The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Until God emptied the seven cups of His wrath over Greece

  and the fratricide began. The brother-killing broke out and Father Yánaros stood in the middle—with whom to side? They were all his children, all his brothers, on all their faces he saw God’s fingerprints. He shouted, “Love, love! Brotherhood!” but his words rolled into an abyss, and from the abyss rose—to the left and to the right—curses and insults: “Bulgar, traitor, bolshevik!”

  “Impostor, fascist, scoundrel!”

  2

  THE SNOW on the hilltop had begun to melt, the sun became stronger, the frozen earth began to thaw. The first green blades of grass fearfully pierced the earth. A few humble wildflowers peeped from underneath the stones, anxious to see the sun. Great silent powers were at work beneath the earth. Winter’s tombstone lifted—it was the resurrection of Nature. A mild breeze blew, bringing at times the scent of wildflowers from the moss-covered rocks, at times the stench of decaying bodies.

  April—Palm Sunday—the Holy Passion was approaching. Tonight, riding a small donkey, Christ would enter heartless Jerusalem, which kills its prophets. “Behold the Bridegroom cometh in the middle of the night,” Father Yánaros would chant in a loud voice, welcoming the Saviour who entered man’s deathly web, smiling bitterly. And the bell would toll sadly, calling the Christians to church to witness what God had suffered, and what He continues to suffer among men.

  It can’t be, Father Yánaros thought. I’ve heard that even the beasts—wolves, jackals, even wild boar—become tame, unknowingly, on these holy days. Warm, compassionate breezes blow; a loud voice rings through the air, full of love, of pain; the beasts do not know who calls, but men know that it is Christ. I wonder why He does not sit on a throne above the clouds. No, He is here on earth, fighting. He, too, feels pain. He, too, faces injustice; He starves and is crucified along with us. All through

  Holy Week men hear the cry of Jesus in pain—surely their hearts must feel compassion.

  These thoughts ran through Father Yánaros’ mind early that morning as he stood at the threshold of the church, listening to the village awaken. He felt the doors, the houses, the smokeless chimneys, the narrow village streets, the shouts and curses of men, the crying of hungry children. All this Father Yánaros felt— all this—upon him, within him, just as he felt the veins throbbing in his neck and in his temples, as he felt his nostrils opening and closing and his bones creaking. He was a part of the stones and a part of the people; like the centaurs of legend— half man, half horse—so was Father Yánaros; from the waist down he was the village of Castello. If a house burned, he burned; if a child died, he died; and when he knelt in church before the miraculous icon of the wide-eyed Madonna, the Pro-tectress of Castello, it was not Father Yánaros alone who knelt; behind him he felt the whole village—every house, every soul— kneeling. “I am no longer Yánaros,” he would often say to himself in jest, “I am no longer Yánaros—I am Castello.”

  But as Father Yánaros listened to the town awaken and awakened with it, he heard from the village square nearby the bellowing voice of Kyriákos, the town crier. He seemed to be herald-ing great news, for doors were banged open, people began to shout, the village was suddenly in an uproar. The old man cocked his hairy ear and listened; and as he heard, his blood boiled. In one great stride he reached the center of the road. A moment of silence—doors and windows opened and closed; women screeched; a dog barked. And then the voice of the crier: “Hear ye, Christians, the Virgin Mother arrives in our village today. A monk, may his blessings fall upon us, brings the Virgin Mary’s Holy Sash in its silver case. He will stop at the town square. Hurry, all of you—men, women, children—hurry and worship before the Holy Sash.”

  Father Yánaros yanked at his whiskers in fury. A curse floated on his lips but was swallowed. “Virgin Mother,” he murmured, “forgive me, but I cannot trust these monks. Is this sash really Yours, Virgin Mother?”

  Years ago he had bowed and worshiped the Sash on Vatopedi at Mount Athos. It was of brown wool, interwoven with gold

  thread that had unraveled with the years. The Virgin was a poor woman, and Christ, too, was poor on earth. How, then, could she wear such an expensive sash as this?

  Once, at another monastery, they had showed him a child’s skull inside a gold box. “It is the skull of St. Kyrikos,” the sexton had told him. A few days later, at still another monastery, another box, much larger than the first, was shown to him. “The skull of St. Kyrikos,” the vestry-keeper said.

