The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  brothers are descending the hill; we will celebrate the Resurrection with them. The cursed rifle—Satan’s voice—is muted. The spirit of the devil is crumbled in Tartara. God has triumphed! Now you will see what a Resurrection we will have! The candles will light themselves! Christ will leap from His grave; the Pancreator on the dome above will smile upon us, pleased and satisfied. It is as I have been telling you all this time, and you would not believe it. The soul of man is almighty because it is a breath of God’s wind, all-powerful and free. And now, here before us, two roads open: the road to slaughter and the road to love; God left us alone to choose, and we chose the road to love—blessed be the name of the Lord. God is pleased and He beckons to His Son. ‘The people have taken the good road; they have seen the true light; come out from the grave, my only Son.’”

  Suddenly, as the priest spoke, there came the sound of heavy footsteps, of stones rolling down the hill, and of a drum beating quickly and joyfully. The sounds came closer.

  “They’re coming!” “They’re coming!” shouted several villagers who arrived, panting, at the church. “They’re coming, God help us!”

  All faces turned toward the door; hearts beat wildly.

  Father Yánaros had put on his holiday vestments—the delicately embroidered cloths, the gold-embroidered stole—and in his arms he held the Holy Infant—the heavy, gold-plated Bible.

  He stood and waited at the doors of the sanctuary, and his cheeks were flushed with joy. The kiss of love is coming, he thought, and his face glowed.

  The redhoods descended; they jumped over the rocks, slipped on the stones, laughed, leaped everywhere—packs of wolves, their eyes gleaming in the darkness.

  “When will we come down like this into Yánnina,” a voice said, “and Salonica and Athens?”

  “And Rome, too—and Paris and London!” A hoarse cry added, “Don’t forget that all this is just a rehearsal.”

  Captain Drakos descended; he was dazed. His mind ran back and forth across his temples like wild prey caught by hunting dogs and ripped apart in the tugging. The words he had exchanged with Loukas ran through his mind again and again. If I were sensible, I would not have spoken, he thought, but I believe in being honest. I speak up and let the chips fall where they may. My head is not steady on my shoulders—one day they will say, “Captain Drakos fell from a cliff, God rest his soul.” If I were sensible, I should either have remained silent, or obeyed, or raised my own banner. The first would have been disgraceful; the second, slavery; the third is impossible for me. So all roads are blocked!

  Loukas, gruff and embittered, stood beside him. He was short and bowlegged, but in battle he tied a red kerchief around his head, clenched a knife between his teeth, and leaped una-fraid. He never looked back to see if anyone was following him, and when he walked out of battle, his clothes dripped blood. He walked beside the leader now, gritting his teeth in anger. They had had an argument, in low tones lest the other men hear them. They tossed words at each other like knives.

  “I’m amazed that you joined the party, Captain,” said Loukas between his teeth. “In the party one obeys without questions.”

  “I refuse to free others unless I myself am free,” Drakos replied dryly, his lips twisting with bitterness. “Our duty is to bring justice first and then freedom. That’s what I did in every village I entered; I cannot remain silent when I see injustice. The first thing I do is to bring order and justice.”

  “The true communist does not falter when he sees injustice; he accepts it if that injustice helps our cause; everything is for the cause—everything for victory!”

  “That’s going to be our downfall!” Drakos shot back, infuriated. “That’s going to be our downfall. So the end justifies the means, does it? We should go ahead with injustice to reach justice, eh? We should go on with slavery to reach freedom? I hate to say this, but that attitude is going to destroy the cause. It hasn’t been very long since I began to realize that if the means we use to reach our goal are dishonest, our cause becomes dishonest. Because the cause is not a piece of fruit that hangs ripe and ready at the end of the road for us to pick; no, no, never! The cause is a fruit that ripens with each deed, that takes the dignity or the vulgarity of each of our deeds. The path we take Will give the shape and flavor and taste to the fruit, and fill it

  with either honey or poison. If we stay on the road we’ve taken, we’re going to the devil and so will the party. I’m giving it to you straight, and I know you’re going to pass it on; so tell them and let them knock their heads against the wall. I’m right here, and if they don’t like me, let them get rid of me; I won’t be the first they’ve killed for expressing his own opinion; I told you many times and I’ll say it again—I’m not afraid to die.”

