Nikos Sphyroeras gives a beautiful, poetic account of the story of Stefanos Psarras, called Loumbas.
(From: Sphyroeras, Nikos V. – “How the ‘Dormition of the Virgin Mary’ Was Built (In the Village of Filoti, Naxos).” Elliniki Dimiourgia 37 (1949). Translated from Greek by Astrid Scharlau)
“On my island, Naxos, lies a large and joyful village, Filoti, built at the foot of Mount Zeus. It has almost two thousand souls and an old, beautiful marble church of the Dormition of the Virgin Mary. Every year, when her feast day comes, celebrants from all the surrounding villages in the olive-covered plain of Drymalia and the nearby mountain villages gather, including the shepherds, the people of Filoti who live in the hinterlands and on the coast. A great festival is held in the village, lasting from one evening to the next. The people of Filoti cherish their church, praising and caring for it, especially the shepherds, because they know its history, how it was built, and how it came to be the pride of the village.
In the old years, the village had no church. The people of Filoti held their liturgies in the small chapel of Saint Nicholas, which was so small that not even the elderly ladies could fit inside for evening mass. Another small church of the village, at the site where the Dormition now stands, was destroyed by the corsairs when they devastated Filoti and Argia in 1544. Afterwards, a Frankish lord, Barozzi, came to the village, built a tower, and turned the site of the old church into a vegetable garden, erecting a Catholic church there. But the people of Filoti, wanting their church on the same spot, passed down by their forefathers, were prevented by Barozzi, with his power, money, accusations, and extortion before the Turks. Time and again, the people of Filoti saw they could not overcome their lord, the Frankish dog, through peaceful means. So one day, the village elders and leaders, including Psarras, Chatzi-Vlaseros, Galinos, and Papa-Aronis, rang the bell of Saint Nicholas, gathered the villagers, entered the vegetable garden, and began excavating the foundations to rebuild the destroyed church. When Barozzi arrived with his bodyguards, a great commotion ensued with shovels, picks, and sabers. Since Barozzi and his men could not overcome the villagers, champions of Christ and the Virgin Mary, he filled his pockets with money and sacks full of gifts, went to the city, and persuaded the Turkish Voivode to stop the people of Filoti. The villagers, disheartened, collected their tools and returned to their homes and fields, deeply disappointed that their church would not be built.
The leader, Psarras, a shepherd, buried his saber, took up his shepherd’s staff, and went to his shepherd’s farm in Kalandos, three hours on foot south of Filoti. He tended his goats, made cheese, and shared and listened to old stories with other shepherds. When the mood struck him, he would sit in the shade of a juniper tree and sing his sorrow with the song he learned from his father: ‘Go away, people of Argia, go away, people of Filoti, I too am held captive by the Turks, the Saracens are stabbing me, stabbing the children and the old women, and the Virgin Mary of Argia is being destroyed by the pirates…’
Moved by the song and solitude, Psarras suddenly called out with a mighty voice, echoing through the mountains and startling the goats, angered at the shepherd’s wrath: ‘Hey, hey there, listen, you slaves: better a massacre of the Turks than meat for the Venetians! Hey there!’ Such was Psarras, these were his deeds and words. But I forgot to mention that his first name was Stefanos, and his neighbors called him by various nicknames: Loumbas and Anagnostis. Loumbas, because with his cleverness he always managed to trick those who annoyed him, and Anagnostis, because every Sunday he would come from his shepherd’s farm to church and help the priest with the few letters he knew in the liturgy.
Time passed. Psarras tended his goats in Kalandos, and every weekend he would travel from the farm to the village and back again. This was in the year 1690. Then came spring and Saint George’s day. But since the feast fell during the week before Easter and would therefore only be celebrated on Easter Sunday, Psarras did not go to the liturgy in the village, but prepared Easter gifts instead. The day was cloudy and gloomy, but no one expected the storm that would soon break. Around noon, a whirlwind arose, uprooting trees and flattening the grain. But that was the least of it: then the clouds opened up, and there was a hailstorm, with hailstones as big as chickpeas. Land and sea thundered from the storm. The shepherds crossed themselves in their stone houses, and the distressed goats sought shelter.
“In the midst of the storm and the frenzy of the sky and sea, a large ship appeared, tossed about in the waves between Naxos and Ios. The waves pushed it, the wind tugged at it, and hail pelted down on it, as if it were a ghost ship with no living soul aboard; it climbed the wild wave mountains and then descended into the foaming wave valleys. It was a dire hour for the poor ship…
Psarras, as we said, was in his stone house, and when he stepped out for a moment, he saw the unknown ship being battered by the waves, the wild breakers pushing it closer and closer to the coastal rocks. Without hesitation, he slung a rope over his shoulder, went to the entrance of his sheepfold and shouted, “Help, a ship is sinking!” but no one heard him, no one responded. Fortunately, not far away was another farm, belonging to Vlaseros, and with his dog leading the way, Psarras went there and found the shepherds at the farm.
