Free The General of the Dead Army by Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman
Authors: Ismaíl Kadaré, Derek Coltman
particular interest in such matters, you understand but, because I was always here in the café working, I naturally tended to be one of the first to learn of any event affecting our town. And that was how it was on that particular day. The café was full when the rumour first started, and we never did find out who started it. Some said it came from a soldier who’d spent the night in our hotel here and got blind drunk before leaving for the front in Greece. Others claimed that it originated from a certain Lame Spiri, who was always positively obsessed with such things. Not that it really mattered one way or the other. We were so amazed and shaken up that we didn’t really care whether it was the soldier or that blackguard Lame Spiri that the news actually came from.
“I ought to add here that it wasn’t easy to surprise us at that time. It was wartime for one thing, and we were hearing incredible, fantastic stories every day. And we all thought there was nothing left in the world that could surprise us after that day when we saw the anti-tank guns and the anti-aircraft guns with their long barrels rolling through our streets for the first time, making such a terrible din that we all thought the entire town was about to come tumbling round our ears. And we were even more convinced when the aeroplanes started fighting right over our heads, not to mention a lot of other things that happened after that.
“And then for a time the whole town talked about nothing but the English pilot who was shot down just outside the town. I saw his hand with my own eyes, it was all there was left of him. I saw it when they showed it to the townspeople, out on the main square, with a scrap of his burnt shirt. It looked just like a piece of yellowed wood, and you could even see the ring on his ring finger, they hadn’t got round to taking it off.
“So we were used to hearing about things of that kind, and even the most unexpected events no longer had much effect on us. And yet, somehow the news that they were going to open a licensed brothel here shattered everyone no end. We were prepared for anything - but not for that. In fact the news was so surprising that a lot of people refused to believe it at first.
“Our town is a very ancient one. It has survived through many different times and many different customs but how could it ever have foreseen anything like this? How could it suffer such a terrible shame in its old age, our town that had always been a byword for honour all through the years? What was to be done? It was a terrible problem, and one that threw us all into distress and confusion. Something strange and new and terrible was creeping into our life, as if the occupation, the barracks crammed with foreign soldiers, the bombings and the hunger weren’t a heavy enough burden upon us already. We didn’t understand then that this was just another side of life in wartime, no different really, no better and no worse, than the bombings, the barracks, and the hunger.
“The day after the news first went round a delegation of elders walked in a group to the town hall; and that night another group met in my café to prepare a petition to the Fascist emperor’s lieutenant-general in Tirana. For hours they sat there, round this very table, writing page after page, while a crowd of others stood around nearby, drinking coffee, smoking, wandering off on some business of their own, then coming back to ask how the letter was getting on. A lot of the women began to get worried and sent their children to make sure their husbands weren’t a drop too many. For there were not many of us who realized that writing a letter, even one addressed not to the king in person but to his lieutenant-general, could be such a difficult thing to do.
“I had never closed the place as late as I did that night. At last the letter was finished and someone read it out. I don’t remember too well exactly what they’d put in it. I only know that it said how
“I ought to add here that it wasn’t easy to surprise us at that time. It was wartime for one thing, and we were hearing incredible, fantastic stories every day. And we all thought there was nothing left in the world that could surprise us after that day when we saw the anti-tank guns and the anti-aircraft guns with their long barrels rolling through our streets for the first time, making such a terrible din that we all thought the entire town was about to come tumbling round our ears. And we were even more convinced when the aeroplanes started fighting right over our heads, not to mention a lot of other things that happened after that.
“And then for a time the whole town talked about nothing but the English pilot who was shot down just outside the town. I saw his hand with my own eyes, it was all there was left of him. I saw it when they showed it to the townspeople, out on the main square, with a scrap of his burnt shirt. It looked just like a piece of yellowed wood, and you could even see the ring on his ring finger, they hadn’t got round to taking it off.
“So we were used to hearing about things of that kind, and even the most unexpected events no longer had much effect on us. And yet, somehow the news that they were going to open a licensed brothel here shattered everyone no end. We were prepared for anything - but not for that. In fact the news was so surprising that a lot of people refused to believe it at first.
“Our town is a very ancient one. It has survived through many different times and many different customs but how could it ever have foreseen anything like this? How could it suffer such a terrible shame in its old age, our town that had always been a byword for honour all through the years? What was to be done? It was a terrible problem, and one that threw us all into distress and confusion. Something strange and new and terrible was creeping into our life, as if the occupation, the barracks crammed with foreign soldiers, the bombings and the hunger weren’t a heavy enough burden upon us already. We didn’t understand then that this was just another side of life in wartime, no different really, no better and no worse, than the bombings, the barracks, and the hunger.
“The day after the news first went round a delegation of elders walked in a group to the town hall; and that night another group met in my café to prepare a petition to the Fascist emperor’s lieutenant-general in Tirana. For hours they sat there, round this very table, writing page after page, while a crowd of others stood around nearby, drinking coffee, smoking, wandering off on some business of their own, then coming back to ask how the letter was getting on. A lot of the women began to get worried and sent their children to make sure their husbands weren’t a drop too many. For there were not many of us who realized that writing a letter, even one addressed not to the king in person but to his lieutenant-general, could be such a difficult thing to do.
“I had never closed the place as late as I did that night. At last the letter was finished and someone read it out. I don’t remember too well exactly what they’d put in it. I only know that it said how