Neil Olson: The Icon

From the summit of the high hill called Adelphos, above the wind-bent cedars that shrouded the caves, he could see the Pindos Mountains rise like a gray cloud to the east, could see brown ridges march north toward Konitza and the Albanian border, could almost imagine he saw the sun glint off of the Ionian Sea to the west. And below, steep green valleys and rocky villages, marked out by tall stone church towers. The hill was a place Captain Elias had gone often as a child, when he would conjure a life beyond these mountain walls: in Athens, to the south; or across the sea in America, where his uncle had gone. He might be a soldier, doctor, traveling musician, or spy-the role did not greatly matter; every dream was a dream of escape. In none of those dreams did he ever imagine returning to these hills, a hunted man in his own country.

It was after midnight when Father Mikalis arrived at the Cave of Constantine. Though his visits to the guerrillas had been rare of late, he knew where to find them. Elias, who seldom slept anymore, summoned the young priest to his lantern-lit circle in the back. The captain had warned Mikalis weeks before that the Germans were watching him more closely, so all the men understood that his present visit must be of great urgency.

“Bless us, Father.”

Dirty hands grasped gently at the flowing black cassock as it passed, beseeching pardon for things they had done and would continue to do, to the Germans and their countrymen alike, in the days to come. Like children, thought Elias, watching his men. Crude and murderous until the stern father was before them, then meek and repentant. It was not the young cleric they saw now but God himself, the first touch of the mighty one in months for some, and the cave’s darkness only heightened the effect. Whispered blessings were returned to them, but the words did not reach Elias, and he was content with that. He alone was not surprised to see the priest.

“Welcome, Father,” the captain said as Mikalis’ long, handsome face appeared out of the shadows. “Come for a sermon, or a drink?”

“Don’t be foolish. With news.”

Elias noted once more how much age, bred of three years’ hard experience, had settled in the lines of the priest’s face. In truth, there had always been something old about Mikalis, something unconnected to earthly experience, an ancient spirit that showed itself at odd moments in the center of those dark eyes. Elias had seen it when they were both children. There was still a young man’s eagerness, a young man’s sense of mission. Mikalis had witnessed atrocities, had given absolution for those same atrocities, had never lost hope. That required a certain kind of strength, the captain conceded, a kind he himself did not possess. And yet, the priest had never committed a violent act, had never driven the life out of a fellow man with his own hands. Surely that had to make all the difference. Priests should be murderers. How else could they understand?

“Tell me your news,” Elias said at last.

“The Germans will burn the village tomorrow.”

In the shadows, Spiro cursed, but the others were silent.

The captain considered, not for the first time, how to respond. It was important that he seem to take the threat seriously, yet he must be circumspect, keep Mikalis talking. Above all, keep him here.

“Who told you?”

“What does it matter who? What’s to be done?”

“It matters a great deal. Certain names would convince me that it’s true, others that it is not.”

“Four trucks full of soldiers arrived a few hours ago. You must have seen them.”

“We did.”

“Forty or fifty men. They’re here for some purpose.”

“Looking for us, maybe,” someone wondered.

“No,” Elias said. “Too few of them for that. They don’t come into the hills with less than a battalion now.”

“Since we blew up the fuel depot,” added Spiro.

“You’re proud of that raid?” asked the priest. “They shot forty-three men in the square of Prasinohorion the next day.”

“I know it,” the captain answered.

“Forty Greeks for one German. You think that’s a good trade?”

“One German and a fuel depot. The fuel was the point; I wouldn’t have killed anyone if I could have avoided it. Worse is coming. In the Peloponnisos they’re attacking armed convoys, in daylight, killing dozens of Germans.”

Elias was aware of the envy in his tone. If he only had the communist guerrillas’ numbers and resources, he wouldn’t have to play the dirty games his superiors dreamed up.

“I’m sure that makes your English friends happy,” the priest said scornfully, “but it’s just getting a lot of simple people killed.”

“It’s a war, Mikalis; more will die.”

“Many will die tomorrow if you don’t help. The old men will try to defend their houses.”

“That would be stupid,” snapped Elias, “but look, you have it wrong. They will burn the village, they’ll burn all the villages, whether we fight them or lie down, but they won’t do it until they withdraw from the region. And that time is not yet come.”

“The English tell you this?”

“It’s how they do things. Meantime, we’ve conducted no operations near here. They have no reason to burn the place. Otherwise, they would already be at it.”

They stared at each other across the lamplight, two young men, neither yet twenty-five, forced into parts intended for more experienced souls. Mikalis had returned from the seminary three years earlier, days before the Germans arrived, to assist the ailing Father Pantelis. Six months later he was burying the old priest and assuming his duties. Disruptions from the war kept the local bishop from assigning a new priest, and Mikalis, who had grown up in the village of Katarini, became its spiritual shepherd at the age of twenty-one. Elias had been at the military academy when war broke out. He was an artillery observer when the army routed the Italians, but had been back in Athens when the Germans launched “Marita,” a whirlwind assault that enveloped and shattered the Greek army within days. As the government packed up and sailed to Crete, he rode a horse north to help organize the resistance in these hills. The old men are weak, his grandmother had told him before he left Athens, all the good men are dead.

“People are starving down there,” the priest insisted.

“I know that, too.”

“Of course you know, your men have taken everything. These people have given their food, their sons, their lives for you. What are you prepared to do for them?”

“Not waste their sacrifice.”

“Nothing, then.”

“I have only twenty men here.”

“Where are the rest? Every boy in the four villages has gone to join you, if only to get something to eat. You should have twice that many.”

“They’re on an operation.”

“Without you?”

“Who told you the Germans would burn the village?”

The priest shook his head in disgust.

“All you want is that name. If he’s wrong, shoot him as an agitator. If he’s right, shoot him as a collaborator. Either way you’ll do nothing.”

The fact that the truth was more damning than the priest’s insinuations did not prevent the words from stinging. Before Elias had taken over this group of andartes-a motley assortment of republican and royalist-minded farmers and ex-soldiers-they had spent more time fighting the local communist guerrilla band than either faction had spent fighting the Germans. It had taken the British commandos to halfway reconcile the feuding parties and direct their actions in any meaningful way. Despite a deep suspicion of the foreigners, and his shame at the necessity of being instructed by them, Elias had to concede that he had learned much from the Englishmen. How to plant explosives. How to kill silently. How to work side by side with men who might, on another day, be your enemies. Perhaps he had learned some lessons too well. He had seen how much stronger and better organized the communists were; now the Italians had surrendered, and it was only a matter of time before the Germans withdrew. He could no longer ignore the warnings of his superiors regarding where the long-term threat to the country lay. Thus the present, hateful subterfuge.