“And the peasants? What did the peasants do?” Drakos shouted, banging his fist on the table. “What about the thousand
and ten thousand? All they had to do was breathe on the one and he’d have fallen; if they’d spat on him like this”and he spat“they would have drowned him. What kind of fairy tales are you feeding us?”
Drakos puffed and fumed, and spat and banged his fist on the table.
“No, my brave lad,” the Jew replied, “they did not breathe or spit on him; they trembled. You see, from grandfather to father they had inherited fear; the fear began the minute they were born, and it did not leave them until they died. They called this fear life. But one day a man camea giant of a man with slanted eyes, wearing a worker’s cap and a worker’s shirt. He began to knock on doors like a beggar; he began entering cellars and speaking to the peasants. And what did he tell them? Nothing surprisingthings that everyone knew but had forgotten; that they are human beings, that they have souls, that they are hungry; that there exists a thing called freedom and another called justice, and still another called …”
The old man lowered his voice so that the tavern-keeper, who had cocked his ear and listened angrily, would not hear him.
“Called what?” the men around him asked, and bent their heads closer to the Jew’s lips.
“Revolution,” he replied softly and crouched in fearhe sensed the huge hand of the tavern-keeper above him.
“Skinflint! Bolshevik, out! Out!”
He grabbed him by the collar and before the men could intervene, threw him out into the street.
Drakos jumped up; that voice had suddenly leaped within him crying, “The world is dishonest, unjust; it’s your duty to save it.”
“Me save it? Me, the drunkard? The hairy bear, the liar, the thief, the murderer?”
“You! Yes, you! Get up!”
He rose.
“I’m coming with you,” Drakos shouted to the Jew, and hurried outside after him. He took his arm, and they disappeared into the narrow, winding streets.
Tonight, alone in this outpost on Mount Etoraki, Captain
Drakos remembered those dangerous days and the flaming nights in out-of-the-way taverns, in the deserted houses and the dark cellars of Salonica. This must be what the catacombs were like, and the first Christians, who were impoverished, hungry, persecuted; their eyes must have burned like this, with love and hate; and this must be how they gathered to decree how they would destroy the old world and build a new one. The comrades were inflamed with joy and anger and certainty. “We’re going to save the world,” they swore. “We’ll save it whether by mouth or the sword!”
Drakos’ mind opened; his heart filled with indignation and pain; he took and administered oaths; he gathered comrades, choosing the younger men who thought nothing of life and death, and they all took to the hills. Fate sent him from hill to hill, to these rocks of Epirus. Fire and slaughter! He burned villages and mercilessly killed the elders and fascists. This, he said, is the only way to reach lovethrough hate! And the other day when he captured Father Laurentios, the monk who had informed on the seven women who were, as a result, shot at the Chapel of the Forerunner, he had no pity for him; Drakos himself took two rafters, nailed them crosswise, made thick nails, and went down to the town one night and crucified the monk, so that the villagers could look at the cross with fear and see how traitors are punished.
“All’s well, all’s well,” he murmured again, “and yet I’m going to burst!” He stretched his limbs so he could breathe easierhe was indeed at the breaking point.
Lately, doubts pierced his heart like daggers; was it possible that this was not the right road? Why should his heart begin to feel this bursting sensation? Why should he want to leave? And where would he go? Where the devil could he go? The very thought infuriated him. No, no, this is the right road; go on, he would shout to gain courage, this is the goalattack! He shot out blindly to drown this new voice that rose within him. And the other day, when he caught the monk and crucified him with his own hands, both the reds and the blacks were terrified, but he was peaceful for several days. This is the road, he repeated over and over again to convince himself, this is the only road, there is no other; follow it to its end! Listen to no one, onward!
The Lord have mercy on those who weaken and stand in the middle; only at the end, the only salvation is at the end of the road.
From the day this new voice stirred within him, Captain Drakos went wild; he sank deeper and deeper in blood, as though he wanted to destroy all the bridges within him, to reach the end of this road that he had chosen, whether he wanted to or not. It was not the monk he crucified; no, it was that new voice within him; he killed it so it would be silent. But the voice cannot be crucified; you may kill the body, you may cut the throat, but the voice remains; and tonight, again, it rose within Captain Drakos and tore at his chest. “Change the world, you say? Bring freedom and justice, you say? But how can you change the world when you cannot change man? The heart of man? Have we changed, we, the new people? Did we become better men? The hell we did! The small, humble people, yes, but the leaders, God damn them! Look at Loukas, my right-hand man! Jealousy, hatred, spying; ready to put the dagger in my back! The fish begins to stink from the head, as the saying goes.”
“Oh, if I only had the power,” he muttered and furiously yanked out hairs from his mustache, “if only I had the power to raise my own flag!”
15
A SHADOW FELL across the cliff. Captain Drakos turned, startleda woman dressed in nun’s garb stood before him, her blond hair spilling over her shoulders.
His eyebrows gathered. “Where were you?” he asked. “Did you see the leader?”
“I saw your old man the priest while I was climbing up here.”
“Never mind my old man, you see the chief? What news do you bring? Speak up.”
