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The Diaries of Judith Malina, 1958–1971 (Excerpt)

2022; The MIT Press; Volume: 44; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1162/pajj_a_00606

1537-9477

Kate Bredeson,

Cultural Studies and Interdisciplinary Research

Activist, director, actor, and poet Judith Malina (1926–2015), co-founder and director with Julian Beck of The Living Theatre, meticulously detailed her every day in diaries that she kept from her childhood until her final months. Born in Kiel, Germany, Malina immigrated to the U.S. with her family in 1929, and her earliest diaries record her impressions of growing up in New York—a life of school, errands, museums, and plays. Since the start of The Living Theatre in 1947, her diaries are a crucial primary source for documenting her life and that of the company, as well as cataloguing her sharp observations of culture, art, and politics. Throughout her adult life, her writing attests to her increasing commitment to pacifism and nonviolence. A prolific writer, she left behind hundreds of thousands of diary entries, most of which remain unpublished, despite her desire to make them all available to readers. Malina published two collections of her diaries: The Enormous Despair (1972) on the theatre's 1968-69 tour, and The Diaries of Judith Malina 1947–1957 (1984); these books are illuminating for theatre historians, artists, and anyone interested in anarchist politics and counterculture, and the way theatre can be a tool for political work. My book, The Diaries of Judith Malina, 1958–1971 publishes for the first time her diaries from these seismic years in the company's history, much of which was spent in self-exile, first in Europe and then in Brazil, and is part of my larger project to edit and publish her lifetime diaries.The following excerpts from 1961 and 1966 outline the bustle in advance of The Living Theatre's first European tour, early travel highlights, and their visits to the Berliner Ensemble—experiences which left great impressions on Malina and her company. Following the successful New York runs of William Carlos Williams's Many Loves—which opened the 14th Street Theatre in 1959, Jack Gelber's The Connection, and Bertolt Brecht's In the Jungle of Cities, the company received many invitations to perform abroad. Malina's diary highlights the leadup to their sailing to Europe, money troubles that would plague them for the company's entire history, and their consideration of the relationship between their desire for independence and their need for support. She narrates her experience visiting the Kennedy White House in search of funding, reading Allen Ginsberg's Kaddish on the ship to Europe, and her spiritual observations. Indeed, her diary is full of references to God, the goddess, and the influences of Martin Buber and Dorothy Day. She makes a frequent practice of writing annually on Kol Nidre, Yom Kippur, and Rosh Hashanah, and uses these occasions to contemplate the larger divine world and her place in it. Malina's passion for poetry is equally on display; she references Walt Whitman, “wept for Sappho” as she approaches Lesbos, and mourns for her dead love Jim Agee. Throughout the diary, Malina connects her thorough knowledge of art and politics to the many places she travels. With each new city, she studies language phrases and learns about history. In Rome, she laments not speaking more Italian. In Paris, against the backdrop of the Algerian War, she hears of poor treatment of Algerians. In the section published here, Malina and The Living Theatre visit England, France, Italy, Serbia, Greece, and Germany, which at the time was split into East and West, as Malina notes that the company first visited “Only six weeks before the wall went up.”In addition to providing details about her company's professional and interpersonal endeavors, these passages highlight Malina's reflexive contemplation of her diary-keeping practice; she was an obsessive diarist who wrote regularly about the practice of keeping a diary. On May 29, 1961, she asks: “Shall I keep a publishable journal? Why should anyone care?” She highlights her feeling of being split between dueling impulses to record: Yesterday, I made a note, afraid to begin a journal, not sure of my motive. Wanting to keep two journals, a journal of the heart and spirit, and a journal of the mind and the world. A journal of work and a journal of the soul.A few lines later, she reports feeling split between wanting to write about the sea and feeling obligated to record “theatrical events” in her diary. This tension would follow her throughout her diary-keeping life, during which she alternated between recording practices, sometimes composing detailed chronicles of people, places, and events, and other times writing in a poetic, lyrical, non-narrative style that illustrated her feelings.Malina's spirituality, her love of Paris (“O Paris, Paris, Paris. / O my real world.”), and the troubles her theatre faced living and working