Bosnian Chronicle

by Ivo Andrić

  Tumult and commotion reigned in the market square. Armed guards brought in the two accused, who were barefooted and bareheaded but wore coarse woolen trousers and torn soiled shirts. The guards tried to clear the space necessary for the hanging. The gypsy hangmen were slow to unwind the rope. The seething crowd heaped as much abuse on the two unfortunates as on the guards and the gypsies, they swayed this way and that, threatening to stampede and sweep away victims and executioners alike.

  The two bound men, their long necks bared, stood upright and rigid, with similar expressions of astonished disbelief and distress on their faces. They showed neither fear nor bravery, neither indifference nor any strong emotion. From the expression on their faces they were merely two worried men, oppressed by thoughts of some remote anxiety, wishing only to be left alone so that they might think it over more quickly and with greater concentration. It was as if the pushing and noise around them were not connected with them in any way. They merely blinked their eyes and bowed their heads from time to time, as if wishing to shut out the milling and the din that kept them from giving all their attention to their main worry. They sweated profusely and on their foreheads and temples knotted veins stood out in throbbing relief; and since, being bound, they could not wipe their sweat, it ran in glistening rivulets down their sinewy, unshaven necks.

  At last the gypsies managed to untangle their ropes and approached one of the condemned men. He backed away a little, but very slightly, and then stood quite still and let them do with him as they wanted. At the same time, the other man shrank back unwittingly, as though he were invisibly tied to the first. Here Desfosses, who had watched it quietly thus far, turned sharply on his heel and went into the nearest street. He thus did not see the worst and the most dreadful part.

  The two gypsies now fetched the rope around the neck of their victim but did not hang him; instead they stepped back and each began to tug and pull his end of the rope tighter. The man started to gag and roll his eyes, to jerk his legs, to double up from the hips and thrash like a puppet on a twitching string.

  The crowd begun to shove and sway. Everybody wanted to get closer to the scene of the torture. The first movements of the man in the noose produced excitement and a delighted response from the mob, who shouted, laughed, and mimicked his jerks with their own. But when his gagging became a deathly convulsion and his thrashing quickened to a macabre dance of pure horror, those nearest to him began to turn and edge away. Doubtless they had wanted to see something unusual, not quite knowing what it would be, hoping perhaps to find some relief for themselves and an outlet for their vague but deep and real feeling of discontent. They had long hoped and yearned to see their enemy hounded down and punished. But the scene being enacted in front of them was pain and torture for them too. And so, startled and full of fear, they began to avert their heads and turn away. But the great mass of people behind them, who had not been able to see the sight, surged powerfully and pushed those in the front ranks closer and closer to the scene. And these, in turn, aghast at being so near to the agonizing spectacle, turned their backs to the execution and tried desperately to break through and escape, flailing around them in a frenzy as if they were running from a blaze. Not knowing what possessed them and unable to understand their panic-stricken behavior, the men behind them hit back and pushed them again toward the spot from which they were trying to escape. So in addition to the slow strangulation and the monstrous performance of the dying man, a general crush and fist-fighting broke out all around, with a whole chain reaction of individual clashes, brawls, and fights. The ones who were squeezed from all sides and could not swing and return the blows, clawed and pulled at one another, spat, cursed, and glared in one another’s demented faces with utter incomprehension and with all the hatred they had stored up for the condemned men; while those who, horror-struck, tried to get away from the choking men, pushed with all their might and used their fists unsparingly and in grim silence. Still others continued to swarm from all sides toward the place of execution and they were in the majority, shouting at the tops of their voices. Many were so far away that they saw nothing either of the torture or of the fighting that had broken out in the middle; and they laughed, borne on the surging wave, not realizing what horror was being enacted in their vicinity, and jeered and sent up the kinds of shouts one always hears in a packed and heaving mob of people. There was a mingling, clashing, and overlapping of different voices and cries—cries of anger, surprise, horror, loathing, fury, banter, and joking—blended with those nameless, inarticulate shrieks and grunts which emanate from any crush of the human mass, from pushed-in stomachs and pressed lungs.

  “Hooo, ho!” cried some young ruffians in unison, hoping to stir up the mob even more.

  “Heave-ho!” replied the others, pushing in the opposite direction.

  “Whom are you trying to knock down? Have you gone mad!”

  “Mad, mad! He’s mad!” shrilled someone in a demented voice.

