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 The Ballists had withdrawn to the Dunavat district.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.
“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.