The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  The monk reached out and touched Father Yánaros lightly on the shoulder.

  “Listen to Father Arsénios’ last words before the demons leaped from within him. ‘You’re going to die very soon, Brother Nicódemus,’ he said to me, ‘go find Father Yánaros—I’ve spoken to you of him so many times—go find him and entrust your secret to him. He can carry it; you cannot. And tell him that I am still alive, that I am still struggling with God above and with the demons below. These are the two millstones that grind me; tell him that.’ I bowed, he placed his two hands on my head and blessed me, as though bidding me farewell. Later I understood; he was saying good-bye.”

  The monk remained silent for a moment; then he looked around the humble cell and smiled. “And I came,” he said.

  “I came to save you,” he added. “Father Arsénios directed me to come and save you.”

  Father Yánaros smiled bitterly. “To save my body or my soul —which of the two?”

  “Both! You know, Father Yánaros, that as long as we live, those two beasts never part company.”

  “I make them part,” the priest said stubbornly.

  “That’s why you’re floundering; that’s why you don’t know which way to turn. Don’t frown, Father Yánaros, I’ve heard a lot about you. They say you’re honest, poor, wild, but good, a brave fighter; you feel compassion for the people—and yet you cannot make up your mind. You’re drifting.”

  “Perhaps it’s my duty to drift,” retorted the priest, “perhaps that is the post entrusted to me by God; I’m not going to be-tray it.”

  “Mercy to the soul that dies before taking a stand—before giving a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ clearly and honestly,” the young man replied. “There was a time when you could be on the other side of the looking glass, Father Yánaros, but bad times have fallen upon us—don’t you realize that? You cannot sit back with folded arms.”

  He was tired of talking; he drank a little water, leaned against the pillow, and remained silent.

  Father Yánaros rose; he filled a glass with wine, took two pieces of leftover dry toast, and returned to the young man.

  “Here,” he said, “you must be hungry, my son. Dip this bread in the wine, so you can have strength to continue.”

  He watched the pale young man with tenderness, then he dipped the bread into the wine and fed him, as a mother feeds her child, as though he were giving him communion, as though the wine and bread were really the body and blood of Christ that would give him strength as they entered his body. A faint color came to the boy’s cheeks.

  “Thank you, Father,” he said, “I feel stronger now. You’re stronger, too, Father Yánaros. Can you listen now? Because you are more deeply wounded than I am—remember that!”

  “I’m aware of that, but I can stand whatever you have to say; go on.”

  “You asked me who I am; I’ll tell you everything in a little while; I’m anxious to get to the point. I was deacon to a bishop; I was educated, aiming for a bishopric myself. But I saw too many things—my mind opened, I understood. The word of Christ has been degraded, His message upon earth has faded; we only follow the footprints that Satan’s feet leave on the mud— Christ’s words have been reversed:

  Blessed are the deceivers in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the violent, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after injustice. Blessed are the unmerciful. Blessed are the impure in heart. Blessed are the warmakers.

  These are what we call Christians today.”

  “I know, I know …” growled Father Yánaros. “I know all that, go on!”

  “I shook the diocese dust from my feet; I left, and retreated to Mount Athos. But there, too, I found the world’s misfortunes in this so-called holy solitude, only meaner, more cunning, because it did not pay to bring them out into the light and let them explode. Did you know that there are three kinds of peo-ple, Father Yánaros? Men, women, and monks! All the animos-ities simmer within the soul of a monk, secretly, without hope. For, as you know, Father, God help the man who lives in solitude with thoughts of the outside world preying on his mind!

  So I secluded myself with the profane literature which I had brought with me.”

  “Literature! So you went into the monastic life dragging all the demons of the world along?”

  “You’re right, Father, I realized that later; in reality I did not go to the monastery to become an ascetic, but to gather those parts of my soul which had scattered, to discover what stand I should take, and from there to spring forth. For I cannot live without certainty, Father.”

  “Neither can I, neither can I …” sighed Father Yánaros. “That is why I am suffering.”

