“But what’s the point of all this,” the priest said, goading the old fisherman, “why should He make me at all? And after He does make me, why should He break me? I don’t need that!”
“So what if you don’t?” the old man replied in a dry, mocking laugh. “Who asks us, anyway, holy Father?”
Father Yánaros closed his eyes and saw that faraway sunny beach; he heard, so clearly, the words of the old fisherman. Could it be that the illiterate old man was right? Can it be that God, in the very beginning, hooks on to man’s guts to root Himself there, and slowly rise? Rise and grasp the heart, then the mind, and later soar above his head? And can these rebels, laying the foundations of a new world, possibly be right? Can they be right in wanting to eat, to quench their hunger first? Roots thrive and spread in the mud before the tree can blossom. What is the purpose of manure? To become honey and sweetness and fleshto fertilize the fruit! Blessed, then, is the manureand the bowels of men!
It was in this frame of mindtrapped by Christs and Antichriststhat Kyriákos the town crier found Father Yánaros. Someone was dying againone of the hostages in the impro-vised barbed-wire prisonand he must have absolution. The priest rose and stretched his limbshis knees, his back, all his muscles ached. I’ve aged, I’ve gotten old, he thought, I’m old and still I haven’t reached a decision. He turned to Kyriákos.
“How much longer, my son,” he said, “how much longer?”
“I don’t understand what you mean, Father,” Kyriákos replied, confused.
“How much longer will we keep crucifying Christ?”
Kyriákos shrugged his shoulders. “Why don’t you ask how much longer we’re going to keep resurrecting Him? How much longer?”
Father Yánaros did not reply; he entered the sanctuary of the church, picked up the Holy Chalice, and, covering it with the deep red velvet cloth, he set out with it down the road, toward the outskirts of town, to the pit where fifty hostages were imprisoned. The army captain who defended Castello had ordered these old men and women who had husbands or sons fighting with the rebels to be held captive here. The scrawny villagers stood erect, like skeletons, jammed together inside the barbed-wire fence. The women’s heads had been shaved, and on the men’s foreheads, the word “traitor” had been branded.
Father Yánaros held the Holy Chalice high as he hurried through the narrow streets of Castello. Once again he was on his
way to give a dying man communion. It had become a daily procedurethis giving of the body and blood of Christ, this hurrying back and forth to help people face death; often it happened many times in a day. And the men died, and they rested. But there was no rest for Father Yánaros; remembering their last gasping words, recalling their final looks of agony, the dead never stopped dying within him.
As the priest hurried to his destination, the army captain paced up and down with heavy steps outside the barbed-wire enclosure. He was short, thin, sunburned, and had a deep scar on his right cheek. Beneath thorny eyebrows peered a pair of tiny round eyes, like a porcupine’s. He paced back and forth, chewing the mustache over his stiff lips, pinning down each of his prisoners with threatening eyebrows and steely eyes while cracking his whip on his old, worn-out boots.
“Traitors,” he growled, gnashing his teeth, “traitors, dishonorable dogs that would sell their country!”
A small, mustachioed soldier whispered secretly to the man beside him: “What did I tell you, Abraham? I dreamed of pop-pies last night, didn’t I? We’re going to have bloodshed again. What’s going to become of us, Leevytell me!”
Levy, who had a sallow face and hair that fell like corn whiskers, giggled sarcastically through his thin, dry lips. “There’s only one hope left for us: Satan! He rules the world today; we’re all going to be lighting candles to the devil from now on. What good can we expect from your Christ, who turns the other cheek every time He gets slapped? What good can we expect from our Jehovah, who’s never satisfied no matter how many people he devours? No good at all! I say to hell with heaven, and let’s worship the horns of Satin instead!”
The Germans had taken Levy from Salonica and sent him to Auschwitz. The Jews were gassed to the sound of music, and Levy was made to stand at the entrance to the gas chambers, playing his violin. Since then, he had only one pleasureto watch people die.
