Freedom or Death

by Nikos Kazantzakis

  Captain Michales felt his temples bursting. He lowered his head. “I’m not the one to blame,” he said in a whisper.

  “Then who is?” asked Captain Elias, leaning against the tall trunk of the plane tree. “Who is?”

  Captain Michales was silent.

  “Where were you? Why did you go away? You’re not the one to blame, you say. Then who is?” the old man repeated relentlessly.

  “Don’t ask, Captain Elias,” said Captain Michales dully. “It’s my business. I owe no explanations to anyone.”

  “You owe explanations to your forefathers, to my forefathers, to all our forefathers who are part of the earth of Crete on which we tread. Aren’t you a Cretan? Aren’t you one with the soil of Crete? What do you mean, then, by propping yourself up with the words, ‘I owe no explanations’? Have you no shame?” Captain Michales drove his nails into the trunk of the plane tree. It was the first time he had heard a man speak to him so boldly and contemptuously. Was the old man right? But Captain Miehales would not give ground.

  “I owe no explanations to anyone,” he repeated defiantly. “Only to myself. Good-by, Captain Elias. I want to be alone, to arrive at a judgment.”

  “From the judgment that you pass we shall see how much soul, and what kind of soul, has remained to you, Captain Michales. Go with the blessing and the curse of the Lord Christ. One thing I’ve still got to say to you and remember what I sayCaptain Michales, Crete still needs you! You understand what I mean.”

  The thought had come to Captain Elias that the other might kill himself and that Crete would lose that pillar.

  “I understand,” Captain Michales answered, and sprang on the mare without touching the stirrups.

  Instead of turning right, toward Petrokefalo, as he had planned, he took the road to the left, toward Selena. The sun had set. Night rose from the soil. A fresh wind was blowing from the heights. Captain Michales bared his fevered chest to cool it down.

  “She’s the one to blame, she, the shameful woman!” he whispered, and halted. He took off his headband and dried the sweat. He breathed deeply. His brain grew clear. He knew now where he was going and what he was seekingwhy, instead of making for Petrokefalo he had taken the road toward Selena. Captain Elias was right. The desire came over him to turn back, to seize the old man’s handsthose brave banes of the Turksand kiss them. That was how a man should speak to a man. Mercilessly.

  A sturdy old man with a sack on his back and a long shepherd’s staff passed him. He did not recognize Captain Michales in the dusk.

  “Have you heard the news, friend?” he called out. “The Lord Christ’s been burned down.”

  “Yes, burned down,” Captain Michales answered, and drove his horse on to avoid a conversation.

  “Damnation take the one who’s to blame,” cried the old man, shaking his staff at the sky.

  “Damnation,” echoed Captain Michales’ voice in the darkness.

  The slender half-moon set, and the stars in herds circled round the unmoving North Star.

  Captain Michales did not raise his eyes to heaven. He kept them fixed on the base of the mountain, where a few pale lights twinkled. He was nearing the small village of Korakjes.

  The house of his aunt Kalio stood at the entrance to the village. At this hour the old woman would certainly be asleep. All her life she had got up with the cock and gone to bed with the hens. She had married, borne children, acquired grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and was now crinkled like a currant, hunchbacked and eaf, yet her eyes still had a light in them. Charos had forgotten her.

  Captain Michales dismounted and sat down on a stone at the curb. He pressed his head down hard between his two fists. Captain Elias’ words were like knives in his heart. “You have disgraced your name, Captain Michales!” he repeated again and again, to give himself courage to carry out his decision. In the village he heard a dog howl long and mournfully, as though it scented Charos near.

  My aunt has no dog in her yard, he thought, no one will hear me… no one… no one… . But his mind was neither on his aunt nor the dog. He sighed.

  He stood up and peered toward the village. The few lamps still burning went out, one after another. Houses and people sank into sleep. He sprang on the mare and crossed himself.

  “In God’s name,” he muttered, and entered Korakjes.

  When he reached his aunt’s house he tied the mare to the ring on the tottering door and entered the yard. He knew the place well. On the right, the winepress, the vats, the casks. On the left, the stall for his late uncle’s mule and ass, and the compartment for the two oxen. Now the animals were dead and the vineyards divided up among the-sons and daughters. In the darkness Captain Michales could feel the decay.

