But Big Dr Gurameto said nothing of the sort. The thought in his mind was of something entirely different.
In fact it was not a thought at all but a sudden, incongruous flashback of the strange dream of which the colonel had reminded him a few hours before on the city square. Instantaneously and with blinding clarity he saw himself stretched out on the operating table. He looked up — the surgeon operating on him was himself. This came as a surprise to him but what struck him most was the expression on the surgeon’s face. It did not reveal whether the surgeon recognised him or not. Gurameto even wanted to say to him, “It’s me, don’t you know me?” But at that moment the surgeon, with the scalpel in his hand, gave a slight sign of recognition, as if this patient were a person he had met before. Again, Gurameto wanted to say, “Careful, be gentle, don’t you see it’s me, your own self?” But the surgeon donned his protective mask and Gurameto could only try to interpret the expression of this mask. It changed, sometimes suggesting that the surgeon would be gentle, as if to himself, but at other times the masked face conveyed the opposite impression, that he was the last person from whom Gurameto could expect kindness.
Gurameto wanted to question the surgeon but the anaesthetic prevented him. The expression of the mask grew sterner. It seemed to say, now that you’re in my hands, you’ll see what I’ll do to you. The torture continued. The mask bent over him. As the surgeon was about to make the first incision, he whispered, “Don’t you know that a person’s worst enemy is his own self?”
The colonel was talking at the dinner table but his voice came as if from a distance. The doctor could not be sure if he heard him correctly. “You brought me back to life, Gurameto.” His voice was soft, very faint. “You brought me back to life, but to your own misfortune.”
Of course this evening was his misfortune. From now on the whole city would revile him as a traitor. In the days, months and years to come, even after his death, this was how he would be remembered.
He wanted to wake from this nightmare too, but what came from his mouth were only a few calm words. “Fritz, free the hostages.”
The dinner table froze.
“Was?”
The master of the house looked forlornly at his guest. “Free the hostages, Fritz,” he repeated. “Libera obsides.”
“How dare you?” A lump in the colonel’s throat strangled his words. “How dare you give me orders. If you weren’t. . ”
The colonel left the phrase unsaid, but everyone knew what he wanted to say. If you weren’t my old college friend, from that tavern on the other side of ravaged Europe, there would be Armageddon here.
The colonel put his hand on Dr Gurameto’s shoulder, as if comforting someone in shock. In a gentle, soothing voice and with a playful smile, he said, “You gave me an order in a dead language. What did you mean by that, my friend?”
The officers at the table stared wide-eyed, moving their hands from their champagne glasses to their revolvers and back again.
The colonel repeated his question and added, “Was this a slight to the German language?”
Gurameto shook his head but his explanation was confused. It had nothing to with German. He loved Latin and always had done. He had spoken in Latin impulsively, without thinking. They had spoken Latin in their student days, to tell each other secrets.
The colonel thought for a moment, and sipped his champagne. “You asked me to free the hostages,” he said quietly. “Tell me why!”
“They’re innocent,” the doctor replied. “No other reason.”
As they sat at the dinner table, outside in the darkness German soldiers were knocking on the doors of the houses of Gjirokastër.
The doctor asked how the hostages were being selected. Was their fate written on their faces?
The colonel replied that every tenth house was being chosen, as in all reprisals. “Dr Gurameto, you want justice as much as I do. Listen to me! Hand over whoever fired on my advance party and I will release the hostages. On the spot. I give you my word. I give you my word of honour, according to the Code of Lekë Dukagjini.”
Gurameto did not reply.
“That’s my bargain with the city. This offer is on the table.”
Still Dr Gurameto did not speak and the colonel leaned over, his face close to the doctor’s. “If the city won’t hand them over, give them to me yourself.”
The doctor said nothing.
“Gurameto, my brother,” the colonel said more gently. “I don’t want to spill Albanian blood. I came as a guest, with promises and gifts, but you fired on me.” His voice was once again disconsolate, broken.
“Give me those damned names,” said the colonel, now almost pleading. “Give them to me and the hostages are yours, instantly.”
Gurameto shook his head in refusal, but diffidently. “I can’t,” he said. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I don’t know who they are. I don’t know their names, because they don’t have any.”
“Now you’re playing games with me.”
“I’m not joking, Fritz. They don’t have names, only nicknames.”
One of the officers, apparently belonging to the Gestapo, nodded.
The colonel raised his hands to his head and the doctor drew close to his ear, like at the beginning of the dinner, when they had teased each other about their confidences at the Widow Martha’s Tavern.
The colonel listened and then said very softly, “Gurameto, you know some deep mysteries that nobody else does.”
Dr Gurameto’s reply was a startling one. “So much the worse for you. Free the hostages!”
“I can’t.” Now it was the colonel’s turn to say this.
“Yes you can,” said Gurameto. “You know you can.”
“If you can’t give me their names, at least give me their nicknames,” the colonel said in a broken voice.
The guests listened to this crazy conversation, understanding nothing and unable to tell any longer who was giving orders to whom. It was as if the two men were caught in a trap from which they could not escape. Big Dr Gurameto was totally different from what they had thought. Now nobody would be surprised to see him the next governor of Albania, or even Greater Albania, just as had been predicted on the city square. His demeanour suited the part. It would not be unexpected to hear the doctor addressed as “Your Excellency”.
What Fritz von Schwabe said was not far short.
“I’ll give you seven hostages,” he announced in an exhausted voice.
CHAPTER FIVE
At this moment it became clear that there were two currents of events, one inside Big Dr Gurameto’s house and one outside in the city. So far separate, these currents now swirled together as if in a vortex of delirium and as they merged they swelled, dissolved, and altered their shape, no longer appearing in their true form.
Yet, one piece of news remained constant: the hostages really were being freed.
Like shadows they crept away from the city square and disappeared in the streets and lanes, where the house-gates had long been left open for them.
Low voices were heard everywhere. “Be careful, don’t shout, don’t make a noise. No celebrations. Who knows what’s happening. They might change their minds and take them back.”
The city recalled other long-forgotten tales of hostages. Everyone had their own style of hostage-taking. The Ottoman Turks had one way and Mussolini’s troops another, while the Italians did it differently to Albanian brigands, who in turn were not like Macedonian brigands, nor the nomadic Roma. The same was true of governors: the pasha of Janina had been as impetuous as the pasha of Berat had been unhurried and calculating, though that had not prevented the latter from sending back a hostage’s head on a dish when the deadline for his ransom expired.