Τhe devastation of a city is a tragic event, with painful consequences to the social and economic life of its population, to the progress of local development, to the expectations of its residents and to their daily lives.

But large-scale destruction almost inevitably unleashes reparative processes which, in other circumstances, would require different timeframes and methods. The history of cities shows that modernizing interventions and the complete redesign of the urban landscape have followed every great catastrophe.

This was also true in the case of Thessaloniki. It is, however, something of a paradox that two major events in the city’s history, namely the Great Fire of 1917 and the redevelopment of the historic center in the interwar period, were subsequently almost forgotten, perhaps because times were so difficult and events (the mass influx of refugees from Asia Minor, the German occupation, the Holocaust, civil war and emigration) so painful.

The 1912-1922 period

The incorporation of most of northern Greece into the Greek state was accompanied by extensive depopulation in towns and cities, particularly in Eastern Macedonia. Only Thessaloniki constantly received new inhabitants, resulting in a sharp increase in its population.

The Great Fire that broke out on August 18, 1917 marked a turning point in the history of the city, since it completely destroyed a housing stock that had been shaped over the centuries. The fire indiscriminately ravaged the stone-built new districts on the waterfront and on Aghias Sofias Street, the medieval covered markets and the sprawling, densely inhabited and labyrinthine slums that occupied the greater part of the historic center. Some 9,500 buildings went up in flames and more than 70,000 people (52,000 Jews, 11,000 Muslims and 10,000 Christians) were left homeless.

Financial institutions, businesses, administrative offices and the most important cultural and religious institutions of the ethno-religious communities and their archives (including 16 synagogues and the seat of the Chief Rabbi, 12 mosques and three churches, among them the centuries-old Church of Aghios Dimitrios) were completely destroyed. Strangely enough, no fatalities were reported.

The fire essentially erased the “oriental” aspect of the city’s character and eliminated the traditional characteristics that had survived despite previous efforts at modernization. The plan devised for Thessaloniki by an international planning committee, under the supervision of its chairman, the French architect Ernest Hébrard, provides an interesting insight into urban planning at the time.

The city within the walls was redesigned from scratch, as if it were a blank canvas, without any of the various constraints normally imposed by time, historical events or ownership.

The rationalization of the various commercial, religious, medical and administrative functions, and the business principles on which the planning of the city was based, clearly modernized the city’s appearance, but it also resulted in the disappearance of valuable, even unique characteristics, which – however – nobody cared about at the time.

Most of the institutions – chiefly non-profit – which had traditionally existed in the historic center (such as the numerous synagogues, mosques and türbe mausoleums, post-Byzantine churches and chapels, inns, orphanages and nursing homes) were not re-established in the center, and only some were moved to the newer districts of the city.

The plan for Thessaloniki after 1917 is historically important because it introduced a renewed form for the modern Greek city, one which responded to the demands of the new industrial society and to the optimism of the technocrats who held power. Limited government resources, exceptional occurrences (the influx of refugees) and the incomplete urbanization of Greek society did not, however, allow the state to bear the cost of modernizing other towns and cities, nor for civil society to undertake relevant initiatives.

Despite the extremely adverse historical conditions that followed the first years of reconstruction, Thessaloniki – by taking advantage of disaster – did not miss the opportunity to renew itself.

*Alexandra Yerolymbos is Professor Emeritus of Architecture and Urban Design at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. This article is based on ideas and themes included in work published by her in 1985, 1997, 2008 and 2016 and was first published in the magazine Parallaxi.

After the fire, the poorest camped illegally in the burned-out ruins. Some buildings, like the Church of Aghios Dimitrios, were not rebuilt for decades. Writer Giorgos Ioannou grew up alongside them: “The more the structure took shape again, the colder it seemed. The impression that never completely faded… was that the ruins had been more spiritually moving.” That which didn’t burn, melted – locksmith Judas Solomon, skilled at getting melted safes open again, did a brisk business.

One stroke of fortune was that it was the Jewish Sabbath, so parts of the city were relatively empty. There was not a single recorded death. It was, however, the end of life as they knew it: centuries of multicultural heritage were lost – mosques, hans, synagogues. The beer halls and cabarets – the city has always loved a good time – were gone, too. The poignant Ladino lyrics of David Saltiel’s El Incendio de Salonica describe what life was like for the 72,000 left homeless: “Tanto povres como ricos todos semos un igual/ Ya quedimos arrastando por campos y por kishlas…. Mos dieron pan amargo ni con agua no se va…” (“Rich and poor alike, we all became one/We were left out in the fields and barracks…. They offered us bitter bread that water wouldn’t wash down…”).

The city was united in grief. Representatives from each of the three religious communities called for the acquittal of Paraskevoula Adam and Domna Savvoglou, popularly thought to have been frying eggplant when a spark from their stove started the fire. It could have happened to anyone.