Freedom or Death

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Captain Michales heard shots from the direction of Idomeneas’ Fountain, at the end of the street.

  “Here they come,” he muttered, and cocked his gun. He turned round and looked at his sou.

  “Here they come,” Thrasaki repeated, and he too cocked his little pistol. In the last few days his father had taught him to shoot.

  “You’re not afraid, are you,” said the father, gazing hard at his son.

  “Why should I be afraid? I’ve learned to shoot.”

  He straddled his legs, planted them firmly on the tones of the yard and waited. More and more shots went off. The Turks had now alted at Idomeneas’ Fountain. They leaned with their houlders against the decayed door of the grand house, to urst it open,

  Mr. Idomeneas had been sitting at his writing-table since early morning, composing a letter to the Great Powers:

  “O ye Mighty of the World! In this moment, as I commit these lines to paper, the Christian population of Megalokaslro is being slaughtered. Once more the air is ringing with shots. Turkish bandits are breaking open the doors of the Christians; they are dishonoring their women, they are killing the men, they are taking the infants and smashing their heads.

  “I raise my voice. I am nothing, a man without consequence, lost on the rim of Europe, far away from you, ye Mighty of the World! Yet God stands close to me! He is angry, He is striding up and down the lonely room in which I write. He does not speak, He presses His lips together and waits 10 see the answer you will give me. You should knowI shall not send you another appeal after this. I have had enough of crying in the wilderness. If this time you send me no answer, I shall turn to God and–”

  Here Mr. Idomeneas broke off. He heard the shots and put his head out of the window. He saw the Turks straining against his door.

  “What do you want?” he shouted. “Have you gone blind? Can’t you see the flags of the Great Powers over the fountain?”

  There were shouts and catcalls. A stone grazed his ear and cheek, then smashed to fragments an old Venetian mirror on the wall beyond.

  Mr. Idomeneas jumped back and put his hand to his ear. It was covered with blood. He smeared blood over the hollow of his hand and pressed it on the letter.

  “There, there, there!” he shouted. “That’s how this letter ends. May the blood of Crete be upon your heads and upon the heads of your children and your children’s children, England, France, Italy, Austria, Germany and Moscow!”

  The door burst in, and the Turks rushed across the yard with their knives between their teeth. They knocked down old Doxania, who stood on the threshold of the “house door, with her arms outstretched, trying to bar their entry. They trampled on over her. Yelling, they ran up the stairs. The tottering mansion trembled to its foundations.

  Idomeneas, from his study, heard the wild horde approaching. The moment is come, he thought. Idomeneas, do not dishonor me!

  He looked about himhe wanted of his own free will to choose the manner of his death. No weapons hung on his walls. He needed none. He would not fight with the sword but with the brain. The pen was his weapon. His decision was made. “I shall stay at my post, here,” he muttered and struck the table with his fist. “Here’s where I fight, here’s where I shall die!” He sat down and grasped the pen….

  The Turks broke the door in with a kick and stopped short, amazed. They found Idomeneas calmly bent over a large, bloodstained sheet of paper.

  “Giaour,” they yelled, “where’ve you hidden your treasure?”

  Idomeneas raised his head from the letter. “Here,” he answered, and pointed to his forehead.

  One of them laughed. “Is your head a money-box?”

  “Slash it in two, then we’ll see what it’s got inside!” yelled another. And before Idomeneas had time to reply, the Turk split his head from brow to throat with one stroke of the scimitar.

  They stormed through the house and flung clothes, rags, chairs, tables and mattresses into the street.

  As they turned the corner they met Suleiman the Arab, who, with ten barefoot ruffians, was on his way to Captain Michales’ house.

  “Where are you coming from?” asked Suleiman, breathlessly.

  “From Idomeneas’ Fountain.”

  “You leave Captain Michales alone, or I’ll drink your blood. He’s reserved for me!”

  He went to the fountain, splashed himself with water, and drank greedily like a bull calf. His sweating comrades also drank. One of them looked through the splintered door and saw an old woman stretched out on the stones of the yard, keening for the dead and tearing her hair.

  “Shall we kill her?” he asked.

  “Too dull, Mustapha.”

