The Fratricides

The Fratricides Page 1

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS

  THE FRATRICIDES

  TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK by ATHENA GIANAKAS DALLAS

  BRUNO CASSIRER - OXFORD

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM ENGLISH TRANSLATION COPYRIGHT Š 1964 BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER, INC. ORIGINAL GREEK LANGUAGE EDITION COPYRIGHT Š 1963 BY HELEN N. KAZANTZAKIS PRINTED IN ENGLAND 1967 BY LOWE AND BRYDONE (PRINTERS) LTD, LONDON, N.W.IO, FOR BRUNO CASSIRER (PUBLISHERS) LTD. 31 PORTLAND ROAD, OXFORD

  I said to the almond tree: “Speak to me of God.” And the almond tree blossomed.

  God Speaks Whoever seeks me finds me, Whoever finds me knows me, Whoever knows me loves me, Whoever loves me, I love, Whomsoever I love, I kill.

  —Sidna Ali the Moslem (9th century)

  1

  THE SUN HAD risen in Castello. It had flooded the rooftops and now overflowed, spilling onto the dipping, narrow back streets, pitilessly uncovering the harsh ugliness of the village. Stark and ashen, the houses were barren, stone piled on stone, their doors so low one had to stoop to enter—and within was darkness. The courtyards smelled of horse manure, goat droppings, and the heavy stench of man. Not a single house had a tree in its courtyard, or a songbird in a cage, or a flower-pot in the window, with perhaps a root of basil or a red carna-tion; everywhere, only stone upon stone. And the souls who lived within these stones were hard and inhospitable. Mountains, houses, people—they were all granite.

  Rarely, even in the good years, was the sound of laughter heard in this village; it seemed indecent, an act against nature; the old men would turn and wrinkle their brows, and immediately the laughter would cease. And when the great feast days came—Christmas, Pentecost, Easter—and the people ate a bit more, drank a bit more, and stretched their graceless necks to sing, what a lament it wasl Heart-rending, tragic, endless! Trill-ing mournfully as it passed from one mouth to the other. What ancient terrors, what massacres, it evoked, what slavery, what eternal hunger! Their song revealed, more than their tears could, the incurable trial of their lives, the thousands of years that had passed over them—years full of hunger, of the whiplash, of death. But they, like cliffweeds, had hooked on to these inhuman gray rocks and would not be torn away. As long as the world endured, these hard-headed people of Epirus would not let go.

  Their bodies and their souls were the color and the hardness of stone; they had become one with it, soaked by rain, tanned by the sun, covered by snow; all together, as though they were all people, as though they were all stones. And when a man and a woman left their lonely existences and the priest came to marry them, they had not a single tender word to say, they did not know how. Silently they merged under the rough woolen blankets, with only one thought in mind: to make children—that they might pass on to them these stones, these hills, this hunger.

  So many women, so few men! When they marry and the son is planted in the woman’s womb, most of the men leave. How else can one survive in this barren wasteland? They go far and are long in returning. “Wide-flung travelers and slow return-ers” the plaintive song calls them, for they leave their wives be-hind, alone. And the women wither, and their breasts sag, and hair grows on their upper lip. And when they go to bed at night, to sleep, they are cold.

  Their life is an unceasing battle with God, with the winds, with the snow, with death. For this reason the Castellians were not surprised when the killing began, brother against brother. They were not afraid; they did not change their way of life. But what had been simmering slowly within them, mute and unre-vealed, now burst out, insolent and free. The primeval passion of man to kill poured from within them. Each had a neighbor, or a friend, or a brother, whom he had hated for years, without reason, often without realizing it. The hatred simmered there, unable to find an outlet. And now, suddenly, they were given rifles and hand grenades; noble flags waved above their heads. The clergy, the army, the press urged them on—to kill their neighbor, their friend, their brother. Only in this manner, they shouted to them, can faith and country be saved! Murder, that most ancient need of man, took on a high mystic meaning. And the chase began—brother hunting brother.

  some of the men put on red hoods and took to the hills.

  Others barricaded themselves in the village, their eyes glued to the top of Mount Etoraki across the way, where the guerrillas were hiding. With whooping cries the redhooded ones would storm down the hill, or the black tops would attack from below. And they would pounce on each other, flesh against flesh. And the sweet fratricide would begin. Women with tousled hair dashed from the courtyards and climbed onto the terraces, shouting, to goad the men on. The dogs of the village howled; they ran panting behind their masters, their tongues hanging out as they joined in the hunt; until night came and swallowed up the people.