  He glided forward. His hand groped through the hatch in the top half of the central door and softly pushed back the bolt. The door opened. He listened, holding his breath. From the small settle, he could catch a sound of quiet breathing, then a slight rustling. Someone was lying asleep there. Captain Michales’ heart throbbed. Who?

  He drew near the settle with a thief s tread. His hand lay on his belt, and clutched the hilt of his dagger. His nostrils quiveredno scent of musk. It must be the old woman, he thought, and his heart beat more calmly. He could now make out white hair on the pillow and a shriveled limp cheek. He stepped back.

  She’s in the middle room, the good one with the icon-shrine, he thought, and his heart again began to swell like the sea.

  He stretched out his hand and pushed open the small door. The middle room was faintly lighted by a lamp that stood in front of an ancient icon of All Saints. Two other pictures were visible at either side of it: the Archangel Michael and the Martyrdom of Saint Catherine.

  He leaned against the doorpost. On his aunt’s old iron bed, he distinguished a body lying under the coverlet. He could see raven-black hair spread out over the pillow, and the air smelled of musk.

  His eyes grew dim. He breathed hard. He could not control his heart. With one bound he was into the room, clutching the black-hilted dagger. He held his breath, glided forward on tiptoe and pulled away the coverlet. Her bosom gleamed. His eyes sparkled for an instant, but his brain remained black with the blood that flooded it in waves.

  The sleeping woman stirred and sighed. Her lips whispered a secret word, and smiled.

  Captain Michales bent down. The light from the little lamp flashed on the dagger. It swooped through the air and plunged to the hilt into the white bosom.

  Emine screamed. She opened her eyes, and saw Captain Michales. Surprise, joy, pain, accusationall were whirled together in that last look.

  “Oh,” groaned the man. His body shook with pain. He wrenched the dagger out, to avert death. But it was too late. Emine’s eyes were already glazed.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE GRANDFATHER sat in his yard under the old lemon tree with a slate and a chalk on his knees. Through the open door he looked out thoughtfully at the mountain. It glimmered softly in the misty dusk. A moist south wind announced rain to the earth. It was cool.

  “Winter’s coming,” he sighed.

  He thought of the women and children who had been hunted from their homes by the Turks and had crept into the caves without bread, without sufficient clothing, without men to protect them. He thought of Crete, once more rattling its chains of slavery and not knowing where to stretch out its hands for help. The Franksthose dogs had no heart; Greece, a beggar mother, had no strength; the rebel Cretans were still small in numbers, and their stock of arms and food were even smaller. How were they to hold out? And now, on top of that, God was sending them winter and so was taking the side of the Turks.

  “Thou art a Cretan and thou shalt be tried,” murmured the old man, and closed his eyes. The whole island with its mountains, fruits and people was conjured up in the space between his two temples. How many risings had he h’ved through? How often had the houses been burned, trees felled, women dishonored, men killed! And always God had refused to turn His eyes upon Cre
te.

  “Is there justice and pity anywhere in the world?” he cried, and struck the slate with his fist. “Or is God deaf and merciless?”

  At that moment his grandson Thrasaki came out of the ouse, and the old man’s features lighted up. That was God’s answer! All would still end well. Keep calm, old man: think of your grandson!

  Thrasaki was sunburned and in his few months in the mountains had grown into a wild animal. More and more he resembled his father in eyes, eyebrows, lipsand self-will. He now went over to his grandfather, took the slate from his hand and looked at it, frowning.

  “You’ve still not written it out,” he said severely.

  For a month he had been trying to teach his grandfather the alphabet. By dint of strong desire the old man had managed, in spite of his years, to learn a wretched letter or two, in orderso he saidto be able at least to write his name. To be sure, he had in mind a higher aim, but he betrayed nothing of it to his grandson. But the old brain refused to take in those letters, and the heavy hand, used to mattock and gun, adapted itself badly to the brittle chalk. Sometimes the chalk, sometimes the slate, would break in pieces, and Thrasaki would grind his teeth in rage.

