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!
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.
