Their chairs creaked, their heads bent, each one weighed his opinion. But they saw obstacles in each course.
The first to break the silence was Kasapakes the doctor the fat, pock-marked peasant’s son who had gone to Paris to study medicine. There he had attended lectures on law for three months, because he mistook them for lectures on medicine. When he had discovered his mistake and frittered away his father’s vineyards, he had returned to Megalokastro with a broad-brimmed hat and the daughter of his Parisian landlady, and had opened a grocery. Now he talked down at Tityros.
“There is a fourth course also, schoolmaster: that we should take refuge in the consulates of the Great Powers!”
“Where will there be room enough for us, doctor?” retorted Krasojorgis. “You say ‘consulates’ and seem very pleased. But even a consulate is only a house with four walls. How many people will it hold? Perhaps two families. And what becomes of the rest?”
Mastrapas opened his mouth to speak and hesitated nervously.
“Speak out, neighbor,” Tityros encouraged him. “What you decide …” stammered the bell founder, flushing.
Krasojorgis stood up. He had sweated with anxiety all day, and now his body reeked of every smell a man can exude. His wife gazed at him with pride. She liked to see her husband excited like that.
“We’re listening, Krasojorgis,” said Tityros.
“Listen, then, to what I think. The safest course leads to the villages. Are we to squat here as though we were in a mousetrap? The Turks have slaughtered Greeks before now. Why wait for the ships? Or shall we look for a four-leaf clover? I put no trust in Athens. They’d like to, but they can’t. They’re afraid of Turkey, they’re afraid of the Franks. How often have the Greeks not been …”
“But how escape, neighbor? Tell us that!” snorted Kolyvas. “We’ve a heap of children.”
“I put no trust in Athens,” Krasojorgis continued. “But I do trust Krasojorgis. Let me take command and, by the bread I eat, I’ll bring you all into the mountains, with your wives and children, your beds and pots and pans!”
A murmur arose. All drew closer to Krasojorgis. He observed with pride the excitement his words had provoked among the group. Just look! They had always despised him, because he was awkward and had no training and wore patched boots. Now he would show them!
“Let’s hear your plan!” said the doctor, who was injured because not enough consideration had been given to his proposal. “Those are big promises, neighbor. I don’t like that.”
“Neither would I, doctor, if I couldn’t keep them. But listen: I’m on good terms with the soldiers who guard the Hospital Gate. A tiny bit of smugglingtwo or three demijohns of raki, two or three packets of tobacco, a string or two of sausages that I present them with so they’ll keep their eyes shut… . Let’s not go too deeply into that. I’ll grease the wheel again, and out we all slip, unmolested.”
“Long may you live, Krasojorgis!” exclaimed Kolyvas. “I entrust you gladly with my children.”
“I, too,” said Mastrapas, peering uneasily at his wife, to see if she was in agreement.
At this moment there were three soft taps at the door.
“Ali Aga,” said Tityros, and got up to open it.
But Captain Michales raised his head. “Throw him out!” he said.
Tityros opened the door. “Ali Aga,” he said, “don’t be angry with us, this evening we’re having a meeting. Come tomorrow.”
Ali Aga, however, remained standing in the street door.
“I came to tell you that the agas are planning to kill you all.”
“For God’s sake! When?” “During the Bairam festival.” “Come in.”
The little old man crossed the yard and leaned against the doorpost.
“Good evening, neighbors,” he said, in arrogant tones. Today he was breaking a fearsome piece of news and was preening himself. But suddenly he saw Captain Michales on the corner of the settle, and collapsed.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I’m in a hurry. But it was necessary to come. If you believe in God, neighbors, look out! The agas are planning a massacre before the Bairam festival is over. They’ve already allotted the different parts of the town. The best patikars will come to ours, on account of Captain Michales.”
“Good. Go,” said Captain Michales, raising his hand. Here Mastrapas interposed. “Try to find out what you can, Ali Aga, and come here again tomorrow evening. Good-by!”
