Report to Grego

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  CONTENTS

  Introduction: The Writing of “Report to Greco”

  Translator’s Note

  Author’s Introduction

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1: ANCESTORS

  Chapter 2: THE FATHER

  Chapter 3: THE MOTHER

  Chapter 4: THE SON

  Chapter 5: ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

  Chapter 6: THE DEATH OF MY GRANDFATHER

  Chapter 7: CRETE VS. TURKEY

  Chapter 8: SAINTS’ LEGENDS

  Chapter 9: LONGING FOR FLIGHT

  Chapter 10: MASSACRE

  Chapter 11: NAXOS

  Chapter 12: LIBERTY

  Chapter 13: ADOLESCENT DIFFICULTIES

  Chapter 14: THE IRISH LASS

  Chapter 15: ATHENS

  Chapter 16: RETURN TO CRETE. KNOSSOS

  Chapter 17: PILGRIMAGE THROUGH GREECE

  Chapter 18: ITALY

  Chapter 19: MY FRIEND THE POET. MOUNT ATHOS

  Chapter 20: JERUSALEM

  Chapter 21: THE DESERT. SINAI

  Chapter 22: CRETE

  Chapter 23: PARIS. NIETZSCHE THE GREAT MARTYR

  Chapter 24: VIENNA. MY ILLNESS

  Chapter 25: BERLIN

  Chapter 26: RUSSIA

  Chapter 27: THE CAUCASUS

  Chapter 28: THE PRODIGAL RETURNS

  Chapter 29: ZORBA

  Chapter 30: WHEN THE GERM OF “THE ODYSSEY” FORMED FRUIT WITHIN ME

  Chapter 31: THE CRETAN GLANCE

  EPILOGUE

  INTRODUCTION: THE WRITING OF “REPORT TO GRECO”

  by Helen N. Kazantzakis

  NIKOS KAZANTZAKIS asked his God for ten additional years, ten additional years in which to complete his work—to say what he had to say and “empty himself.” He wanted death to come and take only a sackful of bones. Ten years were enough, or so he thought.

  But Kazantzakis was not the kind who could be “emptied.” Far from feeling old and tired at the age of seventy-four, he considered himself rejuvenated, even after his final adventure, the tragic vaccination. Freiburg’s two great specialists, the hematologist Heilmeyer and the surgeon Kraus, concurred in this opinion.

  The whole of the final month Professor Heilmeyer shouted triumphantly after each visit, “This man is healthy, I tell you! His blood has become as sound as my own!”

  “Why do you run like that!” I kept scolding Nikos, afraid that he might slip on the terrazzo and break a bone.

  “Don’t worry, Lénotska, I’ve got wings!” he answered. One sensed the confidence he had in his constitution and his soul, which refused to bite the dust.

  Sometimes he sighed, “Oh, if only I could dictate to you!” Then, grasping a pencil, he would try to write with his left hand.

  “What’s the hurry? Who is chasing you? The worst is past. In a few days you’ll be able to write to your heart’s content.”

  He would turn his head and gaze at me for a few moments in silence. Then, with a sigh: “I have so very much to say. I am being tormented again by three great themes, three new novels. But first I’ve got to finish Greco.”

  “You’ll finish it, don’t worry.”

  “I plan to change it. Will you get some paper and a pencil? Let’s see if I can manage.”

  But our combined labor lasted less than five minutes.

  “Impossible! I don’t know how to dictate. I can think only when the pencil is in my hand.”

  Ancestors, parents, Crete, childhood years . . . Athens, Crete, travels . . . Sikelianos, Vienna, Berlin, Prevelakis, Moscow . . .

  Now I remember another crucial moment in our lives, another hospital, this time in Paris. Nikos gravely ill again with a temperature of 104, the physicians all in a turmoil. Everyone had lost hope; only Kazantzakis himself remained unperturbed.

  “Will you get a pencil, Lénotska? . . .”

  Still plunged in his vision, he dictated to me in a broken voice the Franciscan haikai he placed in the saint’s mouth: “I said to the almond tree, ‘Sister, speak to me of God.’ And the almond tree blossomed.”

