The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Anger filled the priest. “You mean that Your Eminence still does not understand?” He spoke impatiently. “The Pancreator holds the soul of man in His hand! The mouse is the soul which ate of the body of Christ and sprouted wings.”

  Father Yánaros strode on, as though he were being chased, and entered the church. He turned the lock, bolted the door, and looked around him with eyes that flashed. In the semidarkness he did not see the black-clothed women who had come earlier in the day from the nearby villages. They had found the door of the church open, and, seeing Christ there on His Bier, they entered, surrounded Him, and began the lament. And slowly, they were carried away—they threw back the black kerchiefs that covered their heads and began to weep for their murdered sons. They were five, the bereaved mothers, and five were the names of Christ today: Stélios and Yánnakos and Márkos and Dimítri and Aristótle.

  And suddenly the door rumbled; they saw the priest entering like a cyclone. Frightened, they huddled, dazed, near the pews.

  The priest could not see in the darkness; he tripped over the Bier and barely missed falling over with it. But he caught himself in time; he grabbed hold of it, steadied himself against it, and prevented the fall.

  “Lord have mercy! The Bier has come to life and wants to run away,” murmured Father Yánaros, shuddering. He entered the sanctuary and prayed over a bloodstained rock which lay on the altar. He came out of the Holy Gate and stood before the large icon of Christ at the right of the iconostas. His heart was boiling; for a long while he fought with himself, but the words got jumbled in his larynx and he could not speak. He moaned deeply, slowly, like a small calf. Now, standing before Christ, his anger had ebbed; he was overcome with fear. Father Yánaros made the sign of the cross three times; he bowed in penitence and gathered courage.

  “I worship Your passion, my Lord,” he cried in a loud voice. “Forgive me; I fear You and tremble at Your strength, but I am only human, and my heart aches. I am a Greek, and You must listen to me; let me shout, let me pour out my pain to You and find relief. Then, kill me; You are the Almighty! I look about, Lord, and study the world which You created; it is not a just world! I say this openly before You! No, it is not just! I study the men You created, supposedly in Your image; I do not understand this. Is this Your image, Lord—are You like these men? So then, is the earth nothing more than a military camp where You have encircled us with barbed wire, which You come to inspect every so often and select the best one of us to kill? What has Greece ever done to You—You ingrate? How can You do such a thing? Why did You not choose Albania or Tur-key or Bulgaria? What did these countries ever do for You— what joy have they given You? What great works have they created in Your name? But Greece took You by the hand when You were only a babe, stumbling on the rocks; when You could barely walk the earth; she took You from one end of the earth to the other, like a prince! If it were not for Greece, where would You be? Still among the Jews, drifting and arguing in the synagogues. Greece came along and took You by the hand and out of the synagogues; she painted Your beauty and You became beautiful. She praised Your goodness and You became good; she built palaces for You that reached the skies, and You became a king. And is this her reward now? Have You set out to tear her to pieces with her own hands? Have You no pity for her? Have You no respect for her?”

  Father Yánaros was frightened at the sound of his own words; he put his hand to his mouth to seal his unholy lips; he waited in terror as he looked around him at the icons, at the Archangel Michael with the red sandals and the black wings, painted on the door of the sanctuary. “Surely lightning will strike me down now,” he murmured. “Would God allow man to be so insolent to Him? My Lord, I am drowning; let me spout a curse so that I will not burst; believe me, there are moments when my brain rattles; stone, wood, the saints, they all take on a new meaning. I look at the icon of the Virgin to the left of the iconostas, and I say, ‘This is not the Virgin who sits, so sad and beautiful, with her breast out, feeding You, Lord, this is not the Virgin, it is Greece!’”

  Sweat poured from the deeply lined forehead of Father Yá-

  naros; his nostrils sniffed the air; they seemed to yearn for the smell of sulphur—the scent of God.

  “Ah, what joy,” he murmured, “if only God’s Fire would fall and burn me! So that I may believe that God has ears and that He hears me; that I am not shouting in the wilderness, but that my voice rises to the sky, strikes heaven, changes into a lightning bolt, and mercilessly descends upon my shameless head!