  “On!” the Arab now shouted.

  They rushed down the street, arrogantly clashing their scimitars.

  Behind the door Captain Michales heard the crew approaching and recognized the wild voice of the Arab.

  “They’re looking for me,” he thought, and kneeled down behind the water trough, using it as a parapet. He pulled Thrasaki down beside him. “Christ will conquer,” he whispered, crossing himself.

  He turned to his son. “Courage, my child.”

  It was the first time Thrasaki had heard his father speak gently and call him “my child.” He flushed with pleasure.

  The rabble was now before the door. The Arab was distributing instructions: one man was to climb on the backs of two comrades and so onto the wall, and then jump down into the yard, while the others smashed hi the door. “But no one’s to lay a finger on Captain Michales! He belongs to me. He’s insulted me. I’m going to have my revenge on himdrag him to the plane tree and hack him in pieces and throw his flesh to the dogs of Megalo kastro to eat.”

  Thrasaki heard the threat and looked at his father, who had already aimed the barrel of his gun at the top of the wall.

  “Did you hear, Father?” he asked.

  “Silence!” Captain Michales whispered through his teeth, without turning.

  A scraping on the wall was heard, and heavy breathing. Someone was climbing up. Captain Michales hid himself completely behind the trough. Only his gun barrel showed. He had pushed Thrasaki behind him.

  A wild, shaggy head emerged above the wall. Between the, teeth a broad-bladed knife flashed. The man glanced stealthily over the yard. Now a hand was stretched out… Captain Michales pressed the trigger.. The bullet struck the man full between the eyebrows.

  Up above, in the bedroom, crouching behind the window sill, the captain’s wife was giving suck to the baby, while through the cracks of the shutter Renio watched her father and Thrasaki hi the yard. When she saw the Turk’s head vanish, she thrilled with delight.

  “Hail to your hands, Father!” she whispered, full of admiration.

  “Renio, my poor child,” said the captain’s wife, “our life is hanging by a hair. Do you know what your father plans to do?”

  “If the Turks get in, he’ll kill us. And he’ll be quite right.”

  “You ought to be a man,” said her mother. “Aren’t you afraid?” “We’ve got to die sometime, Mother. Let’s die without ishonor.”

  Their conversation broke off. Something was happening in the streeta violent rushing to and fro, fresh shouts, fresh curses.

  “Isn’t that Efendina’s voice?” said Renio, and cautiously opened the shutter.

  It was, in fact, Efendina. When he had seen the raving Arab rushing in the direction of Captain Michales’ house, his heart had contracted. He loved Captain Michales, though the captain compelled him twice a year to debase himself; perhaps he loved him just because of that. What would Efendina’s life be without this monster of a Greek? What other pleasure have I in the world, wretch that I am? he wondered. My mother beats me, the people of Kastro, Turks and Christians alike, pelt me with lemon peel. I’ve no money, no wife, no hero’s courage, nothing. Nothing, except Captain Michales. I count the days and the months. Every six months a great pleasure comes to me again, and a great sin. And who knows? God is merciful, God is bou
ntiful; perhaps I too may become a saint the day after my death. And they will erect my tomb by the side of my grandfather’s. God bless Captain Michales! Without him, would I still be able to become a saint?

  His heart rebelled. No, no, I won’t let them kill my Captain Michales! What a noble, what a lusty man he is! What wine he has in his casks! What sausages, what chickens and suckling pigs!

  Efendina’s head caught fire. He leaped up and darted in pursuit of the Arab. He even forgot that the streets were broad streams, and crossed them without hesitation to rescue his friend. On Broad Street a band of booty-laden Turks called out to him. “Where are you running to, Efendina? Who’s after you?”

  They formed a chain and barred his passage. Efendina halted, out of breath and bewildered. The Arab would surely reach the house before him, smash the door in and kill Captain Michales.

  “Do you recognize no God above you?” he whimpered, “Let me through! It’s urgent, brothers!”

  A flash passed through Efendina’s brain. He looked over his shoulder and screamed, “Saint Menas!”

  The Turks burst out laughing.

  “You godless people, why are you laughing? Can’t you hear his horse’s hoofbeats? I saw him ride out of the church. Can’t you hear him? There he is! There he is!”

