The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  As he stepped across the threshold of the church, he saw a pale-looking soldier sitting on the stone ledge in the courtyard, waiting for him. Father Yánaros had met the boy some time ago and was quite fond of him. A quiet, delicate young man, he always carried a small notebook in his pocket. His blue eyes sparkled with warmth and youth. Last Christmas he had come to confession before communion. A gentle heart, full of tenderness and spiritual desires—he was a student at the time, and he was in love. He kept seeing the girl in his dreams at night, and he felt strong desires for her; this was his greatest sin, and he had come to confess it.

  “Welcome, Leonidas!” the priest said, offering his hand. “What’ s wrong, my son? You look worried.”

  “I came to kiss your hand, Father,” the youth replied, “nothing else.”

  “Is something worrying you?”

  “Yes, but it’s probably just growing pains—a windburst, isn’t that what you called it last year when I came to confession? The warm wind of youth that opens up the flower buds?”

  Father Yánaros stroked the boy’s blond head. “A windburst, my son. That wind passed over me, too, once.

  “Today it passes over you,” he continued, “tomorrow it will pass over your son. Many call it the wind of youth—I call it the wind of God.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I call everything God,” the priest added, and smiled.

  The young man swallowed hard; words crept to his lips, but he was ashamed to let them out. Father Yánaros took him by the hand; he leaned over him. “Leonidas, my child,” he said, “open your heart to me. I am listening.”

  The boy’s hand trembled within the strong fist of the older man. He could barely control the tears; the words that had crept to his lips had now become sobs.

  “Well?” the priest asked, and his grasp tightened to give the boy courage.

  “I’m telling the truth, Father, nothing’s wrong. Nothing is bothering me—it’s just that my heart feels heavy, frightened, as though it foresees a great evil. Can it be that something has happened to her—can the girl I love be ill? Or can it be that Death is hovering over me, over her? I can’t quite make it out, so I came to see you. Forgive me, Father, I came to get it off my chest. Already I feel relieved,” he said and smiled, but his hand in Father Yánaros’ still trembled.

  That night, the Castellians gathered within their church to watch Christ entering Jerusalem on the donkey. And the impoverished villagers hurried to spread their clothing on the ground for Him to pass over. The children, with palms in their hands, ran behind Him singing, welcoming Him, for they realized—much more than the wealthy, educated, intelligent ones did—that this humble companion, this barefoot, sad human being was the Saviour of the world. “Behold the Bridegroom cometh in the middle of the night.” The church was warm, it

  smelled of candles and incense; the holy icons, dimly lit, resembled ghosts. The church was small and inadequate, but it had room enough for the pain of Christ and the evil of man and the salvation of the world. This small church was Jerusalem, and Father Yánaros held the donkey by its bridle and walked ahead, leading Christ into the holy city that was to kill Him. Already one could hear the sound of the ax felling the tree to be planed and made into a cross. Father Yánaros heard these sounds as though he were the tree, and felt the pain. Surely the Castellians could hear the sounds, too; would their faces soften, he wondered, would their hearts ache for God who is about to be crucified for their sake? And when they leave the church will they look upon all people as brothers? And will they offer their hands to the guerrillas and say to them, “It is a shame for us to fight, brothers, come let us all follow Christ, who is in danger now”?

  Father Yánaros fixed his eyes on them; he longed to see a smile, even a little one; to see a light in their eyes, a glow reflected from the passing of Christ. He watched them, watched as the first vigil of Sunday ended, but the faces of the Castellians did not soften. God’s passion knocked in vain on their hearts; they would not open them, and Christ remained outside, homeless. Shame and indignation filled Father Yánaros. And when the wake ended and the Castellians turned to leave, Father Yánaros raised his hand and stopped them.

  “Wait, Christians,” he called, “I have something to say to you.”

  The villagers scowled. Stamatis and Barba Tassos, two elders of the town, who stood at the entrance of the church selling candles, turned to each other.

  “Why doesn’t he let us go to our homes?”- Stamatis said to Tassos. “I’m sleepy! How about you?”