The old man went across the yard and out through the street door, and glided off to the Turkish coffeehouses.
Captain Polyxigis stood up. “Excuse me, I have business this evening. My sister will tell me what you decide. All I wish to add is this: I shall go to the mountains that is what honor demands.”
“A good thing you remember it,” growled Captain Michales.
Captain Polyxigis ran off at high speed. It was late. Emine had certainly gone to bed already and was chewing mastic to keep herself awake while she waited for him.
Now all turned to Captain Michales, to hear his opinion. He felt better, now that the air was free of the scent of musk and Turkey.
“Neighbors,” he said, “all of us here are men and have weapons. It would be shameful to leave Crete in the lurch in these most difficult days. Let us take the women and children into safety. Krasojorgis had spoken well. And after that, there is only one course for us: to arms! The schoolmaster, Mr. Idomeneasall!”
Old Tulupanas had been twiddling his thumbs, and thinking about his son, whose face now had no nose, no ears, no lips. Where was he to go? Who would take him along? His appearance caused terror. And whoever touched him might be infected. The day before yesterday police had come to take him away to the lepers’ village. The poor mother had screamed, and the old man had pressed some silver coins into the hands of the sergeants to make them go away again.
Against his will a deep sigh escaped old Tulupanas, so hat all turned towards him, to ask what the trouble was.
“Nothing … What should be?” he answered, while ears streamed from his eyes. “I’m not going out with ou. Where can I go? Who will have me?”
He got up. No one raised a hand to hold him back. Stumbling, he found his way to the street door and disappeared.
“Agreed,” said Tityros. “We’ve come to a decision. What is your view, Mr. Idomeneas? You haven’t opened your mouth yet.”
“You know my view. You all know it. I’ve expressed it again and again: everything you are saying and doing is froth and frills, as long as Suda Bay remains.”
“Agreed!” exclaimed the doctor, suppressing a laugh. He grabbed for his enormous hat with a view to leaving, for it was nearly midnight.
“Doctor,” said Captain Michales, “you are coming with us to the mountains.” “But”
“There’s no ‘but’! You’re coming. That’s what you’re a doctor for. There’ll be wounded.”
The doctor looked at his wife. She sat at the other end of the divan, not understanding very well what was being said. She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and coughed. The poor woman had become shriveled and yellow. Paris was now no more than a far-off legend to her. Ah, if she could only get aboard a steamer, a pinnace, a nutshellanything to get away, anything to get away …
Captain Michales rose. “What has been said will be respected,” he said, and went up to his small room. He had spoken too much and longed for solitude.
The neighbors breathed with relief. Tongues were loosened. The women, too, joined in the conversation. Renio appeared and brought the salver with raki, conserve and coffee.
“God guide this thing aright,” said Krasojorgis, raising his glass. “To your health, Captainess. May you have joy in those you love. And your health, Renio!”
They clicked glasses. All drank. Renio poured out again. They were happy.
“What a drop of drink can do!” exclaimed Krasojorgis, smacking his lips. “A glass of raki, no bigger than a thimble, my soul upon itbut the whole of Turkey drowns in it! I can see
, at the bottom of my glassthere lies the fat Sultan, dead!”
“It’s not the raki that does it, it’s the company,” Tityros suggested.
“You’re right, schoolmaster,” said Mastrapas, his tongue too loosed at last by the drink. “Men are like bells. If they are in tune, death has no terrors for them.”
The bell founder’s ear was sensitive. One night last summer he had been unable to sleep: the bells of a flock, outside on the mountain, were not properly in tune together, and this set his soul jangling. At dawn he got up, climbed the mountain, found the flock, tuned the bells, went home, lay down and slept.
“Like bells, so are men,” he repeated. “Whether they’re wooden rattles, or sheep bells, or church bells, small or largeeach one has his own sound. A joy it is or the flock when the bells are in tune, and it no longer fears the wolf.”
But Mr. Idomeneas shook his head. What concern have I here? he thought, what sense has this talk?