“You’re to turn everything over to Loukas …”
She did not get a chance to finish; Captain Drakos jumped for her throat, but he stopped, picked up a rock, and hurled it with force down the precipice. A sound rose from his throat, like the groan of a bull being stabbed.
“Turn over to whom?”
“To Loukas,” the woman replied quietly and half closed her eyes to hide her pleasure.
“And may I ask why I’m being relieved?”
“Because you’re not acting according to orders; you’ve been talking, and they found out; now we hear you want to raise your own flag; they don’t trust you any more.”
She was silent for a moment, then she added, “And besides, they say you’re taking too long to capture Castello.”
The man’s chest shook; the wind shifted at the wild laughter that rang out. But abruptly the laughter stopped, his throat closed; for now he saw the light, at least he thought he saw it.
He took a step; his legs moved slowly, first one, then the other, walking stealthily like a wild beast. He approached the woman and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Or can it be …” he said, out of breath.
He was quiet again; he fixed his eyes into her blue ones, and his breath poured out, hot and impatient, into the nostrils and the mouth of the woman. She tried to turn her face, but he grabbed her by the nape of her neck so she could not move.
“Or can it be …” he repeated, and suddenly he tightened his grip, to choke her. “Whore!” he growled, “you played it up to suit you, to suit that half-pint lover of yours; you couldn’t wait to be the leader’s woman!”
He had grabbed her by the arm now and twisted it; she was in pain, but she bit her lips to keep from crying out. She tried to tear away, but Drakos held her tightly, furiously.
“You cheap whore!” he growled again, “do you think you’ll get away with this? You came here and shamed our hill, you bitch; can’t you understand that as long as there’s a war on, there’s no such thing as men and women, only fighting comrades only brothers and sisters? When the war’s over, then you’re free to do as you
please. But you had to come here now, and dirty us up!”
“It’s freedom I’m fighting for, and I’m free; I do as I please!”
“Freedom means doing what the Cause wants you to do, not what you want.”
“That’s fine for men, but I’m a woman; when I see a man, there’s only one thing on my mindto choose!”
“What do you see in him? He’s short, bowlegged, red-haired.”
He leaned over her, neighing like a horse, and his beard pricked her cheeks. A thick smell of sour milk and bitter almonds rose from her breast; his nostrils drew it in and he jumped, tore his face away from hers, shoved her aside, and raised his fist; but he stopped, embarrassed, and lowered his hand.
“Get out, you whore! Get out and don’t dirty me, too!” he growled. But as she buttoned her robe, he sprang on her, grabbed her by the neck, and bent her backwards.
“Let me go, let me go!” she screamed. “I hate you!”
He moaned over her and sank his teeth in her neck. “I hate you, too; I hate you, too.”
“Let me go, I loathe you!”
She fought desperately, with her feet, her arms, her nails. The two bodies merged, they separated, their legs entwined; slowly, slowly, with hatred, with nausea, the struggle became an embrace. The heavy unbearable stench from the man’s sweating, unwashed, hairy body smothered the woman.
Hate and desire overwhelmed hima desire to lay her down, to trample her with his boots. He pulled at her robe, tore it away; her white, firm, sweating breast was visible. He reached out and cupped it in his hand; his mind dulled. The woman let out a thin cry; she paled, her eyes rolled back and sank in their whiteness.
“Don’t, don’t!” she murmured softly now, pleading, and her breasts melted from the sweetness and the pain.
She stretched out her arms, palms open, against the rocks and closed her eyes; she could fight no longer.
For a moment from far away, from the ends of the earth, the woman heard people singing, a dog howling. The veins in her throat and in her thighs swelled and lashed at her like whips, then deep silence, as though the world had crumbled and sank. And the hairy man over her opened and closed his heavy bloodied lips hungrily over the downy, scented body, and he cooed like a male pigeon. And without realizing it, he whispered in a soft, tender voice that was not his own. “My love … my love …”
How many hours, how many seconds passed? The man and the woman were exhausted; they sat up on the rocks and looked at each other with hate. Suddenly the woman placed her head between her knees; she felt an unbearable nausea come over her whole body, as though she had fallen into a pigsty and could not wash herself clean. The smells poured, drainlike, from her. She took out her handkerchief and furiously began to wipe her mouth, her neck, her breast. The handkerchief filled with blood.
She raised her head, stole a secret glance at the growling man who was pacing back and forth. His thick eyebrows covered his eyes, his huge arms reached down to his knees, and he stepped heavily, clumsily, like a bear.
She wanted to leave but felt a sweet limpness in her body; if she could only close her eyes and sleep awhile!
But the man stood over her, stamping his foot with fury. “You slut!” He spat out the words and kicked her. “I can’t stand to look at you any longer; get out! And tell your lover he’ll never be the leader.”
She jumped to her feet. “Beast!” she screamed. “Pig!”
She covered her bosom, pushed her hair inside the cap, and turned to leave.
At that very moment, from behind the rocks, one of the young fighters appeared. “Captain Drakos,” he said, winking his eye knowingly, “your old man, Yánaros the priest, wants you.”
