Great-aunt Tegitsa tended her large garden alone, a hoe in her leathery hands, an old lady in black, older than old, her white hair in a bun.
She had trouble walking without a cane, and she’d grunt a bit when chopping with her hoe, working around her vegetables, and while cultivating her quince trees and roses and other old English flowers.
The last thing you’d ever think was that this tiny wrinkled woman in widow’s weeds was ever young and in love, or that she was ever afraid for her life and that of the boy who loved her.
But she’d once been the target of a desperate nighttime manhunt through the mountains, with men shouting and murder on their lips, with guns and horses and lanterns.
I didn’t plan on writing this story for Valentine’s Day. But I was asked by my valentine: “Would you please just write a Valentine’s Day column? Maybe a love story?”
For this one we have to go back to the old country, to the mountainous Peloponnesus of Greece, when Thea Tegtisa wasn’t some crone in black with a hoe in her hand.
Then she was a beautiful young girl, the daughter of a prominent clan in the village of Manasi.
The Turks named it Manasi. Years later, long after the Turks had been driven out with fire and sword, the name of the village was changed to Psili Vrisi, or High Spring, for the delicious spring water that flows from the rocks.
Tegitsa belonged to the Bouzanis family. The head of the clan was her father, Barba Niko Bouzanis. They had power and money, lands and livestock, orchards and status.
In the fall they’d drive their herds down the mountains to winter near the sea, then drive the herds back up to the mountain pastures in spring. They claimed an archbishop among them, and an admiral from the royal navy.
So the Bouzanis clan had rank and position to protect.
And their prize was the beautiful girl with the black eyes, Tegitsa. She was only 15 or 16 then.
It was 1920 in those mountains, but it could have been 1820. There was nothing modern about the place or the people. The girl was important. She was lovely and respected and would be promised to some other prominent family. Tegitsa would come with a hefty bride price, a dowry of herds and gold, so both clans would increase their wealth.
Tegitsa was her nickname. They had named her Tegea, the name of the ancient league of villages that was once a city-state. Tegea once sent ships to retake Helen of Troy. Later, Tegeans fought with their enemies, the Spartans, against the Persian invaders at Thermopylae.
Yes, it’s all ancient history. But many people of the world hold the burden of their history as if it were yesterday. Those who do not are called Americans.
After World War I, the king of Greece called all Greek men of the diaspora back to fight the Turks in the disastrous war called the Great Catastrophe. When it was over, a young soldier from Canada visited his family in Psili Vrisi.
His name was George Mitges. His family was poor, but they had a name, they’d been heroes in the revolutionary war against the Turks. Yet they had little treasure.
But George Mitges found his treasure: Tegitsa.
He didn’t want a dowry from the Bouzanis clan. Secretly, he whispered to her that he’d take her to a place where there was no bride price. All he wanted was the girl.
She’s not for you, his family said. She’s not for you, said her father, the clan chief Barba Niko, who then locked her away in the house.
One night, George took her, helped by his cousins and friends. She climbed over the courtyard wall and jumped on his horse. They rode up higher into the mountains.
The Bouzanis screamed, rang bells, pounded on doors, shouting for blood. They sent riders to other villages, calling for relatives with guns to come hunt the young couple down and kill George to reclaim their honor.
“They’ve taken her!” they screamed. “They’ve taken Tegitsa!! They’ve taken the girl!!”
How did they escape?
One theory has it that George’s cousins rode up ahead and started campfires outside small mountaintop chapels to draw Barba Niko and his men away.
The next day, around midmorning, came more drama: George and Tegitsa and his cousins rode back into town to confront Barba Niko.
There could have been blood. Barba Niko and his sons stood there with their guns, waiting silently as the young couple walked their horses up a muddy hill.
In loud voices, so the entire village would hear, Tegitsa and George shouted that they wanted to be married. No man would have her now anyway, Tegitsa knew, so they would either be married or dead. She held onto George. A priest was summoned. There was no dancing at the wedding.
They had a son, Constantine. Then George took his family back to Canada. They had another son, and they ran a successful restaurant, the Trianon, in Guelph, Ontario. Constantine, called Gus, became a member of the Canadian Parliament. Their other son, Panos, was a successful investor.
George and Tegitsa weren’t much for public displays of affection. I don’t know if he gave her flowers on Valentine’s Day.
They didn’t kiss in public or hold hands. Yet they loved each other for over 50 years.
And they made a life, together, in a land where there was no bride price.
Listen to “The Chicago Way” podcast with John Kass and Jeff Carlin at http://wgnradio.com/category/wgn-plus/thechicagoway.
jskass@chicagotribune.com
Twitter @John_Kass
