The Fall of the Stone City
Read The Fall of the Stone City Online
Authors: Ismail Kadare
ALSO BY ISMAIL KADARE
The General of the Dead Army
The Wedding
Broken April
The Concert
The Palace of Dreams
The Three-Arched Bridge
The Pyramid
The File on H
Albanian Spring: Anatomy of Tyranny
Elegy for Kosovo
Spring Flowers, Spring Frost
PUBLISHED BY CANONGATE
The Successor
Chronicle in Stone
Agamemnon’s Daughter, with The Blinding Order and The Great Wall
The Siege
The Ghost Rider
The Accident
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE
Copyright © Ismail Kadare, 2008
Translation copyright © John Hodgson, 2011
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
First published in Albania as
Darka e Gabuar
in 2008 by Onufri
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 0 85786 011 8
eISBN 978 0 85786 333 1
Typeset in Bembo by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire
This digital edition first published in 2012 by Canongate Books
1943
CHAPTER ONE
No sign of jealousy between Big Dr Gurameto and Little Dr Gurameto had ever been apparent. Although they bore the same surname they had no family connection and had it not
been for medicine their destinies would surely never have become entwined; still less would they have acquired the labels “big” and “little”, which created a relationship
between them that doubtless neither desired.
It was as if a hidden hand had ensured that the city’s two most famous surgeons could never be separated, even if they had wished, and moreover had created an equilibrium between them that
would never be upset. Big Dr Gurameto was not only older and more imposing than his colleague but had studied gynaecology in Germany, definitely a larger and more formidable country than Italy,
where Little Dr Gurameto had trained. Although the competition between the two was slow to surface, everybody was sure it existed, carefully concealed, and that one day it would burst out with
noise and furore into the greatest medical rivalry the city had ever known.
Meanwhile both doctors, or rather the relationship between them, played a significant role in every public event. This was perhaps because the people found it hard to hold two members of the
profession in equal esteem and could hardly wait for one to get the better of the other. So far, Big Dr Gurameto had claimed the victory on every occasion; although this might be too strong a
phrase, just as it would be an exaggeration to call the other doctor the loser.
Four years earlier, the event that some people called
the Italian invasion
and others
Albania’s unification with Italy
seemed designed specifically to upset the equilibrium
between the two doctors and elevate one at the expense of the other. But the contest remained inconclusive: on one day the little doctor seemed certain to win, and on the next the big one. Little
Dr Gurameto never gave anything away but Big Dr Gurameto’s face wore an expression of suppressed fury. This made him look more imposing than ever. There was a lot of speculation as to why he
should look so furious. A satirical paper finally identified his anger as a pale reflection of the rage reportedly felt by Adolf Hitler when his friend Benito Mussolini disembarked in Albania
without telling him beforehand.
Finally, after the first confused weeks, Big Dr Gurameto had emerged with his authority enhanced. Some found this paradoxical while to others it was a logical thing because, quite apart from the
Italian occupation and the infighting between the Duce and the Führer, Germany remained the senior ally. If Germany abandoned Italy, Little Dr Gurameto’s country would be in the
soup.
In the autumn of 1943 that is precisely what happened: Italy suddenly capitulated and lost her friend. Alliances have been broken throughout history but in this case the
prospects for Italy were especially grim. To make matters worse, Italy’s big German brother felt not the slightest pity but turned violently against her. Germany accused Italy of betrayal and
showered her with insults and contempt. Germany’s rage was uncontainable and German soldiers were ordered to shoot their former allies on the spot as deserters.
Events moved so fast that the city of Gjirokastër, accustomed to viewing the world in both broad and detailed perspective, seemed to lose its bearings. Its bewilderment was such that for
the first time ever the city failed to interpret the situation in so far as it affected the two Dr Gurametos. The new balance of power after Italy’s surrender should have offered an ideal
opportunity to reassess the relationship between the men: Italy was on her knees, the German Army was advancing north from Greece to fill the vacuum left in Albania and Big Dr Gurameto and Little
Dr Gurameto were going about the city as always. But the chance was missed. The city’s inhabitants shook their heads, sighed and reached the philosophical conclusion that this oversight was
surest proof of the dramatic nature of the events.
The longer people pondered the political situation, the more complicated and even mysterious it seemed. Italy had capitulated, as everybody knew, but what was the status of Albania? Either she
had capitulated together with Italy or some other interpretation was called for, and the more one tried to explain the situation, the more confused it became.
Sometimes the question was put more simply. Albania had been one of the three component parts of the now fallen empire. Did this mean that one third of Germany’s fury would fall on
her?
