Ismail Kadare - The Fall of the Stone City

The car stopped with a jolt.

The inner gates creaked louder than the outer pair. The investigators walked in silence behind the guard, who led them down the long vaulted passage. They found Gurameto huddled on a straw mattress. They helped him to sit up on a chair at the table and brought him coffee with milk.

“Thank you,” said the prisoner in German.

It took him some time to collect himself.

It was hard for Shaqo Mezini too. His head felt as heavy as lead. He recited, like a monologue learned by heart, the greater part of what had been running through his mind for the last thirty hours. When he came to the words, “Do what they did”, he had a sudden mental block.

The prisoner looked at him helplessly, uncomprehending.

“What the hell,” the investigator said to himself, and leafed through the file at random. A short letter in German caught his eye.

“What do you say to this?” he said quietly, handing it to the prisoner.

Gurameto took it from him with a shaking hand.

“This is from my Jewish colleague. This is the second time you’ve asked me.”

“Of course. The letter was intercepted by Soviet intelligence.”

Shaqo Mezini read the translated text for the umpteenth time. “My dear colleague, what has happened to you? I have had no news from you since I arrived in Jerusalem. How are you? Have they bothered you because of me? Please write. My heartfelt greetings, Jakoel.”

What the hell, Shaqo Mezini thought again. What was the relevance of this letter to what he wanted to say? His memory had never failed him like this before. This bloody doctor had worn him out.

“Do what they did,” he said again. This was where he had got stuck. He held his head in the palm of his hand.

“I’ve got it,” he almost exclaimed aloud. His train of thought came back to him. He was talking about the dinner. Of course, that was where it all began. That was the riddle. Nobody could penetrate its innermost depths, its darkest recesses, not all the investigators of the communist camp, not even the Nazis in their day. Not Colonel Klaus Hempf, nor Gurameto himself.

This mystery loomed above everything, and its roots ran deep. Political regimes fell and states were overthrown but the spores of this organism survived. The “Joint” was one of them. The participants themselves did not understand how far it stretched. Murder was only part of its activities. Would Hitler have been a target? His turn might have come. Do something for your country.

All the communist secret services had been on the trail of the “Joint”. Stalin was waiting. Did Dr Gurameto understand what this meant? That Stalin himself was waiting. .

Let Dr Gurameto make this sacrifice for his country.

Sooner or later, the “Joint” would be exposed. Let it be Albania’s destiny to do this. Let Albania unmask it and become the golden boy of the bloc, of Stalin himself.

Shaqo Mezini was exhausted. The prisoner’s face showed not the slightest comprehension. The investigators tried to calm themselves. In cold, precise terms they told Gurameto what they expected of him. A simple thing, a confession. In other words, a signature, admitting he was a member of the “Joint”, as no doubt he was. Just like his old college friend, Fritz von Schwabe and the other colonel, Klaus Hempf. And Little Dr Gurameto, who had already signed.

He had no reason to stare at them like that. He had said it himself during the famous dinner. “I’m not Albania. Just as you’re not Germany. We’re something else.”

“You were members of the ‘Joint’, Jews, Germans, Albanians, Hungarians. You held your meetings everywhere. The meeting in Albania was just one in a series.”

The investigators interrupted one another in their haste.

“You were everywhere. Like the plague.”

Everybody knew about the Zionist “Joint” and felt its presence, but it was invisible to the eye. Only Gurameto could see it, only he could fathom the unfathomable. He could explain this dinner and illuminate its dark void. So they could finally get out of this cave. “Talk, you. . de—”

Whether they pronounced the word “devil” before they saw the shackled man shake his head or just afterwards, they could not tell, neither then nor later. They recollected only a scream of “It’s finished!” after which Shaqo Mezini held on to his colleague to keep himself upright.

At three in the morning they gave the order for the prisoner to be put to torture.

When dawn broke the torture was still continuing. People came and went through the chambers of the cave like ghosts. The shouts of the torturers were heard, interspersed with Gurameto’s groans. “The name of the chief. His nickname. Your cover name. The secret code. Talk!”

The tapping of a cane was heard in the semi-darkness. It must be Blind Vehip who for some reason they had brought there, only to take him away again.

The shouts were gruff, unvarying. “After Stalin, who? Where? You? When? With poison? Radiation? Talk!”

The mournful strains of a gypsy song were heard from somewhere. Shaqo Mezini remembered the day when his fiancée had left him. He had heard a song like this in the distance. He could not remember the words but they more or less went “You said farewell to me/But not to my knife in your heart.”

He had the feeling that this was not the first time he had dreamed of Sanisha. She seemed composed and aloof, especially towards himself. Finally she set aside her indifference and, turning her pale face towards him asked, “Is your investigation about me?”

Shaqo Mezini shrugged his shoulders, which seemed to him the best he could do. It was a kind of answer that combined an apology (he was only doing his job) with a feeble protest (an investigation in your cave doesn’t necessarily mean it’s about you).

She was not at all angry, but not grateful either. In different circumstances this ravished woman might have opened her heart to him. “Officer, if you only knew what they did to me.” But she remained cold and distant.

He heard the indistinct buzz of conversation around him. There was a double door through which he could see sparkling chandeliers and people moving to and fro. He heard the name of Stalin, but it seemed to him improper to ask what was happening. Then he understood: Comrade Stalin was hosting a dinner in the Kremlin. Journalists were relaying the news. “Comrade Stalin, on this occasion. . All communists should know that the peoples of the world owe a debt. . ”

Sanisha appeared again among the guests. “I don’t care,” she said to Shaqo Mezini, “but I’m sure my brother won’t like it. No brother wants his sister’s rape investigated.” The investigator shrugged his shoulders again. He wanted to ask if she was invited to Comrade Stalin’s dinner. Comrade Stalin, the Father of the Peoples. Then she said, “Perhaps you’re no longer frightened of my brother, Ali Pasha Tepelene. In my day, everybody was terrified of him.”

It was the sort of dream that you could, with a little effort, snap yourself out of. Shaqo Mezini forced it away but it lingered in his mind. Even after he opened his eyes he could hear the words, “Comrade Stalin, Comrade Stalin, the glorious leader.”

He leaped out of bed and ran to the window. Even before flinging the window open, he identified the source of his torment. The voice came from a huge loudspeaker on top of the castle. You did not need to hear the words to know this meant bad news. Loudspeakers did not broadcast anything else. The words came distorted, fragmentary. “At this hour of trial, when Comrade Stalin is suffering. . ”

At least he’s not dead, Shaqo Mezini thought.

On the street, as he ran towards the Interior Ministry’s branch office, he heard the broadcast distinctly from another direction. It was a bulletin on the patient’s condition. “Breathing difficulties. . intermittent. .”