The Fratricides

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  “Do you remember me, sir?” he asked. “Look at me closely; don’t you remember me?”

  The captain wiped the blood from his eyes, turned his face away, and remained silent.

  “I served in your company during the Albanian war,” Drakos went on. “I had another name then; you were very fond of me and you called me Pirate. When there was a dangerous mission you always called on me. ‘Go on, Pirate,’ you’d say, ‘perform your miracle!’ And when you were wounded in both legs during one of the battles, remember, you fell, and the others left you; but I put you on my shoulders, carried you for five hours, and brought you to the hospital. You had put your arms around my neck and said, ‘I owe my life to you—I owe my life to you!’ And now the wheel’s turned—damn it—and we’re killing each other.”

  The captain’s knees buckled; he fell to the ground, silent.

  “Why did you go with them, Captain?” Drakos continued, and his voice was filled with grief and complaint. “You, a hero, an honorable Greek! Didn’t you shed your blood for freedom, in Albania? Why do you betray it now? Why do you fight against it? Come with us—I’ll turn my men over to you—I’ll serve under your command again. Send me on the difficult missions; we’ll fight together again to free our people. Don’t you pity the Greeks who are being destroyed? Come, join us!”

  Blood rose to the captain’s pale cheeks. “Kill me,” he murmured at last. “Kill me so I can be free.”

  He paused a moment and then he added: “If you were my prisoner, traitor, I’d have killed you—so kill me, too. That’s all I have to say!”

  “I respect you,” Drakos replied, and now his voice was filled with mercy and anger. “I respect you and I feel sorry for you, but I’m going to kill you anyway.”

  “That’s the way it should be,” the captain replied.

  Drakos clenched his fist and turned to his men: “Line them up against the wall,” he ordered, “all of them! Captain, can you stand up?”

  “Yes, I can,” he replied and mustered all his strength to rise,

  but his knees gave in, and he fell back. Two men ran to help him, but he waved his hand in anger.

  “Don’t touch me,” he growled, “I’ll get up alone.” He grabbed hold of a stone in the wall, summoned all his strength and stood up. Sweat poured over him, and he turned paler still. He looked around him; below, on the slates of the courtyard sat the guerrillas with crossed legs. On the stone ledge across, sat Drakos with Loukas. At one end Father Yánaros, and at the other … The captain’s blood whirled, his eyes dulled; black lightning tore through his brain, as he saw that the woman sitting on the other end of the ledge was his wife. Once upon a time he had a wife … How quickly fifteen years of happiness had passed—like a flash! It seemed like only yesterday when the two of them had climbed the rocky hills of Roumeli. His elderly mother had stood there at the threshold, dressed in white—her wedding dress, and the same one she would wear when she died. She had waited for them, she waited and waited, since daybreak, and now she cried with joy. The newlyweds began to cry, too, because they were young and it was spring and the ground smelled sweet; and a partridge that was in a cage in the courtyard paced back and forth behind its bars. It watched the new arrivals and cackled sadly, as though she, too, wanted to be married, but her groom was in the hills, and the cage stood between them, preventing their union. So she beat against her prison with her beak and her red feet, trying to escape. “Mother,” the bride said, “I want to ask a favor of you. I can’t stand to see the partridge imprisoned; give me your permission to open her cage and set her free.”

  “She’s yours, daughter,” the old woman replied, “she’s yours to do with as you please.” And the bride opened the cage, and took the plumed partridge in her palm. She admired her coral legs, the wild, yet gentle, eyes, the puffed-up breast, and quickly she tossed her hand high and released her in the air. “Go on,” she told it, “you’re free!”

  Drakos’ voice rang in the air. “Line them up against the wall!” The three elders were crying, spattering saliva and tears on their beards. The soldiers, gathered in a group, were whispering and looking toward the gate; old Mandras spat at Father

  Yánaros as he passed in front of him. “Traitor,” he said, and spat again.

  Father Yánaros rose, walked toward the wall where the men stood in a line at the right and left of Drakos. His heart trembled, but he controlled himself.