Father Yánaros was still standing warming himself by the fire. Shudders passed over his aged thick-boned body; his mind had begun to scold him. “Eh, Father Yánaros,” it cried, “oh, tortured, wind-tossed soul, why did you bring me into this pit of lions? Turn back before your son comes, before you’re lost!”
But his son appeared at that moment, walking toward him with slow, heavy footsteps. The flames reflected a glow on the younger man’s face, with its wide jaw, the black thorny beard, the hooked nose. His long arms reached down to his knees.
Drakos looked around slowly; the men made room for him to pass. Loukas made a move to reach his side, but Drakos looked at him angrily; bile rushed to his eyes; he turned his face away and spat into the fire.
“Where’s Father Yánaros?” he asked, and unbuttoned his collar; it was choking him.
“Here I am,” the old man replied, and turned from the fire.
His son’s lips twisted sarcastically. “Welcome,” he growled.
“I’m glad to see you, Captain,” Father Yánaros replied. “I have something to say to you.”
“I’m listening.”
The fighters spread out around them; they held their breaths.
“There must be only the two of us,” the old man said.
“I have no secrets from my men, speak freely! What wind brought you here at such an hour?”
“The wind of God; it blew and picked me up and brought me your way. I bring you a message from God; I will say it and leave.”
“I’m listening.”
“Have you no pity for the Greek race? At the rate we’re go-ing, we’ll soon be extinct; God made only a few of us; if this evil continues, there won’t be a head left. The villages are in ruins, the houses are burned, the caves have filled with women and orphans. Mercy, for heaven’s sake! Three times you took Castello, three times they took it away from you. All of you, both blacks and reds, have left only ashes behind you. How much longer will this go on? I came to your hilltop tonight to cry out, ‘How much longer?’ I ask the same of the others. I am a priest, a servant of God, and it is my duty to come and go between the two of you and to shout, ‘Love! Love! Brotherhood!’”
Drakos burst into wild laughter. “Love? Brotherhood? Aren’t you tired of all that? Is this why you came to our hill? The rifle, that’s our answer, the rifle! Go back!”
“I will not go. I said I have something to say to you.”
“I’m listening, I’m listening, I tell you, but for your own sake, forget love, forget your gods, face the fact that your cure-alls don’t work on us. Speak up, why did you come?”
“To surrender my villageCastelloto you.”
Drakos turned to his men. “Bring some raki so Father Yánaros can warm up. He needs strength.”
He turned to his father, his voice sarcastic. “Go on, old man,” he said, “you made a good start, go on!”
“Don’t laugh,” the old man replied angrily. “It’s not easy to surrender the village, but it’s also not easy for you to capture it. Castello is neither in my hands nor in yours. It’s in the hands of God and it deserves respect.”
A young girl brought a bottle of raki and two glasses; she filled them.
“I have no need of stimulants,” Drakos said, refusing the glass which the girl held out to him. “Give it to the old man.”
“Nor do I have the need,” Father Yánaros replied with annoyance. “And don’t rub it inI’m not an old man.”
They were silent for a moment, each looking into the other’s eyes. Father and son stalked each other, silently.
“This man is not human, this man is not my son, forgive me, Lord!” the priest cried to himself. “I don’t trust him; I cannot turn over the village to him; I will go back.”
His son’s heart turned over; he looked at his father, and his eyes clouded. What he had suffered as a childan untamed beastat his hands! The old man had fought to make him a man! He had hated his father; he had feared him. One night he set fire to his mattress, hoping to burn him, and that same night he jumped over the wall of their courtyard and ran away! He never returned.
“Come on, get it over with!” Drakos spoke roughly, tightening his fist. “And don’t think that I need you; I swore that tomorrow we would burn the village!”
Scenes passed bef
ore Father Yánaros’ eyes: the children that were hungry, the women dressed in mourning, the villages that were burning, the corpses that were rotting in the hills, all of Hellenism that was being annihilated. He looked at the men around the fires; some stood silently by, rooted like trees. Others were like beasts, standing guard because they were hungry, and others like archangels. What shall I do, he wondered, what road should I take? How could these trees and these beasts and these archangels feel my pain?
And as his head rumbled, he heard in his daze the voice of God within him; he recognized itevery time he became confused and his mind was in a turmoil, when thousands of odd voices broke out within his temples, a quiet, clear voicethe voice of Godput everything in order again. And now that Father Yánaros heard that voice again, his knees became steady, he held out his hand and touched the clenched fist of Captain Drakos.
“My child,” he said, and his voice trembled now; he knew that thousands of lives depended on this moment.
“My son, must I kneel before you to make you listen? I know that I caused you to suffer a great deal when you were very young, but I did it for your own good. They beat clay, too, you know, to shape it into urns. I may have seemed like a tyrant to you; all right, it’s your turn. I, Father Yánaros, who have never condescended to bow before anyone but God, bow and plead with you now. Listen to me, my son, come down to the village tomorrow night; it’s Holy Saturday, we will turn over the keys to you, we will celebrate the Resurrection together, we will exchange the kiss of love. But do not kill anyone! Do you hear? Do not kill anyone!”
Captain Drakos placed his hand on his thick beard and raised it over his mouth to hide his laughter. He remained silent.
The Fratricides Page 22