  He was silent as he twisted the ends of his mustache.

  “Damn it,” he growled, “I’ve never been afraid of life, so why should I fear death?”

  Loukas looked mockingly at the captain from the corner of his eye. “You joined the party with your heart full of snakes; you call them questions, I call them snakes. But the true fighter asks no questions; he fights! Only the leaders ask questions and hold discussions and make decisions; we—the others—only take orders and carry them out. That’s the only way a struggle is won. One day they asked a Russian communist, ‘Have you read Marx?’ And he replied, ‘No, why should I? Lenin read him!’ You understand, Captain? That’s why the bolshevik revolution won the victory.”

  Drakos looked at his first-fighter from the corner of his eye —he drew in his breath.

  “Don’t play the teacher with me; one thing I know is that blind submission makes slaves.”

  “You want to raise your own banner then?” the bowlegged fighter asked mockingly.

  “I might, I just might; we’ll see.”

  “And with whose support?”

  “With my own.”

  Loukas clenched his fist; his eyes flashed.

  “No one should trust you, Captain Drakos; it’s not the first time you’re revolting; you once threw the captain of your ship into the hold, and took over the wheel.”

  “And saved the ship! The captain was drunk and would have sunk us all!”

  “So you had a taste of mutiny and liked it! But here, Captain, here you’ll spit blood!”

  “I didn’t like it; but I learned to take responsibility without being afraid of threats.” He was overcome with fury; the blood

  rushed to his head and he saw red! “Why are you threatening me?” he growled softly, “why do you look at me and laugh beneath your mustache? You think I don’t know? That whore came and brought you the news; but by the hair of my mustache, you’ll never be captain here!”

  Loukas slowly grasped the dagger underneath his sash.

  “Let’s walk faster, Captain, before the men hear us.” They hurried on, leaving their comrades behind.

  Drakos grabbed Loukas’ arm. “Put down your hand!” he growled. “The time hasn’t come yet! I know that I should kill you now, because you’ll kill me the first chance you get, but …”

  “But what? Are you afraid?”

  “But I’m thinking of Castello; let me take Castello and then we can finish our talk, Captain Bowlegs!”

  He pulled out his tobacco pouch and turned to Loukas. “We’ve got time,” he said, “here, roll yourself a cigarette.”

  The men behind caught up to them now.

  “This is the way our men should see us,” Drakos said softly, “arm in arm. You and I may be digging each other’s graves, but these young fighters are pure fire; let’s not show them our wretchedness. If the world is saved, they’ll have saved it; if it’s lost, we—the leaders—will be to blame.”

  Loukas did not reply, but his eyes had filled with murder; he took the tobacco pouch and slowly began to roll a cigarette.

  20

  THE SKY began to pale, the morning star struggled and slowly faded in the growing light. A sad and gentle smile spread softly over the lonely rocks. A solitary hawk balanced
it-self in the peak of heaven; it, too, was waiting for the sun to ap-pear and thaw its wings.

  In the cool rose-light of dawn came the sound of a bell pealing joyfully—Christ had risen from the dead! The proud fighters entered the village and began to sing. The hymn leaped from their manly chests and rolled over the hillsides; it trod the village like a chieftain with his heavy boots, his bandoliers, his curling mustache. The crowd pushed forward, the doors of the church opened; Father Yánaros came down from the portals of the iconostas, walked toward the great arched gate in the courtyard, holding the heavy silver-bound Bible tightly in his arms. At that very moment the guerrillas, their rifles slung over their shoulders, stepped out of the shadowy side streets into the early light of dawn. They had stopped singing, and walked cautiously; they looked around in apprehension—they trusted no one yet.

  The villagers, uneasy now, poured out of the church; they, too, were mistrustful. They saw the rifles gleaming and the eyes glowing in the half-light, and they were frightened. They kept looking back and forth, from the priest to the armed beasts he had brought into the village. The savage guests from the hills came in increasing numbers and filled Castello by the minute. They entered and overflowed the church.