  “Don’t be afraid, my children,” the priest cried, “the rebel leader did not come to our village for revenge—he came in friendship. He is a man, a brave lad; he gave his word that he would harm no one—his word of honor—have faith! He only wants to frighten you, and rightly so, because of your resistance to a reconciliation. He wants to scold you and then he’ll let you go free—he came for freedom’s sake didn’t he? Do not fear!”

  Old Mandras turned a wild, poisonous look at the priest. “To hell with you, you traitor, you Judas! Do you think they believe in such a thing as honor, you fool?”

  Drakos threw his cigarette down and stamped on it with his heavy boot. Then he turned to the captain and to his own men.

  “Captain,” he said, “you’ve acted like a man. You have lost Castello, but you have not lost your honor. And those of you who remained—you fought us and killed my men, but it was war, so it’s understandable. I take the sponge and wipe all this away; now I offer you my hand, listen to me! Those who decide to put on the rebel cap and fight for freedom are welcome to join us. Those who refuse, die!” He turned to Mandras. “You, old man Mandras, you heartless elder who’s taken over the whole village and drained the blood of the poor, I’m not asking you to come along—you, I’m going to kill!”

  The old man half closed his small, runny eyes and looked over his shoulder at Captain Drakos. “I made sons and grandsons, I’ve lived my life, my work is done; I’m not afraid of you, rebel! Only one thing bothers me”—he turned to Father Yánaros—“that I didn’t get a chance to skin you alive, you scoundrel!”

  Then he turned to his sons. “Do whatever you want. Both honor and dishonor stand before you—choose!”

  He turned, lastly, to the young family men. “You family men go with them, you poor souls, save your skins.” Then he grabbed his shirt and tore it open, showing the bony, hairy chest. “I’m ready,” he said.

  Father Yánaros stretched his neck, yanked at his beard, and listened; he could not believe his ears. Is this, then, the freedom they bring us? “Surrender and you are free; resist and you die!” If they go back on their word, I will rise and shout; let them put me up against the wall, too. “Onward, Father Yánaros—both redhoods and blackhoods fight you. But don’t complain, you want to be free, don’t you? Then pay!”

  Mitros the sergeant closed his eyes; he could see the little house in the ravine, the oak in the middle of the yard, and in the shade of the tree his wife Margo, with her thick stockings, her embroidered skirt, and the red shoes. He could see her sitting, unbuttoning her blouse, and taking out her breast to feed his son.

  He opened his eyes and saw the captain standing before him. “Will you let me go, sir?” he said softly, shamefully, to the captain. “Won’t you let me go back to my village, to Roumeli? I want no part of war, damn it! I want no part of it! I wasn’t meant to kill …”

  The captain threw back his head to hear him. “Mitros!” he growled reprimandingly, and his eyebrows arched.

  “Captain,” Mitros replied, stammering, “command me, sir.”

  “Aren’t you ashamed? Come with me!”

  “I’m coming, Captain,” the sergeant answered, and at once the hill and the oak tree and his wife and their son disappeared.

  The three family men stepped forward. “We’re coming with you, Captain Drakos,” they said. “Life is too sweet.”

  Mandras turned his head the other way and spat, but he remained silent.

  The three elders—Barba Tassos, old Stamatis, and Hadjis— took a step and staggered; the oldest—Hadjis—spoke up. “Don’t you want to take our p
ossessions, Captain Drakos?” he asked, whimpering.

  “I don’t like haggling,” growled the rebel leader, and shoved the three old men back against the wall. “What would I do with you old wrecks? Stand up against the wall!”

  Vassos, a soldier with lines in his cheeks, with crooked shoulders, with wide calloused hands, with small sad eyes, stood de-spairingly, first on one leg, then on the other; he could not come to a decision. Only today he had received a letter from his four sisters, and his heart had filled with poison.

  “Captain Drakos,” he said, “I have four sisters; I’ve got to marry them off. Don’t kill me.”

  “Will you join us?”

  Vassos swallowed hard. “I’ll come.”

  Three other soldiers from the seven stepped from the wall and came forward. Stratis, the first and most agile, spoke up. “Captain Drakos, we were always on your side. Our rifles were in Castello, but our hearts were in the hills. We’ll come with you.”