together, are evident in the following passages. Her writing emphasizes the nomadic nature that would define The Living Theatre's existence in the 1960s; a feeling of whirlwind and exhaustion is clear in her reports. She often writes quick entries while traveling, sometimes with handwriting upset by the motion of trains or cars, while at other times she lingers in rich descriptions. She has a flair for writing extended retrospective passages full of minutiae and contemplation, such as her reminiscences about her teacher Erwin Piscator in August 1968, or her reports of performance exercises she and the theatre staged in Brazil in 1970. The 1961 and 1966 passages published here include her lengthy account of The Living Theatre's first visit to the Berliner Ensemble, and Malina's meeting with Helene Weigel, whom she quite admired (“‘Shut up, shut up’ she said, grinning.”) The company's return to the Berliner Ensemble in 1966 on their next European tour concludes this selection and features Malina's thoughts on Piscator—about whom she writes in her diaries often, and her examination of Weigel and company's technique and effect. Throughout, Malina grapples with the internal workings of her own company and her larger spiritual place in the world. Paired, the Berlin diary entries from 1961 and 1966 demonstrate her commitment to study and growth in her own practice; the great influence of Piscator, Weigel, and Brecht on her own work; and her reflections on class and politics that underscore everything she does.My hope is that the publication of Malina's lifetime diaries will expand the available information about her own history and that of the company, nourish interest in the relationship between activism and art (in terms of both successes and failures), and expand contemporary thinking about the practice of diary-keeping. Judith Malina's diaries open up new understandings for her and her life's work and are an invitation to her readers to consider our own record-keeping and personal archives, to, as she wrote in April 1967, “write everything down / To show how beautiful it is.”◼March 9, 1961The European plans pile up, the engagements in various great cities are fantastic, too fantastic to believe. Paris, Rome, Amsterdam, Naples, Turin, Glasgow; no matter how hard we work, the sum of $40,000 seems beyond my human comprehension. Not only do we not have any of it as yet, but we are in constant trouble with our creditors; there is a chart in our lobby of a ship crossing the Atlantic on a graph of a thousand dollars an inch, and a big theatrical trunk under it with a slot for contributions. It yields an occasional twelve cents to a dollar.We are chasing foundations, philanthropists, and planning two social benefit parties.April 6, 1961Night train to The White House to see Pierre Salinger, the presidential aid. The interview was arranged for us by Josephine Van Gasteren, Dutch actress and journalist, who came to interview me for her newspaper, Der Telegraph, became enthused about what The Living Theatre was doing, and showed me her interview with Salinger in which she had already suggested The Living Theatre as a better “calling-card” for America than the State Department sponsored tour.Last week we went to The State Department, mostly at the urging of the various foundations, friends, and philanthropists that Julian has approached for the 40,000 dollars needed. But there, a Mr. Heath Bowman, the kind of well-spoken kindly evasive man one would expect at The State Department assured us that Congress could hardly appropriate taxpayers’ monies for “these plays.” He pointed out that even The Skin of Our Teeth was causing consternation, much less Brecht and a play about drug addiction.Congressman Lindsay came with us to The State Department, and he brought with him a representative from Senator Javits’ office. Lindsay the liberal Republican champions us handsomely. He speaks bravely though politely of opposing the conservatives of Congress. No one will be moved, but Lindsay acts like a movie- congressman. Suddenly we have friends from all over. We even went to the House to hear Lindsay's speech, but it never got on the agenda and we witnessed the undignified machinations of quarrelsome old men.All this began with Howard Taubman's eloquent appeal for funds for us in The Times in which he spoke of “our country's prestige” and “cultural ambassadors.” Since then we are deluged by a world we never made. And while our politics are at variance with this whole structure, the theatre's world continues, and makes its own road. We do not envision state aid, but its morality is kin to the big Foundations. Dorothy Day refused $20,000 from the Ford Foundation to the Catholic Worker. But we solicit help from any source. We are not altogether untroubled by this, and this final trip to The White House arouses many and varied feelings.Josephine Van Gasteren phoned Salinger from our office and set up an appointment. We thought perhaps it would not take place because of the political crisis