He got up and beckoned to Tityros: “Come, godson. Sleep in my house and keep me company.”
He felt a strong need for some elevated conversation. The two of them would again discuss the stars and the immortality of the soul. No other questions existed for him in the world, only these two. At most Suda Bay could be placed beside them. All the rest was noise and smoke.
The meeting broke up. Some, made brave by raid, returned to then” houses like palikars. Others stretched themselves out in the yard and on the veranda at Captain Michales’, and the women lay down in the bedroom. It was after midnight.
Thrasaki had listened intently all through the evening. The personalities of his father’s guests had stamped themselves deeply in his brainthe frightened ones, the calm ones and, after the raki, the happy ones. The deepest impression was made on him by his father, who, unlike the garrulous company, sat quietly with bent head, speaking only when necessary. Through all these observations Thrasaki was ripening, without knowing it, into a man.
The schools had closed. Thrasaki rose early and joined his father in the shop. He liked to watch his father’s every movement. He was beginning to understand why Captain Michales was so sparing of gesture, speech, and laughter. One day, the boy thought, he too would be just like that: not like Captain Polyxigis, or Krasojorgis, or Tityros. His thoughts churning darkly inside him, he ran toward the harbor. There he heard shouting and cursing. He quickened his pace and came to the barbershop of Signer Paraskevas. A crowd of Turks stood outside it. In their midst Thrasaki saw the man from Syra. The Turks were abusing and spitting at the unfortunate man, as they drew their knives. He stood there trembling, with his shirt torn nd bloodstained, his face covered with rotten eggs and tomatoes. He was assuring the Turks that he would flee, go back to Syra and never set foot in Crete again. Only they must have mercy on him and on his daughter, for whom he had to find a husband.
Thrasaki ran back to tell his father. Captain Michales was writting a letter to his nephew Kosmas who had turned Frank: “… If you are a man, if you have any feeling of Shame, leave the land of the Franks and think of your own country. It needs you, the hour has come. Why were you born? Why are you called a Cretan? Come at once, take up arms like the other young men. There is another thing I must tell you, nephew …”
Thrasaki burst in. “Father,” he shouted, “they’re trying to kill Paraskevas in front of his shop. Save him!”
Captain Michales rose and saw what was happening from his doorstep. A crowd of raving dockers had now pinioned Paraskevas. Not a Christian was to be seen in the street. The Greek shops were shut, their proprietors had vanished. Captain Michales saw several knives gleaming in the sun.
“Father, help him! You’re not afraid?”
Captain Michales stared soberly at the scene. The Turks were overwhelming in number; to attack them meant certain death, and the captain did not admire rash deeds. But he was ashamed before his son.
“Aren’t you going, Father? Are you afraid?” his son asked again.
“I’m going,” said Captain Michales and approached the knot of men.
Captain Michales reached them and raised his hand to bid them let him through. They moved aside, amazed. What was he going to do? They lowered their knives.
Captain Michales went up to Signer Paraskevas and seized him by the ear. “March! Home! Don’t let my eyes catch sight of you any more!” he said peremptorily.
Paraskevas ducked his head between his shoulders and staggered forward. Captain Michales went with him, still twisting his ear. The Turks let them pass without a word.
“Back home!” Captain Michales repeated. “Quick!” Paraskevas began to run, turned at the first corner and vanished. The Turks, motionless, stared after Captain Michales as he proceeded slowly, with the same calm stride, back to his shop.
Thrasaki watched him in astonishment. He wanted to ask his father a question, but dared not. Captain Michales sat down again at his table, picked up the pen and bent forward to finish the letter: “… nephew, that your Uncle Manusakas….”
CHAPTER 8
AT THE END of the month of fasting came the festival of Bairam. The agas put on their best clothes and filled the coffeehouses, where they sat enthroned on soft cushions. The Turkish boys craned their slender necks and sang “their long-drawn-out melodies. Because of the great heat Barba Jannis had ordered three assloads of snow from Psiloritis and now ran up and down with his bronze can to bring refreshing coolness to the agas.