  “Hit him! Don’t be sorry for him! He’s no brother of yours!” someone chipped in from far back, grinning, thinking it was all a joke.

  There was a scuffle and stomping of feet, followed by loud blows. Then voices again.

  “Hey . . . d’you want more? Do you?”

  “Hey, you there in the cap!”

  “Are you pushing? Come over here and I’ll ask you again.”

  “You’re just patting him, man. Give him a good one on the head!”

  “Stop, will you! Stop!”

  Throughout this time only the ones in front, or those watching from elevated places around, had a full view of what was happening in the square. The two strangled men had fallen down unconscious, first one and then the other. They were sprawling on the ground. Now the gypsies ran up, tried to prop them up, splashed water on them, punched them with their fists, and scratched them. As soon as the men came to and raised themselves up on their feet, the torture was resumed. The noose was tightened again and the rope pulled taut, and again the two men jerked and gurgled once more, only this time with less strength and for a shorter time. And once more the spectators out in front turned away and tried to leave, but the dense throng wouldn’t let them through and pushed them back, cursing and flailing and forcing them to face the sight they wanted to escape.

  A slight little Moslem student with a faun’s face was taken with a fit but could not fall to the ground. Wedged and borne along by the swaying mass of bodies, he remained in an upright position, although unconscious, his head thrown back and dangling, his face the color of chalk, his lips frothing.

  The torture was repeated three times and each time the two men quietly got up and offered their necks to the rope for a fresh strangling, obediently, like two people who were anxious to do everything in their power to have the matter proceed smoothly; both were calm and collected, calmer than the gypsies or any of the spectators—just bemused and worried-looking, with so pronounced an air of worry about them that even the agony of strangulation did not altogether drain their faces of that expression of dark and distant woe.

  After they failed to bring them around the fourth time, the gypsies went up to the fallen men, who lay on their backs, and kicked in their ribs methodically and so finished them off.

  Then they gathered their rope and coiled it fist over elbow, waiting for the crowd to thin out so that they could get on with their work. Glancing around uncertainly, between movements, they puffed greedily and nervously a (texterase/)the cigars that someone had given them. They seemed to be equally resentful of the witless throng milling around them and of the two lifeless bodies that lay there, still and lost, in the thick and shifting forest of feet of the curious mob.

  A little later the corpses of the two victims were slung on a special gibbet, on a wall below the cemetery, so that they could be clearly seen from all sides. Their bodies had straightened out once more and they looked again as they used to, long and thin, like a pair of brothers. They seemed as light as if they were made of paper. Their heads had b
ecome smaller, as the rope bit sharply under their chins, squeezing away the flesh of the jaws. The faces were still bloodless, but not blue or distorted like those of men who are hanged alive; their legs hung together and the feet were turned up as if they had been running.

  That was how Desfosses saw them when he came back about noon. One of them had the sleeve of his dirty shirt torn off at the shoulder and the piece of cloth flapped raggedly in the weak breeze.

  With his jaw set, firmly decided to see even this with his own eyes, shaken and yet solemn and deliberate, the young man looked at the two dangling bodies.

  The grave and solemn mood stayed with him for a long time after; it was still on him when he returned to the Consulate. Daville now appeared to him a confused little man, panicking over trifles; D’Avenat seemed crude and ignorant. All of Daville’s timorousness now struck him as childish and irrelevant, and all his remarks as either anemic and bookish or else niggling and much too officious. He realized that he could not possibly talk to either of them about this, after witnessing what he had with his own eyes, after his deep and inexpressible emotional experience. And after supper, still in the same mood, he made an entry in his diary on Bosnia in which, faithfully and matter-of-factly, he described “the way death sentences are carried out among the rayah and the rebels.”

  People began to grow accustomed to bloody and hideous sights. They were quick to forget the last one and eagerly cast about for something new and different. They picked a new place of execution on a hard patch of level ground between the han and the Austrian Consulate-General. Here the Vizier’s executioner Ekrem set up a chopping block; the heads were afterwards stuck on poles and raised in the air.

