A WIDOW with the heartbreaking duty of escorting her husband's body to his motherland, the last wish of a dying man. The HERETIC, who rose to prominence with his fierce and unyielding books, praised and beloved by an entire nation. The ENEMIES, the Greek Government, the Orthodox Church, and the Vatican with the inclusion of one of his books in the dreaded Index of Forbidden Books. A NATION in mourning.
Helen, her only consolation being the tender and exciting memories with her beloved, paces herself through the next ten days, wondering what more can be done to her husband now that he's dead. They robbed him of the Nobel Prize, they fought to excommunicate him.
Will they now allow him a burial? Will they honor their dead?
Meanwhile, in post-Civil War Athens, the ambitious reporter Freddy Germanos is assigned his first significant reportage: to cover the funeral and expose the authorities' machinations to silence a dead man. Unfortunately, he will have plenty to report.
“So? Have you finally found your God?” Helen asked her husband in the playful manner they loved to talk to one another, sparking a conversation that would surely help him forget the pain, even momentarily. But mostly, so that she might assess his clarity. “No.” “So you won’t find Him?” she insisted, even more playfully than before, as if his dry reply – a reply that hopefully could mean he felt he had ample time ahead to continue his quest – had not discouraged her. “Others will,” Nikos replied, exhausted, and went quiet. Helen fell quiet with him, hoping this silence was only temporary. Her wish came true, but not in the way she hoped. “Water!” her husband suddenly cried out. “Water!” She gave him drink immediately, stroking his hair ever so gently, as if afraid the slightest human touch might hurt him. Silence led to stillness. The deathly calm that dominated the pallid room gave way to an outburst of deep cries and ragged breaths as she beseeched him to stir. She leaned over him, her forehead pressed against the edge of the mattress in her last bow to her God. The Unwanted Dead : 2 Her left hand firmly on her tearful eyes, slowly and carefully, almost ceremoniously, she placed her right hand on his face and gently shut his eyes. Helen sat on the wooden chair next to the white iron bed, where the white sheets covered the lifeless body of her beloved husband. She hadn’t realized how tightly she was holding his hand, her own hand dripping with sweat, so unlike his. She lost track of the time, leaning on him, her head laying on his chest, mirroring his body’s rigidity in tender solidarity. Everything seemed to freeze in that glacial white, death laden room at the University Clinic in Freiburg – even Time. Her mind wandered across the seasons of their every shared moment, joyous or wretched, small or mundane, blissful or agonizing. In that modestly furnished ice-box of a room, she saw their life together flash before her eyes. Just ten days before, in that very room, her husband had smiled elatedly reading the telegram he had just received from Peking. “The Peace Committee of China was apprised of my illness and sent funds to cover my medical care and hospital fees,” he had announced to her exuberantly. A feeling of relief had washed over her then: the same relief she had experienced countless times throughout their life – as many as the moments they had been penniless and unable to cover the basic needs. Her joy was shortlived, however, for Nikos had reserved the sour news for the end, telling her that they would not take away a single morsel of food from the Chinese people. He had resolved to return the money, and had even asked her to take extra care so that not even a penny should be lost in the banking process. She still remembered that peculiar feeling of pride she had felt then, walking to the bank to fulfill his wish; it was the same overwhelming emotion she had felt just nine days before, when they had found out that the Swedish Academy was going to give the Nobel Prize to the young French author, Albert Camus. “Lenotchka!” he had bellowed, but his cry had not been one of protest, but oddly, of enthusiasm. In his selflessness he had called to her for a pen and paper, to dictate to her a congratulatory Yorgos Pratanos : 3 telegram for Camus, as though he didn’t feel, deep within him, that this had been his final chance to win the prestigious prize, for his contribution to world literature and thought to be recognized on the global stage. This had been the last of the few thousand letters he had penned in his lifetime. For the ninth time, the Nobel Prize would end up in the hands of another, not because her husband was undeserving, but because his own countrymen stubbornly refused to accept that a “godless communist” could bestow upon his country a distinction of that caliber. With that congratulatory letter, Nikos had bade a selfless, noble, and gracious farewell to the heartless world in which he had lived. Then again, was it coincidental that the last person to have visited him – only two days before – was his good friend and Nobel Prize Laureate, Albert Schweitzer? That was to be the last time Nikos