that a conspiracy was taking place and I was the innocent victim, but I was happy I did not mind it at all. I heard her saying that I was lost and somebody found me and brought me to her. I knew very well I was not lost, but I kept my mouth shut and I was keep smiling, like a wise sophisticated old man. After several hours of exhaustive attention and after constant feeding with all kinds of homemade sweets, chocolates and milk. I must gain a ton in a single day. By mid-afternoon, she sent everybody away and took me back to my bed, undressed me and packed me again in, now too hot covers, in order for me to take my standard Greek siesta. She kissed me another million times and after I pretended I was falling asleep, she quietly walked out the room taking with her a lot flowers in big old fashion dark brass and copper vases. She also closed the long shutters of the windows. That siesta was the first and last of my life. I was too excited to sleep. My little mind, like a computer, was going wild with photographic speed of thought and questions with nobody to answer them.

My main worry was if all this happenings were a temporary situation or a permanent one. I loved it so much, especially the celebrity’s attention towards me that I wished never to end for the rest of my life. I stayed awake staring the closed dark window shutters thinking deeply. The door finally opened slowly and the tall man, Katina and a very old skinny lady, all wriggled with rimless seeing thick eyeglasses, walked in the room quietly. My face frowned with worry. The old lady looked like a mean witch. She was bone skinny, dressed in black long clothes and her face resembled a scull with her hair straight back and parted in the center with a round big bun in the rear of her head. They pulled chairs in front of my bed and Katina sat next to me on the bed, she lifted me by the arms so I sit up and pulled a couple of pillows behind my back for support and she got serious for first time, she told me the following as per my best recollection, Yoyo, my name is Katina, this is Spiros, my husband and this is Kaliopi his mother. Now on you will live with us. I am you mother, Spiros is your father and Kaliopi is your Yaya (grandmother, in Greek). If you are a good boy, you will have everything you want as long as we can give it to you. She stopped and the three of them were staring at me with a gentle look analyzing my reaction. I start crying and I put my face in my hands. I was so uncomfortable from the feeling of strong emotions, which overflowed my heart and my whole chest. Flushes of my little sister, dragging her little body in the streets after the bombing of our little house and the death of my real parents. I felt explosions inside me. I felt sadness, guilt and mad passion for the unknown. All my premature maturity melted away that moment and I got feelings of injustice done to my parents and baby dead from hunger, sister. Katina embraced me. I threw my body in her arms chucking from the overwhelmed strong feelings. After a few moments, I revived my soberness and sophistication of a good young man. I wiped my burning tears and I asked for a glass of water and I smiled again at them with an innocent, peaceful look. It took less than 24 hours to adjust my new change in life in Katrina’s home. It is funny, all my life I adjust immediately to any change, except when some earth-shattering event, which took, place not long ago, the death of my son. I will never adjust to this one until the end of my existence.

Spiros, the tall serious face man was my main concern, he rarely smiled and he was rarely home except late at night. He had black hair, blue eyes, he was not skinny, but he impressed me as being very skinny. He was always dressed with three piece suit, shirt and tie and European dress hat. He always had in his hands a Koboloi (Greek worrying beads) made from bright yellow magnetic alabaster. He never finished his dinner. He always used to tell his friend that he never finishes his meal feeling full. I never understood why. He used to wear long Johns and same type top. He was always red in the face. He had lot dandruff. He was like a wise calm man. On holidays and Sunday when he was off from his business he used to walk behind me watching every move I made protectively. I used to walk or run ahead of him chasing a cat or butterfly or a frog. I would turn my head constantly to see where he was; he always was looking to my direction to make sure I was okay. He let me react anyway I felt like, but somehow silent and distant. His eyes were sad that caused me many, many sleepless nights feeling sorry for him. I was crying badly over him without specific reason. He seemed okay but his face was serious, silent and sad. On sunny

Sundays, he used to sit me on his lap, in the backyard’s patio and read me stories. I mean serious stories, I was six years old and he was reading to me Tolstoy, Zola and DestoyeFski in College’s level language. I never interrupted him, I never asked him questions. If did not understand the words or the meaning of his stories, I was guessing the answers silently. I was watching out for answers by listening the following readings. I did not want to interrupt him and confuse his precious attempt to program me in order to prepare me for the future ahead when I would be alone without his protection. He used to take tiny pieces of newspapers and after rubbing one of his Kobolois alabaster beads on a woolen cloth; he would make the bead to attract the paper because of the static electricity he created. He used to have a magnifying glass enclosed in a dark brown (permanently attached with each other) leather case and he used to pickup (even in winter) the sun rays and light a cigarette or burn a dry leaf from the ground. He never hit me or yelled at me. Only once when I was a teenager, he had a fit because I did something foolish that almost killed Yaya. He got so made that he threw at me a little wooden stool, if I did not jump out its way, I would be dead by now.

