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