  “Do you remember that terrible day, my Lord,” he cried, “that terrible St. Constantine’s day on May twenty-first? Far away in my village, near the Black Sea—the fires were lit in the center of town, and the people trembled around them. God hung from above, and I held the holy icons, our forefathers; I entered the flames barefooted and sang and danced and threw handfuls of burning coals at the people; and the flames, like cool, crystal-clear water, refreshed me; because You were with me, Lord—only You, not the flames, not death, but You! And like crude iron that passes through fire and comes out pure steel, that is how I came away from Your fires, Lord. I felt my whole body, from my head to my toes, turn into a steel sword—an immortal soul—in Your hand! And now I speak to You, and You do not answer; I cry out, and You do not condescend to ac-knowledge me; but I will cry and shout, until You hear me; that is why You gave me a mouth—not that I may eat, or speak, or kiss, but that I may cry out!”

  He turned to the left of the iconostas, to the large miraculous icon of the Virgin, as though he were asking Her to intercede through Her Son. She held the Babe tightly in Her arms and Her eyes, dark, sad, were fixed with fear upon a cross that hung in the air. Her face seemed to have been slashed in two with a knife; one morning, during the liturgy, as Father Yánaros stood at the Holy Gate and prayed for “peace in the world,” a loud noise, like a blow striking, sounded from the iconostas; the wooden icon cracked, and the face of the Virgin split in two, from between the eyebrows to the chin. The Christians were terrified; they fell to the floor and waited. “Surely an earthquake will follow,” they murmured. “Surely now, lightning will fall upon us and burn us.” And after a few days the terrible news arrived: far, far away, at the other end of the world, a fire had

  fallen from heaven, killing two thousand soulsl And immediately, the Virgin, in this small village of Castello, let out her cry; the pain of man had reached Her, and the icon cracked.

  “Virgin Mother,” Father Yánaros cried, stretching out his hands to the split icon, “You pity the yellow men at the other end of the world; You pity them and yet You do not pity the children of Castello who are dying before Your very eyes? Why do You not plead at the feet of Your Son, that He may put an end to this evil, Virgin Mother?” He turned toward Jesus and waited. Christ looked at him, smiling, but He did not open His mouth to speak. A bee had entered from the open window of the sanctuary and buzzed over the wildflowers on the Bier. Father Yánaros looked about him, dazed; in the center of the church the Bier stood, decorated with myrtle, rosemary, and the wildflowers, and within it, embroidered on expensive silk, lay the dead Christ. It was Good Friday and He awaited the Resurrection serenely, and with certainty. Father Yánaros approached, he leaned over the Bier as though it were in reality the grave of Christ and cried out in a loud, heart-rending voice, “O Greek, my Greek, why do you want to kill your Mother?”

  The very soul of Father Yánaros had left his body, had gathered on the tips of his ears, his eyes, his fingers, and waited there. It waited for the miracle. It’s bound to happen, he thought. Surely a voice will be heard. Surely God will condescend to reply to man. He waited, he waited; again, nothing. The wind was mute, the Pancreator was deaf, Christ was dead; Father Yánaros was completely alone in the world.

  And then his mind became overly arrogant; his anger leaped free of its reins; Father Yánaros raised his hand. “All right, then,” he shouted, “there will be no Resurrection! Lie there and wait! You will be resurrected only with Greece, do You hear? Othe
rwise, no Resurrection! There is nothing else I can do, but as a priest, this much power I have and this much I shall do. Even if You lift Your hand and toss me into the bottom of hell along with Judas, even then—and take it from me, Father Yánaros —there will be no Resurrection here in Castello or Chalika or Prastova—no Resurrection in any of these three villages where my vestments empower me.”

  The blasphemy lingered in the air, and in the curvature behind the Holy Altar in the sanctuary, where the Worship of the Angels was illustrated, Father Yánaros heard the painted walls crumbling. He jumped, startled; for a moment he thought that one of the angels had actually moved; the priest turned and, with gathered eyebrows, spoke angrily. “You have nothing to say about it,” he shouted. “You’re an angel, you cannot feel pain; you are not free to sin; you are imprisoned forever and ever in paradise. But I am human, a warm being that feels pain, that sings, that dies; if I choose to enter Paradise, I will; if I choose not to, I will not; and don’t shake your wings at me; don’t take out your sword; man is speaking with God—you have no say in this!”

