Author Xris (Chris Hess on your far right with guest Christopher Janus, Professor Kalaras and Valerie Valentine at Yeager Airport
Distinguished Mountaineer:
Christopher Xenopoulos Janus
By Xrisanthi Hess, PAA Mountaineer Chapter President
Photos courtesy of Steve Fesenmaier
“A man cannot sincerely help another without helping himself.” – The Feeling Good Book: Quotations to InspireBy Christopher Janus Christopher Janus has accomplished many things and met many people in his life. He attended Harvard and Oxford, joined the State Department, started his own investment firm, organized various high-profile fundraisers, has written articles for several well-known and highly respected newspapers and magazines, and has authored numerous books, just to name a few. He has met and conversed with a variety of dignitaries, from Presidents and Prime Ministers to Hollywood executives and movie stars. Throughout the course of his 96-years, he has influenced and helped the lives of many people. It’s the affect he had on one life, one person who he never met, that I want to share with you. George Somaraki was the embodiment of a Cretan man: proud, brave, generous, an impeccable host who loved a glass of wine and a good story. He was my grandfather, and like most grandfathers he would plague us with stories of “how it used to be.” A willing, and sometimes unwilling, pair of ears were all the requirements needed for him to begin, “Once, in (insert year here) I was. . .” Although these were actual recollections, I refer to them as “stories” simply because that is how I used to think of them. As a child I had no point of reference for the wild and amazing things my grandfather would say. It seemed incredible to me that he never saw an automobile until he was ten years old or that he was left alone in the mountains all day to tend the family’s herd of sheep when he was six. As I grew older and began to realize these stories were not fictional, I listened with a new interest. I absorbed and memorized all the characters along with the twists and turns of each plot. There is one story in particular that I remember with great clarity. Although my grandfather never knew Christopher Janus, he was a key character in this story; a story I heard as a child at my grandfather’s house in Tsikalaria, Crete; a story that has affected the course of my family for the last 70 years.
It was 70 years ago, during WWII, when my grandfather was a member of the Cretan Resistance. He never really liked to talk about the war, especially when the grandkids were within hearing distance, because for him, along with many others, it was a time of cold, starvation and death. But every once in a while, when his cousin came down from the mountain to visit, and the tsikoudia ran a little too freely, he would reminisce on days gone by. The crisp clearness of the drink seemed to work as an elixir, relaxing the body, loosening the tongue and unlocking that secret door in the basement of his mind where all those dark memories were hidden. I would slip into the room and position myself on the stairs so as not to be noticed. This was forbidden territory and I measured my breath so as not to alert the two old men to my presence. I listened with widening eyes to tales of daring, determination and deception. But once the bravado of ambushes, hand-to-hand combats and German incompetence was depleted, a melancholy stillness would come over my grandfather. A strange quality would creep into his voice as he began to recount the last days of the war. I remember listening to his voice and seeing the images he spoke of projected in front of me through the grainy filter of a silent, black and white film. He was captured by the Germans before the end of the war and sent to Agia prison in Hania, one of several concentration camps on the island. He remained in the camp for five months, twelve days and 6 hours (the exact time was give with great emphasis). He recalled that, apart from the want of food and clothing, for the Germans had barely enough themselves let alone the prisoners, it was the constant assault of smells he found unbearable. He couldn’t escape the noxious smells of smoke, sweat, human waste and rotting corpses. His nose cried out for a reprieve. Having been a shepherd, he longed for just one breathe of the thyme-scented mountain air, just one clean inhalation would give him the courage he needed to face the daily horrors of the camp. His voice then became strangely flat as he told of the bodies, starved to skeletons, lying in corners of cells and passage-ways. He was surprised one day as one of those skeletons weakly raised its gaunt hand and whispered, “George!” My grandfather approached him but did not recognize the drawn, wasted face he saw. “George, its Michael, Michael Xidakis.” (“You remember Michael, don’t you,” my grandfather would always ask his cousin. “He was the boy who used to live next to Barba Sifi’s house.”). He gazed in horror at the death-white skin stretched across the skeletal face. He could detect no resemblance to the supple, sun-warmed and mischievous face of his childhood friend. Two days later Michael Xidakis died and his body tossed into a mass grave. It’s always at this point in the story-telling my grandfather would take a long pause, and an even longer drink. He