He did not meant to hurt me but he lost his control. What I actually did, I threw an arrow with my handmade bow and arrow toward my grandmother, I did not intend to hit her, I was trying a new chord made from a bass guitar in my bow. Normally with the old chord, I could reach 20 feet, but with this one. I reached almost 50 feet, so I missed my grandmother’s face by an inch. The arrow went through her bedroom wooden door and made a big hole in the nice door. Do you blame him? Spiros used to take Katina and me to picnics almost every other Sunday. In Greece at that time were organizations that organized one-day trip of a busload to the nice part of Greece, near Athens. We used to take food baskets, big bottle of wine (real big) and sit under the cool pine trees next to the sea. We spend the day swimming, eating, drinking and walk around with our friends, each place was unique. The passengers on the bus were very friendly, they all knew each other and they all use to bring with them all their children. Late at night coming back in the bus everybody was singing songs loud like a chorus (Kadatha), everybody except my poor father. I was looking from my spot in the bus (always standing up in the front of the bus next to the driver) to see his mouth and face in the dark bus, to see if he was singing but he never did. This situation made me loose all my enthusiasm and excitement of the trip. My father or stepfather was a pacifist and communist and liberal and ultra conservative at the same time. He used to argue with other men over politics and his opinions. He was fair like a real old times judge or wise men of a village. He did not care about luxuries or materialistic things. He would never surrender his principles to any threat even death against his life. He would never own a weapon. He was in the war in the early 1900’s as messenger of the Greek army. He used to cross enemy territory without a gun. He was exposed to danger daily, but somehow survived. After six years in Turkey as a soldier he deserted the army because he hated uniforms and disputes between nations. He was a saint to my eyes. I loved him so much and as much I loved him. I ended hurting him when he needed me the most. My father’s weakness was for his mother. I recall serious arguments between him and Katina over his mother. Yaya, Kaliopi~ was a troublemaker. Yaya, Kaliopi~ was a martyr but a spoiled one. She was born in Kefalonia. Kefalonia is an island in the Ionean Sea. It is located next to Skorpios, Onasis little island. The island is part of the Seven Ionian Islands placed between Greece and Italy in the Mediterranean Sea. My Yaya was married to George, my grandfather. While she was three months pregnant, George was hit by a bullet in a celebration in her village and died at the age of 25. My Yaya was only 22 years old and she had to work in the fields as a laborer to support herself and my father, Spiros. She was very fragile and delicate, but she worked over twenty-five years to support my father. She refused assistance from her super rich relatives because of pride. At that time, I do not think they had welfare or social security and if they did I can assure you Yaya would not go for it. Because of this reason, my father as soon as he left or deserted the stupid army, he took care of his mother until she died, like a queen. Katina Rescinded that, YaYa used to always tell me while semi-crying, like a puppy that she was proposed marriage in the village but she refused, so my father grows without any interference. She did not have sex after her husband died until she died (almost 70 years without sex). At those times they did not have sex before marriage so I assume this pretty young woman suffered most of her young life. For my father’s sake. She was shot in the arm in another celebration, her right arm had scar almost a foot long, a very ugly scar, and half of the muscle was missing. She was always mourning and she was church everyday and every evening. She was a phantom; rarely at home she used to fast almost daily. She was connected with churches all over Athens. She used to go for all night prayers in far located little churches and monasteries. She used to take me with her. It was boring then to me, but the experiences added to my complex personality more data, which made my life interesting and exciting. Yaya loved me. She used to behave snotty like some Catholic Nuns, I read about, but deep inside she was caring. In the winter nights I used to sit close to her in her tiny cold room with my cat next to our feet on small stools. She had a heavy long woolen shall over her shoulder and she used to cover with it my bear knees and legs. We used to talk about everything. She used to whisper things to me about Katina. I used to listen but I would not respond to her negative complaints against Katina. She was knitting constantly blankets, sweaters for Spiros, and me nothing for Katina. Katina used to tell me negative things about her. I used to tell Katina to overlook my Yaya’s attitude, but it was useless, I could not stop a lifetime war. Yaya used to cook outside the house in the yard every morning for the four of us. Katina cooked in the kitchen the main meals. Yaya used to cook like an American Indian woman. She used coal or wood on the earth and cook radices, some kind of tenderloins or fry sliced eggplant, squash or fish with plenty of olive oil and everything fried dipped in flour. Also potatoes. Her cooking was very tasty. I used to sit next to her on my little wooden stool and I used to put my fingers in the boiling olive oil and pick up any piece of eggplant, potato, fish that was darkened from the frying. I used to eat fifty percent of her day’s cooking before it was cooked fully. I used to bring it my mouth boiling hot and I was trained not to burn my lips or tongue. Yaya used a lot olive oil, flour, salt and oregano. She used to have a vase 50 capacity full of crystal chunks of salt. The olive oil was the best. We had big ceramic vases hundreds of pounds capacity full of olive oil. We had several kinds of it, virgin, dark green, thin thick. We used to receive it from relatives or friends from the Country. Yaya used to get pneumonia often. She taught me to give her ventuzes (little round jars of thick glass I used to take a fork, tie cotton around it’s teeth with string, dip it. in blue alcohol, light it with a candle put it in the glass jar, for seconds and hit the hot glass jar on her bare back. The cup created suction. Her skin and flesh were suctioned in the cup, after a few minutes I took it off harshly because of the suction’s resistance and replaced the cup with a new one hot in another spot. Meanwhile I had four, five cups on her back always until this process was over. After this ceremony was over, I was exhausted, my Yaya was content, and her whole back was red with black and blue marks. I used to cover her carefully with three blankets until the next morning so she got better. I missed all these old fashioned chores. Yaya raised me a good Christian. I had to get to church very often, for the whole service, several hours and fast.