  Father Yánaros turned to the icon of Christ; his voice suddenly became strong and joyful. “Lord, only you and I know— not the angels—that we are one. We became one on that holy day in Jerusalem—remember?—it was the evening of the Resurrection; all the races of the world—white, black, yellow—were in church and they waited, with their hearts in their throats, for the Holy Light to descend. The air crackled with electricity; there was fire in every face; the miracle hung over our very heads, like a lightning bolt. Women fainted, men trembled; all eyes were glued upon the Holy Bier on which the heavenly flame would descend. And suddenly lightning flashed in the church, God descended; He leaped upon a group of black men and lit the candles they held; and I, my Lord, was overcome with a godly mania—remember?—I began to shout; what was I shouting? I can’t recall the words. I foamed at the mouth, sprouted wings, jumped in the air screaming. The black men grabbed me, lifted me in their arms; I flew over the heads of the people, over the lighted candles; my clothes caught fire; my beard, my hair, my eyebrows were burning, but I was cool and refreshed; I sang the wedding songs of my land. The women screamed, they wrapped me in wet blankets and took me out into the courtyard. The priests took me in, and for three months I fought with God and with Death. I chanted, I clapped my hands; never had I felt such joy and such freedom. The priests shook their heads; they thought I had gone mad, but I felt that the fire which had burned me, which had engulfed me, was You—You, my Lord! ‘This is what love means,’ I cried, ‘this is the way man merges

  with woman, and God with the soul of man.’ Since then, as You well know, we became one, and I have the right to look You in the eye and speak to You with my head held high. I look at my hands, they are Christ; I touch my lips, my chest, my knees, they are all Christ. We both lay upon the Bier among the wildflowers, and we shall not be resurrected as long as this fratricide lasts!”

  Father Yánaros was enraged. “Speak to me with human words,” he shouted, “so I can understand. You growl, but I am not an animal to understand what You say. You chirp, but I am not a bird; You thunder and flash, but I am not a cloud—I am a man; speak to me in the language of men!”

  He was about to open his shameless mouth again; but suddenly his nostrils detected that the air had filled with sulphur; the elderly priest became frightened; he forgot the big words he had spouted and he crouched in fear. “He’s coming, He’s com-ing,” he murmured, and his knees weakened. “He’s coming— there He is!”

  At that moment he felt his guts tearing; the lightning bolt had found its mark inside him. He heard a deep, mournful voice and he recognized it; it was the voice of Christ! Christ always speaks from within, from our insides; and He always speaks in that deep, mournful tone. The priest lowered his head to his chest and listened. “Father Yánaros, speak with respect! Father Yánaros, speak with reverence! You came to ask me something; go on then, ask!”

  “Ask You, my Lord?” the priest stammered, and trembled. “But You know everything!”

  “I know all, but I like to hear the voice of man. Speak!”

  “Where, on the soil of Greece, are Your images,” Father Yánaros asked, “that I may follow them, my Lord? There, that’s what I wanted to ask You! Where are You? Whose side are You on? The blacks’? The reds’? Whose side—so I may join You?”

  Sad laughter was heard and again the voice of Christ: “Where am I? You resurrect me every year and you do not know where I am? I am in heaven.”

  Father Yánaros stamped his foot; anger washed over him again.

  “Let heaven alone, Lord, let it be! It’s not time for it yet; my soul is still tied to the flesh; I’m still alive; I still work upon the

  earth; I toil to open the road, I struggle here, on this earth, on this strip of land and sea that is called Greece; on a rock of Greece that is known as Castello. Speak to me of Castello, Lord, of this poor, unfortunate village that You have hung around my neck! Come down to Castello and show me the way; this is the favor I ask of You, no other! Show me the way, Lord!”

  Father Yánaros crossed his hands over his open, sweating chest; his voice was now a soft, pleading cry: “My Lord, give me your hand, lead me; should I or should I not turn the village over to the rebels? I listen to the leader on the hill, who wants to bring justice and bread so that the world will not hunger or be wronged, and I take his side. I come down to Castello and I listen to the wild captain shouting of country, religion, and honor, and I take his side, too. I’m confused; there is only one hope for me—You are that hope, my Lord! Give me Your hand, lead me!”