would open his arms wide to greet someone wholeheartedly, the final, and, joyful at least, surprise visit of his life. Struggling hard to sit up on his bed, he had suffered in silence through his pain and frailty, so he could take in all the stories his euphoric visitor had to share. Nikos had listened to his friend – the philosopher, doctor and humanist – and his eyes had glowed with interest at every critical instance, his spirit rallying against his own body’s infirmity. These images receded into the white of the surrounding walls when the nurses burst frantically into the room, upsetting the emotional continuum. Helen averted her eyes from the busy nurses, and transfixed them on the origami boat flimsily standing on the nightstand, a fragile gift from the political prisoners condemned to death at Corfu Prison. How many hours had he spent observing it, and how many seas had he traveled upon it! She wondered if he knew he would soon meet the ones who had created it? She felt the urge to tell the nurses to lock the door, to leave them there forever in that room, together in the frost, but her dignity and the thought that her husband might have had different The Unwanted Dead : 4 plans for her, gave her pause. She forced back a gut-wrenching wail as it tried to tear through her and turned to face the window. She saw three or four stars staring down at her; unashamedly, she allowed her tears to course their way down her cheeks. Air! She needed air; but that would mean leaving him behind. She abruptly stormed out of the room, making her way towards the hospital exit in hurried, unsteady steps. This was the first time she had actually been physically apart from him in years, but she needed oxygen and that room had none. She tried to slow down, yet sensed somehow that the exit was farther still and quickened her step. She pushed open the main door with her entire body and was out. She breathed in deeply as she crumbled on to the front steps, letting out a long, repressed scream. “She is not the first,” a passerby might have thought at the sight of the woman weeping alone; “she won’t be the last,” another might have concluded as they crossed paths under the glow of the hospital lights. The last thing on Helen’s mind at that moment was what random pedestrians might think of her; her mind was flooded by a torrent of words, images, and conversations, so recent and so intense that she had not yet had time to process them. Just like that time in Denmark, when she had confided in her husband, not long after the doctors had mentioned the possibility they might have to amputate his right arm. A wide gushing wound caused by the vaccine they had forcibly injected him with so he could travel to China was not healing, and gangrene had begun to set in. Yet the gangrene had left as insidiously as it had crept in, and after, she had felt relieved enough to reveal to him her innermost thoughts. She had confessed to him her determination to kill him, and then herself, for the thought of an author unable to write had simply been inconceivable to her. She had defended her position to her bemused husband, reminding him that he was also unable to dictate; still, that talk had ended with the unyielding Kazantzakis, at age 73, trying to teach himself to write with his left hand. Yorgos Pratanos : 5 A warm touch on her shoulders startled her. He’s alive! The thought bolted through her mind, but it was instantly dispelled by the gentle eyes of Tapita Swetzer, the nunnurse that had been caring for Nikos and who hardly ever left his side. Helen hung her head down and pressed her forehead to her knees. At his side she had experienced so many miracles; why couldn’t there be just one more, she pleaded. The sole certainty of life is death, she thought. She had been preparing for this final parting for so long, even if she had never openly admitted it to him. They both had been preparing: in silence, protecting one another from the inevitability of his mortality. The nurse led her back to speak to the doctor, and Helen felt herself transform, for by the time she had entered his office, her body stood erect, her head held up high. She was not just another woman who had lost her husband… no. She was the widow of a great man, and now, his earthly representative. Doctor Heilmayer welcomed her, crestfallen. He had become attached to this patient more than was allowed. At the sight of her he took her hands in his and held them tightly. What a role hands play in a moment like this! It is never quite appreciated, as if souls communicate through the entwined hands. He stood there, dejected, while she held strong – such a paradox. He was utterly distressed, speaking to her first, in English, then breaking into German, but she wasn’t listening to him. Through his office window she watched the darkness descend to the ground and realized that after thirty-three years, this was The Dawn of the First Day without Him. Was it the dawn of a new life? How could she start anything new when every time she closed her eyes, she saw him? No; nothing was starting because nothing was ending. This time the stairs leading up to the