“Men, for God’s sake, a ship is sinking!” The Vlaserades also took two ropes and went with Psarras to the coast. Before they arrived, the rudderless ship crashed onto the rocks. Here the masts, there the planks, the keel broken. There was nothing more they could do; the ship was lost, and in the foaming waves, only a few men were still fighting, among the planks and rocks and waves, calling out in desperate voices: “Imbtat, Allahim, Imbtat, Allahim! Tzan Chourtaran, iokm! (Help, my God, help, my God! Is there no one here to save our souls!)”
When the Vlaserades heard this, they stopped and did not want to go further. “They are Turks,” they said to Psarras, “antichrists. Let’s leave…” “Come here,” the other called out with a mighty voice, and he threw the ropes into the sea and began pulling up the Turks. There were about thirty in total, but only ten of them and a Turkish boy could be saved, the others were swept away by the waves and the sea. The shepherds took the rescued, brought them to Psarras’ house, made fire, dried and warmed them, tended to their wounds, and then went to milk the goats and gave them the milk. In the evening, Psarras slaughtered a goat and the Vlaserades two, and they all ate and crossed themselves, grateful that Saint George had saved them. Only the little Turkish boy, who had received a severe blow to the head and was very ill from the sea and the shock, could neither eat nor drink but lay wrapped up on a bed in a corner of the house, trembling and delirious with fever, the poor thing. The Turks told Psarras that the child was of noble family and that his uncle had taken him on the ship to Constantinople, but he had drowned. The child’s name was Hussein. Psarras took him to his heart and took care of him all night as best he could and did not leave his side.
The next day, after they had eaten and drunk again, the Turks thanked the shepherds with bows and went to Chora to find another ship with which they could sail away. Hussein was still ill, and Psarras told them to leave him; he would take him to the city when he got better and bring him to the Voivode. So the Turks went to the city and told the Voivode what had happened. His name was Abdulla Tselepi, and he was astonished when he heard that Psarras, whom he had not allowed to build the church, had helped the Turks so much. He agreed that the child should stay there, and so Hussein stayed with Psarras.
On Easter Saturday, Psarras loaded his mules with the Easter gifts, put Hussein on top, and brought them all to his house in Filoti and unloaded them there. His wife, Plyti, saw the Turkish boy and began to scold. “I don’t want to raise a Turk! I don’t want a Turk in my house,” she cried. Hussein did not understand what she was saying, but he understood that the shouting was because of him and sat silently and sadly in a corner. “Oh Plyti,” Psarras replied, “do good and cast it upon the shore! God has sent us this child. He is good, he is beautiful, he is intelligent. Just as we have our three, so will we have this one now. We will baptize him and make him our own child.” “Do what you want,” said Plyti angrily, “I don’t want a Turk in my house.” No matter what Psarras said, the woman would not listen. What was the poor man to do? With all the scolding, he could not celebrate Easter. On Monday, Psarras took Hussein and they went to the shepherd’s farm in Kalandos. A few weeks later, Plyti came to the farm for the harvest. She saw the child at work and was impressed by him. After the harvest, she took him to the village, made him new clothes, and began to love him like her own children. So Hussein began to call Plyti ‘Mother’ and Psarras ‘Father’. After a year, he had learned Greek, and he chose his own godparents and said, ‘I want to be baptized!’
So Psarras and his wife called the priest Papa-Stamati Tzania, and the child was baptized with the name Giorgo, because he had been saved from drowning on Saint George’s day.
Six years passed and Hussein-Giorgos was a strapping young man of 18, the right hand of Psarras and the pride of Plyti. One day, Voivode Abdulla came to the village with a Turkish shipowner and asked for the child. The Filotites told them where to find him. Alas, there we have it, Psarras the Loumbas had made the Turkish child a Christian! Plyti ran away, the other children ran away. Only Psarras and Hussein-Giorgos remained. The Turks, however, were friendly, and so they took courage. Abdulla told Psarras, ‘The child is from a great lord in Istanbul. We have come to pay your expenses and take him with us.’ Psarras said nothing, Hussein-Giorgos began to cry. When Plyti heard what was happening, she came out. ‘I want the child, not the money!’ But what were they to do? Plyti cried, Psarras cried, the boy cried. The Turks took him and left.