  Only one man stood among them, unarmed and disillusioned, his arms outstretched and empty: Father Yánaros, the village priest. He stood alone, looking to the left and to the right, not knowing which way to turn, constantly asking himself that same agonizing question: “If Christ came down to earth today, whose side would He take? Would He go with the blacks? With the reds? Or would He, too, stand in the middle, with arms outstretched, shouting, ‘Brothers, unite! Brothers, unite!’” Fa-ther Yánaros, God’s representative in Castello, stood in just this manner and called to the people. He cried out, but they passed him by, all of them, the blacks and the reds, jeering and shouting, “Bulgar! Traitor! Bolshevik!”

  “Tramp! Fascist! Scoundrel!”

  And Father Yánaros would shake his head, dazed, and walk on. “Thank You, Lord,” he would murmur. “Thank You for choosing me for this dangerous task. I can endure it, even though I am not loved here. Only don’t pull the rope too tightly, Lord. I am a man, not an ox or an angel. I’m only human; how much more can I endure? One of these days I might snap. Forgive me for telling You this, Lord, but at times You seem to forget it, and You ask more of man than of Your angels.”

  Every morning when Father Yánaros woke up and opened the small window of his cell, he would look out, directly across the way, to the stiff-necked mountain of Etoraki that had no water, no trees, no birds—only rocks; and he would sigh. His thoughts would wander far, back to a sandy shore on the

  Black Sea, to the noble village of St. Constantine, where he was born seventy years ago. What peace, what happiness! How well God had cared for that spot! Surely the large icon in the church iconostas, to the left side of Christ, was not an artist’s mad fantasy; it was real: St. Constantine, their patron saint, held the village in the palm of his hand, like a nest of eggs, and was about to place it at God’s feet.

  And when the month of May came, and with it the festival of the saint, what strange intoxication enveloped the town! It was a holy drunkenness, a drunkenness without wine. Everyone forgot his daily cares; they forgot that they were human worms, and sprouted multicolored wings that reached the sky.

  “Can man, then, surpass man?” Father Yánaros would ask himself. And he replied: “He can! Yes, he can, but only for an hour, perhaps two hours, perhaps even a whole day; but no longer. This is the meaning of eternity; this is the meaning of the God’s Fire that men call Paradise.”

  Father Yánaros had entered this Paradise many times. Every morning, here in this wild stone village, he recalled those days, and his thoughts wandered back to the Black Sea. There was a holy sect of seven members that took the religious name of “Anastenarides.” Father Yánaros was their leader, the Arch-Anastenaris. They performed an ancient ritual, which may have gone back further than Christianity, stemming perhaps from ancient idolatry. He remembered how they would light a huge fire in the center of town. The people would gather around, chanting hymns; the musicians would come with the lyre and the giada; the doo
r of the church would open, and the Anastenarides would appear, barefoot, clutching their “fore-bears” in their arms: the old icons of St. Constantine and his mother, Saint Helen. But these saints were not depicted in the traditional manner of religious rigidity; they were shown, instead, leaping in mid-air, dancing, with their golden robes tucked and gathered about them.

  Until the Anastenarides appeared, the lyre and giada went wild; the clamor would rise to hysteria; people shouted, women fell quivering to the ground. The Anastenarides would proceed hurriedly, one behind the other, with Father Yánaros neck outstretched, leading the procession, singing wild erotic songs

  to Death the Doorkeeper, who opens the door for us into eternity. When the flames had consumed the holy wood, and the coals crackled, Father Yánaros would leap into the fire. Behind him followed the whole brotherhood, and the firewalkers would kick at the lighted coals as they began to dance. Father Yánaros scooped up handfuls of the lighted coals as he sang, and threw them at the people as if he were sprinkling the faithful with holy water. What is God and eternal life in Paradise? Paradise is this fire, and God is this dance, and they last not just a moment, but forever and ever.

  And when they emerged from this holy fire, not a single burn appeared on their feet; not even a hair on their legs had been singed. Their bodies shimmered as though they had emerged from the cool sea on a hot summer day.

