With her two daughters

By Venetia Leonti – Third Generation descendant from Krithia

My grandfather’s family, on my mother’s side, was from the village of Krithia in Gallipoli, Eastern Thrace. They were a four-member family. My great-grandmother’s surname was Myropoulou, her first name was Xanthi, and she had siblings in America. Unfortunately, I do not know in which state they lived. My grandfather was born in 1910 and was killed in Pogradec, Albania. Thus, I do not have information about the village of Krithia.

The family of Angelis Karageorgiou, my great-grandfather, arrived in Sigri, Lesvos, in 1922, like many other refugees. In Sigri, they were the only family that came from Krithia. They were given a comfortable house and land in the areas of Kourou Deres, Paliokastro, and Gefyraki. They were farmers.

My grandfather’s four-member family arrived in Sigri, Lesvos, a small fishing village whose inhabitants before the population exchange were mostly Ottomans, with only a few Christian families. My great-grandfather, Angelis, was very perceptive, and when he saw the presence of Turkish troops in Eastern Thrace, he foresaw the critical situation. He immediately chartered a small boat, and with it, they fled to Greece. A decisive role in their immediate departure was played by my great-grandmother, Xanthi. When she saw the Turkish troops in the area, she exclaimed:

“Turks like an army of ants! Run, Angelis, let’s gather our things and leave to save the children…”

They boarded the boat, taking almost all their belongings with them. Some indicative items they took: a wooden kneading trough for making bread, a baking board, everyday household items, a small funnel (which now belongs to me) for making almond sweets (a type of baked treat with almonds), even a bronze shoehorn (which they called “bone”) to help put on their shoes (this now has a prominent place on the mantelpiece in my family home). They even brought a pair of oxen. My grandmother used to say that these oxen were of a different breed—she called them “Turkovoda” (Turkish oxen).

They left behind silk fabrics and other textiles hidden in earthen jars buried in the ground, believing that once things settled and the situation improved, they would be able to return to their homeland and home.

The boat brought them to a small village in western Lesvos, Sigri, where they settled permanently.

My great-grandmother, Xanthi, had a sister whose family chose to settle in Myrina, Lemnos, to be closer to their homeland, Krithia, in case they could return. They were also a four-member family: the parents, whose surname I only know—Vlouti—and their two children: their son Stergios, who was the same age as my grandfather, studied to become a teacher (unfortunately, I have no information about where he studied) and taught in schools in Lemnos, and their daughter Areti, whom I met in 2000 when she was already elderly.

Neither of the two Vlouti siblings married. They passed away peacefully in Myrina, Lemnos—first Stergios, as he was older, and then Areti. The Vlouti family’s house in Myrina is located right next to the renovated Maroula cinema theater and now belongs to the family that took care of Areti in her old age.

It is worth mentioning that Stergios Vloutis served on the Albanian front with the rank of reserve second lieutenant, as he was literate (a teacher). He even met my grandfather, Giorgis, at the front. The two first cousins were very close. My grandmother, Eftychia, Giorgis’s wife, told me that in letters from the front, my grandfather wrote about his meeting with his first cousin, Stergios. In fact, he had asked her to knit and send a pair of woolen gloves for Stergios as a gift—because the winter of 1940-41 was very harsh, and as islanders, they were unaccustomed to snow and freezing temperatures. My grandmother fulfilled his request and made two pairs of gloves, one for each of them, and sent them in a package.

My grandfather, Giorgis Karageorgiou, married my grandmother, Eftychia, daughter of Charalambos (Lambis) Agrios (a nickname that prevailed over the real surname, which was Panagiotoglou) and Evangelia (known as “Lambidaina”), also of Asia Minor refugee descent from Old Phocaea. Their wedding took place inside the groom’s family home on January 22, 1935. A lavish wedding feast followed, with lobsters and music played on the gramophone (which my grandmother called “the funnel”). The song she remembered playing was “To Gelekaki Pou Foreis” (The Vest You Wear), which was a hit of that era.

There was a custom back then (which no longer exists) where the groom had to recite a short song, possibly improvised. According to my grandmother’s testimony, my grandfather said the following:

“Fate is after me, but I will chase it, either I will perish, or I will live happily…”

Days later, my newlywed grandmother expressed her dissatisfaction with the song choice:

“That wasn’t a good song to say, Giorgis, I didn’t like it… Didn’t you have a better one to say? You were the groom…”

I don’t know what his response was. But I do know that this wedding couplet was tragically fulfilled, as six years later, my grandfather was killed on the Albanian front, in Pogradec, in 1941, during the Italian Spring Offensive (PRIMAVERA). He served in the 22nd Infantry Regiment of the Archipelago Division.

The news of his death reached the village on Holy Thursday. My grandmother was nursing my mother at the time. At first, they told her that her husband was wounded and in critical condition. But she immediately knew, with a woman’s intuition. She was widowed at 22, left with two young daughters—my aunt Anthoula (Xanthoula) and my mother, Paraskevoula, who never got to know her father. My aunt barely remembers him, as she was a little older.

My grandmother received an honorary diploma of gratitude (which I still have) for her fallen husband and initially a meager war widow’s pension. My grandfather was declared a hero, and his name was inscribed on the war memorial. My grandmother became both father and mother, raising and nurturing her two daughters through hunger and the Occupation.

Honestly, I do not know who was the greater and more significant hero: my grandfather, who died, or my grandmother, who struggled to survive, to keep her two daughters and her elderly mother alive.

I have a family heirloom—a wooden icon of Saint Paraskevi, brought from Krithia. On the back, my grandfather (who was also a calligrapher) wrote my mother’s birth date: March 8, 1940. She was later baptized Paraskevi, taking the name of a beloved aunt of my grandfather, who had cared for him as a child and was said to have “died from the evil eye” because she was a very beautiful girl who tragically passed away at a young age.

From the book: “Refugee Recollections – Adrianople, Gallipoli Kirklareli” 2025, by Iakovos Garivaldis