25 years passed, and the story I recorded in Greek-Turkish papers had been forgotten. Only in Filoti, they were still arguing with Lord Barozzi, to take his vegetable garden and build the church. The Filotites brought stones, went into the garden, started again with the foundations, and Barozzi went to the city to the Voivode. He wanted to help Psarras because he had saved the Turks and the boy, and so he pretended he could not interfere in the affairs between Christians.
The Filotites took courage, brought marble workers from the island of Tinos and builders from Moria, and continued building. Barozzi and the Franks took it hard, wrote to the French ambassador in Istanbul, who went to the palace and managed to get a decree for the Voivode in Naxos, who went with a heavy heart and stopped the construction of the church. He arrested Psarras and sent him to Istanbul in chains.
‘It’s over, they will take his head off,’ the Filotites wept and lamented.
In Istanbul, they threw Psarras, now 65 years old, into the dungeon. But he held on. Two months passed. Then Barozzi came from Naxos, full of ducats and Venetian gold coins, and they took Psarras out of prison and brought him before the great judge, and the trial about the church began. Barozzi was sure he would win, and Psarras was sure he would lose his head within an hour. The Kadi called the names out, and then you hear him say that the chains should be removed from Psarras. Everyone was surprised. Barozzi began to speak, his false witnesses too, what could Psarras say, the trial was over. The Kadi stood up and said:
‘In the name of the Exalted, Most Just, Philanthropist, the Victor, Hero, Most Esteemed, Celebrated, and Venerable Sultan Ahmed III, I declare the accused innocent and issue the decree that the church in the village of Filoti on the island of Naxos shall be completed, without any objections or obstructions being made. This is my decision and my command.’ Everyone who heard the verdict stood dumbfounded. Barozzi took the consulate’s scribe and they sneaked out like wet dogs. Psarras stood silent and still. The Kadi stood up, approached, looked him in the eyes, smiled, and said:
‘Os geltin! Do good and cast it upon the shore! My father, don’t you recognize me?’ It was Hussein-Giorgo, his foster child.
And he embraced him and kissed the old man in tears. The old Psarras also cried and kissed Kadi Hussein, his child…
Hussein took the old Psarras home, kept him there for a month, and then prepared everything to send him back to Naxos. He gave him two suitcases of money, a bag of gold coins, a pistol, and a decree from the Sultan.
‘My father,’ said Hussein, ‘this decree of the Sultan confirms your right to take as much land as you want for the church, without anyone being able to stop you. The bag of gold coins is from me. Half of it is for you, and with the other half, you should have the church’s bell tower built. I give you this pistol so you can shoot anyone who dares to hinder you, and when you arrive in Chora, fire two shots at the Franks, and if someone stops you for it, show them the Sultan’s decree.’
So, the old Psarras sailed back to Naxos from Istanbul, on a large ship provided by Hussein.
He arrived in Naxos. But wise and good-natured as he was, he punished or harmed no one, neither with the pistol nor with the decree. As he stepped ashore, dignified and well-dressed, with the pistol at his belt, the Voivode came along with two Turkish tax collectors, demanding that he pay taxes and hand over his pistol. Psarras showed them the decree, and they let him go. The villagers admired him, and news of it spread in Filoti, and so he was greeted with drums and music by the people and the priests.
The next day, Psarras seized the vegetable garden, and the field next to it for the cemetery. He marked a large courtyard on the ground and a space next to it, and planned cells and houses for the villagers, and then everyone began to work. Soon the church was finished, and they made the bell tower out of marble with the money from Hussein. On August 15, 1718, the inauguration took place, and they gave it the old name of the church that had fallen into ruin and been destroyed by the corsairs: ‘The Dormition of the Virgin Mary.’ Since then, the church festival has been celebrated in Filoti. And the shepherds, the Filotites, who come to the village to worship, see the bell tower and show it to strangers, and on a stone slab is an engraved image of Psarras. He had built the church.
And I, the humble servant of God, have written down the story of the church, as the shepherds have told it to me and as I found it written in the papers, so that it may be preserved for a hundred years, in memory of those who participated, and that I may find forgiveness, as I write this as an emissary of the Virgin Mary. Amen.”
The account can be found in the Greek original here:
http://www.myriobiblos.gr/texts/greek/theotokos_2002_sfiroeras.html
In Naxos, the structure of power was complicated in the 17th century. While Naxos, as well as most of Greece, was controlled by the Ottoman Turks, the local power in Filoti stayed with the Barozzi, a Frankish family that had arrived with the conquering Venetians. So while the Ottomans regulated the bigger issues, the Barozzi held power over the lives of the locals. The Loumbas legend thus gives an insight into the social and political divides that shaped the island in the 17th century.