never continued down the path of his remaining days in the camp. Those memories were too closely guarded; the watcher at the gate would not grant access. So he turned away, a pause the only acknowledgement given to those experiences, and skipped to the next chapter. He was released from the camp along with a handful of others who managed to survive, a scrawny group of men with shaved heads and bulging eyes. Their clothes, far from new when they entered, now hung in tattered shreds from their emaciated bodies. In those first hours of freedom, my grandfather wondered around the city, delirious from cold and hunger, trying to find food and shelter where he could. It was almost thirty-eight miles to his village and he began the long trek, hoping to catch a ride with someone who had a vehicle. While passing through the village of Souda, he noticed a crowd had gathered along the dock. Curiosity, and the hope of earning some food, led him to the edge of the water. Anchored in the bay was an American Naval ship and he watched as uniform-clad seamen and local civilians went back and forth on the lowered gangplank. Stopping one of the residents he asked, “Symbethere, what’s going on?” “It’s the Americans. They are giving us food, clothes and medicines.” My grandfather made his way to the foreman in charge of transporting the relief items to Hania. He worked out a deal with the foreman in which he would help to unload the ship in exchange for food and clothes. For his work he received a heavy wool coat, American boots, and some assorted foodstuffs (his first introduction to SPAM). During the course of his story-telling, the tone of his voice was the only indicator of emotion. In an effort to preserve the image of Cretan manhood, he rarely expressed feelings that would lend to weakness or vulnerability, such as fear and desperation. During his narrations these emotions were briefly glanced at and then quickly packed away. But the reason this story made such an impression on me was because once, and only once, he did express his vulnerability, laying it out for display and observation. As he left Hania and made his way back to the village of
Tzitzifies, he felt a a “soul-crushing” depression. Desperation and hopelessness engulfed him. Remembering Michael Xidakis, he wasn’t sure what he would find once he reached the village. Would it still be there? Or did the Germans burn it to the ground like they had done to so many others? Would his family still be alive to welcome him? Or would deprivation and hunger have wiped them out? If, by some miracle, they were alive, could he withstand the journey? These were the thoughts that plagued his mind as he made his way down to the Souda docks. “Anastasi, I couldn’t stop the tears,” he told his cousin. “There was a doctor there and he noticed some sores on my arms, so he gave me a salve to put on them. In one corner there was a table with some food wrapped in paper and a Navy man standing behind it. He waved me over and gave me two American sandwiches and a cup of hot American coffee. The (foreman) gave me a thick, wool coat and as I sat down with the strange American coffee the tears started, like turning on a faucet. The tall collar of the coat kept away the biting wind and the coffee warmed me to the bottom of my feet. For the first time in a long time, I had hope. Hope that my family had survived, and hope I would be able to make the journey home.” George Somaraki did make it home and rejoiced to see all of his family alive. But there is an epilogue to this story. Years later, when my father, an American Navy man, came to ask for his daughter’s hand, he said yes, remembering the man behind the sandwich table. And so all this lead, eventually, to me, my marrying an American military man and moving to West Virginia, which is where Mr. Janus was born and raised. And it was here I had the opportunity to meet Mr. Janus. Several months ago I received an email informing me that Mr. Janus would be in Charleston to present the Disney movie, “Goodbye, Miss 4th of July,” which was based on the book he wrote about his sister and growing up in West Virginia. When I was offered the opportunity to host Mr. Janus, and his party, during their stay, I readily accepted. I rented the biggest vehicle I could find, a Chevrolet Suburban, and eagerly awaited their arrival. They were flying in on the 4:30 flight from Chicago. I reached Yeager
Airport at 3:30 p.m., just in case. The landing of United from Chicago was announced and I made my way to the gate. I was surprised to recognize a good friend of mine who had just de-boarded the plane. I spoke to her a few moments, trying to pay attention as she related how her trip went, all the while keeping an eye on the arriving passengers. Finally, I saw them. Christopher Janus is a tall, distinguished looking gentleman with a white mane of hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes. His companion, Valerie Valentine, a smartly dressed and soft-spoken woman, walked by his side. Also accompanying Mr. Janus was his close friend, Dr. John Kalaras. A well accomplished man himself, Dr. Kalaras’ sincere dark eyes and warm smile made me like him instantly. I introduced myself and welcomed then all to
West Virginia and let them know that I would be their guide during their stay. 
