Other years, on days like tomorrowHoly Saturdaywhat a sweet aroma hung over the villages! The ovens were lit, the freshly scrubbed thresholds sparkled, the excited housewives hurried in and out, holding large baskets filled with Easter breads and red eggs, under their arms! What joy it was! How the
peasants glowedhow much handsomer they seemed! All year round their faces were like wolves’, like pigs’; and on this day their expressions softened; Christ was resurrected within them, and they became people. Father Yánaros would hurry and resurrect Christ at midnight in Castello, then, with his gold-em- broidered vestment under his arm, he would immediately make the rounds of the hills; he would speed to the village of Chalika before daybreak, and resurrect Christ there, too, then he would tear away again, and, with the first rays of the sun, panting and sweating, he would reach Prastova! The small chapel sparkled, sun-drenched; the ascetic saints painted on the walls smiled; Christ waited for Father Yánaros and Father Yánaros would bow, worship, and raise Him from the tomb; he would take Him in his arms, slowly, slowly, with gentleness, with pain, as though He were the body of a dead son. He would read the holy exorcisms to bring Him from Hades, he would open the heavy, silver Book of the Gospel, stand on the platform in the churchyard, make his voice deeper and read: “The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulcher, and seeth the stone taken away from the sepulcher.” And immediately, from everyone’s chest, leaped the cry “Christos anesti!” “Christ has risen!” All the candles would be lit, flood-ing the area with faint, flickering light; mustaches and eyes and lips and braids glowed; and people fell into each other’s arms, kissing and embracing, while Father Yánaros, exhausted and happy, folded his vestment, rolled up his sleeves and turned, leaping with the sun, toward Castello!
His feet suddenly felt heavy; he was tired. He had reached the side of the hill, and he paused at the deserted Chapel of the Forerunner; his mouth filled with bitterness as he looked at the ruins. Several days ago there had been a battle here; bombs had fallen on the desolate chapel. The roof and walls had collapsed; the old Byzantine icons hung in the air.
He climbed over the piles of stone and fallen rafters; he entered, removed his cap, and worshiped the air. The full-length paintings of Christ and the Virgin Mother on the curvature of the sanctuary had crumbled and lay in heaps of paint and as-bestos on the altar. Only one wall stood erectthe one depict-ing the Forerunner, with his yellow bony neck, his twisted beard, the lamb’s skin and the reedlike legs. But a bomb had
hit the angry prophet in the middle, and his stomach had opened, showing his intestinesplaster and stone and dirt; and these, too, would crumble if a mild breeze blew, or a light rain began to fall, and all that would remain would be the ends of the prophet’s feet at the base of the wall and a piece of the River Jordan. Two humble wooden candlestands were still smoking, but the old gold-plated iconostas with the carved fili-gree grapevine had become ashes.
Anger rose within Father Yánaros as his eyes steeled on the disemboweled Forerunner. “I’d better leave,” he said, “I’d better leave, before I begin to blaspheme again; I can’t hold on any longer; You are almighty, Lord, and You can control Yourself, but I cannot!”
The blasphemy played on his tongue; he hurriedly climbed over the rubble and went outside. Walking around the north wall, which was still standing, he paused as he discerned thick spots of blood on it. He approached and saw blood and hairs from female braids; here and there the wall was spattered with brains. Father Yánaros’ eyes filled with tears; anger consumed him; he wiped his eyes with his wide palms and controlled himself, but he could not take his eyes from the wall.
Only two days ago, here at this deserted chapel, he had listened to their confessions and given them communion. His heart had wavered then, and he tried to leave, but he was ashamed, and he remained to watch their execution. There were seven of themthree old women and four girls. A monk from Mount Athos had turned them in for helping the rebels; they had been caught one night climbing the hill, carrying sackfuls of cheese, bread, heavy stockings, and woolen sweaters, secretly knitted for the rebels during the wintry nights.