  Before we departed for China, he left the Report in the hands of a young painter, his “midwife” as he called him, because he used to come at the crack of dawn, climb up to Nikos’ study, troubled by all the great problems—God, men, art—and begin the interminable whences, whithers and how longs, whereupon Nikos, laughing, admiring the youth’s passion and his violent love for his art, “delivered.” He “dropped” ideas and unburdened himself.

  “The house might catch on fire,” Nikos told him. “I’d rather leave the manuscript with you. If it’s burned at this point, I’ll never be able to rewrite it. The great shame is only that I never finished it.”

  But how could he have ever finished it? What had he left undone in those last few months before the journey?

  He began the Report in the autumn of 1956, upon our return from Vienna. When he needed a changé, he took up the translation of Homer’s Odyssey, which he and Professor Kakridís were working on together.

  “We’ve got to manage to finish it in time so I won’t go down to Hades with a lame leg,” he used to say half ironically, half with fear.

  During these same months, sections from the English translation of his own Odyssey kept arriving at frequent intervals, together with entire pages listing words difficult to translate. How much time, how much labor were consumed, also, by that Odyssey! Not to mention the numerous publications of his other works in Greek. There were texts which had to be corrected or supplemented; and Russia, the manuscript of which had been lost; and Pierre Sipriot of the French radio, who plagued him with his “Colloquies”; and the film; and a trip to India at the invitation of Nehru, which we prepared for but did not take because we feared the many innoculations required.

  No, he did not manage to finish the Report to Greco in time; he was unable to write a second draft, as was his custom. He did manage, however, to rewrite the entire first chapter and one of the concluding sections: “When the germ of The Odyssey formed fruit within me,” which he sent before his death to be published in the periodical Nea Estia. In addition, he managed to read over his manuscript and to make penciled corrections or additions here and there.

  Alone, now, I re-experience the autumn twilight which descended ever so gently, like a small child, with the first chapter.

  “Read, Lénotska, read and let me hear it!”

  I collect my tools: sight, smell, touch, taste, hearing, intellect. Night has fallen, the day’s work is done. I return like a mole to my home, the ground. Not because I am tired and cannot work. I am not tired. But the sun has set. . . .

  I could go no further; a lump had risen in my throat. This was the first time Nikos had spoken about death.

  “Why do you write as though ready to die?” I cried, truly despondent. And to myself: Why, today, has he accepted death?

  “Don’t be alarmed, wife, I’m not going to die,” he answered without the slightest hesitation. “Didn’t we say I’d live another ten years? I need ten more years!” His voice was lower now. Extending his hand, he touched my knee. “Come now, read. Let’s see what I wrote.”

  To me he denied it, but inwardly, perhaps, he knew. For that very same night he sealed this chapter in an envelope together with a letter for his friend Pantelís Prevelakis: “Helen could not read it; she began to cry. But it is good for her—and for me also�
��to begin to grow accustomed . . .”

  It seems his inner daemon had prodded him to abandon the Faust: Part Three which he so desired to write, and to lay the keel of his autobiography instead.

  The Report is a mixture of fact and fiction—a great deal of truth, a minimum of fancy. Various dates have been changed. When he speaks about others, it is always the truth, unaltered, exactly what he saw and heard. When he speaks about his personal adventures, there are some small modifications.

  But one thing is certain: If he had been able to rewrite this Report, he would have changed it. Exactly how, we cannot know. He would have enriched it, for each day he recalled new incidents which he had forgotten. Also, he would have poured it (so I believe) into the mold of reality. His actual life was full of substance, of human anguish, joy, and pain—“dignity,” to put it in a single word. Why should he have changed this life? Not for lack of difficult moments of weakness, flight, and pain. On the contrary, it was precisely these difficult moments which always served Kazantzakis as new steps enabling him to ascend higher—to ascend and reach the summit he promised himself he would climb before abandoning the tools of labor because night had begun to fall.

  “Do not judge me by my actions, do not judge me from man’s point of view,” another struggler once entreated me. “Judge me from God’s—by the hidden purpose behind my actions.”

