The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  the Albanians and the Slavs. His eyes flashed, and his finger trembled as he pointed to the Greek border. He slammed his palm over Epirus and Macedonia and Thrace, as though he were leading the occupation of those sectors.

  “These bits of land,” he shouted, “have been plowed for thousands of years with Greek blood and Greek sweat and tears; and they belong to us! We’ll never let anyone else have them. Better to die! And that’s why, men, we’ve climbed up to these Epirotic hills and continue to fight; death to the traitors! There will be no mercy for them! It’s the firing squad for every rebel that falls into our hands. The end justifies the means, and our end is the salvation of Greece!”

  I never did like that man! He’s narrow-minded, hard, stubborn; a dark inhuman strength guides him; a beast—wounded and proud—growls within him. Once, a woman caressed this beast; she had spoken a kind word to it and had begun to tame it; but the woman left, and the beast began to growl again with an added wound. But I felt an unexplainable respect for him—respect and fear and compassion. He was courageous, hon-est, poor; he believed in what he was fighting for; he was ready to die for Greece, at any moment. Under his command you’re never certain of staying alive, but you are certain of never being humiliated. Our captain is one of those men—so rare in this world today—who places an ideal above his own personal welfare and happiness; whether that ideal is good, whether it is bad, the important thing is that he will sacrifice his life for it. “Greece is in danger,” the captain shouted as he ended his speech. “Greece is calling to us! We must be loyal, all of us, men, together, to save her!” His voice had grown hoarse and a tear had sprung from his small, sunken eyes.

  I looked around—many of the soldiers were crying; Vassos kept twisting his mustache, and Panos looked at the map of Greece, as the devout look upon a miraculous icon. Behind me, Stratis coughed loudly—a false, ironic cough—and Levy, yel-low, wrinkled, cross-eyed, smiled evilly.

  I lay down that night, with the other soldiers, wrapped in my army cape, with my shoes and cartridge belt still on, and holding my rifle. I closed my eyes, but how could I sleep? The captain’s right, I thought. The secret is in finding an ideal, raising

  it above your personal desires, and making it your only aim in life—living and dying for that ideal. Only in this way the actions are ennobled and life takes on meaning; and death becomes immortality in your eyes, because you are certain that you have merged with an immortal soul. You can call this ideal Country, you can call it God, or Poetry or Freedom or Justice. But only one thing matters: that you believe in this ideal and that you serve it.

  Was it not Solomos who said, “Take Greece—or anything else—and seal it within your heart; keep it there, and you will feel the throb of splendor in all its forms”? That “anything else” which Solomos added shows how much this great poet’s mind surpassed his time.

  I have yet to find that ideal, my dearest, so that I, too, can give my insignificant life to it; I stumble here and there; sometimes poetry stimulates me, other times it’s science, then my country. Perhaps this is because I am still too young and im-mature; perhaps I will never find it; then I’m lost. For man can accomplish nothing worth while or noble on earth if he does not subject his life to a master who is superior to him.

  APRIL 1: Early this morning, Stratis ran into the corridor of the barracks, laughing, dancing, and clapping his hands. He let out whooping cries and began to sing:

  “How long, brave men, Will we live in the narrow passes, Alone, like lions, In the hills, among the rocks?”

  He ran up and down in a frenzy as he sang, kicking everyone, shoving them to their feet.

  “What in hell’s wrong with you?” we shouted. “Are you drunk?”

  “Drunk? What are you talking about? Where would I find the damn wine for that? I’ve got great news, you fools! Get up! When you hear this, you’ll jump to the ceiling; you’ll clap your hands and dance around like dervishes.”

  All of us hurriedly gathered around him. “Go on, speak up for the love of God, Stratis. What news? Tell us so we can enjoy it, too.”

  We were hanging on his every word. “You’re killing us.” “Hurry!” “Speak up, man!”

  “Well, just a while ago I went up to the captain’s room and stopped outside his door and listened. It was the hour he usually turns on his radio—the one with the batteries he uses to listen to the news. Some devil inside of me kept telling me that something big was happening in Athens; so I cocked my ear, and what do you think I heard? You’ll collapse with joy when you hear this!”

