Chronicle in Stone

by Ismail Kadare

  Some Italian officers tried to fly off in the Bulldog, which had long been lying abandoned in the field. Sputtering and howling, the poor machine did manage to get a few metres off the ground in a lurching flight that ended with a crash in a field a few hundred metres away, and that last flight, as short as it was shameful, brought the history of the military airfield to a close.

  But the real battle, the one Ilir and I reckoned ought to happen on the Bridge of Brawls, for we were sure it had been waiting for this for God knows how long so as to justify the name it bore, took place in fact around the Grihot barracks, pitting the Italians against the Ballists. The latter, taking advantage of the disorder and exhaustion of the Italians, tried to get them to disarm, initially by persuasion, then by force. Machine-guns went on spitting all day. That’s when I first saw my father use Grandmother’s opera glasses, to get a better view of what was going on over there.

  My disappointment with the Bridge of Brawls persuaded me once and for all that far from behaving in accordance with the meanings and responsibilities expressed by their titles or conventional names, people and things usually did the opposite. Ilir and I had begun to notice the phenomenon long before. Particularly since we had seen a group of gypsies with reed baskets on their heads raising not an eyebrow when they walked across the Ladies’ Square, a place we thought reserved for the exclusive use of women of high rank.

  I found it all very puzzling but I stopped worrying about it when I heard Grandmother saying very firmly that the times we lived in were so full of distress that we would be hard put to say which was the worst of our troubles.

  Right after the bloody clash at Grihot, the first detachment of partisans made its way across the airfield and came onto the road. The long thin column, with a red flag at its head, cut through the crowd of Italian soldiers, marched along Zalli Street, and went up into the city. A second column was coming down from the hills to the north.

  A long cry came from afar: “The partisans! The partisans!”

  I dashed up another flight to get a better look. The columns seemed very straggly to me. I had expected to see giants carrying gleaming weapons, but there were only those two ordinary columns — utterly ordinary columns — with the red flag at their head. Where were they going? Did they know that the city was angry and armed to the teeth? They could not have known, for they marched rapidly on to the centre of town. Then there was a third column, even sparser and less impressive, crossing the bridge through the crowds of Italian soldiers. That had a red flag too.

  Why weren’t there more of them? Why didn’t they have vehicles, artillery, anti-aircraft guns and a military band? Why only a red flag in front and a few mules carrying supplies and wounded bringing up the rear?

  Now a fourth column was coming down a hill to the north, as the first turned up Varosh Street. People rushed to the windows, shouting and waving kerchiefs. Someone played a harmonica.

  I ran out into the street. They were coming closer now, pale and haggard, wearing outfits too big or too small. I scanned them, looking for my aunt. Look, there’s a girl. Then another one with fair hair just like her. But no, it wasn’t her. Then another. Not that one either. I didn’t see Javer either. No one I knew. They were heading for the centre of town. Automatically, I fell into line beside them with a group of kids. Still no sign of my aunt. Maybe she was in another column. People shouted greetings from their windows. A group of women ran alongside the column bombarding the partisans with questions. Now and then one of the women would hug a boy who had stepped out of the ranks.

  The windows of Lady Majnur and the other agas’ wives were shut. I felt a vague anxiety. I was afraid that somewhere further on lay a trap. And I had the feeling that the column was walking right into it. The city was still crawling with enemies. Isa Toska’s gang of toughs, the Ballists with their black moustaches, wide capes and white caps adorned with a golden eagle, and the desperate horde of Italians, defeated but still armed, all seemed to be waiting to cut that thin column to pieces.

  And up at the front it did seem that something was going on. I heard voices.

  “Something’s happened.”

  “At the minaret.”

  “What happened at the minaret?”

  “His eyes.”

  “Whose eyes?”

  “With a nail! A nail!”

  “Send the children back inside!”

  “Take the children away!”

  We didn’t want to go inside. For quite a while we had been told more and more often to “get back inside, children.” The refrain was spoken so sternly that I wondered if our eyes weren’t what the city feared most of all. Ilir had gone so far as to say that they would end up putting our eyes out! Unless they covered them up with blindfolds and made us look like pirates.

  In the end we had to turn back. Something really terrible had happened. As the partisans approached the town centre, Sheikh Ibrahim, who had climbed up the minaret to watch them arrive, had suddenly drawn a huge nail from his pocket and tried to put out his own eyes. Some passers-by had charged up the minaret and just managed to tear the bloody nail from his hands. Then they tried to make him come down, but with his strength enhanced by his fury he fought to take back the nail, screaming hoarsely at the top of his lungs, “Better no eyes at all than to see communism!” Finally, after repeated futile attempts to bring him down, the people trying to stop him, themselves in danger of falling off the tower, gave up and came down, leaving the sheikh alone up there. He stood with his chest pressing against the minaret’s stone balustrade and, with his arms dangling over the edge, he began chanting an old hymn in a voice that made your blood run cold.