  This is how we should judge Kazantzakis. Not by what he did, and whether what he did was or was not of supreme value; but rather by what he wanted to do, and whether what he wanted to do had supreme value for him, and for us as well.

  I, for one, believe it did. In my thirty-three years by his side I cannot recall ever being ashamed by a single bad action on his part. He was honest, without guile, innocent, infinitely sweet toward others, fierce only toward himself. If he withdrew into solitude, it was only because he felt the labors required of him were severe and his hours numbered.

  His round, round eyes pitch black in the semidarkness and filling with tears, he used to say to me, “I feel like doing what Bergson says—going to the street corner and holding out my hand to start begging from the passers-by: ‘Alms, brothers! A quarter of an hour from each of you.’ Oh, for a little time, just enough to let me finish my work. Afterwards, let Charon come.”

  Charon came—curse him!—and mowed Nikos down in the first flower of his youth! Yes, dear reader, do not laugh. For this was the time for all to flower and bear fruit, all he had begun, the man you so loved and who so loved you, your Nikos Kazantzakis.

  —H.N.K.

  Geneva, June 15,1961.

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  THE READER will soon discover that I have retained many Greek terms in this translation. I have done this whenever there is no real English equivalent, especially in cases of food and clothing. Sometimes, even when a reasonable equivalent exists, I retain the Greek original out of respect for the increasing number of English-speaking people who know a little of modern Greek life at first hand. These modern philhellenes would wince if they encountered hors d’oeuvres, for instance, as a rendering of mezédhes. For their sake, I ask other readers to endure temporary mystification with forbearance.

  All the modern Greek terms, as well as certain historical allusions, are explained below. They are listed alphabetically for easy reference. In one or two places I have also added explanatory material to the text, but always in square brackets. My transliterations are deliberately inconsistent. Most often I try to approximate the present-day pronunciation, but in certain cases I give precedence to etymology. As a possible aid to pronunciation I include accents where I think they will be of use. These indicate stress only; they do not change the vowel. Pronounce a as in father, e as in bed, i as in machine.

  acrite. During the Byzantine era the acrites guarded the frontiers against inroads by the barbarians. They became symbols of heroism and devotion to country, and their deeds, often magnified to supernatural proportions, were immortalized in epic and song.

  amané, pl. amanédhes. Passionate songs, usually about love, so called because the expression amán (“alas”) occurs frequently.

  antídoro. Bits of consecrated bread distributed to the entire congregation at the end of the service in Orthodox churches. This is instead of communion, literally “instead of the [Lord’s] gift.”

  Boule. The Greek legislature, a term used in both ancient and modern times. The modern pronunciation is Voulí.

  briki. The special pot used for making Turkish coffee.

  Christos anéstakas. This requires some explanation. Greek is rich in expressive suffixes. Adding áki to the word pódhi, for example, we get podháki, or “small foot,” Similarly, we can add a suffix to indicate a large foot: podhára. Then, if we have a friend with large feet, we can call him a podharás. If our friend is a big drunkard, he will be known as a merhýstakas. On analogy to this last example, the priest in Chapter 28 who says Christos anéstakas instead of Christos anesti (Christ is risen) is simply trying to say that Christ is so tremendous that He did not simply “rise,” He rose in a tremendous way, suitable to His giant stature. He breaks all grammatical rules because he adds the suffix to a verb instead of to a noun.

  epitáphios. This is the canopy-like structure, made of flowers, which represents Christ lying in the tomb. It is placed in the church on Good Friday.

  foufoúla, pl. foufoúles. The loose, hanging part of the Cretan vraka (q.v.).

  Friendly Society. A secret society founded in Odessa in 1816 with the purpose of organizing the Greek War of Independence.

  “Hold fast, poor Missolonghi.” A well-known phrase referring to the heroic resistance of Missolonghi while under siege during the Greek War of Independence (1821 ff.).

  kalýmmafko. A covering of black material placed over the hat of Orthodox monks and falling down the back as far as the waist. Sometimes it is gathered into a pyramid over the head. It is similar in purpose to the wimple: it prevents the monk from seeing “the world.”