I hated it. I used to get up at four am. In the cold dark night; wear cold clothes so I can walk one hour to the church without any breakfast just to go to church. I was the only young man from my environment I had to do this. I used to argue or kid with my Yaya. I used to say to her: Ya Ya why do we go to church so often and for so many hours? She used to say; Because God wants you to come to him so you can go to paradise instead of to hell. I used to say to her that I prefer to be a sinner until I get very old and then go to church everyday like she did. I used to say that God forgives the sinner if you come to him after you enjoyed your whole life sinning. She would not pay attention to my logic. I still feel the same way about it. Yaya used to show me her Savanna. When I was almost fifteen years old, my Yaya opened a big baulo (a big box which stores clothes) and show them to me some white sheets with religious pictures on them. She said that when she died, she should be dressed with them I felt weird about such conversations.

When I was twelve years old, she forced me to get to confession. I tried to sneak away from the confession line because it was in the men’s section, so she could not see me, but she had warned, the priest and he came out of the booth asking for me. During the confession process the priest asked me if I stole any candy from my mother’s jars. I answered, No. He continued asking me some even then more trivial nonsense, questions. After I answered each one negatively he asked me why I came to confession, I told him, My Yaya forced me so he said to me, Don’t come back until you get older and you did some sins. This was the first and the last time I went to a confession.

Yaya’s weakness was one illegitimate child who belonged to her nephew. The child’s name was Paul. My mother ironically disliked illegitimate children-or bastardo as they call them in Greek and bastard in English. I was very uncomfortable with my mother’s prejudice about this. My mother refused to allow anybody from our family to help, visit or talk about little Paul. He was a cute boy with curly ring like black hair. Yaya and I were communicating with him secretly. Paul’s life was worst than mine in his early years. He did not suffer the traumatic experiences which I suffered until I was five years old, but until he became an adult he did not have anyone close to care for him including his father. In Greece, those years were improper to have an illegitimate child, Notho as they call it (it means fake, no good illegitimate). Yaya cared a lot for Paul even if he was not her problem. I held responsible in my young mind then, the father for his behavior towards his child. Years later the father got close with Paul. Thank God. Because of my mother’s attitude towards Paul, I realized my Yaya was jealous of me a little bit because I had great care and attention from everybody while Paul lived neglected. One time Yaya demanded of my father to get Paul to live with us because his old caretaker was very ill, my mother henpecked my father, but he dared to ask her for Paul to move in. My mother created a major family quarrel. I was asked in the middle of the arguments by my mother to go bring her brother to our house to settle the quarrel. Unfortunately my uncle was not at home. Coming back, I wandered a few hours in the street very upset. By the time I returned home the problem was over. Thank God, again.