Panos was shocked to hear such words; he seemed to see Satan, horns and all, standing before him, and he shuddered; he turned to the man next to him for comfort.
“What do you think, Vassos? Did you hear what Abraham said?”
But how could poor Vassos hear anything? His mind and his thoughts were far away, to a barren house and to his four unmarried sisters. His body was bent from work all those years he had tried to save up for their dowries; he had worked, worked, but he had not succeeded in getting even Aristea, the oldest, married.
“What?” he asked the soldier. “I didn’t hear you.”
The other two soldiers laughed. “The poor brat is thinking of his sister again,” they said, and turned to a thin rat-faced boy.
“And how about you, Stratis, aren’t you talking? Open up your lips, boy; you haven’t said a word for three days.”
“I don’t want to talk,” Stratis growled, “the devil take you all.”
“He can’t accept his friend Leonidas’ death,” Levy said, and giggled again. “Eh, poor soul, he’s gone, gone! And he’ll never come back. Here’s to our death, too!”
Stratis remained silent and turned his face the other way to hide the tears. The sergeant approached. ‘What’s all the whispering about, you idiots?” he asked angrily. “The priest is com-ing to give you communion now, so be quiet!”
“I’m a Jew,” murmured Levy, rubbing his hands. “I’m safe!”
From the end of the road Father Yánaros appeared; he held the Holy Chalice in both hands, proudly raised before him as though he were holding a flag, marching off to battle. His head was bare, his graying hair fell on his shoulders, and his boots echoed on the stones like horses’ hoofs. He felt a fierce, blind strength flowing from the Holy Chalice into his hands, his arms, and through his whole aged body; the burden made him lurch and stumble over the stones.
As the prisoners recognized the approaching figure, their eyes lit up; all their hopes lay in that Holy Chalicein the body and blood that it contained. Where else could they find salvation? From men? Until now, men only tortured and killed them; only Christ remained. If He, too, could not bring them salvation, then cursed be the day they were born! Anathema upon the hands that created such a world!
As the priest reached the crowd of prisoners, a pale woman who had been breast feeding her child raised the baby high over the barbed wire.
“Water,” she screamed, “in the name of God, water!”
An old man stretched out his bony hands. The army captain stopped. “What do you want?” he growled.
“Freedom,” replied the old man in a gasping voice.
“Shut up! Your son is with the traitors!”
“Freedom …” the old man murmured again, quietly, pleadingly, as though asking for a piece of bread.
“You’re all going to feel the muzzle of my gun,” bellowed the captain, who had not yet seen Father Yánaros approaching, “and the first one is going to be that two-faced priest, Yánaros. And then that tubercular schoolteacher, then all of you, all of you! I’m going to clean up this village!”
He turned to the sergeant. “Tomorrow take two of our men and go bring me the schoolteacher; put him and his wife and his child, too, behind the wire.”
Father Yánaros stopped; the Holy Chalice trembled in his hands.
“My God,” he murmured, “how much longer are you going to surrender your servants to these beasts? Will injustice and pain never end, then, on this earth? When are You going to fortify love, too, my Lord? Now is the time for You to appear! Can’t You see? Can’t You haer? Have You no pity for these prisoners, these guards, this captainall of them? Perform Your miracle
, my Lord!”
The captain felt heavy breathing behind him and turned to see the stout, square figure of Father Yánaros standing, enraged, before him; the priest’s eyes were on fire. The captain frowned, turned his face the other way, and lowered his head; he hated and feared this seventy-year-old wild man of a priest, whose eyes seemed to hurl a silent strength to strike him down; this goatbeard with his chalice, his Bibles, his robes, his hymns, his exorcisms, commanded powerful invisible forces, and the captain, young and brave though he was, feared him. He turned to face the priest, then stamped his foot on the ground.
“Why do you look at me like that, Father Yánaros? Come on, give the man communion and get it over with!”
“Aren’t you ashamed? Have you no fear of God, Captain?” the priest said in a low, controlled voice.
The captain tightened his grip and raised the whip as though to strike.