  But the young man did not hear him; his eyes and ears were turned within him, looking and listening only to his own heart and soul. Then he continued, hurriedly, because the wound be-gan to hurt again, and he was not certain if he had time to confess everything to the white-haired man before him.

  “I cannot live in doubt,” he repeated, “and I am tormented. My faith in the representatives of God has faltered, and the pain of men who have been wronged fills me with indignation. To whom shall I turn? To Christ as the Church has degraded Him, or to those who want to shape a new world—a more just world, without Christ? I used to go to church, I fasted, I prayed, I called to God, but I found no relief; God never answered me. I realized in time that prayer is not the way, that neither is retreat; once, they were; they brought the earth to heaven, but no more. Now they alienate us from earth, they do not carry us to heaven—they leave us halfway, in mid-air. ‘I must discover a new way,’ I told myself, ‘I must carve a new path.’ But I could not, I could not, and I drifted, disillusioned, like you.”

  “But I’m not disillusioned,” Father Yánaros flared back, angered. “I have a place to stand, my friend—beside Christ— and I’m not worried about what the bishops are doing. Isn’t Christ enough for your reverence?”

  “Don’t get upset, Father,” the monk said, touching the priest’s knee in a pleading manner. “No, He’s not enough, not the way they’ve degraded Him—with lavish clothes and palaces in which He reigns, eating and drinking the nights away with the nobles of this world! I missed that poor, impoverished Christ, Father, the one who is barefoot, hungry, and wronged,

  the one met by those two humble students traveling in Emmaus —the Christ of Emmaus—that’s the one I searched for and could not find; and that was why my heart ached. Do you understand now, Father Yánaros?”

  The priest drew closer to the monk’s pallid face; his heart beat loudly. Who is this sudden visitor, he wondered, who sent him to me? God or Satan? Which? I can’t tell!

  Father Yánaros was torn with the meaning of the monk’s words.

  “Do you think I’m old and stupid?” he said stubbornly. “You should know that I too have all the torments of youth, although I may be seventy years old. Don’t stop! Did you find the Christ you were seeking? How did you find Him? Is that your se-cret?”

  “Now you’re going too fast, Father,” the young man replied and smiled, “but I …”

  He did not finish his sentence; he was thirsty again. Father Yánaros brought another cup of water; the monk drank and felt refreshed.

  “So I took these profane books,” the monk went on, “and went into solitude. ‘What are you doing?’ the monks would ask me. ‘Why is your lamp on all night, Father Nicódemus?’ ‘I’m praying,’ I would reply. ‘Can’t you pray in the dark?’ ‘I’m afraid!’ Once in a while, I saw Father Arsénios, and we would exchange a few words. He would talk about the wood he was carving and tell me it was not the wood but his soul; and I would speak to him of the barefoot Christ. And suddenly, one night, one blessed night …”

  “You saw the true light?” Father Yánaros whispered, as he bent over the monk’s face.

  “How do you know, Father?”

  “I see it in your eyes, my son. And then?”

  “I did see the true light. And then I came out
of my cell. It was Easter, the monks were gathered at the table; they were eat-ing meat, drinking large glasses of wine. I pushed my plate aside, spilled out the wine. ‘Get up,’ I shouted to them. ‘Why are you sitting here with crossed hands while the world is being destroyed? God does not want incense and prayers, He does not want meat. He wants us to walk the straight and narrow path! Let the monastery move like the movable miraculous

  icons; prayer is not enough today, open the food cellars of the monastery, distribute bread to the poor. Let us share the journey, let us preach the word of Christ: Love! Peace! Justice!’ “

  “And then?”

  “Then two strong monks—Benedict and Abbakoum— grabbed me. They carried me away and locked me in my cell. The next day they chased me from Mount Athos.”

  Father Yánaros pressed the monk’s hand.

  “Bless you,” he said, “and thank God they did not crucify you. Go on!”

  “Don’t be frightened, Father Yánaros.”

  “You think this would frighten me? This is nothing—Christ comes down from the icon and talks to me, and I am not afraid! Go on. And then?”