in Laos, but The White House schedule is unperturbed. Preparations were being made, photographers and SS men readied for Prime Minister MacMillan's second interview with President Kennedy. The Laotian crises and the complication of the recognition of Red China still left time for The Living Theatre's tour.Salinger, like his office, is informal. We described, briefly, our situation. He skimmed over Taubman's article, asked if we had been to The State Department to see Mr. Coomes. We mentioned Bowman, and he winced “there's a name out of the past.” He meant, I think, the past administration, Bowman dating from Eisenhower's regime, whereas Coomes is a new-frontier man. He picked up his multi-buttoned phone and asked for the USIA, U.S. information service, which is the governmental catch-all for cultural activities. Don't know whom he spoke to, but he suggested that The Living Theatre's problem be “re-evaluated.” Putting the phone down he said, “That's not very much money, but you know USIA has hardly any budget.”Tass called, interrupting our conversation to find out who else was in MacMillan's party. “Lord Hume and several lesser luminaries.” There seemed no need for lengthy explanations, he seemed so fully to grasp the situation; whether this is genuine interest or merely the statesmanship of a reputedly brilliant man, who plays Bach, and has a gold Javanese dancer's mask on a shelf above his desk, that remains to be seen.He jotted down the theatre's phone number, and promised to call us as soon as he had any information.So we are to be re-evaluated!Salinger is impressive. He listens intensely, informally; because of my political prejudices I tend to be suspicious, but he seemed for all the world warm and personal and responsive. I liked him, immediately and respectfully.We were well-received; we will await word. The new administration is anxious to please, but we are dubious material. It would be interesting to know how we are evaluated?May 29, 1961. On the High SeasShall I go up and look at the sea?They say the sun is shining and the weather is glorious. When I go up, I will enjoy it. But there is a dark joy in this calm, its cradle motion, and having just read at random in Ginsberg's Kaddish. Not literary thoughts, but a fine gloom that soothes and dulls.Shall I keep a publishable journal? Shall I write: “I think: what shall we bring them in Europe. What newfangled dreams can I lay at the altar of my Homeland? What can we carry back to them who are my forebears in the old country?”The Steward knocked. Person from Porlock. I put out my cigarette, adjusted my hair and the incense.“Sleeping?” he says.“No. Working.”(Shall I keep a publishable journal? Why should anyone care?)“I make your bed later, ok?“Ok, later.”I snapped the lock aggressively.Ghan, Ghan, Ghan Is the Vision of Kubla KhanYesterday, I made a note, afraid to begin a journal, not sure of my motive. Wanting to keep two journals, a journal of the heart and spirit, and a journal of the mind and the world. A journal of work and a journal of the soul.I have lost the ground I stood on.I am at sea.And He divided the waters.Do I mean, really mean, that I divide my world in half?I should go up on deck and look at the sea, but I love the soft gloom of the cabin.I made a note on the sea, but I hesitated to write it down because I felt obliged to keep a journal of theatrical events.The hell with it. All is One, even if I can't believe it. It's still One, whether I believe it or not.Outside on deck the mark of His Glory is unmistakable in black and white. The white foam and the singing blackness. We would stay out all night but the cold rain drives us indoors. The cabins are like beneficent prison cells that shelter us when the Outside drives us out. We avoid His Face, but His Hand rocks us to sleep as in a cradle, His touch touches us and makes us ill with fright, or joyous with awe.The Voyage suffices without thought of the goal.In The North Atlantic I recognize His Face, which is everywhere, but hidden by the aversion of our gaze. On The North Atlantic I feel His Hand which is on my always, but I shine Him off my consciousness with the small vain things. Not Here Where the Ocean is. The special prayer which our hard, ocean-stern faith prescribes is simple: Blessed Art Thou, O Lord, our God,Who has made the Great Sea.The ship was once The Europa, a German ship that was a piece of war booty, remodeled by the French. A taxi driver told me this first.Night on deck. Heavy fog. We are moving north. Europa, crossing the sea to the Old World. The bull in the water and I am on her back, swept back. The ancient jackals still gnaw.June 2, 1961. Plymouth HarborLoveliest land ever seen.O venerable dream of the Real World that is England.June 5, 1961. Between Paris and TurinNight train from Paris to Italy. Almost dawn.Paris come and gone like an image just passed in a kaleidoscope. Though we will soon return—never again for the first time.Paris is to love.In St. Germain des Prés, along the venerable street with