  One of the remaining soldiers, Nionios of Zante, spoke. “Captain Drakos,” he said, “I’m not coming with you. Not because I don’t love life, but because I am ashamed. I’m ashamed to be subjected by force. So kill me.”

  “If you were ashamed, you’d join us. I pity your wasted youth.”

  “My dignity as a man does not allow me to be forced into obedience,” Nionios replied, and stood up against the wall.

  Old Mandras’ youngest son, Milton, sighed and looked first at his father, then at the rebel leader, and then at the gate. Oh if he were only a bird, to fly away! He was twenty-five years old and unmarried. All the village girls were his; he loved wine and he played the tambour drum. Every Sunday he would place a flower behind his ear and make the rounds of the neighborhoods. He was chubby, rosy-cheeked, with a lock of hair that bounced over his forehead.

  Milton sighed; his mind went to the wine and young women, then to honor and country and to the heroes who sacrificed their lives and became immortal. The poor soldier was dazed; he could not decide which was stronger and more real, which to choose.

  Drakos stood before him and watched. “Well?” he asked. “Make up your mind—decide!” The young man bowed his head; his face turned crimson. A cluster of basil that a girl from the village had given him last night still hung over his ear. “I’ll join you,” he said, and walked away from the wall.

  Mandras bowed his head and did not speak.

  “The devil take you,” his two brothers shouted, and spat at him.

  Drakos approached the captain. How can I help him? How can I help him? he thought, and watched him silently. There’s nothing I can do, since he’s not afraid of death.

  He turned to his men who waited with raised rifles. “Ready?” he asked, and raised his hand to give the word. Father Yánaros’ eyes bulged as he leaned against the wall; his insides were tearing. Within his fist he felt the hand of the Almighty trembling.

  “What is this that trembles? Are You frightened, too?” he said to God, softly. “Are You afraid for me? Courage, my Lord!”

  As Captain Drakos raised his hand to give the signal, Father Yánaros jumped up, growling, and walked slowly, heavily, to-ward the rebel leader. He felt that he had suddenly become one hundred years old; his body had become lead; he felt an unbearable weight on his shoulders. He took two steps, three, and stopped in front of the leader. He did not know what to say; his throat had clogged; he was choking. Finally, with great effort, his lips unsealed. “Are you going to kill them?” he said, and his whole body trembled. Drakos turned and looked at him. The priest’s face had become ashen, his mouth slanted, he was breathing with difficulty. “Are you going to kill them?” The old man’s voice, short and hoarse, was heard again.

  “Yes, death to all who stand in the way of freedom!”

  “Those who do not allow others to have their own opinion stand in the way of freedom, too,” Father Yánaros reprimanded. “What about the promise you made me? Is this the freedom you bring?”

  “Don’t meddle in the affairs of this world, old man!” the rebel leader said, exasperated.

  “This world and the next world are one; you can win and lose this world, you can win and lose the other, too. I meddle in your affairs because they’re my affairs, too, Captain Drakos. I spread my arms over these Christians that you’ve pushed against the wall and I say to you, “You’re not going to kill them! I, Father Yánaros, won’t let you kill them!”

  “Calm down, old man, for your sake I tell you to calm down! If we let everyone go free now, we’re lost; we won’t be a nation, we’ll be a pack of dogs. Freedom will come in due time, don’t rush things; it never comes at the beginning, it always comes last.”

  “Tyranny, then?” The old man threw his hands in the air and shouted, “Tyranny, force and the whip? Is that how we get freedom? No, no, I won’t accept that. I’ll rise and shout

  through all the villages, ‘Tyrants, degraders, cursed enemies of the people!’”

  “Be quiet! Or I’ll stand you up against the wall, too!”

  “I was always up against the wall, my boy. I’ve been expecting the bullet from the moment I saw the truth, so let it come!”

  Loukas, who seemed to be sitting on hot coals throughout the scene, could control himself no longer. He jumped up and grabbed the priest by the neck. “Don’t shout, priest, you think we respect your black robes? I’ll twist your neck, scoundrel!”