  His grandfather beat his head. “I had things to do, my child. I wasn’t able. Don’t scold me.”

  “What had you to do? You were sitting on the threshold all day. I saw you! If anyone came by, you struck up a conversation with him. I know you kept the slate on your knee, but where are the strokes and the curves? At that rate you’ll never learn!”

  “Don’t scold me, Thrasaki, my child. It’s hard for me. My hand doesn’t obey mehow can I explain it? I want it to go to the right and it jerks to the left. I press just a little, and at once the chalk breaks. Do you see?”

  “All I see is that you’ll never learn the letters,” answered Thrasaki, shaking his head. “Give me your hand, let me guide it.”

  But at that moment they heard footsteps. The grandfather looked up, pleased to be released from strokes and curves. A pale, tired stranger came in sight. He wore Prankish clothes, which hung loose about him. In his hand he held an old umbrella, tied up with string.

  “Good day, countryman,” the grandfather called out, “where are you bound for? Sit down and have a rest. And a drink of raki.”

  The stranger stopped and leaned on his umbrella. He said nothing.

  “Where are you going?” asked the grandfather again.

  “For a walk,” he answered.

  “A walk?” cried the old man, surprised. “Haven’t you heard the shooting, dear Christ? The world is breaking to bits, and you’re going for a walk? Put down your umbrella and pick up a weapon, I tell you. Aren’t you a Cretan?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you waiting for? Throw that umbrella away!”

  The traveler looked at the cloudy sky.

  “It’s going to rain,” he said, clasping the umbrella tightly to him.

  Thrasaki meanwhile was examining the traveler’s face. Suddenly he shouted:

  “Aren’t you Mr. Demetros? Mr. Demetros Leanbottom, our neighbor? Your poor wife, Penelope, was quite beside herself, because she didn’t know where you had gone.”

  “Where is she?” asked the other, hi agitation.

  “How should I know? Probably running _round to all the villages to find you.”

  Big drops began to fall. Demetros opened his umbrella and moved off on his way.

  “Do stop, in Christ’s name, and let me give you a raki!” cried the grandfather. “Where are you going? It’s raining.”

  “I’ve got an umbrella,” answered Demetros. And he was out of sight.

  “What’s the matter with him? Who’s driving him out, Granddad?” asked Thrasaki.

  “His wife,” answered the centenarian, laughing. “The poor man’s had enough of her and has made off.”

  “BertCKhuos in bis little cloak, with his guitar slung over his shoulders, came out of the house. For breakfast he had eaten a cheese, and had drunk a tankard of wine. The wine had made him gay and he now came into the yard, his eyes dancing, to sniff the air.

  He was tired of being cooped up in the house with women and children. He played to them on the guitar, to divert their thoughts from the men fighting in the mountains. When the wind was favorable they could hear ragged firing in the distance. Then the women would step out on the roof and listen, and their souls would fly into the mountains, to their men. Their only comfort then was Bertodulos. He played the guitar and sang pretty canzone from Zante, till they grew a little calmer.

  “May God guard you, my little Bertodulos,” a newly married girl, the pope’s daughter Christinia, had said to him the day before yesterday. “A song is like a man. It comforts a poor woman.”

  The goodhearted old man drew himself up proudly. Is song like a man? he thought. And all these years, like a fool, I never knew. I too might have had a wife and children and lived like a human being….

  “What do you mean?” he asked the young woman.

  “How could I explain, my little Bertodulos?” she answered, laughing mischievously. “Only we women understand things like that. I shouldn’t try prying into them, if I were you.”

  Now he approached the grandfather and his sharp little mouth had a mocking smile.

  “Have we already got past Alpha, little granddad?” he asked. “Have we reached Beta? What sunken rocks have we still to sail around?”

  “If you want my blessing,” said the grandfather, turning to his grandson, “don’t let this gentleman make a laughingstock of you by taking guitar lessons from him. That’s a thing that’s only for prima donnas!”