the venerable church, a small hotel, the St. George, from the window a corner of The Deux Magots, and the house where, it is pointed out to us, Sartre lives.The Church bells wake me early (the name begun by Childebent, son of Clovis in 558, the tower dates from the twelfth century).Breakfast at the Deux Magots. Everyone looks pretty and bohemian; the girls are enchantingly beautiful. The men tacky but young. Everyone is young. They sit at the tables all day long and look young. People feel themselves part of the décor. But no one is well dressed.When yesterday we walked up the Champs-Elysées no one was well-dressed, though it was Sunday and the crowds were crowded and festive. Glad I did not see that side of Paris till I thoroughly loved St. Germain des Prés, for its gaud and wealth are in far better taste than in New York, and it has a beauty unknown in my loved and stupid city, but it is in the guise of pride and commerce, and not free and breathing like the beautiful crumbling gentler streets of the left bank.We walked the first night in a “rausch” of romance. Along the Seine, past legend after legend.And we skimming in the three days we had, as much as we could.Briefly, Notre Dame, the Louvre, the streets themselves, the Madeleine, etc... The streets are the best spectacle.Though the gendarmes carry naked submachine guns, a sudden shock to see that coming at you.But oh how kind they are when answering questions. And they speak softly like friends.Our friends tell us they are not so gentle to Algerians.We meet our friends from the London Connection. They are all here living within two blocks from us, all around the Place St. Germain des Prés.Life in Paris. Everyone hustles. Goodrow hustles me out of 100 francs. No score.Life on a night train, nearing the border.Claude Plançon, the director of Théâtre des Nations, is attractive, brilliant, worldly, unworldly, human, shrewd, humane. His concern is for the world's suffering. His work to alleviate it. His medium, the One Theatre. His is a lover of the underdog, of intellectuals, of negroes, of people, of the ladies, of fine food. But he has spent cumulatively six years in prison, in five different countries.We talk of our practical problems: all seems to be well-controlled. He handles things in his office with the kind of vigorous impatience that Julian shows. But when he leaves his office and takes us to luncheon, he is like a man without problems, smiling, uncomplaining and interested.He is entertaining the Filipino dancers who just then arrive from their distant country. We all speak in English.Through the insanities of Paris traffic we go to a small restaurant overlooking the Seine. I drive with Plançon in his car, the others take a taxi. He drives like a maniac. I answer his questions about the American attitude toward Cuba, the new administration, etcetera… He listens with great care.At the restaurant we talk over the finest food, truffles, and crêpes Suzette, of prejudice and hatred and racism. In the Philippines, there is no race prejudice, they tell us. They heard of it for the first time when the American liberation army came with their white-negro soldiers segregated.June 10, 1961. RomeThe Splendor of the World UnfoldsJune 15, 1961. Train from Rome to TurinThe company arrived in high spirits. Jimmy stayed in New York an extra week, but the programs he stayed to work on were not finished. Peter stayed a week to be with Nina in childbirth. Carl Lee and Jim Anderson drove from Paris; they arrived late leaving Shirley Clarke, who is now Carl's scandalous mistress, to make public her affections by her display of agitation.The company are in good spirits, with one horrible fault: they have come to openly hate one another. Most of them do not speak to one another. Sharing rooms, tables, train seats are all a problem in anger.I quarrel only with Jimmy.Jamil and Marilyn, both filled with unnecessary worries, ally themselves with Martin Sheen and Janet, looking with longing on the others’ innocence, Sala is everyone's scapegoat. Her exuberance offends them. Murray is the scapegoat of Lee's wrath, and Skip, though kind-hearted, imitates her.No one appreciates John Coe, and no one appreciates the fine qualities of Joe Chaikin, except for me.Cynthia glows, she expands in Rome's dreamworld. She has her own friends and exuberates in the Roman life.George Miller has Roget.Peter is glum, smiles only talking of Jeremy.Rudd Lowry is a pain in the neck, but everyone complains and still likes him.The musicians were grim till Shirley cheered them up.I like her now.One thing that unites everyone in the company is their love for Rome. Everyone adores Rome. They see her, talk of her, explore her, revel in her.Julian is too vehement against Rome.I know Rome, immediately and instinctually, and I know Rome is in fact, “The World.”This grandeur is a pile of shit.But the jewel is in the lotus.Ivan, an Italian Communist, befriends us, shows us the side streets of Rome, and talks to us with vigor and fervor, and remarkably little hostility about the truth of the communist views. He is amazingly candid and direct. The only thing he cannot believe is that we understand him and still do not approve. He feels it must be that we don't get the message. Americans must rebel, he says. We agree.Well why don't you? (Incredulously)Then he explains that he doesn't mean us, The Living Theatre, we’re rebelling enough, he means the American people. I try to explain that the American people are conservative, that is, they are afraid things will get worse than they are, or that they will lose their prosperity.