  “Did the redhoods leave the hills?” one of the men asked.

  “Something even better—something better than that!” Stratis shouted. “Anyone else? Panos, my little lamb, you say something!”

  “Say what?” The naďve shepherd replied, trying to guess. “We took Argirokastro?”

  “No—even better than that, I tell you!” He turned to me. “All right, man of wisdom, you say something!”

  “The war’s over!” I replied, laughing, but my heart was beating wildly as I said the words.

  “That’s it! Good for you, my wise Solomon! Friends, the war’s over! There was a meeting in Athens; on one side the captains from the hill, on the other, the King, the ministers, and the generals. They shook hands. ‘Comrades,’ they said, ‘why should we go on killing one another this way? We’re brothers, are we not? Whether we wear red hoods or black ones, our heads underneath are all Greek heads, are they not? So enough of this massacre; you’re courageous men, and we’re courageous men; then let us offer our hands in peace and brotherhood!’

  “So they shook hands; they signed the treaty; everything be-gan and ended this night; they reconciled. The order has been given for us to return to our homes, for the rebels to come down from the hills and for tables to be set in every village and for wine to be brought out and dancing to take place and for caps to be thrown in the air—red ones and black ones, too. And this very minute that I’m talking to you, Athens is blazing with festivals; bells are ringing, crowds have jammed the streets, the

  Cathedral is preparing to hold doxology services and the King himself will attend.”

  All of us fell on Stratis and kissed him, then we screamed and hugged and kissed each other; some cried, some laughed, others danced around; we embraced and shouted, “Christos anesti,” “Alithos anesti!” “What stupidity, what a curse—to be killing one another all these years.” “Long live Greece!”

  Stratis threw his cap at the ceiling. “Let’s go out, men!” he shouted. “Let’s go out and hold a demonstration; let’s ring the bell; let’s call the priest. Let’s take the Holy Bible and rise, all together, in the barracks and give thanks to God.”

  We streamed outside, took to the roads, all of us singing the national anthem; doors and windows flew open, the Castellians came out. “What’s happened, men?”

  “The war’s over, brothers; the war’s dead; it’s gone to the devil! Hang out the flags, spread out the blankets on the rooftops, take out the wine barrels and let’s drink. The war’s over!”

  The villagers ran out, making the sign of the cross; women and girls appeared in the doorways, clapping their hands and shouting,

  “God be with you, boys!”

  Father Yánaros, a robust old man and a real fighter (He was a hero in the Albanian war—his chest is covered with wounds), came out of the church and stood with outstretched arms. “What is this I hear, my children?” the priest cried. “The war has ended?”

  “Put on your vestments, Father,” Stratis shouted to him, “take the Bible, and let’s go out to greet the captain; make a speech so we can shout ‘Long Live Greece!’ The war is dead, Father, may his bones rot in pitch and tar!”

  Stratis began to chant a hymn, mockingly: “Come let us give the final kiss …”

  The priest made the sign of the cross, and his eyes filled with tears. “Peace, brotherhood! Peace!” his deep voice rang out. “Say it again, men, so it can warm my heart!”

 
“Peace, brotherhood!” the men shouted in unison. “Put on your vestments, Father Yánaros!”

  Mitros caught up with them, panting and out of breath. “Hey, what’s going on, men?” he shouted. “What’s happened?”

  “Mitros, my gallant friend, the war’s over! Get ready to go back to your warm bed and your sweet little wife.”

  Mitros opened his mouth; his heart sank. “Talk sense, will you!” he said at last. “You say the damned war’s over? Who told you that?”

  “The radio!”

  Mitros leaped in the air, clapped his hands, and began to dance. “Long live Roumeli!” he shouted. “Join hands, brothers, and let’s dance! Death to death!”

  Five or six of the soldiers joined hands, broke into song, and danced the tsamiko as the priest approached, wearing his gold-embroidered stole and holding the Bible in his arms.