  “Then I took to the hills, Father.”

  Stunned, Father Yánaros drew back from his seat. “Rebel! Communist!” he shouted.

  “You see? You’re frightened,” the monk said bitterly. “Yes, I saw the true light; I took to the hills and joined the guerrillas.”

  “But they don’t believe in God,” the priest shouted. “They’ve taken Him off His throne and sat themselves on it. You can’t shape a world or a government without God. And you went with them! Is this the great secret you came to reveal to me? Then I’d rather flounder and drift forever.”

  The monk took Father Yánaros’ hand and kissed it. “Don’t be hasty, Father,” he said, “don’t be angry with me. Yes, I went with the guerrillas; true, a world without God has no foundations. But a world without justice cannot be governed. Now listen carefully to what I am going to say—to my great secret. It saved me and it will also save you; perhaps it will save many people. It may even save the ideal for which the guerrillas are fighting and dying. Calm your soul, Father Yánaros, be patient, listen to me …”

  “All right, all right, I’m listening,” Father Yánaros replied, and felt the flame of the monk’s lips on his hand.

  The young man’s face turned crimson; his voice, deep and pathetic, came from out of his innermost being; the crucial mo-ment—the most difficult moment in his confession—had arrived.

  “Remember,” he said softly, “remember the great promise

  Christ made to His Apostles to console them as they wept, just before He rose to the heavens?”

  “But when the Comforter is come, whom I will send unto you from the Father, even the Spirit of truth …”

  The monk paused, his breath was cut short; he leaned over and looked into Father Yánaros’ eyes.

  “Do you remember?” he asked again.

  “Of course I remember!” Father Yánaros snapped impatiently. “What are you leading up to?”

  Again the monk’s voice came from the depths of his soul— full of terror, full of contentment; he leaned over and whispered in Father Yánaros’ ear. “The Great Comforter has come!”

  Father Yánaros jumped back as though a wild beast had suddenly appeared before him.

  “He came? Here? On earth?” he shouted.

  “Yes, here on earth, in the form of man, with a man’s name.”

  “What is his name?”

  The monk leaned over a little more, his lips touching Father Yánaros’ large hairy ear.

  “Lenin!”

  Father Yánaros put his hands to his head and squeezed his temples—he felt that they would burst any moment.

  Slowly he raised his head. “Lenin?” he asked finally. “Lenin?”

  He looked at the monk with horror; the young man had risen, and stood over him smiling, like the Archangel Gabriel.

  “Lenin,” the monk repeated quietly.

  The priest opened his mouth in protest, but the young man put out his hand pleadingly. “Don’t hasten to reply, Father,” he said. “Hear me out first; I was just as frightened when the light dawned on me—the way your reverence is now. But can’t you see, the dawn is always like that. It’s a sword that tears out your heart. I was hurt, I rose to defend myself and all that I believed in, until now. But the light slowly cleared my mind, and I finally understood.”

  Father Yánaros would not let him continue.

  “And Lenin is the Great Comforter?” he shouted, and his nostrils flared in anger. “Lenin is going to save us? Lenin?”

  “Yes, he is, Father; don’t shout; I see that the light has fallen upon you too like a sword. Listen to me; I will speak clearly, quietly, and you will see. I lived with bishops and with monks; I lived alone; I lived with the guerrillas; I made the full circle.”

  “And you found the Great Comforter among the rebels?” the priest asked sarcastically.

  “I found the Comforter among the guerrillas,” the monk replied quietly, “but they do not know who sent him and they call bim Lenin. They don’t even know why he was sent; they think that he came to create a new world, a more just world. But he did not come to create. He came to destroy! To destroy the old world and prepare the way for the One who is coming.”

  “And who is the One coming?”

  “Christ! Because He will come—He will, Father Yánaros; He’ll come and He’ll lead the guerrillas. And He won’t be crucified again, He won’t leave earth this time, to let us fall back into injustices. Earth and heaven, Father Yánaros, will all become one.”