“You have prosperity?” (again, incredulously). These actors work for forty-five dollars a week.That's because they’re rebelling against commercial theatre which pays better.We walked through Rome and the Villa Borghese till dawn. And then we went back to the Hotel and smoked.The Connection opened at the Parioli with great success. Many Loves followed and was also well received.The difficulties were in setting up the technical aspects in time. The Language Barrier. Everywhere The Language Barrier. Wittgenstein says: “The Limits of My Language means the Limits of my world.” Tractatus Logico—Philosophicus.Proverbial rudeness of Roman audiences.We had been received with much interest. A pompous press conference took place the day after our arrival in Rome. Lobby of The Plaza Hotel, forty journalists in a wide circle. Julian and I on medieval chairs under the pseudo-Fragonard ceiling. The leading critic asked to share the throne with us.Gerardo Guerrieri, our host, importer and friend, makes a speech in Italian, followed by a long speech by my long-lost teacher of the “March of Drama” at Piscator's.Paolo Milano, who greeted us first with “forgive me for boring you with these long lectures.”Everyone waiting for The Play to begin, but Julian (my guest) and I listening like sponges. Greedy to know a bit more about Calderon, or The Restoration, or The Commedia dell’Arte.Now meeting again on his ground, we hear him speak again, in Italian, this time about us.The journalists ask the usual questions; everything takes four times longer with translation. Language barrier. We regret not having at least a little, un poco l’Italian.Flash bulbs.We stay at a pretty Parioli hotel, Hotel Delle Muse, on Tommaso Salvini Street—not far from Eleanor Duse Street—in residential pretty Rome. No ruins, no monuments. A svelte movie theatre. Westerns in the afternoon. Connection at night.The Guerrieris, Anne and Gerardo, who invented and manage The Teatro Club, treated us marvelously. I even had a quarrel with Gerardo in our first private encounter over the staging of The Connection in Europe. Treating it as a conventional play, it could be played as taking place in New York only. But the Here and Now is hard to understand theatrically.Anne went to The Workshop for a short time and is somehow a New York girl. They had received some of the gentle discussion about The Living Theatre that the conservatives are administering. But they arranged nonetheless for full and even enthusiastic press coverage and social receptions. At one of them the American Cultural Attaché was present, but not host, he “could” greet us only informally. A posh party with di Chirico in caricature given by Mme. Bordoni, wealthy patron of Teatro Club.They showed us Rome first, driving us around on the night of our arrival, to the Forum and the Trevi Fountain for our wish, spending time with us explaining Rome. And their Maria-Teresa leant me a veil for the papal audience.The plays adapted easily to the new stage. Many Loves, under-rehearsed, drops the whole climax to the Clara monologue. John Coe cut a cue. It could have been I. Biggest theatre I have worked in since school days. Smaller house for Many Loves than for The Connection. No simultaneous translation for Many Loves. At first, I fought this device, but it helps attendance.June 17, 1961. BelgradeRome—the grandeur of deathParis—the joy of lifeVenice—the Lagoon of Pleasures (the pleasure city)West Berlin—Jazzy Hope AcceleratedEast Berlin—Suffering Hope deferredBelgrade—Gray dawn—Emptiness. Nothing.Turin to Milan.The great Piccolo Theatre. In Red Plush. Again great success.Many Loves, too, is well received in Milan. Terrible tiredness from parties given for us.We go to Paris through the Alps. Eating lunch in the gorge between crags, we watch the sunlit peaks go by.In Paris the real openings take place. From the provinces to the capital.O Paris, Paris, Paris.O my real world.Tonight, in one hour, my Paris debut. Most important moment. This is the heart of the real world. Here where the soul is, of which we are all provinces, where the masters stood, I stand. Where the great one were. Copeau, who dreamed it up. Jouvet's dressing room. Its last occupant was Suzanne Flon, George told me.Nervous for the opening. Heat. No air. The house overcrowded. Excitement. Wild reception. Endless curtain calls. They dragged me backstage but fortunately late after protests. A real hit. The actors excited as at a