  Father Yánaros could not refrain from speaking out: “But the other day they showed me a child’s skull and said that that was the saint.”

  “Well,” the monk replied, “that one must have been the saint when he was a child.”

  Father Yánaros was well aware of the trickeries of the monks, and when he worshiped before the Holy Sash at Vatopedi on Mount Athos, he turned to the vestry-keeper, a reverent fat-bellied monk, and asked, “Begging your blessings, holy Father, do you honestly believe this is the real sash of the Virgin Mother?”

  The sly monk smiled. “Don’t concern yourself too much, Father Yánaros,” he replied. “If it’s not, it soon will be, after a miracle or two.”

  “Forgive me, Virgin Mother,” Father Yánaros murmured again, “but I cannot trust these monks. I want no part of them.”

  The town crier had paused to catch his breath. Father Yánaros was about to take another stride ahead, but the voice sounded again. With one foot in mid-air, ears cocked, and his body trembling, Father Yánaros listened.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, Christians! Come, all those who have sickness in your homes! The holy monk, may his blessings fall upon us, has been given the power and grace of the Virgin to cure the sick. Whether it is illness of the devil’s doings, or snakebite, or the evil eye of men.” Then, looking up at the road, he shouted with excitement, “There he is—he’s arrived!”

  And there, from the edge of the road, astride a gray donkey, appeared the fat, jolly monk. He was hatless, and his hair was twisted into a bun behind his head. On both sides of him, loaded on the donkey, were two large baskets full of foodstuffs and bottles. Behind him dragged a gang of children with swollen

  bellies and spindly legs. Some of them were on crutches; they were all running, fighting to snatch a few beans or peas, or a wormy fig, which the monk took from his wide pockets and tossed here and there as he laughed with glee.

  Kyriákos ran, put his arms as best he could around the wide body of the monk, and helped him alight in the center of the square. Men and women had gathered, running to kiss the fat hand of the man from Mount Athos.

  “My blessings upon you, my children,” he said in a heavy chantlike voice. “My blessings and those of the Virgin Mother. Bring whatever you have as an offering to the Virgin: money, bread, wine, eggs, cheese, wool—whatever you have—bring it and come to pray.”

  And as he watched the wretched Castellians who hesitated, wondering what they might have to give for the Virgin’s grace, the sly fox opened his robe and pulled out a long silver box he had been holding under his arm; he made the sign of the cross three times, raised the box high, and turned it for all to admire.

  “Kneel,” he ordered. “Here lies the Holy Sash of the Virgin Mary! Hurry to your homes; bring whatever you can, and come to worship! By the way, now that I think of it, how are you getting along with the rebels?”

  “We can’t hold out any longer, holy Father; we’re exhausted.”

  “Kill them! Kill them! The Virgin Mother commanded me to tell you that you must kill the rebels; they are not humans, they are dogs!”

  The crowd scattered to see what they could find to bring as offerings; the monk sat on the stoop outside the coffeehouse, which had been closed for months now. Where would the coffeehouse owner find coffee, sugar, Turkish delights, tobacco for the nargeles?* The monk took out a large blue handkerchief with white dots from under his robes and began to wipe his sweat. He coughed, spat, got up, picked a wormless fig from out of one of his baskets, an
d began to chew on it. Then he took out a bottle and took a few gulps of raki.

  “Which way does the wind blow with your village priest?” the monk asked abruptly of Kyriákos, who stood nearby with

  * A Turkish water pipe in which tobacco is placed and smoked through a long hoselike funnel.

  arms crossed, admiring the holy man. He had not yet been blessed with the sight of an ascetic from Mount Athos, and he could not satisfy his pleasure at this saintly, sweating body with the bun on the head and the flat, infantryman’s feet. His nostrils opened hungrily and inhaled the holy stench. Sinking in this ecstasy, Kyriákos did not reply to the question. The monk became impatient.

  “I ask you, what kind of man is your village priest? I want to know.”

  Kyriákos swallowed hard; he looked around in fear of being heard; then he lowered his voice. “How can I tell you, Father? He’s a holy terror—a wild man! He can’t get along with anybody. Always a sour face—no matter what you do or what you say, he doesn’t like it. It’s only what he says! As if he’s holding God by the beard! A holy man, but insufferable! Beware of him, holy Father.”