  Bertodulos cleared his throat, but said nothinghe dared not. A few days ago he had answered the old man back, and the old man had at once seized him under the houlders and with one arm hoisted him onto a high ledge in the wall. He had shouted, while the women cackled with pleasure, until they got him down with a ladder. So now he merely cleared his throat, squatted down behind the grandfather and hid the guitar behind his back.

  “Come, I’ll teach you to aim properly, little Thrasos,” said the old man. “That’s a game for men. Bring me the muzzle-loader.”

  But Thrasaki had already fetched it and had placed it behind the door. “There it is,” he said. “I spent all yesterday cleaning it.”

  “You have my blessing. You’ll be even better than your father. Why are you goggling at me? That’s what we want. Woe to us, if the son doesn’t do better than his sire! The world would go to pieces.”

  He laid his hand on his grandson’s head and said: “You must outdo us all, Grandson. We Cretans are not like other people. We have twice as much work to do. Tn other parts of the world if you’re a shepherd, you think of nothing but the sheep. You’re a farmer and you think of the oxen, the rain and the crops. Or of your goods, if you’re a merchant. But a Cretan thinks of Crete as well. And Crete is a great plague! It takes all you have and is always right! It demands of you even your life, and you give it, and are glad. A great plague it is, you mark my words!”

  He laid the weapon across his lap and stroked it, like a living, beloved being.

  “This is my fife,” he said, and applied himself with great attention to the loading.

  “Now find yourself a target! There, that raven on the top of the acaciahave you spotted him? Hey! put the old girl to your shoulders! Take aim!”

  Bertodulos shut his eyes and stopped his ears. A hollow thunder roared out. Smoke rolled from the muzzle, and the raven fell between the leaves of the tree to the ground.

  Thrasaki leaped with joy and ran to pick up the dead bird. He threw it at Bertodulos’ feet, to frighten him. The oor count drew back, grabbed his guitar and with trembling lips went back to the women.

  All the daughters-in-law and granddaughters had gathered in those rambling buildings. In addition, the day before yesterday, Captain Michales’ two neighbors, Mastrapas the bell founder and fat Krasojorgis, with their families, had joined them. The Turks had occupied the vi
llages in which they had taken refuge; they had fled with their beasts of burden, and had thought of Captain Michales’ father. His house was accounted an impregnable fortress, he himself a generous man who turned nobody away. As they appeared before the outer door, Krasojorgis, practiced in flattery, raised his hand to his breast and greeted the grandfather.

  “Hoary royal eagle, I and Mastrapas the bell founder, neighbors of your son Captain Michales, hunted by the Turks, are come to shelter beneath your wings. Hoary royal eagle, do not drive us forth!”

  The grandfather, who liked being flattered, answered smiling, “My wings are broad. Come in!”

  Bertodulos, too, greeted the newcomers with ceremony.

  “Greetings, Captain Sefakas,” said Mastrapas. “They are right when they say your house is a monastery.”

  But the old man held up his hand. “Welcome,” he said harshly, “but on one condition: both of you are here to bear arms! So take a weapon, each of you, and go where the men are. I do not give food to shirkers or cowards! The women and children I will take care of, don’t worry about that.” And with a laugh he added, “Don’t point at Signer Bertodulos. He’s a woman and a child, both together.”

  Everyone laughed. But Krasojorgis and Mastrapas looked uphappy.

  “We have no experience at all in warfare, old Sefakas,” Krasojorgis ventured to say. “If it comes to fighting, we’re lost.”

  “Well? If you don’t go, won’t you be lost one day in ny case?”

  “The later the better, Captain!” fe;“Bad luck to you!”

  Krasojorgis jumped.

  “All right, don’t be angry, old Sefakas. We’ll go. God elp us!”

  They unloaded the beasts. The women got down, and the other women came to help them. In a covered corner of the yard they made themselves a hearth. In the evening all sat together at the big table. But next morning the grandfather took two guns from a cupboard, gave them to Krasojorgis and Mastrapas and accompanied them as far as the end of the village. There he handed them over to his old shephered, Charidimos.

  “Good morning, Charidimos! Take them at once by the path up the pass, to where Captain Michales has his hide-out. Be careful, the poor fellows are new to the game. Don’t go and lead them into a village full of Turks.”