Chronicle in Stone (17 page)

Winter. White terror. Those words were everywhere. As was the frost. One day, I woke very early, got out of bed, and went upstairs to the main room. Thick clouds like wet, muddy sponges had settled over the city. The sky was black as pitch. A supernatural light spilled in through a single rent in the cloud cover. It slid over the grey roofs and came to rest on a white house. The only white building in the neighbourhood. I had never noticed that before. It looked sinister among the grey houses at that time of the morning.

What house was this? Where did it come from? And why do they call what’s happening these days a “white terror”? Why not green terror, or blue terror?

I had grown more and more afraid of the colour white. The white roses I could remember, the drapes in the main room, Grandmother’s nightgown all now seemed inscribed with the word “terror”.

FRAGMENT OF A CHRONICLE

rder. Any person found to have connections with the terrorists will be sentenced to death. I hereby declare a curfew from four in the afternoon to six in the morning. Garrison commander: Emilio de Fiori. Curfew exemptions previously granted to midwives are hereby cancelled. I order a census of the city pop

SIXTEEN

The highway, the bridge over the river, and Zalli Street teemed with soldiers, mules and trucks heading slowly north. Italy had capitulated. Long columns of soldiers with blankets on their shoulders were coming into the city. Some of them still bore their arms. Others had thrown them away or had sold them. The cobblestones were filthy with mud trampled in by their boots. The streets rang with shouting and swearing in Italian. The milling mass of soldiers got more and more chaotic. Some of them left straight away to go further north, while fresh columns, each filthier than the last, arrived from the south. Rain-soaked, exhausted, and unshaven, the soldiers all trudged up steep Zalli Street, gazing in stupor at the tall stone houses.

The gloomy winter city looked down its nose at the defeated. Soon they too would wander through the snow like ghosts, mumbling “
pane, pane
”.

Llukan the Jailbird with his blanket over his shoulder came down the road from the prison.

“Everyone’s gone!” he was shouting. “Not a soul left in the prison. It’s enough to make you cry.”

The nuns left too. The prostitutes had climbed aboard a truck, and when it started off, Lame Kareco Spiri ran after it for a long time in the rain. Splattered by its rear wheels, he chased it madly, gesturing at the girls who, crammed into the back and whipped by the wind, waved back at him. When he finally gave up he walked back into the city looking utterly miserable and muttering unceasingly, “What am I going to do without them?”

Long, apparently endless columns continued to march along the highway. The whole city was spotted with mud.

“Disgusting, isn’t it Selfixhe?” said Aunt Xhemo, who had just arrived for a visit. “The world is one big mudhole.”

“Well,” said Grandmother, “that’s the way kingdoms come to an end.”

“Yes, they’re leaving all right,” said Aunt Xhemo, “but others will take their place, and leave their mud and filth behind.”

The city had really been disguised by a mask of ugliness. The reddish-brown mud clashed with its distinguished tones of grey. The retreating Italians had muddied us all, just like the back wheels of the truck that carried off the ladies of the bordello.

I sat at the window in the main room two flights up and watched the routed army. The remnants of Greece had been scattered by the winter wind. Italy, on the other hand, was sunk in mire.

Grandmother and Aunt Xhemo, with their funny-looking ancient glasses with the cracked lenses perched on their noses, watched the road full of soldiers.

“Well, now Italy has been thrashed as well,” Aunt Xhemo said. “They were a thorn in our side long enough.”

“They didn’t give us an easy time, that’s for sure,” commented Grandmother.

“Where will those poor lads go now, in the cold, and with so little to be had?” Aunt Xhemo asked.

“They’ll be on the road,” said Grandmother. “Where else can they go?”

“Pity the mothers waiting for them!”

“That’s how it is when nations collapse in winter,” said Grandmother.

Aunt Xhemo sighed.

“Blankets,” she said a moment later, “a whole world of blankets.”

The column of troops and mules kept on coming through the night. In the morning it stretched out just as far, making it seem as if yesterday’s men and animals were still trudging past. Soiled with mud, the city awoke from a restless night to an even more troubled dawn. Isa Toska’s gang had come into the city during the night, singing old songs. At dawn they were followed by some Ballist detachments. In the morning the two groups, mixed in with the throng of harried Italian soldiers, wandered about almost side by side at the corners and squares, pretending not to notice one another. Here and there some scuffles broke out between Ballist patrols and Isa Toska’s men.

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.

“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.