Figure 1 (LtoR) Christopher Janus, Dr. John Kalaras, Valerie Valentine and Xrisanthi Hess
During the short ride from the airport to the hotel, we spent time getting to know each other and by the time we reached the theatre that evening we had become fast friends. At the theatre there was a short reception prior to the film viewing where Mr. Janus was recognized with several honors. 
Figure 2 Dr. John Kalaras, Valerie Valentine and Christopher Janus at the historic Labelle Theatre A proclamation signed by West Virginia Gov. Joe Manchin was read which declared November 10th as Greek WV Day, in recognition of contributions Greeks have made to communities across the state. Mr. Janus was presented with the Distinguished Mountaineer Award, also signed by Gov. Joe Manchin, for his contributions not only to the state, but across the nation. He was then made an honorary resident and presented with the keys to South Charleston. Finally, Dr. Kalaras read a letter from the Greek Parliament, signed by the Prime Minister, addressed to Mr. Janus and recognizing his efforts for Greece and Greek-Americans. 
Figure 3 Christopher Janus autographed copies of his book following the film. A good crowd of Greeks and Non-Greeks alike filtered into the charming theatre to view the film. Everyone enjoyed delicious appetizers provided by The Best of Crete Restaurant, owned by the Birurakis family. Following the film, Mr. Janus autographed copies of his books which were available for purchase.
One of the purposes for Mr. Janus’ trip to West Virginia was to visit his mother’s grave and to take a tour of Montgomery, the town where he spent the majority of his childhood years. So the next day we piled into the Suburban and headed toward
Montgomery. We were joined by Helen Lodge, a long-time acquaintance of Mr. Janus, and sister to former Montgomery Mayor Melba White. Also joining us was my husband, J.D. Hess, who also grew up in Montgomery.
Throughout the course of the day, Mr. Janus spoke of his many experiences and what they meant to him. Somehow, a discussion started on his work with the State Department and the Greek War Relief Fund. As he spoke, the image of my grandfather, sitting on the dock with a cup of American coffee and tears streaming down his face, flashed into my mind. It was at that moment I realized the man sitting next to me was the person responsible for that American Naval ship in Souda and for the American cup of coffee in my grandfather’s hand. He was the man who had unknowingly played a part in my grandfather’s story and who had changed the course of my family’s life. Because of Mr. Janus’ work, my grandfather was given hope and encouragement at a time when he needed it the most. And I, unwittingly, was sitting next to Mr. Janus, because of Mr. Janus and his efforts.
I realized that the story I heard in my grandfather’s house had come full circle. Mr. Janus, in his effort to ease the suffering of his fellow Greeks, never knew my grandfather or how he had helped him. But almost 70 years later he met George Somarakis granddaughter and, in a small way, I was able to offer him my help. The tour concluded with the Annual Greek Dinner at St. John’s church. I was humbled to be able to sit down and break bread with a man who, through his accomplishments of 96 years, has influenced not only the life of George Somaraki but so many others as well. Tears sprang to my eyes as I began to tell my grandfather’s story because he was no longer here to tell it himself. He had passed away the year before at the age of ninety-seven. But although he is gone, his stories continue in me, and I was pleased to reveal and acknowledge such a key player in the story. As I said goodbye to Mr. Janus I was reminded how little we realize the affect we have on each others lives. Because he was able to help my grandfather I was to help him and so truly, “no man can sincerely help another without helping himself.”
Figure 4
St. John’s Annual Greek Dinner. Dr. John Kalaras, Valerie Valentine, Christopher Janus, J.D. and Xrisanthi Hess
To read more about Christopher Janus’ visit to West Virginia – or to contact Mr. Janus Wilmette, Illinois – he is very friendly and loves to talk to people - 871-251-8812
http://thegazz.com/gblogs/wvfilm/2007/11/27/christopher-x-janus-honored-by-harvard-prez/
http://thegazz.com/gblogs/wvfilm/2007/11/13/christoper-janus-greek-wv-night/
http://thegazz.com/gblogs/wvfilm/2007/08/23/why-greeks-matter-by-christopher-janus/
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