32 Liberating the Masses (2)
`Hey, hey, what are you doing? Get out of here. Leave my sheep alone.'
Hector did not drop the young sheep that he had draped across his shoulder. To Mandras he looked just like the pictures of the Good Shepherd is the religious instruction books that the Catholic missionaries used to hand around in Orthodox villages, and like the Jesus of the Bible. Hector was so inspirational, so
clear in all his explanations. He was a man who understood everything. He had a book called What Is To Be Done? and he knew exactly where to look in it for guidance. It was an old book, very well-used, falling apart, but it was by a man called Letup who was even more important than Jesus. Mandras was overwhelmingly impressed by the way that Hector could look at all those contorted black worms of print, and turn them into words. Hector had promised to teach him to read, along with several others who were illiterate, and they were going to be a Workers' Self-Education Caucus. Mandras had already learned the alphabet, and had given a talk about the art of fishing in the sea. Everyone had applauded. He had learned from Hector that he was not a fisherman, but a worker, and he had learned that what he and a carpenter and a man in a factory had in common was that the capitalists got all the profit from their work. Except that profit was called surplus value. He did not understand yet how it was that any of his surplus value went to someone else, but it was only a matter of time. He felt very angry against the King for making it that way, and he had learned to scowl or laugh sarcastically every time that someone mentioned the British or the Americans. It was what everyone else did. He could make people laugh by calling his rifle `bourgeois' when it wasn't working properly. Clerks and shipowners, and any farmer who employed other people were bourgeois, and so were doctors. He thought of all the fish he had given to Dr Iannis in payment for treatment, and felt bitter. The doctor was richer than he was, and in a fair world it should be the doctor whose surplus value came to him. What he should have done was to get together with the other fishermen, and refuse to sell any fish at all unless it was a good price. It was all obvious now.
Mandras was beginning to feel enlightened and knowledgeable, and he worshipped Hector, that stronger and older man who had been in the thick of the fight at Guadalajara and routed the Italian Fascists. Where is Guadalajara? In Spain. Well, where exactly is Spain? We'll have a geography lesson sometime, don't worry. A pat on the back. Thank you, Comrade. This was an adult world, here there was no sir or madam, just comrade. Soldierly, reassuring, inclusive, virile. Comrade. A warm word that was full of solidarity.
Hector smiled at the irate smallholder and said, 'We're taking this sheep on the orders of Allied High Command in Cairo.'
The peasant heaved a sigh of relief, and said, 'And I thought you were thieves.'
Hector laughed, and so Mandras laughed also. The man held out his hand.
Hector looked at the horny, grimy palm, and a frown crossed his face. 'One gold sovereign,' explained the farmer.
'Get lost,' said Hector. 'Are you a Fascist yourself, or something?'
'The British always pay one gold sovereign for a sheep,' said the man. 'It's the standard payment. Aren't you with EDES? Surely you know that?'
'We're ELAS, and we don't consider the loss of a sheep much of a hardship when you consider what we're trying to do on your behalf. We'll pay you later. Now do as I say and get lost. The new order from the British is that we take the sheep, and they pay you later.'
The peasant looked down at his boots, 'EDES gave me a gold sovereign this morning for another sheep.'
'If I hear you've been selling supplies to EDES, you're dead,' said Hector, 'so just shut your mouth. Don't you know they've been collaborating with the Fascists?'
`They blew a bridge yesterday,' persisted the unfortunate man.
'For God's sake,' exploded Hector, `are you so stupid that you don't know a cover operation when you see one?'
As they walked away, the appropriated sheep bleating in distress across the andante's shoulders, and the man scratching his head in bewilderment, Mandras giggled and said, 'That showed him.'
He paused, regretted the silence, however comradely, and added a little hesitantly but with suitable contempt, 'Fascist stooge.'