  Night fell on a city full of Ballists, partisans, Isa Toska’s men and a motley crowd of Italian troops. The night was thick with the sounds of orders, exclamations, passwords, horseshoes and footfalls. Halt! — Who goes there? — Death to the fascists! Freedom for the people! — Halt! Non disturbare! — We’re Isa Toska’s men. — Halt! Don’t disturb me. — What’s the password? — Non disturbare, ché spariamo. — Halt! — Freedom for the people! Death to traitors! Albania for the Albanians! — Get back! — Death to fascism! Don’t shoot! — Halt! Get back I said! — Death to the giaours! — Halt!

  The city was tossing and turning as if it were having a nightmare. It gave off a lugubrious rumble that was redolent with death.

  At dawn, calm returned. It had stopped raining. The sky was grey, but very light grey. Bido Sherifi’s wife was slipping down the alleyway.

  “Aqif Kashahu has put on the Ballist uniform,” she said, shaking the flour from her hands. “I saw him with my own eyes, the swine, all done up with leather cross-belts and ammo.”

  “A plague on him,” Grandmother spat out.

  Kako Pino pushed open the door.

  “What’s going on?” asked Aunt Xhemo, who had spent the night at our house. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Who’s in control of the city now?” Grandmother asked.

  “No one,” answered Kako Pino. “The end of the world.”

  The city was actually in the hands of the partisans. This became clear at about eight in the morning, when their patrols appeared everywhere. The Ballists had withdrawn to the Dunavat district. Isa Toska’s gang had holed up in the Baba Selim mosque. The Italians held both sides of the main road, the river bed and part of the airfield.

  It was quiet. Grandmother and Aunt Xhemo were sipping their morning coffee.

  “They say the partisans are going to open communal or communist canteens of some kind,” commented Aunt Xhemo dreamily.

  Grandmother said nothing. She adjusted the glasses on her nose and looked outside.

  “What’s all that loud knocking?” she asked. “Go and look. I think it’s coming from Nazo’s.”

  She was right. There were three partisans. The one doing the knocking had only one hand, his left hand. The other two partisans were looking up at the windows. Nazo and her daughter-in-law appeared at one of them.

&
nbsp; “Is this the residence of Maksut Gega?” asked one of the partisans.

  “Yes, it is,” said Nazo.

  “Tell Maksut to come out right now,” said the partisan.

  “He’s not home,” said Nazo.

  “Where is he?”

  “Visiting some cousins.”

  “Open up. We’ll look and see.”

  About fifteen minutes later they came out. The one-armed partisan took a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, frowned, and started reading.

  A minute later they were knocking on the main door of the Karllashi mansion. At first no one answered. They knocked again. Someone came to the window.

  “Is this the residence of Mak Karllashi?”

  “Yes, Mr Partisan.”

  “Tell Mak Karllashi and his son to come out!”

  The head disappeared from the window. There was a pause. The other two partisans unslung their rifles. The one-armed partisan knocked again. It was an iron door and the knocks reverberated all around.

  Finally there was a noise from inside. The sound of sobbing, and a woman’s scream. The door opened halfway and Mak Karllashi came out first. Someone was trying to pull him back by the sleeve. “No, father, don’t go out, don’t go out!” He came out. He had black circles under his eyes. His daughter was hanging on his arm and refused to let go. The son, wax-pale, wearing polished black boots, came out after him. “Papa!” screamed the girl, clutching his arm. Behind the door a woman was crying.

  “What do you want from us?” asked Mak Karllashi.

  His long face shook to the rhythm of the jolts passed to his body by his daughter’s sobs.

  “Mak Karllashi, you and your sons have been sentenced as enemies of the people,” the partisan said loudly, taking his gun from his shoulder with his one arm.

  A howl came from behind the door.

  “Who are you?” asked Mak Karllashi. “I don’t even know you.”

  “The people’s court,” growled the partisan, and raised the barrel of his machine-gun.

  The girl started screaming.

  “I’m no enemy of the people,” Mak Karllashi protested. “I’m a simple tanner. I make people’s shoes, I make opingas.”

  The partisan looked down at his own tattered moccasins.

  “Get out of the way, girl,” he shouted, aiming his gun at the man. The girl screamed.

  “Put down that gun, you dog,” she said blankly.

  “Out of the way, bitch,” the partisan said, levelling the gun at the two men.

  “Wait a minute, Tare,” said one of the partisans as he moved to draw the girl aside. But he didn’t have time.

  “Death to communism!” shouted Mak Karllashi.

  The gun of the one-armed partisan fired. Mak Karllashi went down first. The partisan tried to miss the girl, but in vain. She writhed tight against her father as if the bullets had stitched her body to his. After the burst of fire came a muffled silence. The bodies had fallen in a heap. They twitched for a moment, then seemed to find peace. The shiny black boots of the tanner’s son protruded from the pile of silent bodies.

  The sound of wailing came from behind the door.

  “Roll me a cigarette,” the one-armed partisan said to his friend. He looked upset.

  After a while they slung their weapons on their shoulders again. They were about to leave when heavy footsteps sounded on the cobblestones. It was a partisan patrol. Three of them, all tall, and wearing studded boots. They approached.

  “Death to fascism!”

  “Freedom for the people!”

  “What happened here?” asked the one in the middle.

  “We just executed an enemy of the people,” the one-armed partisan said.