  “If I ever set foot at another one of his wakes again, he can spit in my eye,” replied Barba Tassos, and yawned loudly. “I’ll never leave the comfort of my bed to come here and stand all these hours again—no sir! I’ve seen it all, over and over again. I’m fed up!”

  Father Yánaros walked to the center of the church. “Listen, my children,” he said, “the sky has seven levels and the earth

  has seven, but still they are not large enough to hold God; yet in man’s heart there is room enough for Him. Bear this in mind and do not wound the heart of a single person, for God dwells there. Yet you Castellians, God help you, do nothing but work overtime for Satan, killing your brothers. How long will this go on, cursed men? Shame on you! Have you no pity for God, who enters Jerusalem tonight to be crucified for you? And if you have no pity for Him, if you have no fear of Him, have you at least no fear of hell? You will burn there, brother-killers, you will burn in pitch, forever and ever.”

  “Tell that to the rebels, priest!” an angry voice replied.

  “Tell that to your rebel son,” came another voice.

  “If only my voice could be heard in the hills, by the guerrillas, and in the valley by the elders, and throughout all the world.” Father Yánaros sighed. “But my flock is small, a mere heap of stones—Castello.”

  The faces of the Castellians remained grim; Father Yánaros pleaded and threatened in vain. God, hell, forever and ever— all this seemed far away to them; their time had not come; when it did, they would see. Lately, because of the guerrillas, they had other problems. Mandras, the first elder of the town, stepped before Father Yánaros, and his sly, sticky eyes were filled with hate.

  “Your words may be wise and holy, my priest, but they go into one ear and out the other. Our minds and our reasoning are elsewhere now—on destroying the rebels! Destroying them, my priest, and you talk to us about God! Do you understand, Father Yánaros?”

  “I understand, loan shark,” Father Yánaros cried angrily. “I understand that Satan is riding herd on all of you.”

  “And God is riding herd on you,” the elder replied, snicker-ing, “so what are you crowing about?”

  “We’ll talk about that in the other world,” threatened Father Yánaros, and shook his finger at them.

  “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Father Yánaros,” he replied. “We’ll discuss it here, in Castello, and since you have a son who is a rebel leader, I suggest that you keep quiet— for your own sake. You asked for it, and I’m telling you.”

  The Castellians nodded their heads in satisfaction. The elder

  had said what they had felt all along but lacked the courage to say, God bless him, and they felt relieved now. Some of them laughed, others coughed; they all crept hurriedly toward the door.

  Father Yánaros remained alone in church, with Christ and the miraculous Virgin on the iconostas, and the saints.

  “My Lord, my Lord,” he murmured, “they are crucifying You again!”

  3

  IT WAS DAWN of Holy Monday; rifles blazed—the people had begun their work early. The guerrillas descended, the soldiers and the Castellians climbed up to meet them; growling, they clashed on the hillside and began with fury to kill and be killed. Father Yánaros left Christ in church—what need did He have of men—and ran to the hill to give last rites to the dying and to help carry the wounded back to the village.

  It was a day of God’s joy—fresh spring sunlight—the first thorns on the hill had bl
ossomed. The bees, too, had begun their work early that morning; they buzzed around the blossoming thorns and the new thyme, and prepared to make honey. The vultures came, they circled the sky above the people, perched on the rocks, and let out hoarse, impatient cries for the men to hurry and become corpses, so the vultures could fall upon them and begin their work, too. All of God’s creation had awakened and was in a hurry.

  And the men—one would think they heeded the cries of the vultures—they hurled themselves furiously at one another for the kill! First they fought with guns, then with bayonets, and to-ward the end, with knives, with fists, with their teeth. The bodies fell, thundering against the rocks. Father Yánaros ran from one dying man to the other, administering communion, closing their eyes, reading the last rites.

  “Forgive them, my Lord,” he murmured, “forgive both those who kill and those who are killed, or else burn us all, so that we may disgrace You no longer.”