  “Don’t try to frighten me, redhood,” the old man replied. “Death only frightens the unbelievers. I believe in God. I’m not afraid of death. I’ve already dug my grave, there, in front of you, and I’ve carved on my tombstone the words, ‘Death, I fear you not!’”

  “I’m going to kill you, you old goat, shut up!” Loukas growled.

  Five or six rebels jumped up and encircled the priest, slipping the rifles from their shoulders.

  “Kill me, you’re welcome to it, my boys. You think that because you carry rifles you carry justice, too? Kill me! You can kill the last free man, but you’ll never kill freedom.” He walked back to the wall and stood beside the captain.

  “Get away from the wall, old man,” Drakos said. “And stop talking. Close your mouth, or we’ll close it for you.”

  “My place is here. You cheated me and I cheated the village. I betrayed it. How can I show my face before those people again? I’m anxious to appear before God, to tell Him of my pain, to inform on you and your men, you charlatan! You think you’re going to shape the new world, eh? With lies, with slavery, with dishonesty?”

  “Father Yánaros, I don’t want to ordain you a hero and have you become a ghost,” Drakos growled as he grabbed the priest’s arm and yanked him away from the wall.

  “If you let me live, I’ll cry out! If you kill me, I’ll cry out! You’ll never escape me,” the priest said, and as he spoke, the first rays of the sun fell on him and his beard turned a rose hue.

  Again Father Yánaros felt the Almighty trembling inside his fist. Anger seized him. “Now, at this crucial moment,” he cried within himself, “Now, you are overcome with fear? This is when we need strength; get up, help me save them! You forget that You’re not only the crucified Christ, but the resurrected Christ

  as well! The world has no need of crucified Christs any longer, it needs fighting Christs! Take a lesson from me. Enough of tears and passions, and crucifixions; get up I say, call out for the army of angels to descend; bring justice! Enough they’ve spit on us, beaten us, made us wear a crown of thorns, crucified us; now it’s the turn of the resurrected Christ.

  “We want the Second Coming here, here on earth, before we die. Get up, rise!” And a deep sad voice came from the depths of his inner being: “I cannot …”

  Father Yánaros’ hands fell paralyzed. “You cannot? You want to, but You cannot? You are good and just; You love the people, You want to bring justice and freedom and love to the world and You say You cannot?”

  The priest’s eyes filled. “How sad,” he murmured, “so freedom is not almighty, it is not immortal
, it, too, is the child of man and it needs him!”

  His inner being flooded with bitterness, with compassion, with tenderness; never, never had he loved Christ as he loved Him at this moment. “My child …” he murmured, and closed his eyes.

  Captain Drakos turned and looked at him; he watched his father’s tears running down his cheeks and on his beard. He knew that Father Yánaros was not crying out of fear—he placed little value on his life—he was crying for all men, friends and enemies, blacks and reds. He looked and looked at the old man’s tears falling, and suddenly without knowing from where the warm wind of compassion blew, his heart ached for the twelve men who stood waiting against the wall. Their lives hung on one word from him, on one movement of his hand. What should he do? Which was the shortest road to victory? Was it to kill, to kill and bring no end to hate? Or to open his arms, too, like his father, the priest, and conquer hatred through love? He made a move toward the condemned men. “I am keep-ing my word,” he wanted to say, “I bring freedom, you’re free!” But his eyes met Loukas’ stare, wild and mocking. A demon leaped within him; it was dark, hairy, covered with blood. Drakos raised his hand. “Fire!” he growled in a voice that was not his own.

  The rifles cracked, and the twelve bodies fell on the churchyard slates. The captain’s body quivered like a fish, then it rolled

  to a stop at his wife’s feet; she shoved it away with her foot.

  Father Yánaros let out a cry; for a moment his brain jolted; he turned toward the church, but his mind was reeling, and with it reeled the village and the hill around it, and Greece. Slowly, dragging himself, he moved toward the twelve corpses; he bent over, scooped up a fistful of blood and daubed it on his beard, making it fiery red. He bent over again, took another fistful of blood, and poured it over his head.

  “Your blood, my children,” he groaned, “your blood is on my hands; I killed you!”