  The guerrillas, both men and women, stepped back to make a path for the tall, heavy, fearsome captain who appeared. He raised his fist in greeting: “Welcome, to us!” he shouted.

  “Blessed be he who cometh in the name of the Lord!” Father Yánaros replied, and held out the Bible for the captain to kiss.

  But Drakos turned to the crowd, stroking his beard, and his voice echoed under the dome of the church.

  “We are happy that you have finally seen the light. We bring you justice and order, and soon after, freedom!”

  “Not before?” Father Yánaros asked, controlling his turmoil. “After? Not before, Captain?”

  “Justice and order first,” he said again, and crimson flooded his hairy face. “We must bring order first. Freedom is a strong wine, Father Yánaros, and it can go to one’s head. Everyone can’t take it, I’ll have to choose!”

  “May God place His hand,” murmured the priest, and threw a secretive, inquiring glance at Christ there on the right of the iconostas. He bit his lips to control himself.

  “God is the great Judge—He will decide—we place our trust in Him.”

  Captain Drakos laughed sarcastically. “We’ve knocked God off His throne, Father Yánaros, don’t you know that yet? Man is sitting on God’s throne now. We used to hold Him responsible for all things—right and wrong—but now we are to blame for whatever happens—good or bad. We formed our own government and we take the responsibility.”

  Father Yánaros groaned; he wanted to cry out, to shout an anathema at this bear who blasphemed, but he held back his heart. He was afraid for the people and he smothered his anger.

  These are only words that others put in their mouths, he thought, they only say them to frighten us. But God works within them, even though they do not know it. We must be patient.

  “Let us finish the sacrament of giving and receiving the kiss of love; your heart may soften then, Captain.”

  Father Yánaros began the Holy Liturgy of the Resurrection; never did his voice echo so joyfully, never did his chest shake with such strength, as though Christ were really inside, as though his chest were the tombstone and it was rising to let

  Christ out. Christ took on a new meaning: it was man who had been crucified, and died, and now cried out to be resurrected.

  Father Yánaros opened the Bible; he held it tightly in his arms as he walked out into the courtyard. Behind him came the rebels; further back the crowd of people holding the unlit candles. The priest climbed upon the stone ledge, raised his voice to shout the holy words of the Resurrection. As he stood there, dressed in silk, with the gold vestment stole, his chest swelled and his throat strained; he looked like a golden rooster who stands in the courtyard to crow for the sun to rise.

  The people extended their candles, ready to pounce on Father Yánaros to receive a light. The priest spread his palm on the open Bible; he did not look at it—he knew the words by heart—and his voice resounded triumphantly in the morning wind of spring: “And when the Sabbath was passed, Mary Magdalene …”

  The rebel leader coughed; Father Yánaros turned and threw him a quick glance. He stood erect, unbending in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by his men, and a triumphant smile spread over his face.

  “God help us,” murmured father Yánaros, raising the lighted candles and summoning all his strength as the mournful pleading, the paean of the Resurrection, came from his puffed-out chest: “Christ has risen from the dead!”

  The crowd leaped to light their candles from Father Yánaros’ flame; Drakos turned to the men beside him, lowered his voice, and gave a command. Ten of them grabbed their rifles and strode toward the outer door. The crowd moved, shaken. A sense of evil passed through the air. He turned to leave, but Father Yánaros stretched out his hand. “Do not go,” he said, “I want to talk to you.”

  The people stopped short, impatiently, as though choking from the rebels’ breathing around them. Drakos turned to the priest. “Make it short, priest,” he said, “we have work to do.”

  As he stood on the ledge, Father Yánaros opened his arms wide, turned to the right and to the left, as though he wanted to embrace the villagers who were gathered in the courtyard, the rebels, and all of Castello, all of Greece.

  His voice leaped from his chest like joyful bubbling water.