The government troops lined them up against the wall. The leader of the squad was Sergeant Mitros, the naive, good-hearted lad from Roumeli; he was quiet, innocent, and he liked to eat well; his mind was always on his wife and their baby son, far away in a small village near Karpenisi; but on this day his lips had twisted, his eyes filled with blood. They had given him seven women to kill, and his brain had clouded; in-side him his heart resisted, and he shouted angrily, to smother its voice.
Mitros turned to the seven women who were lined up against
the wall; he let out a cry and Father Yánaros was terrified; that was not his voice, it was an ancient hairy beast that awakened and growled within Mitros’ innocent Roumeliotic chest; “Eh, you dirty bolsheviks, I’ll take care of you now! Have you anything to say? Hurry!”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing!” replied each one of the three old women.
The fourth, eighteen-year-old Chryssoula, the teacher from Prastova, raised her head; her hair spilled over her naked back, bloody and scarred with whipping.
“I have something to say!”
“Speak up, you slut!”
“Long live Greece!”
And at that moment, all seven of them began to sing the Greek national anthem: “From the bones of my ancestors …”
But the shots rang out.
The priest made the sign of the cross, approached, and worshiped the splattered remains.
“I don’t ask,” he murmured, “I don’t ask who is justified, and who is not; I don’t knowI’ve Iqst all sense of reason; I’m old. But my heart cries within. ‘One day,’ it shouts, ‘a new church may be built over these ruins of the Forerunner, for the seven female forerunners!’”
He stood there, lost in thought, for a few minutes; then he bowed, took a piece of charred rock from the ground, and entered. “I shall write their names on the wall,” he said.
And he began to write on the whitewashed wall in large, heavy capital letters: PELAGIA, FROSO, ARETI, CHRYS-SOULA, KATERINA, MARTHA, DESFINIO.
“What are you smearing on the wall, old man? A memoriam announcement?”
The priest jumped, shaken out of his holy encounter with the seven forerunners; a woman dressed like a nun stood before him; she was tall, big-boned, with proud eyebrows and blond hair that fell, curly and thick, from her black velvet cap; her eyes shimmered in the light of the moon, like those of a tigress. Father Yánaros recognized her as the army captain’s wife.
“What do you want here,” he asked, “which way are you go-ing?”
“Toward the hill; haven’t you heard, old man? I deliver messages to the comrades.”
She took a stride and came closer; ironic, her voice rang out.
“Do I have your blessings, Father?”
The priest threw up his hand; he raised and lowered it, slapping the air with disgust. “You have my blessings and my curses, all of youreds and blacks alike! Why did you desert your home and husband, you shameless woman? What devil took you and carried you off?”
The woman burst into laughter. “You call it devilI call it freedom.”
“Freedom without virtue or goodness is of the devil; does freedom mean leaving your husband, burning villages, killing? I don’t understand it.”
“You’ve gotten old, Father Yánarosyou’ve gotten old! The world goes forward, it’s gone ahead of you and you can’t understand it. I don’t have time to talk with you, we have work to do. Good health to you, old man!”
The woman laughed; jumping over the rocks, she began the uphill climb. She stopped a moment, removed her cap, and wiped away the perspiration; her hair spilled over her shoulders.
“Eh, Father Yánaros, make room, it’s our turn now,” she shouted, and went on her way.
Father Yánaros watched her as she climbed and disappeared from sight. For a mom
ent, he forgot himself. “What strength,” he murmured, “what life, what youth! Why do I demand virtue and honor of such a body? Let her get it out of her system first; let her eat up the world and become satiated and have her mouth fill with ashes! Then, virtue and goodness will appear from the ruins.”
He recalled the day she had arrived at Castello, last year, to join her husband, the captain. What joy that was, what embracing and kissing in front of the whole village, which had come out to welcome her! The captain had picked her up in his arms, and his angry eyes had softened and filled with tears! Two months went by, three months; but one night when he arrived home from battle, he found the house empty, deserted; his wife had left; she had taken to the hills, joined the rebels; her eyes had seen too muchtoo much blood, murder, and injustice; she
could stand it no longer, so she left, leaving a note behind on the table: “I can’t live with you any longer. I’m leaving.” And below that, “And stop killing unarmed men and innocent peo-ple for revenge.”