  All year round the hearts of the villagers were illuminated by the reflection of this holy fire. And love and peace and happiness reigned over the people, and the beasts, and the crops in the fields. The earth was fertile, wheat and cornstalks grew high, olive trees were overladen with the blessed fruit, heaps of melons lay in the fields. Abundant were the gifts of God! Yet this good life did not corrupt the people; the moment their souls became too fat and were in danger of turning into flesh, the holiday of the saint would come again. Once more the huge fires would burn, once more the people would sprout wings.

  But suddenly—why? Who was to blame? No great sin had been committed in the village. As always, the villagers fasted during Lent, they ate no meat or fish on Wednesdays and Fridays, they drank no wine on those days, they went to church every Sunday, brought holy bread, prepared kolyva,* confessed, and received communion. Not one wife raised her eyes to look at another man, not one husband raised his eyes to look at another woman. Everyone followed the path of God, everything was going well. And suddenly, as God leaned mercifully over the happy village, He turned His face the other way. Im-

  * Boiled and prepared wheat that is blessed and distributed at memorial services for the dead.

  mediately the village fell into darkness. One morning a heart-rending cry came from the square: “Uproot yourselves! The strong of the earth command. Go! The Greeks to Greece, the Turks to Turkey! Take your children, your wives, your icons, and get out! You have ten days!”

  A lament rose throughout the village; the people ran back and forth in confusion, bidding farewell to the walls, the looms, the village spring, the wells. They went down to the seashore and fell on the sand, rolled on the seashells, said good-bye to the sea, and chanted dirges. It is difficult, you see, very difficult, for the soul to tear itself away from familiar soil and familiar waters. One morning, Father Damianos, the older priest, rose at daybreak. He ran through the village alone, without the town crier or Father Yánaros, the younger priest. He ran, from door to door, shouting, “The hour has come! In the name of God, my children, the hour has come!”

  From the early hours of dawn, the bells tolled sadly. All night the women had baked bread, the men had hurriedly gathered all they could carry from their homes. Now and then an old woman began to chant a dirge, but the men, swollen-eyed, turned and shouted for her to stop. What good are tears? God said it shall be, so let it be, let’s get it over with! But quickly, quickly, before our hearts break, before we fully realize the tragedy. Hurry, friends, lend a hand! Let’s bake the bread, let’s sack the flour; our journey will be long, so let us take with us our daily essentials: pots, pans, mattresses, holy icons! Do not be afraid, brothers! Our roots are not in earth alone, they spread to the sky and thrive there, too. That is why our race is immortal. Onward then, my children, courage!

  The wind was blowing—wintry weather—the waves became wilder, the sky filled with clouds; not a single star was visible. The two priests of the village, old Father Damianos and the black-bearded Father Yánaros, hurried back and forth from the church, gathering the icons, the holy chalice, the silver-bound Bible, the gold-embroidered robes. They paused to bid farewell to the Pancreator who reigned from the dome on which he was painted. Father Damianos gazed wide-eyed at Him. For the first time he noticed how wild He looked, how His lips tightened in anger and scorn, how He held the Bible as if it were a boulder He was about to hurl on the people’s heads.

  Father Damianos shook his head. He was pale, weak, his cheeks were sunken; all that was left of his face were two large eyes; fasting and prayer and love of man had eaten away his body. He looked at the Pancreator with fear; how was it that all these years he had not really seen Him? He turned to Father Yánaros, wanting to ask, “Was He always this wild-looking?” but he was ashamed.

  “Father Yánaros,” he said finally, “I am very tired. Gather the icons we are to take with us, my son. We will burn the rest —God will forgive us; we will burn them so that the infidels cannot defile them. Gather the ashes that remain and distribute them to the villagers to keep as amulets. And I will go knocking on the doors and shout, ‘The hour has come! The hour is here!’”

  Dawn began to break. From behind the dark clouds the sun appeared, bald and sickly. A melancholy light licked the village; the doors opened, revealing the blackness within. A few roosters crowed, for the last time, on the manure lying in the courtyard. The stables opened, and out came the oxen, the mules, the donkeys, and behind them, the dogs and the people. The village smelled of freshly baked bread.