  “In the name of God,” he said, “this is the true Resurrection. Let us go, my children.”

  We took the uphill road, and the whole town—men and women—followed us. We knocked on every door as we went, shouting, “Come on, come along!”

  I walked beside Stratis, and my thoughts drifted far away, to you, Maria. I was already in Athens, knocking on your door; you opened, looked at me standing on the threshold; your arms stretched out to me, and I bent and kissed your neck, the mole on your cheek. I wanted to speak, but I was choked with emotion. I wanted to tell you so many things, Maria; that we would go to Naxos as I had dreamt in that dream, and receive the blessing of my parents; and the wedding would take place in my grandfather’s garden in Egares, under the orange and peach trees. That’s what was spinning in my brain as I walked, and my mind flew around you and sat on your hair like a big butterfly.

  But suddenly Stratis stopped; he raised his hand. “Wait a minute, men,” he shouted, “I have something to say to you!”

  We stopped and looked at him.

  “It’s a lie!” he shouted. “It’s a joke! April Fool! And best wishes for the next year, too!” He turned and ran, howling with laughter.

  We stood there stunned; our knees buckled. The priest bowed his head and sighed; without a word he took off his stole, wrapped it around the Bible and turned back, toward the church. That stately priest had suddenly become a hunched old man that could barely drag his feet. We scattered silently, and never

  did the war seem as unbearable to us as it did at that moment. All that happiness suddenly vanished before our eyes—our mothers, our homes, the women we loved—and we were back once more to our dirty barracks and the rifles.

  APRIL 3: After the other day’s incident our lives have be-come unbearable; like a streak of lightning, happiness flashed before us, and when we stretched our arms toward it, it vanished. It was apparent that a simple end to our misery could have made us human beings again, but that end never came, and once more we became beasts. Some invisible power, which I can-not name, plays on us, holding us in its fingers, and I still don’t know whether that force is blind and senseless or full of vision and wisdom. I’ve been thinking about that force since the other day, and sometimes I call it fate, sometimes, need; sometimes I call it a blind, evil demon, and sometimes, God. This power governs and turns all; once it uses peace, once war—whichever is more suitable—to serve its purpose. What that purpose is, no one knows. Today it’s using war, and woe to him who is not a fighter! I think of this force, and a thousand thoughts spin through my brain; I wonder—whether sightless or all-seeing— is this force Almighty? And if it is omnipotent, how will we be able to resist it? Would it not be more dignified and more practical to co-operate with it, to accept our fate without protesting and enter the war wholeheartedly, body and soul? And thus help, as best we can, to fulfill our intentions? And if, on the other hand, that power is not all-knowing, would it not be wiser to resist it, to set our own goals, those which suit both our hearts and minds, and create a kingdom of man on earth which is more just and more logical than the kingdom of Nature?

  Should we submit and co-operate with this terrible force, or should we protest and resist it? My mind stands helpless at these crossroads, not knowing which way to turn; and yet on this decision rests the happiness and the success of man. I believe the ancient Greeks took the first road—the one of harmony—which took them to the miracle of absolute beauty. The Christians took the second path, which led to the mystic glory of love and kindness. Is it possible then, that no matter which path one treads, he can accomplish the miracle of man?

  My beloved, the deeper my mind delves and the more it leaps from thought to thought, the more it becomes confused and dazed in antitheses. And it cannot find one bit of final logic so it can stop searching and find peace. Yet, I think that if I were with you, if I could touch your hand, I would feel a new strength and all my questions would have very simple, very positive answers. But you’re so far away—at the other end of the world—and I stretch out my hand and find nothing to hold on to, and I’m falling; I’m falling, Maria my dearest; I am tortured in so many ways, here in the hills, and I hold the rifle when at that very moment I want to be holding—and I should be holding—your small, warm, beloved hand.

  APRIL 7: Sleeplessness, hunger, war! The poor tortured body, how long can it endure? It’s not a dry branch or a stone; it’s flesh, and if we only had faith, one thing to believe in, we would endure. How did we ever last in those Albanian hills—naked, barefooted, hungry—and still accomplish the miracle that was the Albanian war?