The captain read the note, reread it, over and over; he did not utter a sound; he only bit his lips and trembled. It was night and he turned to the door to leave, but he stumbled; he fell down, hitting his head on the threshold. He felt no pain and did not rise; he merely shifted to a sitting position, leaned against the wall, and lit a cigarette. It was January, penetrat-ingly cold, but the captain sat with his head tilted back, staring at the heavens with empty eyes. The next morning Mi-tros found the captain asleep, still leaning against the door, ici-cles hanging from his mustache.
The captain opened his eyes but did not speak; he rose, pushed away the sergeant’s extended hands, and turned toward the church. He entered, locked the door and lit a candle; Mitros, afraid that the captain might kill himself, had followed him and now watched through the keyhole. The captain had placed the candle before the icon of the Virgin and for a long time he looked at its flame, until his eyes clouded with tears. Then he fell upon it and blew it out.
“I don’t have a wife any more, Virgin Mother,” he shouted. “It was only a lighted candle and now it has gone out.” From that day on, his lips were sealed, and darkness fell over his face; his soul became bile, his eyes filled with blood. Only one hope had remained for himdeath! And he threw himself in the front line, unsheltered, standing erect in every battle; but he al-ways returned to Castello, alive and discouraged.
When the woman finally disappeared from view, Father Yánaros lifted his hands to the sky. “May God stretch out his hand,” he whispered, “over the good and the bad, over the honorable and the dishonorable ones; we’re all human beingsidi-ots and unfortunateslet Him overlook that; we don’t know what’s going on around us; how many times Satan takes on the face of God to trick us! Our eyes are claydirt and tearshow can they distinguish? Take a sponge, Lord, take a sponge and erase!”
He felt relieved after these words, as though he had placed the sponge in God’s hand and God had begun to erase the sins of man.
He turned toward the seven names he had marked with the charcoal on the wall, made the sign of the cross, and began his upward climb again. He was almost at the peak of Mount Etoraki; the fires which were lit at the rebel positions kept getting brighter; the voices and laughter could be heard clearer now. And the moon had slipped from the middle of the sky and be-gun its descent.
The rebel voices sounded wilder as he climbed; Father Yánaros could see silhouettes moving quickly in front of the fires, as though they were dancing. The old man’s heart began to beat quickly, excitedly, and asked, Should you or shouldn’t you? Was his decision right, would it bring freedom? God had left him alone to decide, and he had decided; when he had made up his mind, he was certain that this was the right road to take; but now, as he approached, his knees gave way; new voices rose within him: “They’ll trick you, be careful, Father Yánaros; they’ll trick you; how can you trust men who do not believe in God?”
The grinding of gravel was heard, and Father Yánaros turned; a wild-faced, sunburned chief shepherd with a crook in his hand had appeared from behind the rocks and faced him. His eyes were small, quick-moving beads, wild and frightened like a beast’s; he wore a short goatskin cape, a dirty, round black cap with a worn-out tassel, and his bowed legs were wrapped in torn blue socks. Father Yánaros recognized him.
“Eh, Dimos,” he said, gathering his eyebrows, “what are you doing here? Where are you going?”
Dimos looked at him from the side of his sly peasant eyes and remained silent.
“You old goat, why did you desert the village and take to the hill, eh, tell me!” the priest asked.
The shepherd opened his mouth. “What village? There’s no more villageit’s gone! And the homes? They’re gone, too. They pound stakes in the ground, stretch out string. ‘This was where my house stood,’ they say. ‘No, further in,’ the neighbors growl; and then and there they fall upon each other, and those who’ve remained alive are now killing each other.”
The shepherd scratched his pointed jackal-like head. He watched the priest guardedly, from the side.
“Go on, get back to your work, Dimos,” Father Yánaros said. “Don’t mix with either sideleft or rightdon’t become a slave to either. God gave you a free soulgo back to your goats.”