But Father Yánaros kept coming closer; now his beard touched the captain’s faceit rubbed against it. “You call yourself a man?” The priest’s voice was hoarse. “No wonder the world calls you a butcher; and who are these sheep you’re slaughtering? Open your eyes and look, you fool! They’re your brothersyour brothers!”
“I’m going to see that you’re put up against that wall, priest!” bellowed the captain as he grabbed Father Yánaros by the arm and shoved him aside. “Your turn will come soon!”
“Yes it will, Captain; in fact my turn has already come; go ahead and put me up against the wall; I’m ashamed to be living, anyway.”
“I’ll kill you when I’m ready, and no sooner; now go!”
“I will not go; I will cry out!” He turned to the soldiers, raising high the chalice.
“Enough of this bloodshed, my children,” he shouted, “enough!”
The captain leaped at him and grabbed his beard, stifling him.
“Tell that to your son, the traitor, the Bulgar captain!”
Father Yánaros wrenched himself away and turned toward the soldiers. “My children,” he shouted again, “do not listen to those who tell you to kill! Lift your heads and cry, ‘No, we shall not kill!’ And have no fear! Whoever believes in the Lord’s command is free; whoever believes in the laws of man is a slave. Freedom, freedom, my brethren!”
Raising his whip, the captain darted toward the priest, but Sergeant Mitros, the kind-hearted Roumeliote,* grabbed the old man, pulling him away, only to have the soldiers rush upon him. Father Yánaros fought and struggled to get away.
“Leave me alone,” he shouted. “I have no wish to live; let the butcher slaughter me before I curse God!”
“Quiet, old man,” the sergeant said softly, “quiet, Father, the sword rules here.”
Father Yánaros looked at him with eyes of pain. “You, too?” he said, “you, too, Mitros my boy? How could you stoop to this? How could you have killed those seven women the other day?”
* One who comes from the area of Roumeli near Mt. Olympus.
The sergeant lowered his voice. “May God forgive me,” he said. “He understands. I don’t do this because I want to. No, I do it because I have to.”
“He understands,” Father Yánaros interrupted. “God help you, Mitros, you coward; He understands only that the soul is stronger than the body’s needand He does not forgive!”
Father Yánaros jumped up as he heard the rasping breaths of the dying man. He made the sign of the cross. “Forgive me, Lord, forgive me,” he said, “I forgot your dying creature.” Then he raised high the body and blood of Christ, and descended into the pit.
6
WHAT A SAD STATE we’re in, pondered Father Yánaros as he walked back to his church. God turned his face the other way, and the earth is in darkness. “An eclipse of God … an eclipse of God,” he repeated as he strode through the narrow, dirty side streets of the village. Ruins everywhere doors and walls riddled with bullets, thresholds splattered with blood, hungry dogs sniffing, digging the earth to find the rotting flesh. Father Yánaros tightened his grip on the Holy Chalice; he felt that he was holding God by the hand, leading him through the desolate alleys of Castello, showing him the pain of man.
“Look! Look around You,” he said to God. “Forget the heavens, You’re not needed up there; we need You here, my Lord, here in CastelloLook! If this cursed brother-killing lasts any longer, we shall destroy ourselves. We’re not human any longer, my Lord, our faces have taken on a wild look; we’re turning back into beasts. Why, only a few days ago, didn’t old Stamatis, that serious-minded elder, grab the ear of Stelianos the merchant and try to bite it off? And the captain! Look at him now! He’s not a man any longerhe’s a tiger! A tiger seeking blood. How much longer my Lord, how much longer? Your image is gradually slipping away from within us. Instead we see only Satan. Help me, Lord, help me bring Your image back to this little village.”
In this world, he thought, you’re either a lamb or a wolf. If you’re a lamb, you’re eaten up; if you’re a wolf, you do the eat-ing. My God, is there no third animal, a stronger, kinder one? And a voice inside him replied, “There is, yes, there is, Father Yánaros; be patient. Thousands of years ago it set out to find us, to become human; but it hasn’t arrived yet. Are you in a hurry? God is in no hurry, Father Yánaros.”