  The monk scratched his head. “Best thing then,” he said after some thought, “is to have no dealings with him. I must do my work quickly and get out.”

  He leaned against the wall of the coffeehouse and sighed. “I’m tired, my brother—what’s your name?”

  “Kyriákos. I’m the town crier, and I’m letting my hair grow so I can become a priest.”

  “I’m tired, friend Kyriákos,” the monk continued. “Her Grace the Virgin has entrusted me with a heavy task. Three months now I’ve been wandering from town to village, to exhibit Her Holy Sash; look at me, I’ve gone down to practically skin and bone.” As he said this, he touched his paunch and his dewlaps. He made the sign of the cross and closed his eyes.

  “I’ll take a little cat nap,” he said, “just a few minutes until the Christians come to worship. Kyriákos, my boy, keep an eye out lest anyone come near my baskets.”

  Kyriákos crouched there at the monk’s feet, having no heart to leave this holy man sent by God. But just as he began to feel the monk’s holiness spread out to him, entering through his eyes, his nostrils, his ears (for the monk had begun to snore), he jumped up, startled. Father Yánaros was standing before him scowling.

  “You’ re not preparing yourself for the priesthood very well,

  Kyriákos,” he said angrily. “Why did you bring him to our village?”

  “Who, me?” Poor Kyriákos replied, “He came of his own will, Father!”

  “But you’re the one shouting his praises.”

  With his staff, Father Yánaros prodded the monk’s large feet. “Eh, holy Father, I have a word to say to you. Wake up!”

  The monk opened his egg-shaped eyes, saw the priest, and understood. “Father,” he said, “I am happy to see you.”

  “What do you want in my village?”

  “Her Grace the Virgin sent me,” the monk replied, and showed the silver box. “I go wherever this takes me.”

  “Well, Her Grace the Virgin sent me to tell you to leave! Take your box, your baskets, your donkey, your cure-alls, and go!”

  “The Virgin Mother …”

  “Quiet! Do not taint the holy name of the Mother of God. If Her Grace really had sent you, She would have loaded you with wheat and oil and clothing from the Holy Mount, with whatever was left over from the monks, for you to distribute to Her people, who are ragged and barefoot and dying of hunger. You would not be trying to take what little food they have from their mouths. Quiet, I say! I served at Mount Athos, too. I learned your secrets—hypocrites, loafers, church-robbers!” He grabbed him by the arm. “And what are those words you dare to spout, eh? ‘Kill them! Kill’? Is that what the Virgin commanded? Is that the reason Her Son entered Jerusalem today, to be crucified? How long will you go on betraying Christ, you Judas?”

  He had bent over the monk and was trembling with anger as he whispered, “Judas! Judas!”

  While he spoke, the people had begun to gather; silent, bare-headed, their eyes glued with fear upon the silver box on the window sill. Each one held in his hand or in his cap an onion or a handful of wheat or a little wool from his sheep—whatever he had to offer the Virgin. One woman who had nothing took off her kerchief to give; an old man brought an antiquity which he had found while digging in his field one day.

  Father Yánaros turned and looked at the crowd, and his heart twisted with pain. “My children,” he said, “pray before the Holy Sash, but do not give a grain of wheat to the monk. You are

  poor, you are hungry; your children are starving; the Virgin has need of offerings. That She should take from you? God for-bid! She gives to you! Why do they call Her Mother of Christianity? Would she watch Her children starve and not reach out a compassionate hand to give them a piece of bread? This holy man here, who came to our village to fill his baskets and depart, saw our poverty. He looked at the hungry children who ran behind him, and his heart ached. Is he not a faithful servant of the Virgin? Does the Virgin Mother not dwell within his heart? What need has he of food and luxuries? Many years ago he turned his back upon the riches of this futile life and went to Mount Athos to become sanctified. And now he feels compassion at our disaster and has reached a decision, God bless him. He is going to distribute among us everything that he has gathered from the villages he passed to get here. Everything in his baskets!”