  Karaïskakis, Georgios. Important general in the Greek War of Independence. Killed in action, 1827.

  katharévousa. The official language of Greece. It is an artificial language constructed by nationalists in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries as a compromise between ancient Greek and the so-called “demotic,” the spoken language which evolved naturally during the Hellenistic and Byzantine periods, and the 400 years of Turkish rule. The linguistic nationalists attempted to “purify” demotic of foreign words and to return as far as possible to the vocabulary, syntax, and grammar of the ancient Attic dialect. Though katharévousa is employed today for all official documents, scholarly books, university lectures, etc., demotic survives with undiminished vitality. Since katharévousa has to be learned at the gymnasium, it can be used in an affected way as a sign that one is educated, i.e., superior. This is the basis of the Tityros anecdote in Chapter 5.

  Kifissiá. A suburb of Athens, now very fashionable.

  koulouri, pl. koulouria. Doughnut-shaped rolls sprinkled with sesame seeds. They are sold in the street by men or boys and are a Greek institution.

  kourabiédhes. These are little cookie-like sweets made of flour, sugar, eggs, and mastic. They are baked and then covered with powdered sugar.

  kulah. The high round felt hat of the dervishes.

  mantinádha, pl. mantinádhes. From Italian mattinata. Originally a lover’s serenade sung beneath a girl’s window. In Crete the mantinadha always takes the form of a rhymed couplet. It is often improvised and is no longer restricted in subject matter.

  Megalo Kastro. This is Iraklion, Kazantzakis’ birthplace and the chief city of Crete. Megalo Kastro means “great fortress.” Iraklion is famous for its walls, built over the period 1462–1570 by the Venetian conquerers.

  mezé, pl. mezédhes. Food eaten with wine or raki to prevent intoxication. Usually appetizers such as sardines, olives, cheese, stuffed vine leaves, fish roe, etc.

  myzíthra. A soft white cheese somewhat like cottage cheese.
“Over the years, in time, she’ll be ours once more.” Slogan during the Greek War of Independence, attributed to the archbishop Germanós (Palaion Patron Germanos).

  pallikári. A true man, i.e., brave and strong, able to resist pain, etc. The term was originally applied to the foot soldiers accompanying mounted knights, later to any soldier, now to any young man who has soldier-like qualities. In Greece today it is an unqualified term of praise.

  papadhiá. Wife of a priest.

  Paramythía, Ktetórissa, Bematárissa, Antiphonétria, Esphagméne, Elaiobrótida. Each of these celebrated icons has a legend associated with it. The Esphagméne (“slaughtered one”), for example, is represented with blood flowing from her cheek. The story goes that a certain deacon was so zealous in his desire to tidy the church that he missed his dinner. When he went after hours to the refectory, he was refused even a slice of bread, whereupon he returned to the church and knifed the Virgin in his rage. Blood flowed and the deacon was immediately struck blind, but the Virgin eventually forgave him and restored his sight. The transgressing hand, however, was condemned to be sent to hell at the Second Coming. When the deacon’s bones were disinterred, this hand was discovered still intact. A certain pilgrim, assuming that the hand’s preservation indicated its holiness, bit off a piece in order to profit therefrom, and straightway fell down dead. The other icons are equally wonderworking.

  passatempo. Salted, lightly roasted pumpkin seeds, munched for the purpose indicated in the name.

  Prodromos. Theodore Prodromos, called “Prodromos the Poor,” was a Byzantine poet (died 1160). The Comneni patronized him for a time, but then their support was withdrawn, and Prodromos died as a monk in great poverty.

  Psiloríti. Mountain not far from Iraklion. The ancient Mount Ida.

  Stournaras, Nikólaos. Military leader in the Greek War of Independence. He fell at Missolonghi in 1826.

  vrakes. Jodhpur-like trousers worn until recently by Cretan men. They are extremely baggy above the knees, being made from an immense amount of material which hangs down loosely.