Natasha had arranged a late afternoon meeting with Georgios Hatzidakis, the proprietor of a small WWII museum in the Askifou plain on the eastern flanks of the White Mountains. Natasha believed that Georgios knew some of the songs we had come in search of and might also be able to direct us to individuals who knew them better. Our plan was to view his collection and then when the time was right solicit information regarding these songs and at best a performance of a few lines.

We (CK and CW) set out early in the morning for the village of Vrysses to purchase a European plug adapter for the camera equipment, get money, gyros, and check e-mail. We also wanted to get an early start for filming as much of the Askifou area as we could before our meeting. A heavy rain broke somewhere around two in the afternoon and we able to get some footage of the various commemorative bronze busts of war heroes in the village of Ammoudari. We then ventured to a spot above the village for some panoramic footage of the plain after which we set out for the reputedly Venetian fortress that dominates the cone shaped hilltop on the eastern side of the plain just North of the village of Goni.

After a few wrong turns and about fifteen minutes of trashing over an extremely rocky slope driving hundreds of sheep and goats ahead of us we reached the top of the hill. The pungent combination of sheep and goat feces and thyme were accentuated in the wake of the rainstorm. While catching our breath we soon discovered that there were two fortresses. The one we were focused on set upon the acme of the hill and was actually the more recent in construction. Its semicircular northern rubble wall still stood at a height of about 6 meters. The other was of a more rectangular construction and was situated on the western flank of the hill roughly 80 meters away. Perhaps our fortress was Turkish in date. Whatever its illustrious history it now makes a monumental sheepfold. The contents of its white limestone lined oven consist of a goat carcass, mostly decayed, and a slithering mass of brown maggots in place of its entrails.

With our time running short we set out for the museum. The museum was located in the village of Kares on the northern edge of the Askifou plain. We set up for some video work just below the southern corner of a long wedge shaped stone terrace, which reached an apex just above our position. Fifteen feet in height, it served as a base for a large scrap metal heap. Having met up with the rest of our party we began our accent of a series of whitewashed stone terraces at the base of the hill on which the museum was located.

Georgios had the countenance of a true Cretan partisan. His slack black leather boots, freshly polished, stretched 18 inches above the soles. The bases of his baggy-fit tan breeches were tucked into the rims of the boots. He wore a black button up shirt, loose yet well tucked. His sleeves were folded back once on the right hand and twice on the left where he wore a small watch with a brown leather band. In his rounded face I recall a sober yet dignified expression accentuated by the rough texture of many weathered furrows. The moustache was of medium trim, hand groomed, not combed. The hair was not quite half gray. His eyes were deep and dark, well protected by rich folds of skin. Upon the right side of his forehead at the hairline he bore a deep scar roughly an inch or so long. In direct conversation he was terse yet pleasant and my attention was always drawn to the scar. This he claims he received during the war at an age of fifteen.

His home doubled as the museum, or it could be that it was the other way around. Before the end of the day I was convinced that for Georgios there was no distinction. Over the next half hour we followed this animated persona closely intent upon his collection of WWII relics. Paraphernalia of war occupied every available nook of two small courtyards and a large central room of the house. The outer courtyard has a floor of half concrete half compacted dirt. Large assorted remnants of iron cast aside during the war and the stone matrix of a terrace wall delineate its boundaries. Tuffs of grass sprung forth only where some of his collection provided protection from scurrying feet. The prop of an airplane sits prominently. It leans against what look like random pieces of military industry. A few feet away a German glider carriage from Maleme leans against a stone terrace below a pear tree. On the right just before the arched entryway to the main courtyard lays a 4-inch gun barrel, newly oiled, of a tank (decommissioned) propped upon the socket of a caterpillar tread. A line of shell casings sits about it upon the whitewashed terrace wall of a small fragrant garden. Here and there, dozens of empty gas cans, and large freight containers fill in the remaining space.

Through a whitewashed stone archway into the main courtyard, cooking equipment, war helmets, and a generator—German, maybe English in make—sit upon the pebble floor. The courtyard, approximately 12 by 30 feet, runs the length of the house. Upon the house wall hang grenade casings, shovels, webbing, mess-tins, knapsacks, canteens, sinister appearing gas masks, evenly spaced bayonets, and film reel canisters. At the center of the courtyard lays a German MG 34 light machine gun propped up by a standard issue German helmet, badly tarnished, atop a half-ton unexploded bomb casing. Several German 81mm mortars lean against the terrace wall. These were capable of hurling a 7.5lb explosive bomb 2270 m. American, Australian, English, New Zealand and Greek flags flutter in the wind along this terrace framing a panorama of the Askifou plain to the east. Near the base of the terrace sits a portion of a raki distillery. And here and there objects associated with the period of Turkish resistance, including a small deck mounted cannon and several cannonballs with a yellowing sign, handwritten, bearing (Loutro, Sphakion) 1770. The smell of motor oil used to deter rust pervades every nook of this courtyard.

Inside, the walls are covered with rifles—German 7.92mm Kar 98k carbines, a 9mm MP 40, British Rifle No. 4 and 5 Mk 1s— handguns—the German 9mm p38 semi-automatic, six shot revolvers—even a few 18th century flintlock pistols. The latter were still used in WWII by the Cretans. Symbols of the Third Reich were juxtaposed with insignias from New Zealand, England, the US, and Greece. Portraits of Daskaloyannis are placed prominently throughout the room. Perhaps the only discernible display convention lay in the balanced arrangement of similar objects. Otherwise, there was no obvious organizational logic to this apparent pastiche.

At the end of our brief tour Georgios shared his personal stock of raki or tsikoudia—a Cretan spirit distilled from grapes. Thimble-shaped shot glasses, four-fifths full on average, were passed around. It was during this moment of hospitality that he burst into song—Erotokritos. He did not recite the entire epic, rather he performed a few rhyming couplets while he poured a final glass and passed it on. His intonation was offered in the midst of a customary gesture of hospitality.

Soon his wife came to announce that dinner was ready. Some of us took this moment as an opportunity to leave some money in an offering plate on the table in the center of the room. Georgios took offense to our having left money for the maintenance of the museum. This gesture he considered an insult to his hospitality. As we moved into the adjacent building for dinner RM and CW left money anyway… (This event led to Georgios showing up the next day at our hotel in Hora Sphakion prior to breakfast. He insisted upon guiding us through the highland village of Anapoli and aiding in our endeavor.)

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