Katina had a strong personality and she was a fun loving woman. She was very nice person, but very moody. She liked company, she liked nice things. She was my shadow until I became an adult and I ran away forever. She had no self-control. She used to treat me like a prince. She made clothes for me from her clothes and my father’s. She was from Kefalonia also. She did not read or write because in those years, the parents did not allow the girls to get to school so they stayed home and did housework. They were afraid the girls would meet boys and get in trouble. My mother always complained about this misfortune. Yaya did not go to school either, but she never made any comment about it. Katina was a woman’s libber. She did things with me or for me without discussing it with my father. She used to call my father old-fashioned and magoufi (it means miserable hermit) with a serious face, but she did not mean that. She used to wear perfume and lipstick against my father’s will. She was a fabulous lady. I took most of her idiosyncrasies of freedom in thinking. I took from Spiros the wisdom and strength and from Yaya I took the Christian noble ideas and principles. Katina was a warm person. She used to give me spending money from her own allowance I did not abuse her goodness. She used to be as great cook as most Greek women. She was a little obnoxious, but with the good meaning of the word. She was very possessive of me. I was her property. She treated me great, but I was under siege by her. She was very strict developing my character. I was forbidden to use curse words even the ones a teacher would use. One time when I was sixteen years old I said, Hell and she almost fainted. She was against smoking, not of health reasons, but because of decency.

One evening I came home from school and my breath smelled of cigarettes, immediately she slapped me hard and she fainted to the floor. She was a wild lady. She always thought and she always used to say that every girl in my neighborhood was after me to marry me. She was a menace when I was near women no matter what age. I had several incidents very embarrassing for me because of her crazy jealousy for me. She was a great housewife, a spotless home, always cooking. She used to make for me once a week giant trays of baklava kantifi, melomakarona, kourabiedes. Every morning for breakfast I had milk and several pieces of these homemade, finger licking world famous Greek pastries.

In Greece, the families celebrate the birthdays of their young child. The teenagers and most of adults celebrate their name day instead. There are 365 days per year and Greeks must have name holiday days for each day of the whole year. This means they have 365 saints with each Greek’s corresponding name, because you receive your first name for a favorite saint of your family. Of course you find Greeks with names not corresponding to saint because they give short names like nicknames. For example, my religious name is George but when I was young kid they called me Yoyo.

So almost every weekday you have people celebrating their name day. The celebration was a routine because it takes place so often. The day of his name holiday, the person who was the celebrator will stay home well dressed and the wishing Happy Name Day visitors will arrive, late afternoon, each one different time with a small present usually a box of chocolates beautiful wrapped in a box. They will come alone or with members of their family, well dressed, very exciting about your occasion. They will ring the doorbell, the host alone or with some close friend or member of his family will open the door personally to show how important each visitor is to him or her. They will embrace, kiss, accept you wishes and your gift then lead them in the living room and sit you to a chair arranged orderly so all visitors already there can face each other and converse. The closest friend the visitor was, the more attention received and the longest was encouraged to stay.