  “That’s what I’ve been hoping for; that’s what I’ve been waiting for, all my life—for earth and heaven to become one; but I don’t know the way, and that’s why I am tormented.”

  “That’s why I’ve come, Father, to show you the way. Forgive me—one so young—trying to guide you; but it’s not I who is leading you, it’s youth; youth has entered your cell tonight and it beckons you, it cries out, ‘Come with us!’ “

  Father Yánaros bowed his head and groaned softly; his blood whirled, but he did not speak.

  The monk leaned over, and Father Yánaros felt his hot breath on the back of his neck, on the lobe of his ear.

  “Join us,” the monk said in a quiet, seductive voice, “there’s only a few of us now; yeast is only a handful at the beginning, but the dough soon rises and becomes bread.”

  Father Yánaros raised his head. “Did you preach that to the rebels?”

  “Not at first; I was silent at first; I was ashamed, afraid to re-veal my secret. I lived with them, fought beside them. I killed, too. I fought to destroy whatever I could—just a stone in this world, helping to build the road of God as best I could. I did not speak; I kept my secret within me, even if it tore out my

  insides. But one day, one early morning, a voice rose from within me. ‘These people feel hatred,’ it said, ‘they kill and are killed; they hope without knowing why. But you know why! Rise and speak to them!’ So I did; I stood on a rock, and they gathered around me, about fifty fighters, with their rifles, their bandoliers, their boots, and their beards. I made the sign of the cross before I began to speak; they roared with laughter. I stilled my heart and began, hoping to enlighten them. But before I could say two words, they burst into whistles, curses, and mocking laughter. ‘He’s been planted here,’ they shouted. ‘Religion —the opium of the people!’ ‘Traitor, you’ve sold us out!’ they yelled. ‘Get out!’ ‘Get out!’ They beat me mercilessly, and I stumbled away. I went to another hill; it was the same—they chased me from there, too. I went to still another, from hill to hill; always being beaten, cursed, barely managing to escape the traps they set for me. Somehow, God helped me to escape them. But tonight …”

  Sweat poured from Father Yánaros’ brow; he rose and walked over to the small window, leaned his head against the iron bars and felt their coolness. It was a dark night with dark sounds— a gray owl flew quietly by, a jackal on th
e hill howled softly, satisfied that he had eaten and his stomach was full. Father Yana-ros raised his eyes; he saw a strip of sky and three large stars; the moon was high, and the smaller stars had disappeared.

  “Well?” the monk asked.

  The lamp was low; it was running out of oil, and the wick sputtered. The cell became darker; only the votive lamp burned before the icon of St. Constantine the firewalker, illuminating the dancing feet over the burning coals.

  As Father Yánaros watched it, his heart settled back in its place. And as he looked, a weight lifted from his chest; he felt a deep sense of relief.

  Laughing, he pointed to the icon. “You’re a firewalker, too, Brother Nicódemus,” he said. “We’re all fish on burning coals, that sing as they sizzle. But are we singing or weeping? I can’t quite understand. You call it light, I call it burning coals—it’s the same thing.”

  The monk frowned; he was waiting for an answer, and it seemed that Father Yánaros was only making jest.

  “You’re not a good man,” the monk said, misjudging the

  priest. “You’re not a good man, Father Yánaros, you don’t pity the people.”

  Anger welled up in the priest. “Eh, young man, what do you consider man’s greatest virtue? Is it kindness?”

  “Yes. Kindness.”

  “No, it’s freedom. Or to be more precise, the struggle for freedom.”

  “Then why do you preach love?”

  “Love is the beginning; it is not the end. I cry ‘Love!’ because man must begin with that; but when I speak with myself or with God, I do not say ‘Love!’ but ‘The struggle for freedom.’ “

  “Freedom from love, too?”

  Father Yánaros hesitated again; the blood rushed to his head. “Don’t ask me!” he shouted.

  But he was ashamed at not daring to answer. “From love, too …” he added softly.

  The monk shuddered; he was frightened. “Then why do you want freedom? For what purpose?”