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Baba
His name is Vassilios Hatzikazakis. There is no middle initial because a middle name is not customary for Greek parents to give their children. He is strong in both character and physique and in my eyes a gentle giant. Vasilios is my Father-in-law whom I have known for almost 15 years.
I call him Baba because that is the Greek word for father. He calls me Linda in his wonderful thick accent and refers to me as his daughter. That fills a deep need in me for which I will always be grateful. I can reciprocate the compliment and call him my father for he bestows upon me that unconditional love that only a father can bestow upon a daughter.
His visits are a welcome respite to our family for his presence brings a warmth to our home. Though he does not bring material gifts when he visits, his time spent in our home is far richer than any material object could offer. He cooks for us. He goes grocery shopping with me. The kitchen garbage can is under his watchful eye when he visits for he’s always ready to take out a full bag and replace it with a fresh, empty one.
My favorite time with Baba is when he tells me stories from his rich past. He grew up in another country during a time when a man was a gentleman and proud of that fact. It was a time of great upheaval in the world yet families were strong and people had deep moral convictions.
We share a quiet time in the morning with both of us reading our Bibles at the kitchen table. When we have finished our reading, closed our Bibles and eaten our cereals he will look up at me. I know a wonderful yarn is coming when he shakes his head and utters a “tsk, tsk, tsk” through his teeth and in concert with a sigh says “Linda, Linda”. “Ah”, I think to myself, “a memory has surfaced in that sweet balding gray head.”
My favorite story is one that Baba tells with great reverence for truly the hand of God was upon him those 50 some years ago. It was World War Two and Germany had ravaged its evil upon the tiny country of Greece. A dictate had come down from the German hierarchy stating that for every German soldier killed at the hand of a Greek citizen fifty Greek men would be systematically rounded up and executed in village streets. The soldiers would go house by house taking out the young and old men alike until fifty were chosen. Neighbors standing next to neighbors in the street waiting to die.
This horrible herodian edict was pronounced on Vasilios’ village. The Bulgarian army, which had sided with the Germans, sent soldiers house to house as my Father-in-law sat in a back bedroom awaiting his sure doom. His mother and two sisters stood in the front room of the house, too petrified with fear to even cry. Soon there was a knock on the door and two Bulgarian soldiers entered. As they ransacked the house looking for a male resident one of them made his way to the back bedroom. A master carpenter by trade, there sat Baba surrounded by wooden instruments he had crafted by hand. The soldier entered the bedroom and setting his gun down he picked up a guitar. He asked its owner if he had made it. Baba, who understood Bulgarian, told the soldier yes. The soldier asked if Baba knew how to play the guitar. Again Baba answered yes. The soldier, with a smile on his face, revealed that he too knew how to play the guitar. For a brief moment in time the hunted and the hunter were just two young men sharing the joy of a mutual passion.
What that soldier did next could only be described as a miracle. As he lovingly stroked the smooth, varnished wood of that guitar he lifted his eyes to Baba. Setting the guitar back down, he picked up his gun and left the bedroom. As he entered the front room he told the other soldier that there was no one inside the bedroom. Did this young Greek man understand the implication of his would be assassin’s words? Yes, it was true, he was being set free. He did not need to be told twice that a providential gift was set before him. Seizing that gift he fled through the back door of his home. This son and brother would live wondering forever why and for what purpose his life had been spared.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Linda, Linda”, a misty eyed older and wiser Greek man says with a sigh.
“Thank You Lord”, I prayerfully whisper as I look at my children and see my husband in their faces.
Hugging my Father-in-law I don’t have to wonder why he is alive today.
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