On the average they stayed 1/2 hour because that same night they had to visit other friends with the same name. The routine was as follows: as soon as you are seated, a girl would come around and offer you a small chocolate wrapped in colorful foil. A few minutes later she would bring to you a small elegant glass of liquor and a tiny plate with a little spoon with one teaspoonful of homemade fabulous sweet, made of cherry, orange skin or other kind of fruit. That was the time to raise your glass and face the host to make your formal wishes for him or her. In a few more minutes they would bring a piece of cake. After these three steps of serving were completed, the visitor would leave. He was walked to the door by the host, hugged and kissed after he shook hands with every other visitor already there. Later in the evening after most of the casual friends left, the host would have a full diner with his chosen visitors until very late in the night. The atmosphere in these parties was very exciting with lots of horsd’oeurvs, roasts, vegetables, deliciously cooked pastries, red and white wine (Retsina wine—one of my Irish friend calls resina wine Greek turpentine) the paint remover because of its strange taste, which I love. The party had music and group singing of popular songs or native songs from the host’s village. Because most of Athenians came from the islands or country regions, the children in these visits were bored so the adults would instruct them where to play and pass their time with the hosts’ children. My mother would not miss any of these name days holidays. I had to get dressed very nice, fix my hair in perfection, and receive special instructions about my behavior and statements according to each party so I do not create any problem by mentioning the wrong thing. We had to take several buses, a lot of walking and wait long time in long bus lines in order to accomplish this visiting to our friends. My YaYa and my father did not oblige to come along. Sometimes my father would join us later for the dinner if we decided to stay. From all these visits I gained a lot of knowledge about mixing with people socially. My secret to these visits was to look neat, being polite, smile and listen. I used to talk only to answer a question by a guest. Some of the hosts were poor, some wealthy, but to a Greek’s home no matter how his financial status is, you are received and treated in a way that you do not know the difference because of their noble hospitality and their interesting ways. I have so many good memories now although I had so much boredom and uneasiness back then. The German occupation of Greece other than my very early years left no major impressions on me. Since I arrived to my new parent’s house I was well provided and protected by all means other my traumatic memories of my real parents extermination. Of course I will never forget the night German patrols in Athens. The curfew at nights was early. Every Greek had to be inside the house with no sign of life from the patrol. We used to hear them marching with their loud scary walk and their scary appearance outside our house (fully armed) on the stone sidewalk. Those were dark days of our lives, every night, I used to wait for them to pass by, hidden in the living room without any lights, and so they would not suspect any life or activity. I was standing on a straw chair with my face pressed against the gray window shutters searching through the cracks of the shutters the dark scary deserted street for the patrol. When they approached my block I could hear their marching getting louder and louder like a loud train. When they passed next to my window I would glance at their dark helmets and close my eyes for fear of losing my breath. Those nights left not only emotional scars but physical ones too. One evening I was sent by my neighbors to go to their house to check if everything was locked because they were staying with us that night. The lady’s husband was taken earlier from his work for questioning by the Germans. She was seared to stay alone at her house. I took the key she gave me and I ran next door to her house to check. As soon as I climbed the three marble stairs of her house and put the key in the lock, I heard the German patrol marching towards me from around the corner. I got petrified for seconds. I turned my head fast and I saw in the dark 4 or 6 German soldiers in formation and in full gear speeding towards me. They looked like giants and dark like horror. I pulled the key back from the door but it was stuck and I could not take it out. I got panicky and I pulled it strong with all my power. The key slipped my fingers and I fell backwards on the hard tan marble steps. I ended it down on the side comer of the steps. My face smashed on a sharp two-edged mud-scraper, it was a metal piece, which Greeks use to scrape the mud off the bottom of their shoes before they enter the houses. I tore severely my flesh around my eyebrows and the pointy sharp metal pierced my chin below my bottom lips and tore through my mouth and threw my teeth out. I still have both scars. I still remember the tall Germans of the fearful deadly patrol. The stooped over me and one of them knelt down next to me and tried to stop the gushing blood flooding over my face. I was so scared I was frozen from fear. My parents ran out of the house already suspecting trouble because they heard the patrol passing and I was not back yet. They defy their lives. Luckily the Germans risking their lives also took me to the hospital and took care of me. They told my parents to forget what took place and they did not investigate this violation of the curfew.

Every morning after that for several months, two of the Germans came to visit me and bring to me the German bread kuramana! which smells like war to me. They would hold me and play with me on the street like I was their child. This incident took away any hatred I could have for the death of my people from the Germans. I was lucky to realize, in that early age, that armies are victims of their leaders. Near my home were railroad tracks. Several times a week I used to watch whole train loads of Greek prisoners, mostly civilians, packed like cattle on open cars with barbed wire on top, taken for execution or to concentration camps in Germany. I still remember their sounds, singing our national songs, on the way to their death.

I used to sit on top of a building watching the German soldiers loading on big army trucks all the vegetables from the adjacent fields. They confiscated all our means of survival. They like carrots. I could see thousands of carrots loaded in front of me and I was wishing I had even one to crunch on myself. The only food we had during those occupation years was corn bread, corn soup, corn drink, cornmeal (BOBOTA as we called it). I was sick of corn meals. My mother got used to preparing a variety of snacks and meals from corn but no matter how she prepared it my taste recognized the corn. We used to go around the streets in empty lots or small fields with a sack and knife to collect all kinds of wild greens, even roots of plants for our meals and existence.

The Greeks living in the rural areas were able to live much better as far as food concerns. No matter how much food the Germans confiscated in the rural areas it was easy to create some milk cheese, chicken eggs and other food. As a matter of fact, they black market all these items to us in the big cities, taking advantage the tremendous shortage of food we had. My father was active with the underground during the German occupation and later with the 1940s civil war. He was an idealist but a good one. We used to argue about his convictions