  Night had fallen; the moon must have appeared in the sky, for the small window of the sanctuary became softly, sweetly, lit. A gray owl that was perched on the dome of the church sighed, and Father Yánaros’ heart suddenly filled with sadness and gentleness.

  The voice sounded again, sad and sweet this time. “Father Yánaros, Father Yánaros! I ask one favor of you; do not be frightened.”

  “Favor of me? Favor of an ant, my Lord? Command!”

  “Lead me!”

  “Lead You, Lord? But You are all-powerful!”

  “Yes, I am all-powerful, but only with the help of man; without you on the earth that I created, I find it difficult to walk— I stumble. I stumble on the stones, the churches, the people. Do not stare like that! Why did I create sharks in the ocean depths that cannot navigate without a little pilot fish to guide them? You are the pilot fish of God; get in front and lead me.”

  Trembling and wide-eyed, Father Yánaros stared at Christ. Does He mean what He says, or is He merely trying to tempt me? God’s words are double-edged—Father Yánaros had known this for many years now—double-edged, double-mouthed, and dangerous; woe to the man who does not obey the word of God; woe to the man who does! Man’s mind is confused; God’s

  words open both doors—hell and paradise—and in man’s fear, he becomes dazed, he cannot distinguish which door leads to God. Father Yánaros saw both doors open and he struggled, silently, to gain time for his mind to clear and reach a decision. He had fought many times with Satan, many times with God; you can frighten Satan away—you can exorcise him. But God? What can you do to Him?

  The priest stared silently at the divine face; he weighed the strange words of God fearfully; what could be their hidden meaning? He pretends not to know—He, the All-Knowing, the All-Powerful! Why? Why? Doesn’t He love us? Doesn’t He want us? Doesn’t He care about man?

  Father Yánaros was about to fall at Christ’s feet and cry out: “Don’t leave me alone; help me!” But he did not get the chance; from within his aged bowels the secret voice came, stern and angry now: “Father Yánaros, are you not ashamed? Why do you ask me for advice? You are free—I made you free! Why do you still cling to me? Stop the penitences; get up, Father Yánaros, take responsibility upon yourself; do not ask advice from any-one; are you not free? Make your own decisions!”

  “Lord, freedom is a great burden; how can man hold on to it
? It is too heavy, Father.”

  The voice came again; this time it was soft and sad: “Yes, heavy, my son! Courage!”

  His insides closed up again; silence! Father Yánaros raised his head from his chest; a sudden strength rose up from the floor of the church, descended from the dome from where the Pancreator watched, and filled the priest’s chest, his insides; this was the first time in all his talks with God that he felt such courage and such certainty.

  He placed his palm on his chest. “I take upon myself,” he said loudly, as though taking an oath, “I take the responsibility for the salvation or loss of my village, upon myself; I shall de-cide! You are right, I am free. To be free means that I will ac-cept all the honor or shame—it means that I am human.”

  He made the sign of the cross, stood on tiptoe, pressed his lips against the face of Christ. “Father,” he said, “forgive me for saying too much; anger—that red devil—often saddles me; forgive me and let me ask only one thing of You: help me to

  speak gently, without anger, without complaint; but, You, too, please look down on this ill-fated earth, look down at her and bless her; she, like Rachel, weeps for her children.”

  All was serene again. Always, when he spoke with God, sweat would pour from his head; his nostrils would fill with sulphur and fear. He would resist, he would fight, he would become angry with God. But slowly, gradually, he would soften, and reconcile with God; an invisible hand would touch his heart, and his heart would become serene once more.

  He bowed in penitence, then murmured contentedly, “We’re friends again, thank God, we’re friends again! I feel that the Lord is my neighbor again. It is as though a creditor suddenly crossed off my debts; I am relieved!”

  10

  HE PICKED up his cap from one of the pews and was about to leave, but as he stuffed his hair inside it, a deep sigh was heard in the darkness, and one of the side pews creaked. Father Yánaros was frightened; his hair stood on end; ashamed at his fear, he took a candle from the stand, lit it from the votive lamp which hung in front of the icon of Christ, and walked to-ward the pew from where the sigh was heard. The candle trembled in his hand, but he took courage and went on. The flame lowered; an old woman who had been clinging to the pew jumped to her feet; and at the same moment, four other women in the nearby pews lifted their pale, wrinkled faces to the light.