  Father Damianos went from house to house. “God’s blessing upon you, my children,” he pleaded as he went. “Do not weep, do not curse. It is God’s will, and who knows, it may be for our own good. Surely it must be for our own good! He is our Father, would a Father want what is bad for His children? No, never! You will see that the Lord has prepared more fertile fields for us to take root in. Like the Jews, we are moving from the land of the faithless to the land of promise, where milk and honey flow, where the grapevines reach man’s height.”

  On the eve of the festival the people set out in a procession— men, women, and children, all together—and headed toward the small, well-kept cemetery on the outskirts of town, to say good-bye to their ancestors. The weather was melancholy; it had rained the night before, and raindrops were still clinging to the leaves on the olive trees. The earth beneath them was soft and smelled of the rain. Father Damianos walked ahead, wearing his finest vestments with his gold-embroidered stole, carrying the silver-bound Bible in his arms. Behind him followed the crowd, and at the very end walked Father Yánaros,

  holding the small silver font filled with holy water, and the sprinkler made of thick, bunchy rosemary. They did not chant or cry or speak; they walked, bent and silent. Only once in a while a woman sighed or a deep “Kyrie Eleison” escaped from aged lips. The young mothers had taken out their breasts and were feeding their babies.

  They reached the cypress trees; Father Damianos pushed open the gate and entered; the people followed. The dark wooden crosses were soaked from last night’s rain, a few lamps burned on the graves, half-faded photographs behind glass tes-tified to the young girls and the handsome young men with curled mustaches who were once alive. The crowd scattered, each finding his beloved grave, the women fell to their knees and kissed the earth. The men, standing, made the sign of the cross and dabbed their eyes with the ends of their shirtsleeves.

  Father Damianos paused in the middle of the cemetery, raised his hands and cried, “Fathers, farewell! We are leaving, farewell! The strong of the earth no longer allow us to live be-side yo
u, to die and lie down beside you, to become dust again with you. They are uprooting us; a curse upon those who are responsible! A curse upon those who are to blame!”

  The people raised their hands to the sky; they raised their voices loudly. “A curse on those who are to blame! A curse on those who are to blame!”

  They rolled on the ground, kissed the rain-soaked earth, rubbed it on their foreheads, their cheeks, their necks. Again and again they bent and kissed the soil; they kissed their beloved dead and cried, “Good-bye!”

  Father Yánaros walked between the graves and sprinkled holy water over them. Behind him the relatives of the dead cried out, “Good-bye!” “Good-bye, brothers!” “Good-bye, cousins and fathers!” “Forgive us for leaving you at the mercy of the infidels. It is not our fault, may God damn those who are to blame.”

  Father Damianos knelt on the ground, opened the Holy Bible and began to read from the Gospel of the Resurrection. His voice had suddenly strengthened; it no longer trembled. During the emptying of the church he had taken the Bible from the Holy Altar, opened it, and marked the Gospel of the Crucifixion with a red ribbon. He had decided to read from

  that, but now, among the beloved dead, he could not bear to leave them saying “My God, my God, why hast Thou for-saken me?” as the final word. He suddenly decided, now, to read the joyful words: “Christos anesti!”—“Christ has risen!” He read from the Gospel of the Resurrection and then he let out a loud cry. “Patience, fathers, we will meet again in the Sec-ond Coming. Christ has risen! Death is conquered! Death is no more! Man shall be resurrected, so be patient, beloved ancestors. A happy reunion to us all!”

  The crowd rose to their feet, the soil from the graves still clinging to their hair and their faces. They took courage, stretched out and joined hands as though they wanted to comfort one another. And almost automatically, they began to dance around the graves, slowly, serenely. And their eyes and their throats were full of tears. They danced quietly, their eyes glued to the wooden crosses, their lips forming the syllables of the blessed names carved there. They looked around anxiously, as though they wanted to pick up the rain-soaked crosses with the photographs and tin wreaths, the cypress trees and the earth, the bones that were buried beneath the earth, and take them along. Take them and leave, tear out their roots and go. They danced quietly, peacefully, and suddenly they lifted their eyes and saw the rainbow—green and red and gold—spreading across the sky, its feet touching the earth. “A good omen, brothers,” Father Yánaros cried. “This is the Sash of the Virgin and it has spread over us to comfort and protect us. We raised our hands to the sky, we called to God and He has answered us: ‘Go, my children, go, with my blessings,’ He replies, ‘Go on your way, the Virgin is coming with you—there is Her Holy Sash!’”

 

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