  By noon, Father Yánaros held Leonidas, badly wounded, in his arms. The boy was dying; he opened his eyes, looked at the priest, recognized him, and tried to open his mouth. He wanted to say something, but the blood gushed from his mouth, and his eyes sank. Another soldier ran to him, kneeled and searched the body, found a notebook and took it, slipping it inside his shirt.

  “He asked me to give this to the schoolmaster,” the soldier explained to the priest, who was watching with surprise. “He had a premonition of his death.”

  The young man bent over the corpse, kissed it, then grabbed his rifle and rushed screaming toward the hill.

  Vassos the soldier had taken a guerrilla alive; he had stuck a knife in his back and knocked him down; they rolled on the ground together, struggling awhile, then Vassos took the belt from his waist and tied the other man’s hands. The guerrillas scrambled back up the hill, the soldiers went down to the barracks, the battle was over—the day’s work had ended.

  Wild from the blood he had seen and the fear he had experienced, Vassos cursed the guerrilla, spat on him, and beat him furiously with the butt of his rifle as they descended the hill. Soft shadows fell over the earth; it had been a scorching day, and now the earth felt cool; it breathed with relief. Blood oozed from the guerrilla’s wound, one of his boots was gone, and his wounded leg began to bleed. Vassos stopped, tired from beating the other man; he grabbed him by the arm and pushed him to the ground. The soldiers had gone ahead, they were probably nearing the barracks now.

  “I’m going to rest awhile,” he said. “Sit there and don’t move. Don’t move, you poor fool, or I’ll kill you.”

  He knelt behind a rock, took a piece of dry bread from inside his vest and began to chew it—he was hungry. Then he raised his water canteen to his lips—he was thirsty. The guerrilla watched the canteen with longing. Until now he had not uttered a word, but he could keep silent no longer.

  “If you’re human,” he said, “give me a sip, too. I’m burning up.”

  Vassos looked at him as though for the first time: an ugly boy with a pointed goatee like a jackal’s, and small eyes that were

  filled with terror. He looked at the bound hands full of callouses, the empty cartridge belts across the chest—he must have used up all his bullets. Vassos had grabbed his rifle and slung it over his shoulder beside his own.

  “If you’re human,” the young man repeated, “give me a sip, too, just one sip, I’m burning inside.”

  Vassos laughed. “Traitor, you sold out Greece and now you ask me for water? Die!” He corked the flask and shook it, laughing, in front of the thirsty man’s face.

  “Have you no mercy?” the guerrilla sobbed. “Aren’t you hu-man?”

  “Shut up! I’m human all right, but you’re a dog!” He grabbed a stone and threw it at him. “Here’s a bone, lick it!”

  The wounded man gritted his teeth; he did not speak.

  Vassos leaned against the rock and removed his shoes; his burning feet felt cooler now. He looked down at the village; shouting and weeping had broken out in the houses—they were mourning their dead. The sun had set hours ago, the hill had turned purple; from between two rocks the first star of night peeked brightly.

  Vassos turned to the guerrilla and nudged him with his bare foot. His eyes lit up—he had thought of a game. “Bark like a dog,” he said. “Hey, red one, you’re a dog, aren’t you? Bark, and I’ll give you some water.”

  The guerrilla jumped up; with startled eyes he looked at the laughing soldier.

  “Hey, go on, bark, bark!” he shouted.

  The guerrilla caught his breath. He felt a stab of pain from the wound in his back.

  Vassos laughed as he began to bark. “Arf, arf! Here’s the flask, arf, arf! Bark, damn you!”

  “I can’t—I’m ashamed,” the boy murmured.

  “Then die! Have you no mother?”

  The young man shuddered; his eyes filled with tears; he craned his neck, looking into the distance—who knows where, perhaps toward home. Then he started to bark—the bark of a dog being whipped—wild, full of pain. He barked and barked and would not stop—the sound echoed on the rocks; the dogs in the village below answered him, all howling at once.

  Vassos’ heart tightened; his laughter stopped short; he had never heard such barking, such pain. He jumped forward and cupped his hand over the man’s mouth.