room seemed fewer than before, yet the muscles in her thighs burned; she tried to steady herself, to stand tall to the responsibilities galloping towards her. She had stood in the shadow of the willowy Cretan man for so long, and now she would have to emerge into the light, alone, and yet, it was to this The Unwanted Dead : 6 very shadow he had cast upon her that she owed every second of her exhilarating life. It had been late at night, the first time they had met on May 17, 1924. Helen had heard some awful rumors about him, courtesy of his ex-wife – a well-known author herself – who had been slandering him in the circles of the Athenian intelligentsia. How commonplace for an ex-wife, even for an accomplished author, yet Helen had trekked up Mount Penteli with her circle of friends nonetheless, to watch the sun rise from the beach in Rafina. The moon had almost reached mid-sky when she spotted him, tall and slender, standing among a crowd of people. As much as Helen tried, she was now unable to recall any of his ex-wife’s vile words against him. Instead, she could recall ever so vividly the great impression those two deep lines in his face had left upon her. They had ridden on the same wagon, and he had stared at her the entire time. His approach had been almost methodical, easing toward her, inch by inch, until at last they were sitting side by side when he smiled at her and in his deep, earnest manner asked her to tell him her favorite author, color, and greatest joy in life. When they had arrived at the beach, Helen had sat on the sand, fully clothed, having forgotten to bring along a swimming suit. And he, as much as he loved the sea, had turned his back to the big wondrous blue and had stood before Helen, facing her. He had asked her about all that she loved, told her stories from the places he had visited, made her laugh, and all the while he had stood there, lest she be bothered by the sun and decide to leave him. That entire day he had only moved just so, following ever so slightly the sun’s rotation, while she enjoyed the safety of his shadow. He had assured her he loved the sun, but would take care to protect her, his fragile Athenian lady, and so he had, for thirtythree years. That longstanding care had ended tonight. She would now enter into the harsh light without a defender, without shade. Everything and everyone would zoom in on her now – eyes, Yorgos Pratanos : 7 cameras, and she would be alone in responding to each attack by his powerful enemies. But would they continue to persecute a dead man? She glanced at the empty bed for a second, feeling the same wrenching sob tear through her once again. She ran to the window, opened it forcefully and expelled a bitter shriek into the damp chill, tears rolling down her eyes, crashing furiously on the white hospital floor. It was by this window that he had stood, waiting for her to bring him newspapers and books, and each time she returned from the library, she would see him standing there, seeking her out anxiously. She would now have to tend to the most tedious arrangements in her life; she would have to relay the news of his death to their friends in Crete and in Athens. She took a few more deep breaths and raised her gaze, but could not discern anything brighter than gray clouds. She had never fathomed the possibility of such a somber return home. She had envisioned it quite differently: him, standing tall and smiling, with the Nobel Prize tucked proudly in his luggage, his gift to the Greek people. But that was not their reality; they had been persecuted relentlessly by the Church, the Palace, and the para-state organizations of Greece long after they had left, eleven years before. The attacks had been fierce, even from Nikos’ “colleagues”. Would the news soften their hatred somehow? she wondered as she began to construct a convenient reasoning filled with rational arguments, as if hatred is mitigated or softened by logic. He is now dead; he did not incite any form of violence, he never forced anyone to read his books; this warfare raging against him will surely begin to wane. Helen’s calming thoughts alleviated her discomfort, somewhat, and with that, she leaned slightly inward and shut the window. A few moments later, Helen walked through the clinic’s front gate and headed to the Post Office. She dispatched telegrams announcing her husband’s death to Athens, Herakleion and Thessaloniki, to family and friends. She thought telegraphing the The Unwanted Dead : 8 news was hard enough; vocalizing the chilling words is harder, still, Helen thought, as she placed a call to Agnes Roussopoulou, her trusted friend and lawyer, an ardent feminist and trade unionist. Helen had not even considered which words to use in that phone call, and the voice of her friend on the other end startled her. It would be the first time she would acknowledge it, that she would utter the words. “Agnes… we lost him…” she burst into tears into the telephone, as if hearing it herself for the first time. For a few seconds, neither could speak; when their sobbing subsided, Helen begged her to get there as soon as she possibly could, to be by her