  The crowd let out a cheer at these words—women began to cry. They rushed upon the monk, grabbed his hand and kissed it as tears streamed down their faces. The monk had turned red; he was boiling within, cursing this devil of a priest who had played such a trick to rob him. But what could he do? He was too ashamed to refuse; no, he was not ashamed, he was afraid. The children had already gathered around his donkey, jumping with glee. They had stuck their noses into the baskets, and as they breathed in the smell of figs, their mouths watered.

  “Let two people come forward to unload the donkey,” Father Yánaros ordered. “Bring the baskets here, and this holy man— sent by God—shall distribute everything to you. But first, let us pray before the Holy Sash.”

  Before he could finish the sentence, the baskets were unloaded; the women spread out their aprons, the men their caps and their handkerchiefs. The children dug their hands inside the baskets.

  “Quiet—quiet,” Father Yánaros ordered, and his face shone with pleasure. “First, you must pray and thank the Virgin Mother for sending you this holy man with his baskets.”

  The monk stood by, moaning; sweat poured from him, and he felt that he would explode any minute. Every so often he threw poisonous looks at the priest—oh, if he could only grab him by

  his beard and pull it out, hair by hair. For a moment he drew near and whispered in his ear. “You’ve ruined me,” he spat out, and his hot breath scorched Father Yánaros’ temples.

  Father Yánaros smiled. “Yes, holy Father,” he replied in a loud voice for the crowd to hear, “you are so right. There is in-deed no greater joy than in giving bread to the hungry. I will say prayers in your name at vespers tonight. By the way, what is your name, holy Father?”

  But the monk only groaned with fury. He grabbed the silver box and opened it with a shrug. The frayed sash of brown wool and gold thread was revealed. “Worship!” he said in a dry voice, as though he were saying “Get out of my sight.”

  Quickly, one after the other, the people bowed and worshiped the holy relic; they were in a hurry; they sensed the baskets be-hind them, and they were anxious for the worship to end so that they could begin dividing the food. Exhausted and disgusted, the monk fell in a heap on the stoop. They placed first the one basket between his legs, then the other. The priest stood over him to keep order. One by one they came, extending their caps, their aprons, their hands. The monk dug his massive hands into the baskets and handed out his goods, cursing under his breath.

  “Damn you, devil-priest! Curse you, devil-priest …” He mumbled underneat
h his breath as he passed out his wealth.

  “Not so loud, children!” Father Yánaros said. “The holy man of God is praying.”

  Each one took his share, kissed the monk’s hand, and left, hurrying to his bare hearthstone.

  “What joy the Virgin must feel,” Father Yánaros kept repeat-ing, “seeing her people emptying Her baskets! What do you say, holy Father?”

  But the holy father could stand it no longer. He grabbed the baskets and emptied them on the stones, turning his head the other way so that he would not have to see his possessions disappear.

  The crowd fell upon the two piles, and before you could say “Lord have mercy,” nothing was left. The monk picked up a fig from the ground, chewed it with fury, and spat it out.

  “Kyriákos,” the priest ordered, “take the baskets, load them on the donkey, and help the holy man mount. He has done his duty—may God bless him—let him go on his way.”

  Oh, if looks could kill, the monk thought, I’d tear you into little pieces, scoundrel!

  Kyriákos brought the donkey to the ledge, put his arms again as best he could around the fat body of the monk, and enthroned him between the two empty baskets.

  “Good-bye, good-bye, holy brother,” Father Yánaros called to him. “Don’t forget to write!”

  But the monk was boiling within. He kicked the donkey viciously with his large feet, and without turning once to look back, rode on. When he passed the outskirts of the village and reached the fields where no one could see him, he turned and spat twice toward the village.

  “Damn you, devil-priest,” he said loudly, “you’ve torn out my heart!”

  Father Yánaros chanted softly, contentedly, as he walked back to the church; he sensed the Virgin beside him, smiling, contented, too, that the Holy Sash had performed its miracle by giving food to the hungry. What did it matter whether this was Her sash or not? For centuries now, countless lips had kissed it, countless eyes had looked at it and wept, countless aching hearts had stood over it. They had filled it with hope and pain, and sanctified it, and it had truly become the Sash of the Virgin. The soul of man has great power, Father Yánaros reflected as he walked, yes, great power! It can take a piece of cloth and make it a banner!