Ismail Kadare - Elegy for Kosovo

The trial that began two weeks later confirmed what the Walachian had said. It was his double faith, even his triple faith — brought to light under torture — that cost the Turk his neck. During the trial, he asserted that he had wanted to become a Christian upon seeing the cross above the Plains of Kosovo. But the Islamic faith was not prepared to leave his body without a struggle, which was why he continued praying to his prophet. “And why are you drawn to the Jewish faith? Are not the other two enough for you, eh?” the judge yelled.

A faint murmur rose from the crowd.

The Turk tried to explain that he had only listened to Heiml the Jew out of curiosity, but the crowd was already growing wild.

He was to be burned at the stake, for it was certain that he had entered into a pact with the devil. “Had he kept to his Muslim belief, he would have remained unscathed,” the judge pronounced. “And had he converted to our faith, we would have welcomed him with open arms, like a brother. But he did neither the one nor the other,” the judge continued. “He has attempted to do the impossible, to waver between two faiths, doubtless following the devil’s counsel.”

The judge spoke at length of the holy and immutable principles of the church. The antichrist was attacking from all sides, but the church was unshakable. The creation of men of two faiths was only the most recent of Satan’s inventions.

The judge glared menacingly at the small group of Balkan men who were huddling together like sheep, and spoke harsh words of warning to those who undertook to turn Europe’s Christian traditions into pagan infamy.

The Turk was burned in front of the cathedral the following day at noon. As the smoke began to envelope the convicted man, the others remembered the day before the battle, back on the Plains of Kosovo, when both sides had unleashed curtains of smoke so that they would not have to look at each other.

The Turk’s first cries came from within the smoke. Incomprehensible words, it seemed, in his language. The crowd tried to detect the word “Allah,” the only word they knew, but the convicted man did not pronounce it.

The inquisitor who had prosecuted the burning man craned his neck so he could hear better. “I think he said ‘Abracadabra,’ “he whispered to his deputy.

The other man nodded, “I believe he did.” And he raised his iron cross like a shield.

“The poor Turk!” one of the Bosnians said to his friends. “He is crying for his mother, Remember when he told us that mama in his language is abllà?”

“No, I don’t remember a thing!” The other man cut him short,

The Turk’s shouts turned into stifled moans; then he emitted a sudden and terrible “ NON!” It was an isolated shout, completely different from his previous cries, although that might only have been because it was the only Latin word he said. It was probably the first word he had learned in the Christian world, and in leaving that world, which had not accepted him, he expressed his regret in that final shout.

After the Turk was burned, the Balkan fugitives left immediately and headed north, out of fear that the Inquisition would pursue everyone in any way connected with him. The principalities they crossed became increasingly small and austere. It was as if an ancient fury had shriveled their lands and towers, while the swords of the guardsmen seemed increasingly sharp.

There were more and more searches. The fugitives were searched for hidden icons, for symptoms of the plague, for counterfeit currency. Most of the people had never heard of the Battle of Kosovo, so when the fugitives spoke of it, they aroused suspicion instead of compassion. Quite often they were told that if they were really soldiers, they should enlist as mercenaries in one of the many local regiments. There was no lack of wrangling princes and counts. The counts in particular were, more often than not, extremely belligerent and ever ready to hire ruthless warriors.

The fugitives listened in bewilderment. After the calamity of Kosovo, they could not face another war of any kind. They would rather work for blacksmiths or cheese makers. They knew how to make a type of cheese that, from what they could tell, was unknown in these parts. They also knew how to turn milk into yogurt, which was tangy, fresh, and did not spoil for days.

In the beginning, the villagers were amazed at this yogurt but then suddenly became terrified that they might find themselves burned at the stake. They quickly poured the “diseased” milk out of their jugs, and with tears in their eyes begged the Balkans not to breathe a word of this to anyone, as it would mean certain death for all concerned.

They passed through villages where different languages were spoken. One day Hans, a simpleton who tagged along part of the way, eyeing Gjorg’s lahuta, asked him, full of curiosity, what that “thingamajig” slung over his shoulder was, Gjorg was about to explain, but Hans shook his head slyly — “I know what it is! It is the instrument with which you turn milk into yogurt, ha, ha, ha!“

Gjorg laughed too, but Vladan, who had heard Hans, looked at them sullenly.

“You must throw that lahuta away, or you might well end up burned at the stake.“

“I will throw it away,” Gjorg said. “I will find a faraway, secluded spot, I shall play it one last time, and then I will throw it away.”

And he would surely have thrown it away, had not something extraordinary happened at the end of that week. Gjorg, Vladan, and Manolo, a Walachian storyteller, were summoned to a castle. The messengers who brought them the invitation told them that their lord always invited French and German minstrels to his banquets, and that he had heard about them and was interested in listening to their songs.

Gjorg was deep in thought; Vladan was on the verge of tears because he no longer had his gusla. As for Manolo — his face turned yellow and he wanted to run away, but the others managed with great difficulty to persuade him not to disgrace them.

Somehow Vladan succeeded in making a gusla by the day of the banquet. “Don’t worry!” the others said to him. “If worse comes to worst, you can use Gjorg’s lahuta.”

They placed all their hopes on this banquet. Now respect for them was bound to grow. People would see that they were good for more than just making war and cheese and “diseased” milk, that they could also sing of great deeds, just as their ancient clansmen had. Their situation would perhaps improve, suspicions would be dispelled, and perhaps they would even be granted permission to settle down in this place.

The Balkan fugitives escorted the minstrels part of the way and bade them good luck. Bathed and combed, their faces tense with agitation, the three of them, together with a Croat who could mimic the calls of birds and wolves, disappeared through the castle’s heavy portal.

The Balkan fugitives crossed themselves three times; some of them fell to their knees; others prayed with burning fervor: “Do not abandon us, Holy Mary, Mother of God!”

Adozen minstrels waited in a row for their turn. The French sang of Roland, their hero who had blown his horn before dying, and the Germans sang of the ring of their lord whose name was Siegfried. Another minstrel, who seemed to be neither German nor French, sang of a Vilhelm who had shot an arrow at an apple he had placed on his son’s head.

When their turn came, the lord of the castle announced to his company that they were going to hear the Balkan minstrels who had come straight from the Battle of Kosovo, where the Turks had dealt Christendom a bitter blow. “Let us all hope and pray that this blow will be the last!”