He stopped in front of the barrackshis knees felt weak; a group of small children were gathered around a pile of garbage, digging for leftovers from the soldiers’ rations. Their bellies were swollen, their legs spindly; many of them moved about on crutches.
Father Yánaros moved to approach thembut what could he say? They had gone wild; and he had nothing to give them. He stood silently by, watching. And as he watched, with eyes that slowly dimmed, a skinny old woman passed by with quick, long strides; barefoot, tousle-haired, she held a dead child in her arms, a boy of three, wrapped in a torn blanket. Over her shoulder she carried a shovel. She screamed as she walked; her eyes were fierce and they were dry. Father Yánaros recognized her; it was old Areti, the village midwife; the child she held was her grandson. When she saw the priest, a wild laugh contorted her lips.
“It’s dead, Father Yánaros,” she shouted, “It’s gone, too. Go tell that to your Master! You mean to say He didn’t have a little piece of bread to give the child? And He’s supposed to be the Almighty? And He claims to be the All-Powerful? And He didn’t even have a little piece of bread to give this child?”
Father Yánaros did not speak; he looked at the small form that was turning blue, at its swollen belly, its small, skinny neck, its huge bony head. The old woman’s mouth twisted; she screamed and she laughed, and her eyes were steeled with hatred of Father Yánaros.
She cried out again: “Tell me, Father Yánaros, what kind of God is this who lets children die of hunger?”
“Be still, be still, Kyra Areti,” the priest pleaded. “Do not curse the Lord.”
“Why shouldn’t I curse Him?” the old woman screeched. “What’s there to be afraid of? What can He do to me now?”
She nodded to the dead child. “What else can your God do to me?”
The priest raised his hand over the lifeless body as though to bless it, but the old woman pulled back.
“Don’t you touch it!” she cried.
“Where are you taking it, Kyra Areti?”
“To bury it; I’m going to bury it in the field; I have the shovel.”
“Bury it without last rites? I’m coming with you.”
The old woman’s lips foamed. “Last rites? What last rites? Can you bring it back to life? You can’t? Then leave me alone, my friend.” She squeezed the child tightly to her and with long, quick strides took the road that led to the fields.
Father Yánaros bowed his head and pressed the Holy Chalice against his chest. He wanted to cry out, “Lord, what have You to say to this old woman? What justification can we offer?” But he was afraid, and he remained silent. With bowed head he started off again, down the narrow path to the village and to his church.
A shabby door opened, and a
bent old lady stepped out. When she saw the priest, she made the sign of the cross. “God sent him,” she murmured. “I’ll ask him, he should be able to explain it to me.”
She had a son, a redhood in the hills, and he was planning to come down to the village one night, he said, to slaughter the soldiers. Why? What had the soldiers ever done to him? She could not understand. But here was Father Yánaros now, thank God; he would explain everything to her. She stopped in the middle of the road, bowed, and kissed his hand.
“Father,” she said, “God sent you to me. Wait, I have something to ask you.”
“Speak up, granny, but quickly,” the priest replied. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Why are they killing each other, Father? Why is my son fighting? He says that he wants to kill the poor soldier boys; why? What did they do to him? I can’t sleep, Father; I keep thinking about it and turning it over in my brain; it doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“You think it makes sense to me, old woman?” the priest replied. “I’ve been asking God to explain it to me, too; I ask and I ask, and I get no reply. I get no reply, my friend, and my soul is in turmoil, not knowing which way to turn. Be patient, we’ll see!”
The old woman shook her head; she raised her reedlike arms to the sky, opened her mouth to speak; but what could she say? She turned and slammed the door of her house.
Father Yánaros hurried on; he was breathing heavily, for the air was thick, muggy, reeking of the nauseating stench of rotting flesh. They had buried the dead in shallow graves, and their smell filled the air. You walked through the fields outside the village, and you could see a leg or an arm, or a plucked head sticking out of the ground.
The Fratricides Page 9