It was not easy to find the answer. Any fool could see that Italy was bearing the brunt of Germany’s anger but nobody could forecast what would happen to the other two parts of the empire,
Ethiopia and Albania. But then, who else but the Albanians could be the targets of German rage? The German Army was less than forty miles away. Germany was surely drooling at the mouth, like a wolf
that has caught sight of a lamb.
A feeling of helplessness had the city in its grip when an unexpected development put an end to all uncertainty. One morning two unknown aircraft dropped thousands of leaflets over
Gjirokastër. They were in two languages, German and Albanian, and provided a full explanation. Germany was not invading, she merely wanted to pass through Albania. She was coming as a friend.
Not only did Germany have no quarrel with Albania, in fact she was liberating the country from the hated Italian occupation and restoring Albania’s violated independence. She recognised
ethnic Albania with Kosovo and Çamëria within its borders.
Despite this reassurance some sceptics came out with the familiar refrain. “How can those high-ups tell what’s happening down here?” By “high-ups” they implied both
high-level German officials and the aircraft dropping the leaflets. Yet the city’s nightmare did seem finally to be over. People could not believe their eyes, although the text was plain and
moreover in two languages. It was almost too good to be true.
With calmer minds people began offering their opinions of the leaflets. As always, these were divided. Some liked this form of advance notice, so untypical of the deviousness of modern life.
“Nowadays some almighty state can cross your border at night like a thief and protest the next morning without a flicker of shame, ‘It was you who attacked me.’ This prior warning
in broad daylight is totally transparent, indeed gentlemanly, like sending a visiting card.”
“Nonsense,” said others. “This visiting card business is precisely the worst possible insult to any country, especially a brave country like ours. ‘Albania, I’m
coming tomorrow morning. Come out to welcome me at ten o’clock. Never mind what people say about me. Take no notice of my artillery and tanks, because Germany is good, and brings culture and
bouquets of flowers.’ Are you witless enough to believe this twaddle?”
“At least visiting cards are preferable to bombs,” said the others in self-defence.
A third group, sticklers for rules and regulations, raised another concern. Their anxiety was of a special kind, as fastidious in its demands as an overfed tomcat, arrogant and somehow brazen.
“All right, so Germany has stated her intentions, but what stand will Albania take?”
This question created a sense of unease. “Rather than being finicky we should thank God the Germans haven’t torn us to shreds like they did the Greeks.” Various proverbs were
cited in illustration, especially the one about the starved goat with its tail held high.
Meanwhile those with more patience urged caution. They produced some flyers they had found, left on their doorsteps overnight. These were not such attractive productions as the leaflets that had
fallen from the air. They were in only one language and were the opposite of the leaflets in every respect. The flyers called for war and nothing but war, and vilified the Germans as evil invaders,
worse even than the Italians.
People grew suspicious and gave the matter more consideration. Apparently there were two schools of thought in Albania as a whole. This fact made little impression on Gjirokastër. Everybody
knew that there had been occasions when the city thought itself wiser than the rest of the country, and this case called for her wisdom, because it would fall to Gjirokastër, as the first
large city through which the Germans would pass, to deal with them before anyone else.
CHAPTER TWO
The city had always had a reputation for arrogance. There were different explanations for this. Viewed in the most charitable light, its pride was an aspect of its isolation.
The supporters of this theory, conscious of its obvious inadequacy, would hasten to add that “isolation” in this context required some qualification. The city was surrounded by a
far-reaching hinterland with which it was on poor terms and the inhabitants of this hinterland considered the city alien, if not their actual enemy. At its back to the north, among the endless
mountains full of foxes and wolves, lay the rugged and apparently innumerable villages of Labëria. To the east beyond the river and its valley lay the villages of Lunxhëria, which were
also irritating to the city but for the opposite reason: because of their gentleness. Then there were the Greek-minority villages stretched along both sides of the river valley to the south. The
Greek peasants who worked the land as sharecroppers were treated with disdain but perhaps provoked the city even more. The subtle irritation they caused was felt more during the hours of sleep than
by day, and there was no reason for it at all. The presence of these Greeks was like a temptation to sin, leading the residents of the city into prejudiced opinions against not only the Greeks, but
Hellenism as a whole, the state of Greece, its politics, and even its language.
To complicate this patchwork further, in the very middle of the territory, or more precisely between the city and the Greek-minority area, lay Lazarat, the most stubborn and vicious village
imaginable. Historians, unable to account for its rancour towards Gjirokastër, said only that this malice did no harm, as long as the city bore the brunt of it and prevented it from seeping
further into Albania.
It was said that on dark nights the lights of Gjirokastër, though faint and distant, so irked the villagers of Lazarat that they fired guns in the direction of the stone city.