In the barracks near the Three Vaults the soldiers’ trumpets resounded and salvos were fired at the sky. The pasha and the profusely braided officers betook themselves to the New Mosque to pray. The rings of lamps still burned on the minarets. In Hamide Mula’s teke the Saint’s tomb was adorned with rosemary and basil. In front of it sat Efendina, cross-legged, singing verses from the Koran and swaying to and fro. Gray-haired worshipers knelt on mats around the Saint. They had brought their narghiles with them and were smoking as, with eyes alf closed, they took up the responses from the Koran in a soft, beelike hum.
These old people were profoundly happy and had already entered Paradise. They lacked none of the good things of life. The noise of Megalokastro came like a murmur of water through the cracks in the door and the latticed window in the wall, and in the distance the sea roared. Old Hamide Mula ran tirelessly hither and thither on bare feet, bringing now a piece of Turkish Delight, now a small heap of glowing charcoal with which she carefully warmed the narghiles, so that they bubbled cheerfully like cooing doves in a circle round the Saint.
But while they were all sunk in this paradisiacal stupor, suddenly loud shouting rang out, doors creaked, women screamed and pistol shots tore the air. Fled was divine blessedness. The graybeards jumped up.
Efendina laid the Koran on top of the flowers and rushed to the door to open it. Turks with knives between their teeth ran bellowing past, their chests and arms spattered with the blood of giaours.
Suleiman, the pasha’s enormous Arab, hurtled along at their head, his chest and feet naked. A yellow burnoose waved about his shoulders. His eyes flashed, his full, hanging lips foamed.
“Down with them! Down with them!” he bellowed, and his scimitar whistled through the air.
“Where are you off to, brothers?” cried Efendina, peeping fearfully out of the door.
“To slaughter that wretched rascal, to drink his blood!” roared the Arab.
“Who, Suleiman?”
“Captain Michales.”
Efendina blenched and cried, “Have you no fear of God?”
But his voice was lost in the din that rose from all the Christian courtyards and houses. Doors were being battered in, women were climbing onto the flat roofs and some, in panic, threw themselves off, with their children in their arms.
Captain Michales was standing armed behind the street door. He had sent his family up to the bedroom and had kept only Thrasaki with him.
“Come here,” he said to the boy, “and listen carefully to what I say. If they manage to smash our door and force
their way in, I shall kill you all, so you won’t fall into their hands. And you first, Thrasaki. Do you understand?”
“I understand, Father.”
“And do you agree?”
“I agree.”
“Don’t tell the women. They’ll be afraid.”
“I won’t tell them anything.”
The two stood behind the door and listened intently to the noise from the street.
Some of their neighbors had already escaped. Krasojorgis, Mastrapas and Kolyvas, with all their children, had left a few days before. Next were Penelope and Chrysanthe. They had disguised themselves as hanums. Tityros, too, had dressed up as a Turk, in baggy breeches and a white turban. He had stuffed his glasses down his chest and reeled out to the Hospital Gate. Tulupanas had stayed with his son. The doctor had hoisted the French flag, and Idomeneas had declared that he would not run away: he had placed the flags of the Great Powers above th.e fountain.
“When are we going, Father?” Thrasaki had asked, only yesterday. He longed to get out to the fields and mountains.
“We’re staying to the last.”
“Why?”
“Think it out for yourself,” his father had answered, and had said not another word.
It was now midday. The cries of Megalokastro grew more and more hoarse as it shrank under the Turkish knives. The muezzins climbed the minarets for the midday prayer and announced the loving-kindness of God.
Five or six Turkish dockers came running to the Pervola Garden and rammed Signer Paraskevas’ door with n iron bar. They stormed into the house and found his daughter under the divan. They hauled her out and threw her on her back… . Later they discovered the unhappy barber hidden behind some jars, dragged him by the neck to the threshold and slaughtered him. Then they bundled up Pervola, who was streaming with blood, and rushed out with her.
Freedom or Death Page 27