“What goats? Do you feel all right, old man? The whole world’s collapsingor don’t you know about it? What goats are you talking about? The reds were hungry, so they took half of them, and the blacks took the other halfthey were hungry, too. All I’m left with is this staff. So tonight, I’m taking the road up-hill.”
“With the rebels? What devil has saddled you, Dimos? Speak up. So you want to kill?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why? Why?”
“The leader in the hills will tell me why.”
“I’m a leader, too, and I say to you: Don’t kill!”
“And let them kill me? Then, kill me, my Aga, so I can go to heaven! This is a cut-and-dried matterkill or be killed! Better to be the mother of a murderer than the mother of the murdered.”
“And why did you choose to go with the rebels? They get killed, too.”
“I’m going with the poor and the wronged because I’m poor and wronged myself.”
“Who taught you all this foolishness, Dimos? You used to be a goatyou hardly spoke, you only bleated.”
“I’m beginning to talk now, Father, what do you think? Did you think I’d go on bleating forever?”
He stepped back, tossed his cape over his right shoulder, and looked mockingly at the priest.
“For your own good, Father,” he saidand indeed his voice sounded like the bleating of a goat“for your own good, you’d better join the dance willingly, otherwise, I’ll be damned if they don’t force you to join them, and make you like it, too.”
He jumped to avoid the swing of the priest’s staff, and disappeared behind the rocks.
Father Yánaros cursed himself and began to climb again, his head bowed and his knees weak.
He climbed and climbed, no longer able to think; he had suffered this day. He was only human. He was tired.
Suddenly he seemed to hear the voice of his son, and he was frightened. I’m going to see him now, he thought, shuddering. Any minute now he’s going to jump before me, heavy, hairy, with his long arms, and lips filled with laughter and blasphemy. Lord, how did such a demon come from my body? Why did he come to this world? Why did You send him, Lord? What se-cret message did You entrust him with? I want to curse him, but I’m afraid; I try to give him my blessing, but I’m afraid to do that, too. What manner of beast is this? His parents’ home was not big enough for him, and one night he opened the door and disappeared. He circled the world, mingled with women, dip-ped in sin, denied God, denied his country, even denied his father’s name. Here he is Captain Drakos, holding the peak of Etoraki with fire and the sword! And here am ILord have mercy on meabout to surrender the village, the soul, the life, the honor of my people, to him.
H
e sighed. Again he heard his heart beating wildly, wanting to escape. At this moment he found it very difficult to be hu-man, to be thrown out of God’s bosom as the old eagle suddenly pushes the fledglings from their nest. “Fly if you can, otherwise, be killed!” And the young birds reply, “Father, our wings are not strong enough yet; be patient and wait! Why don’t you wait?”
“Don’t cling to me, let gobe free!” the eagle replies, and pushes them into the void.
“Yes, Lord, yes, I reproach You,” Father Yánaros said. “Why did You arm me with the two-edged sword? Why did You make me free, and then hang the wages of sin around my neck? What joy it would be and what relief if You commanded, if You simply ordered: do this; don’t do that! If I only knew what You want! Oh, to be able to live, to act, to desire, with certainty! Now, all is chaos, and I, the worm, must bring order!”
13
WELCOME, Father Yánaros, welcome, you noble warrior!”
Father Yánaros approached slowly; he fingered his beard as he looked around him. Tall, heavy-set men sang as they danced around the fires, bandoliers strung across their chests, rifles slung over their shoulders. And in the lines of dancers, shoulder to shoulder with the men, were young women, red kerchiefs on their heads, carrying bandoliers and rifles like the men. The hilltop was aflame; a great light, a great joy spread out, as though Christ had risen, and the faces of the people reflected the glow.
Father Yánaros stared, and he was carried away by the sight. “What people!” He admired them thoughtfully. “What bodies are these! Lord have mercy! What youth! I don’t understand it. Can it be that I have grown old? Can it be that my heart has shriveled up and can no longer feel?”
The Fratricides Page 19