  “Stop it,” he hissed, “stop it, you! Shut up!”

  He grabbed his flask and shoved it between the parched lips.

  “Drink!”

  The wounded man bit the rim hungrily; he drank, drank and came to life, but the tears still flowed.

  “That’s enough!” The soldier pulled the flask from the other’s teeth. He looked at him and for a moment he was moved.

  “I embarrassed you, did I?” he said compassionately.

  “My mother has no other child,” the young man replied.

  They both remained silent; Vassos felt a strange weight in his chest. “Who are you?” he asked. “Your hands are full of callouses. What work do you do?”

  “I’m a laborer.”

  “And why did you take up arms? What have you got against Greece?” Anger flared up in him again as he spoke. “What have you got against your country—against religion? Why? Why?” He pushed his face against the other’s as he yelled.

  “I was working,” the young man replied. “I was working and I was hungry. My mother was hungry, too, she was just an old woman. The injustice of it strangled me, and one day at the factory I raised my voice in protest. ‘Justice! Justice!’ I shouted. ‘How long are we going to work and still be hungry?’ And everyone—bosses and workers, too—turned on me and threw me out into the street. So I took courage into my own two hands and went to the hills. For there, I had heard, one could fight for justice.”

  “And did you find justice in the hills, you idiot?”

  “No, comrade, not yet. But I found hope.”

  “What hope?”

  “The hope that one day justice will come. She won’t come alone, though; she has no feet; we’re going to lift her on our shoulders and carry her here.”

  Vassos bowed his head and fell into deep thought; he was remembering his home and his four sisters, who were left, unmarried, on the shelf. Years and years he had worked as a carpenter to save a little money and get them married. He worked, he

  worked, and what did he get? A day’s meager wages, a day’s meager food; nothing was ever left over. And there were four of them; they looked into his eyes with bitterness, with complaint. The first, Aristea, had withered now; her breasts sagged, waiting all these years in vain for a caress to lift them. The hairs on her upper lip became coarse, she was plagued with headaches, she was unable to sleep, and she had become nasty, jumpy, nervous. Often, without reason, she would begin to weep, she would fall to the floor screaming. Their father had died early, before he had the chance to see her married; and Vassos was still just a boy, working in a carpentry shop, hurrying to complete his apprentice-ship, to earn more money and set aside her dowry. But he was never able to
do it, and Aristea cursed him now; she called him incapable and insensitive; she would pounce on him and scratch him with her nails, then burst into hysteria. The second sister, Kaleroy, spent all her days at the loom weaving things for her hope chest; she withered too, her cheeks were sunken, and a mustache appeared, like Aristea’s. At sunset, she would stand at the threshold of their house, primped and dressed in her best, but no one ever turned to look at her. So she would sneak back inside, sit at her loom silently, and weave her linens. Tassoula, the third sister, was clever—a little flirt; her breasts were erect, her eyes never missed a thing, and she looked unashamedly at the men. She went out often and had several girl friends; she also had her eye on the man she wanted—Aristides, a naive shop-keeper—and she would come and go in front of his little shop swaying her hips. I’m not worried about her, Vassos thought, she’s not sitting around waiting to be discovered. No, she’s out to get her man, with sword in hand. And the fourth, Drosoula, is very young, still going to school; she says she wants to be a teacher. I’m not worried about her either; it’s the older ones I’m thinking of; I must get some money together to get them married and not have them on my conscience. I must, I must! So I can get married, too, to the girl I love, before I lose her. But how can I get married, my God, how can I get married if I don’t see them all married first?

  He sighed, raised his head, and looked at the prisoner in front of him; he had lowered his head, too, and was also deep in thought.

  Vassos turned to kick him, to curse him, to spit on him, to lash out his tensions and find relief; but he changed his mind; his heart seemed to have softened.

  “Hey, you poor soul,” he said, “you’re buried in poverty like me; you’re struggling, too, poor fool, and you don’t know who to blame; but do you think I do? God blessed the poor with eyes only for beauty’s sake.”