  “The order?” said the partisan sternly.

  Partisan Tare took the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

  “Fine,” the other said.

  The three men turned to leave, when at the last moment one of them noticed Mak Karllashi’s daughter’s hair in the pile.

  “Let me see that order again,” he said, turning to Tare.

  Partisan Tare looked him in the eye. He reached slowly, very slowly, into his jacket pocket with his one arm and felt with two fingers for the piece of paper.

  The partisan from the patrol read it dutifully.

  “I see a girl was executed here,” he said. “I don’t see her name on the order.”

  “It’s not there,” said Partisan Tare, and his neck stiffened as though he’d been slapped.

  “Who shot her?”

  “I did.”

  “Your name?”

  “Tare Bonjaku.”

  “Partisan Tare Bonjaku, put down your weapon,” the patrol leader ordered. “I’m putting you under arrest.”

  Partisan Tare lowered his head.

  “Your gun.”

  His hand moved again. He shrugged the strap off his shoulder and held out the gun.

  The other man began looking around. His gaze stopped at the courtyard of Xuano’s abandoned house.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing to the courtyard.

  Partisan Tare started for the courtyard.

  “You, keep him here under arrest until the comrades come to give judgment,” he said to Tare’s two companions.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Death to Fascism!”

  “Freedom for the people.”

  The arrested partisan sat down on a pile of stones and looked at the walls of the abandoned house, which had begun to collapse.

  His companions sat some distance away. No one spoke. Outside, the cries of the Karllashi women could still be heard. They were dragging the bodies into their own yard. The arrested man asked for another cigarette. They gave it to him.

  He smoked it, then sat with his chin in his hand. The two others looked away. Finally footsteps were heard in the street. They had arrived. There were three of them.

  The man under arrest stood up. It was a short trial.

  “Partisan Tare Bonjaku, you are accused of killing a girl. Is it true?”

  “It’s true,” he answered.

  “What do you have to say in your defence?”

  “Nothing. I have only one hand. The enemies of the people cut off my right hand. I don’t shoot well with the left. I hit the girl by accident.”

  “We understand.”

  They conferred privately for a moment. Then one of them spoke:

  “Partisan Tare Bonjaku, you are sentenced to death by firing squad for the misuse of revolutionary violence.”

  Silence. The man who had just spoken gestured to Tare’s two companions.

  “Now?” one of them asked in a faint voice.

  “Yes, now.”

  Their foreheads were wet with cold sweat.

  The condemned man understood. He remained near the walls and looked at them. They took their weapons from their shoulders. He raised his one arm in a clenched-fist salute and shouted:

  “Long live communism!”

  A brief burst of fire. The partisan fell onto the pile of stones.

  They left, with the dead man’s two companions bringing up the rear.

  “We lost Tare for a filthy whore,” one of them muttered.

  “They’re killing each other now!” someone shouted in the distance. “They’re killing each other now!”

  Lady Majnur stuck her head out of the window and made a face.

  “As long as they carry on to the last man!”

  The two partisans heard her and looked up immediately, but there was no one in the window. One of them raised his machine-gun and fired a burst at the windows. Shattered panes spattered noisily on the cobblestones.

  OLD SOSE’S NEWS

  (in lieu of a chronicle)

  It is written in the ancient books: “A people with yellow hair will try to reduce this city to ashes.”

  SEVENTEEN

  The German troops had crossed the southern border and were now marching towards the city, from which the citizens were fleeing. It was the
third time in its long history that the city had been abandoned in this way. A thousand years before, the inhabitants had fled when plague struck. The second time was four centuries ago, when the imperial Ottoman army crossed the border under the banner of Islam, at the same place where the German troops were now on the march.

  The city was evacuated. You could feel the great loneliness of the stone.

  Monday night was full of voices, footsteps, the slamming of doors. Groups of friends and neighbours were getting ready, locking the heavy doors and setting out in the middle of the night for outlying villages.

  Mane Voco and Bido Sherifi, with their wives and children, had gathered in our hallway, along with Nazo and her daughter-in-law. Maksut had disappeared. I was sad because of Grandmother. She wouldn’t come with us this time either. Nor would Kako Pino. She was afraid there would be a wedding while she was gone. Someone might call her. For sixty years she had made up the city’s brides. She couldn’t let them down now. A badly made-up bride was the ugliest thing on earth, the end of the world, she had protested when they tried to persuade her to leave. No, no, no.

  We left. We walked with faltering steps, like drunkards. Here and there in the darkness we could hear other steps. The town was draining itself of people. At the outskirts of the city we found ourselves alone. Bido Sherifi led the way, cane in hand. My father kept stumbling on the stony road. The others muttered, cursed, swore, coughed, and twisted their ankles in the ruts. Only Nazo’s daughter-in-law walked gracefully, even in that sinister night, swaying very slightly. I guess she couldn’t walk any other way.

  We passed the fields lying fallow. When the moon came out we were on the high road. I had never seen anything so dismal as the road that night, with its endless ruts dug by the truck wheels. In the moonlight they looked like the black rails of a line leading towards death. Nazo stumbled, fell, and got up again.