New York opening. The press not all for us, but those against—stuffy Gautier of Figaro—object only on puritanical grounds to the subject.At the “University of Théâtre des Nations,” a class from twenty-seven countries, we are more praised than questioned. These youngsters are bright-eyed and serious and energetic, and fun. They remind me of the old days at Piscator's, when we were the ones to ask. Now we answer like old hands.Rehearsing and attending to The Press leaves us no license to return to the Louvre or to see Notre Dame.The Vieux Colombier is of such excellent proportions, and in its air such quantities of inspiration from the master who worked there that rehearsing becomes a pleasure again.Many Loves goes well. I am especially liked and my joy is complete.We walked up to Montmartre on the opening day. It was hot. Hot too at night in the theatre. But they sweated through it, and in the heat of their heat we knew they loved us as we loved them.Sacha Pitöeff, tall bearded and handsome, the son of the great Pitöeffs, came to congratulate us.All went well save The Jungle rehearsals which were deferred for one technical problem after another. Teiji's tape was late arriving (though Claude Plançon's beautiful black mistress, Matlida the Haitian Voodoo priestess, prayed for them in on time). The score for tape needed lots of rehearsing. No lights in time, more time to erect the set than we had expected. All things conspired against us.I had threatened not to let the play go on if it was not run through once, after weeks of not playing it. I needed the work for my own role of Mary, which I had only played four times, and those most imperfectly.But when the time came and the play was not rehearsed, I wanted to present it, for all its flaws, half-improvised if need be, with lights when there were lights, and darkness where it fell.But this play that we had dragged across the ocean at terrible expense, to be played only one time, but that time to prove to Europe that Americans can do Brecht. To prove that we can play in what is thought to be “a stylized” form.Everyone agreed not to play, when my heart sank. No matter what I said before I wanted, with terrible passion, to put the play on. I pleaded with Julian who bitterly consented, though very much against his better judgment. The company rebelled. Lee said if we played, she would go through with the show and then leave The Living Theatre. Everyone was against me. Since I barely know my lines, I had the most to lose if it was a shamble. I prevailed on some, and then called for Claude Plançon who had to do the rest. I was in makeup and costume at curtain time, but Julian had not put on his complicated Chinese makeup, and others were not costumed. I stood in the passageway to intercept Plançon, it was after curtain time. From him, my plea had authority. He made a speech, a clever speech to the audience, urging them to wait. The heat was intense but they waited with us.The play went beautifully. If the lights and music were wrong it was miraculously arranged each time so that the play went smoothly. Nevertheless Lee left us; she stayed in Paris when we went on to Berlin. Jim saw her later in Venice.The crisis was over. The Living Theatre a success in Paris. All the press praised us.We went on to Berlin.Leaving Yugoslavia, rain on the flat country. Green and wet and grim. A train jammed with peasants. No seats. We take a wagon-lit and lie back while they go on, in the next car leaning against the wet windows.June 18, 1961. Greece (Frontier of Idomeni)Into the ancient land. Sharp hills with no vegetation, sparse grass and a few shrubs, rocks and rocky earth. Excitement of approaching.Not so when we approached Berlin. There was horror at the enemies’ land.Denn so ein FeldzugDas ist kein SchnellzugIst nur ein BummelzugDurch Feindesland.[For such a campaignIs not a fast trainIs just a slow trainAcross enemy's land.]The intensifying heat. The lack of food, growing hunger and discomfort on the train. Just as we crossed the border a German lady gave me an apple. We were with Jim Anderson.“This is like jail.” I said. “Have you ever done time?”“When you first saw me, I had just finished six of a ten-year stretch.”We talked of prison in the hot gloom.In Belgium the houses were narrow and huddled together even when there was room.And into East Berlin. A fat German shares our couchette. He is violently anti- communist. He rails at the division of Berlin. He points out the landscape of the east zone, “This was once the peasants’ land, and the peasant worked eighteen hours a day and got every bit out of it that would grow. But the collectives took it away from the peasants and now they are laborers and they let the land go to ruin. That's why there's a food shortage.”Now, through Thessaly the heat is intense too, and the anticipation of approaching Berlin was like the descent into the Inferno. Intense heat. Everyone stripping down, fanning themselves, drinking fruit juices and colas.June 19, 1961. Greece. Frontier of Idomeni