side. “Of course, my dear,” Agnes answered. “Please don’t worry.” Her painful duty done, Helen set out aimlessly, walking about without a destination like a queen deposed through the medieval cobblestone alleys of Freiburg – the most sunlit town of Germany – with its austere geometrical colorful homes, the large windows and the impressive rooftops. Here and there, small water canals intersected her aimless stroll; the legend in those parts said that one would marry a local if one touched the waters, but Helen walked on indifferently, crossing the picturesque bridges, unmoved by the water’s monotonously harmonious rhythm. She couldn’t enjoy anything during this perfunctory Sunday walk. She tried to organize her thoughts and priorities, to foresee any troubles or issues that might arise, a process she had mastered by being constantly at his side. To him she had been everything: lover, wife, his right and his left hand, manager, secretary, typist and nurse. It was she who had typed his Odyssey, the titanic opus of 33,333 verses – of which her husband had been so proud – seven times, on a small ribbon typewriter. It was she who had taken care of the tedious procedural matters: exchanged letters with publishers, arranged all legal issues, cooked, washed, cleaned house, and ensured that Nikos got his medicine when he was sick. It was she who would Yorgos Pratanos : 9 read all that he’d write and encourage him or dissuade him respectively, and she who had urged him to turn the stories he would tell her each night, so she could go to sleep, into written novels – those incredible stories about his old community, his town, the Crete he had known and was nostalgic for. He would always tell others how he felt for her in countless variations of the same theme: “I am the factory and she is the electrical current. Should the power be cut, even for a moment, I would be lost,” he would write to his friends about their relationship. Yet now she stood before the unknown, unable to fathom how the Church and State – those institutions responsible for Nikos’ self-exile and his longstanding enemies – might react to the news of his death. Still, it was Nikos’ wish to be buried in the blessed soil of his homeland, Crete, so she would have to make arrangements with Agnes, who had helped him with his last will and testament. She thought of Nikos with his natural innocence and child-like kindness, who had been hurt many times by people he had cared for and had loved, people who had indulged, over the years, in the guilty pleasure of the character assassination campaign mounted against him. Those people, often seduced by a disingenuous friendship with pseudo-intellectuals and “world-educated” critics, loved to spread rumors about him, yet each time the discussion turned to this topic, Nikos would only smile; he would rationalize their bitter envy against him, even justify it. From his perspective, he had felt it was all too reasonable: their own works were not read, not even by Greek readers, who might have not even known they existed, and the very thought of international recognition was out of the question for them. They were only famous in their own backyards, and all that remained for them was to gossip and ridicule the works and choices of others. Among those in these “intelligentsia” cliques, sadly, was Galatea, his ex-wife and one of the main sources of those rumors. The Unwanted Dead : 10 Would she be at the funeral? Helen wondered, but just the thought caused her distress. Helen was not jealous of Galatea – perhaps, in those first years when Nikos and Helen’s relationship was still young, but, as time passed, whatever jealousy she might have felt for her in the beginning had long subsided, despite the fact that Galatea had continued to use Nikos’ surname. She had even received full credit for the grammar school textbooks that Nikos had authored, and had become rather famous, not just in Greece, but throughout the Greek diaspora as well, and all of it with his permission, his approval, his suggestion, even. While Helen, still unmarried, had struggled to save him from starvation and impoverishment, Galatea had been using his name as her own, all the while leading a faction of intellectuals at Dexameni district in spreading rumors about him. Perhaps Galatea had been reflecting about all that she could have experienced at his side but was never able to, Helen thought, mirroring her husband’s compromising and forgiving spirit. Perhaps his rejection of her as a wife and a lover had hurt her so profoundly, so entirely, that it had given birth to an overpowering hatred. Suddenly, Helen felt awfully weak. She couldn’t remember how many hours before – or was it days – she had last eaten. The mere thought of eating repulsed her, but self-preservation prevailed. She tried to orient herself, spying a sign about fifty meters away; guided by a black arrow, she reached a massive wooden door with over-sized hinges, and pushed it with her last remaining strength. Inside, the heavy baroque design, with brown and verdant green dominating the space, evoked a feeling of stability and safety inside her. Only a