  The Turks’ hair stood on end. Did they really hear the jingle of harness? Was that a horseman approaching?

  “There he is!” Efendina screamed again, his eyes popping. “There he is!”

  The Turks did not even turn to look. They ran away.

  When Efendina saw them running, he stood transfixed with dread. Had he become so powerful that he could make it true? he wondered. Had he not already, in the last rising, seen the Saint chase away the Turks who were trying to force their way into his church? He broke out in a cold sweat. Now he could distinctly hear the horse approaching.

  “Allah! Allah!” With this cry he gathered up his clothes and ran for all he was worth.

  Las he rushed past Idomeneas’ Fountain, he found the Turks just on the point of bursting open Captain Michales’ street door. He rushed up to them.

  “Look out, children!” he screamed. “He’ll gobble us up! He’s coming on horseback.”

  “Who, you idiot?” roared the Arab.

  “The neighbor.”

  “What neighbor?”

  “Saint Menas. There he is!”

  They all wheeled round. Everything danced before their eyes. They could distinguish nothing.

  “There he is! There he is!” Efendina cried, turning away. He clung to Captain Michales’ door like one possessed, as though he wanted to hide from the eyes of the saint riding by. He must already be past Idomeneas’

  Fountain. He could recognize Saint Menas distinctly, with his never-changing form just as the icon showed him: sunburned, with white hair and beard, on a purple-red horse with a golden saddle. The air round about Idomeneas’ Fountain was filled with white hair, red horse and golden harness. “There he is! He’s in sight!” he whispered, and his jaw uivered.

  “Where is he? I can’t see properly!”

  “There he is! Dark, with white hair and a red horse… He’s seen us. Now he’s making for us!”

  With a leap he left the door and ran for the harbor. Behind him the Turks followed, panting. They too heard the horse nowit’was after themand the Arab, turning round for a moment, made out, on the horse, in the air, a rider.

  “Run, children! Run!” he yelled. His yellow burnoose fluttered away from him, but he had no time to pick it up.

  Out of breath, they reached the harbor. They wiped the sweat off, crouched down in the shade, let their tongues hang out and sniffed like dogs. Efendina had collapsed with his face to the ground and lay there twitching.

  Megalokastro groaned under the knives of the Turks. The Christians raised the hands in entreaty to God. The Metropolitan crossed himself. He could no longer sit and listen to the slaughtering of his flock. “God be with me,” he murmured, and stood up. He clapped his hands, and Murzuflos appeared.

  “I’m going to the pasha,” the Metropolitan said. “Bring me my great robe.”

  “Are you going out in the streets, Bishop?” asked Murzuflos: “The Turks are raging. I’m coming with you.”

  “I shall go alone, Murzuflos. Help me to dress.”

  He wrapped the golden stole about him and set the imperial miter on his lion’s head. He grasped the tall crosier with, its two intertwined loops. “In God’s name,” he said.

  Murzuflos gazed at him, full of admiration. He was a marvelous apparition with his towering form, the beard a stream of snow, the eyes blue, benevolent and flashing. It would be like the Metropolitan that Murzuflos would paint God the Father, clothed with golden clouds and in the act of plunging down upon Megalokastro to put an end to the massacre.

  The main door of the Residence was thrown open. Upon its marble lintel was inscribed in large black letters: “In this doorway the Turks hanged the Metropolitan of Megalokastro in the year 1821. Everlasting be his memory.”

  “Everlasting be his memory,” murmured the Metropolitan, as he crossed the threshold.

  Murzuflos’ eyes were wet. “God and Saint Menas be with you, my lord,” he said in a trembling voice.

  “Don’t worry, Murzuflos. I am neither the first nor the last,” replied the Metropolitan, pointing at the black inscription.

  He crossed the forecourt of the church and greeted Saint Menas with bowed head as he passed his door. Then he strode off with masterful bearing in the direction of the pasha’s porte.

  Murzuflos watched him depart to his lonely battle with death. He was ashamed that he had let him go alone. “This is the moment,” he muttered, “when it will be seen whether you, Murzuflos, have a soul in you, or only a stomach.” He crossed himself and slipped off after the Metropolitan.

