Avdo Babaramo and his wife locked themselves in the house for several days. Then he hired a mule for three months, collected some money, and set out to look for his son in the mountains. He was up there now, moving around.
A war winter, that’s what all the women who came to visit called it.
One day when I went to answer a knock at the door I was struck dumb. It was my maternal grandmother, who usually came to see us maybe once a year, since she was too heavy to make long journeys. And she never went out except in the spring, because she couldn’t stand it if the weather was too hot or too cold. Yet here she was on our doorstep, her big face looking pale and worried.
“It’s Grandma!” I called up the stairs.
My mother came running down the stairs sick with worry.
“What’s happened?” she cried.
Grandma shook her head slowly. “Calm down,” she said. “No one died.”
Grandmother came to the top of the stairs and stood there like a statue.
“Welcome,” she said calmly.
“Thank you, Selfixhe. It’s good to find you all well.”
Grandma was so out of breath from climbing up the stairs that she could barely get the sentence out.
We all waited.
The two grandmothers went into the main room and sat facing one another on the divans.
“My daughter,” our visitor said through her sobs and tears, “my youngest has run off to be a partisan.”
My mother sighed and sank onto the divan. Grandmother’s grey eyes didn’t blink.
“I thought it was something worse than that,” my mother said softly.
Grandma continued to weep bitterly.
“A marriageable girl. Just when I was preparing her trousseau, she runs away, leaves everything. All alone in the mountains in this weather! She’s only seventeen! Left all her embroidery half-done, strewn all over the house. Oh my God!”
“Get hold of yourself,” said Grandmother. “I was wondering what on earth it could be. But look, she’s with friends. She’s gone, and crying won’t bring her back. Let’s just hope she comes back one day safe and sound.”
Wet with tears, Grandma’s face looked even more laughable.
“But what about the family’s honour, Selfixhe?” she moaned. “What will people say?”
“Her honour will depend on the honour her comrades win,” Grandmother said. “Make us some coffee, my child.”
My mother put the coffee pot on the stove. I could hardly contain my joy. Taking advantage of the general turmoil, I slipped downstairs and ran over to Ilir’s. I had completely forgotten that we were at loggerheads. He came out looking furious.
“Ilir, guess what! My aunt has joined the partisans.”
Ilir was stunned.
“Really?”
I told him everything I knew. He looked thoughtful.
“Then why doesn’t Isa go too?” he said at last, almost angrily.
I didn’t know what to say.
“He’s up in his room with Javer,” Ilir said. “They sit around all day spinning the globe round and round.”
We went upstairs. The door of Isa’s room was ajar. Ilir went in first and I followed. They pretended not to notice us. Isa was sitting in a chair, chin on his fist, looking very annoyed.
“They know better than we do,” Javer was saying.
“If they order us to stay here, it means that’s what we have to do.”
Isa said nothing.
“The front is everywhere,” Javer said a moment later. “Maybe we’re doing a better job by just staying where we are.”
Silence again. The two of us stood stock still. The older boys were still pretending not to see us. Suddenly Ilir said, “How come you two don’t go and join the partisans?”
Javer turned around. Isa seemed to freeze for a moment. Then suddenly he jumped up, spun around, and slapped his brother on the face.
Ilir put his hand to his cheek. His eyes glistened, but he didn’t cry. We trooped out feeling mortified. We went downstairs in silence and walked out into the courtyard. The windows of Isa’s room were right above our heads. We looked up in fury, then shouted:
“Down with traitors!”
“Down with civil war!”
Upstairs a door slammed. We ran off as fast as we could and found ourselves in the street.
By the time I got home, Grandma had gone.
In the days that followed, the only topic of conversation was about who had joined up. Every morning the women would open their shutters and exchange the latest news.
“Bido Sherifi’s other nephew has taken to the hills as well.”
“Really? Have you heard anything about Kokobobo’s daughter?”
“They say she’s gone off too.”
“The word is that Isa Toska’s people killed her.”
“I don’t know anything about it. Avdo Babaramo hasn’t come back yet. He’s still looking for his poor son’s body.”
“The poor old man. Wandering through the mountains in this winter weather.”
Grandmother, Kako Pino and Bido Sherifi’s wife were sitting on the sofas and sipping coffee when there was a knock at the door. To everyone’s amazement, it was Lady Majnur.
“How are you, ladies? How are things? I thought I’d call. We haven’t had a word since the air raids.”
“Welcome, Majnur Hanum,” my mother said.
Lady Majnur sat down next to Grandmother.
“I heard about your misfortune,” said Lady Majnur, shaking her head. “A terrible blow, Selfixhe. Most unfortunate.”
“Life brings many trials.”
“True, Selfixhe, very true.”
Lady Majnur’s glassy eyes followed Mamma as she went to make the coffee.
“They’ve gone up to the mountains to join up, the bitches,” she hissed.
No one answered.
My mother brought the coffee.
“Up in the mountains all the boys and girls sleep around without a second thought,” said Lady Majnur. “Just wait. You’ll see. They’ll all come back with babies.”
My mother turned pale. Lady Majnur’s face grew harsher. A gold tooth in the right side of her mouth seemed to be smiling for all the others.
“But they’ll catch them now, one by one,” she went on. “They have nowhere to go. They’ve run out of food and clothing. In the middle of winter, with all the wolves. Anyway, they say a lot of them can hardly move. Obviously not. Pregnant to the eyeballs…”
“Come, Lady Majnur,” said Grandmother. “Don’t talk that way. Those stories might be slander.”
There was a deep silence.
My mother turned away to hide her tears and went into the other room.
“You were harsh,” said Grandmother.
Lady Majnur’s glassy eyes tried to smile, but Bido Sherifi’s wife stood up. Then she exploded:
“Dirty witch!” And she went to join my mother in the other room.
“The end of the world,” said Kako Pino to no one in particular.
Lady Majnur stood up, puce with anger.
Grandmother did not budge. She was looking out at the winter-ravaged earth.
“Young boys and girls are getting together in the cellars to sing forbidden songs. They say they want to overthrow the old world and build a new one.”
“A new world? What will this new world be like?”
“They’re the ones who know, sister, they alone. But listen, come close and listen. They say that blood will have to be spilled for this new world to be built.”
“That I can believe. If an animal has to be sacrificed when a new bridge is built, what will it take to build a whole new world?”
“A hecatomb.”
“Good Lord! What are you saying?”
FRAGMENT OF A CHRONICLE
according to bulletin no. 1187. Countless Russian troops and tanks have been annihilated by the murderous fire of the Germans. A battle of apocalyptic scale. Only German and Italian troops, Mussolini has declared, could have endured a winter so harsh, the worst in a hundred and forty years. Timoshenko, wounded and bleeding, is roaming through the steppes of Russia which are now piled high with corpses. Trial. Executive measures. Property. New evidence brought by the Karllashis. Gillette razor blades. Registered trademark. Safety blades. I hereby prohibit all assemblies in the streets, squares and houses. I order the suspension of weddings and funerals. Garrison commander Bruno Arcivo