  “My children,” he cried, “I have been resurrecting Christ for forty years but I have never felt a more joyous, more complete, more heart-filled Resurrection. Because for the first time I realize that Christ and Greece and man’s soul are one. And when we say, ‘Christ is risen,’ it means that Greece is risen, that the soul of man has risen. Only yesterday, on this very hill, brothers were killing brothers. The rocks echoed from the moans and curses. And now—look! Reds and blacks have united in brotherhood and share together their understanding of ‘Christ has risen.’ This is the true meaning of the Resurrection —this is the true meaning of love. For years now this is what I have waited for; and now it has come. Glory to the Almighty! Captain, the people’s eyes are upon you; they await your words; speak to them, this great moment!”

  The captain raised his hand. “Go to your homes—go!”

  “Is that all you have to say, Captain?” the priest growled angrily. “Is that the way Christ is resurrected? Is that what unity and brotherhood mean?”

  “Yes, that’s it. We said order and justice must come first. There are enemies of the cause here; I asked to have them brought before me. All of you leave; I will remain here in the courtyard with my men and pass judgment.”

  The crowd swarmed, pushing and shoving toward the gate; the courtyard soon emptied.

  “I will remain here with you, Captain,” Father Yánaros said as he folded his vestments—his hands trembled from anger.

  Captain Drakos shrugged his shoulders. “Stay and give them last rites,” he said, and laughed.

  Fury swept over Father Yánaros; his voice came stern and hoarse: “Captain Drakos, the two of us made a bargain. I kept my word and turned over the village to you. Now it’s your turn. I gave—now you give! You’re the debtor now—I’m staying here to collect.”

  Enraged at the words, Loukas grabbed the priest by the shoulder. “What are you trying to prove, old man? And what gives you the right to talk to a guerrilla on equal terms? Who’s behind you that makes you talk with such assurance?”

  “I have God behind me, my son,” the older man replied. “I have God behind me, and that’s why I talk with such assurance.

  I have God in front of me, God to the right of me, God to the left of me; I’m encircled by God; all your rifles and all your swords and all your threats will never be able to touch me.”

  He enthroned himself, alone, on the edge of the stone ledge. As they spoke, the sound of footsteps came from the narrow str
eet, followed by moans, cries, and curses. In a few moments the open gate filled. Old Mandras was at the head, thin and erect, his long neck stretching like a pelican’s. Behind him were his three sons and four family men, followed by three of the town elders: Barba Tassos, old Stamatis, and Hadjis. Their faces were drained, their lips drooping, their sashes loose; they were crying. Behind the notables, limping, dragged Mitros the sergeant. He had resisted and the rebels had beaten him. He could barely drag his legs and he was held up by Nionios. Behind them came the other soldiers, torn, ragged, unarmed. At the end, covered with mud and blood was the captain. He had been shot while resisting capture. Blood ran from his wounds. Two fighters held him up. But as they entered the courtyard, he fell to the ground in a heap.

  Captain Drakos jumped at sight of the captain. He approached him, craned his neck and looked. The light had now caught the dome of the church and slowly fell over the courtyard; the faces of the men shone and there, among the guerrillas, the light showed the pale, dark-eyed army captain’s wife, who stood tight-lipped and hare-necked.

  Drakos bent over, watching the captain hungrily, silent for a long while. At last he opened his mouth: “Is it you, Captain? You, sir? What’s happened to you?” He turned to his men. “Un-tie him,” he ordered, “cut the ropes! Lift him up.” Then he turned to the captain. “You! You’ve aged, you’ve rotted away— why is your hair so white?”

  The captain bit his mustache with fury; he would not speak. Blood ran from his eyebrow, and a bullet was lodged in his right heel; it must have pierced the bone for he was in great pain. But he gritted his teeth to prevent from crying out.

  Drakos watched him with admiration, with compassion, with horror. Was this the raven-mustached, silent, brave warrior whose name resounded throughout the Albanian hills? What a shame, Drakos thought, what a pity that men of such spirit are not on our side! All the virtues should be among our own

  fighters, all the cowardices and dishonors within the others. But we have many cowards and dishonest ones among us, and the others have many brave men with them. I think that God shuf-fled the cards wrong and we’re all mixed up …