  Megalokastro was filled with din. The Christians were screaming, the Turks were roaring and laughing. Among these sounds one could distinguish the keening for the dead.

  The Metropolitan strode onward, and his heart contracted at what he heard. “How long will the people of the Hellenes,” he sighed, “hang from the cross? We are men, Christ, we are not gods like You. We cannot bear it. Bring the resurrection at last!”

  He could feel Megalokastro with, its walls, houses and I uman beings as though it were his own body, and wherever a door was smashed in, wherever a woman beat her breast, his heart hurt.

  From the market place a crew of bloodstained, drunken Turks was approaching. When they caught sight of the gold-clad Metropolitan, they halted awed. “What sort of a beast is that,” they growled. “Where’s he going? Draw aside, God help you, or he’ll trample us down!”

  The Metropolitan walked with even steps to meet death. His eyes, filled with sorrow and anger and thirst for martyrdom, saw neither streets, nor men. He was dominated by one thought: Oh the sweet happiness, if I should be killed to set my people free! How did it go that word of agony of Christ on the Cross, of which the Gospel tells? “Eli! Eli!” That means: “Joy! Joy!” in the language of sacrifice. “Eli! Eli! the Metropolitan whispered, and the nearer he came to the pasha’s seraglio, the more he quickened his pace. Behind him Murzuflos glided like a dog.

  He reached the huge plane tree, glorious in cool, rustling green. Its trunk was necked like a leopard skin. The Metropolitan’s eyes blurred and he saw thousands of Christians dangling from it like fruit.

  Two soldiers before the pasha’s gate lowered and crossed their guns and would not let him through. Then Murzuflos who understood Turkish ran up and spoke to them. The raised their guns, and the Metropolitan entered, Murzuflos going ahead, to open the doors.

  The pasha observed the Metropolitan peevishly. He had been leaning out of the window to listen to Megalokastro bewailing the dead. Even he, the good-natured Anatolian, had gone savage. Perhaps it was the ancient Turkish thirst for Greek blood that had awakened in him. And yet he felt ashamed that he, as pasha, had not the courage to order a halt, to
strike the knives from the hands of the agas.

  The Metropolitan stood on the threshold, filling the doorway.

  “Have you no fear of God, Pasha?” he shouted. “Why have you dressed yourself up in gold for me, giaour’s priest?” replied the other, angrily, “Are you hoping to terrify me?”

  “Have you no fear of God?” the Metropolitan shouted afresh, and raised a finger threateningly toward the sky. “Does the shedding of blood not concern you? And where will it fall, do you suppose? Upon your head?”

  “Hey, don’t yell so, Metropolitan! The plane tree stands before you!”

  “God stands before me. I am not afraid.”

  The pasha moved away from the window, paced to and fro and at last stopped in front of the Metropolitan. He looked him up and down and could not think what line to take with him. He imagined him in all his gold and crosses dangling from the plane tree, but dread seized him. And yet this insolent Greek mouth must be stopped, he thought. It was not to be endured!

  He barked at the Metropolitan. “Don’t make me lose my temper. Go! I’m telling you out of kindness. I’m not afraid of anybody!”

  The Metropolitan left God and brought the Sultan into play. “Very well, you have no fear of God. But what about the Sultan? You know that Crete causes him anxiety. He means to have peace here, and that is why he sent you. And what has Y^-ur Worship done? Allowed a massacre! And the massacre will bring a rising in its train. And the rising will attract Moscow. Forgive me, Pasha Effendi, but I see your head on the point of falling.”

  The pasha froze. He too saw his head on the point of falling.

  “What am I to do, then?” he asked, fearfully.

  “Don’t lose a moment. Order the soldiers to sound their trumpets, as a signal that the slaughter is to stop. Give orders! Threaten! You’re the pasha! Show it!”

  The pasha clutched his head with both hands as if it needed propping up. “Cursed be the hour hi which I first set foot on this devil’s island of yours!” he shouted.

  He looked imploringly at the Metropolitan. “My lord Metropolitan,” he said, “why are you standing there on the threshold? Come in and sit down, so that we can discuss how to bring this thing to an end.”