young couple were there, cooing under the mezzanine, looking as though they were in a cave all by themselves in the entire world. Helen sat at a table by the window, anxiously avoiding the dark corners of the room. Convincing herself she would get something to eat a little later, she ordered tea. She let her eyes drift around the room and soon found herself unconsciously staring at Yorgos Pratanos : 11 the young couple; they were leaning toward one another, exchanging whispers, swift touches and smiles. She wasn’t jealous, not at all; she felt happy for them. She had lived it all, wholly and completely with a man she admired, a man she was passionately and unreservedly in love with, who had gifted her with more than one lifetime, who had cared for her, elevated her and loved her. Her mind gradually calmed, simmering down from its racing thoughts after the third sip of tea. She felt her eyelids becoming heavier, shutting themselves, and for a few moments she gave in to the temptation of keeping them closed, when a thought shook her awake. I have to speak to Agnes again, as well as with Nikos’ publisher in Greece, John Goudelis...I need his help with all the necessary procedures. How will we transport his body to Greece? What will it cost? Will I even have enough time to return to Antibes, to get some clothes? There was a whole tedious process that had to be completed, and she realized she had to move quickly, she needed to have all the information by that afternoon, to organize her hectic schedule for the days ahead. The only thing she felt with certainty in that moment was that she needed to sleep as soon as possible. She left in a hurry without finishing her tea, leaving behind some coins on the table. From the corner of her eye, she stole a glance at the couple once more; they were seated just as she had spotted them about twenty minutes earlier – huddled over one another, still exchanging smiles and caresses. They have all the time in the world ahead of them, she thought with a sad smile, as she let the enormous wooden door with the large hinges close behind her. Her step had regained its usual determined rhythm. She would return to the hospital to await Agnes’s phone call, and would see to it that all the procedures in this – the toughest week of her life – were underway. After a fifteen minute walk, she returned to the Clinic. Passing through the hospital gate, Helen was met by a blond nurse with a closely shorn hair and a noticeably masculine body and manner to The Unwanted Dead : 12 match, who informed her that a relative of Nikos’ was going to call again, apparently to learn the details of his passing and matters relating to his funeral. Helen ascended the stairs to the room. The sterilized environment made her want to flee, but this feeling subsided when she opened the window and let her gaze trail through the Black Forest. She leaned her elbows on the window ledge, recalling all the lighthearted strolls she had shared with her Nikos, all the teasing and laughter. For long periods of their life, their world was never larger than the dimensions of the bench they shared, and it had been the dreamiest world she could have ever lived in. He would be reading his ever favorite Inferno by Dante Alighieri, and she would just gaze at him, devoid of concerns, wants, fears or guilt. The same nurse came to inform her that she had a phone call, and by the time Helen descended the stairs and reached the ground floor, she was once again the iron lady, the dynamic woman behind the eminent man. On the phone with Nikos’ nephew, Helen answered all of his questions: his uncle would be interred in Herakleion – it had been his final wish, after all; she did not know in how many days that would be, though she estimated that the funeral would take place by the middle of the following week. It was fortunate that only a few seconds after she lowered the receiver, another call came through for her, one where she could speak more freely. It was Agnes. “Helen, I don’t have a passport. Today is Sunday and, since tomorrow is October 28, a national holiday, I would have to wait until Tuesday, when the public services will be open…” Helen was almost overcome with despair, until she heard the “but” which quickly followed. “…But, finally, I located a friend who works at the Ministry of Interior. I am on my way there now to be issued an identity certification so I can travel.” Helen felt warm tears rolling down her face. “Thank you so much my friend,” she said, trying her best, for the third time that day, to smother the swelling gratitude she felt for her friend’s immeasurable generosity. Yorgos Pratanos : 13 “I will call you again from the airport,” Agnes assured her, and Helen longed to kiss her hands, to give her a tight embrace; she felt immensely grateful to that strong-willed and, at the same time, delicate creature. Helen put down the receiver, utterly spent. Exerting every effort not to succumb prematurely to the fatigue that engulfed her, she managed to go up to the room where she collapsed just as she was, fully clothed, and gave in to sleep. She had no more strength, nor will, nor courage…