  So often I think of our people—those eternally persecuted, long-suffering Greeks—and I am overcome with emotion and compassion and admiration. How many thousands of years we’ve been fighting, clinging to these stones and the unfertile earth; while the barbarians sweep over us in continuous waves; and still we endure. And not only have we endured, but we have also found the time and the strength to give the world the two most precious gifts: freedom of soul and clearness of mind. We were the first to understand the process of thinking, and through it we brought order to chaos and freed the soul from fear.

  And it was not only the barbarians; for thousands of years civil wars have come and gone, staining Greece with blood. Often—though the thought of it is terrifying—often, after such a fratricidal war, our souls soar and create great things. As I am writing this to you, my darling, and pouring out my pain, suddenly a horrible thought tears through my mind. Can it be that this war was necessary so that our souls might take on a new power? Many Greek hearts suffer, fill with rage, gather strength and perseverance from this unholy massacre. And when tem-pers cool and we are pacified, these very hearts which would

  have sunk in idleness and mediocrity had war not broken out, will create great things—from indignation and pride; and from their need to forget pain, they transform it into thoughts, into beauty, into deeds. Should this savage war, then, be considered a blessing? Terror overwhelms me at this thought, but what if it is true? What if it is true, my beloved?

  APRIL 11: We’re waiting for the General’s inspection any day now. We’re waiting for reinforcements to prepare for a general assault, to rid ourselves at last of these rebels. Our captain tells us that Castello is the key and that whoever takes it opens the door into the valley and down to Yánnina. Sometimes, on a clear day we look through our binoculars and see in the distant mist the mystical city spread along that renowned lake whose deep waters hold the treasures of Ali Pasha and the body of his mistress Euphrosyne.

  Some poet passed over this body and made it immortal; another poet passed over another body—Helen’s—and made that immortal, too. And Homer, that great patriarch of genius, rises within my inner being; and the desire leaps within me again— like a seed—a desire I have spoken to you about so many times, my beloved, that God may soon bring the day when I can sing of Homer and Helen’s reunion. The daughter of Zeus has grown old now; her breasts have sagged, her teeth and her hair have fallen; Menelaus is dead; the valiant men who fought for her sake have either died or aged or become senile, and have forgotten her. And Helen sits sadly, hopel
essly, on the slope of the Eurotas, among the oleanders, and meditates on her life. Why she born? For whom was she born? Her life has gone to waste; it glowed for a moment and immediately died out; soon, everyone will have forgotten her; the coming generation will not even know her name. Was she, then, merely a flower that withered? Was she not a body, destined by Fate, that shook the foundations of the world? A great soul that could not be re-strained? Helen walked under the oleanders and sighed. Oh, to leave again, to leave! Some great lover seemed to be sitting on a faraway shore, singing to her, inviting her, enticing her. Oh, to leave again, to escape death; I don’t want to die!

  She descends the Eurotas slopes and reaches the sea. She undresses and dives into the waves, swimming with great strokes;

  she is happy, refreshed, the sea is immortal water to her; she lifts her head and drifts toward the east.

  And there, on the Ionian seashore, sits a reverent old man on the white shells; a mighty, serene nobleman with a long snow-white beard, like a statue of God; he is blind. With his head erect, he directs his sightless eyes toward Greece. A refreshing breeze drifts by; it is almost daybreak; the old man’s senses bloom. “What joy,” he murmurs, “what a refreshing breeze, how beautiful the song of the sea is!”

  And when he said this, the whole seashore began to sing; the blind old man cocked his ear and felt a sense of harmony swell up within him. He stretched out his hand toward Greece, as though to save someone who was drowning.

  And all through the night, Helen drifted, with her head above the waves, and as she approached the Ionian seashore, her hair began to turn crow-black again; her eyebrows tensed like an archer’s bow; her withered oft-kissed breasts rose, her lips curled —and when she saw, in the light of dawn, the old man with the outstretched hand, she sensed, for the first time, why she had been born and where she was going.