  Tears and consternation filled the house of von Mitterer. Anna Maria rushed to her husband, crying, “Joseph, for God’s sake!” Her voice rose and fell with her tears; she called him Robespierre and began to pack her things and get ready to flee. Afterwards, exhausted, her emotions spent, she fell into her husband’s arms, sobbing like a desolate queen who has been sentenced to the guillotine and is awaiting the executioner’s knock on the door. Little Agatha, frightened and unhappy, sat on her low stool on the veranda and wept silent, inconsolable tears, which von Mitterer found harder to bear than all the scenes his wife made.

  The hunchback interpreter Rotta, pale from excitement, scurried back and forth between the Residency and the police, threatening, bribing, demanding, and imploring that they stop the beheadings in front of the consular house.

  That same evening ten more Serbian peasants from the border country were brought to the square and executed by the light of torches and lanterns, to the whooping and catcalls, hostling and jeers of the assembled Moslems. The victims’ heads were again raised up on poles. All through the night the Consulate could hear the snarling of ravenous street dogs that collected almost immediately. They could be seen in moonlight as they jumped at the poles and tore lumps of flesh from the severed heads. It was only next day, following the Consul’s visit to the town Mayor, that the poles were taken down and there was no more killing on that spot.

  Daville did not leave the house and heard only the muted and distant roar of the mob from time to time; but D’Avenat kept him accurately informed about the course of the riot and the series of executions in town. When he learned of what was happening in front of the Austrian Consulate, he at once forgot all his fears and reserve; and, not consulting with anyone or stopping to ask himself whether it was in keeping with international custom or in the interests of the service, he sat down and wrote a friendly letter to von Mitterer.

  It was one of those moments in the life of Daville when he knew, clearly and exactly, without any of his usual hesitation, what he had to do and was bold enough to do it.

  The note, naturally, contained allusions to Bellona, Goddess of War, and to the “rattle of arms” that was still in progress between their two countries, and to the devoted service that each of them owed to his Sovereign.

  “And yet,” wrote Daville, “I do not believe I shall offend your sensibilities or be remiss in my duties if, by way of exception in these exceptional circumstances, I send you these few lines. With bitterness and loathing, and equally victimized by these barbaric excesses day after day, my wife and I, well aware of what is taking place at your very doorstep, beg you to believe that we are thinking of you and your family at this difficult time. As Christians and Europeans, despite all that separates us at the moment, we would not wish you to remain without some word of our sympathy and consolation at a time like this.”

  No sooner had he dispatched the letter in a roundabout way to the Consulate on the other bank of the Lashva, than he began to experience doubts as to whether he had done well or not.

  On that same day of summer, when von Mitterer received Daville’s letter—it was July 5, 1809—the Battle of Wagram was just beginning.

  During the most beautiful days of July, Travnik was in the grip of complete anarchy. A contagious, rampaging madness drove people out of doors and spurred them to commit unbelievable and monstrous acts they had never dreamed of committing. Incidents developed without rhyme or reason, following the logic of blood and warped instincts. Situations arose by the merest of accidents, from a single shout or from the banter of young men; they swelled in a way no one could foresee and ended as unexpectedly, or else they simply broke off in the middle for no visible reason. A group of boys would be going in one direction, with a single purpose in mind, and on the way, having come across some other, more exciting sight, they would drop everything and give it their most passionate attention, as if they had been rehearsing for it for many weeks. The passion of these people was a mystery. Each one felt a burning desire to do his bit for the defense of his faith and of good order and longed, with utter conviction and in holy indignation, to participate not only with his eyes but also with his hands in the torture and slaughter of traitors and bad characters who were responsible for all the ills of the land and for every personal misfortune and woe. People went to the beheadings as if going to a shrine where health was restored miraculously and every grief eased for certain. Everyone wanted to produce a rebel or a spy and to assist personally in his punishment and in the choice of a suitable spot and method of execution. They bickered and fought over it, throwing all their ardor and resentment into these arguments. Around some condemned and roped wretch one often saw a dozen poor Moslems waving their hands excitedly, quarreling and wrangling as if a goat were about to be sold. Boys hardly out of their swaddlings called out to one another and dashed around out of breath, clutching their slipping pants and trying to dip their toy knives in the blood of the victims, so that later, in their own quarter of the town, they could brandish them and scare the smaller fry younger than themselves.

  The days were sunny and the skies cloudless, the town blessed with greenery, water, early fruits and blossoms. At night the moon shone with a glassy, cool, and limpid light. But night and day the bloody carnival went on, in which they all sought one and the same thing and yet no man could understand another or even recognize himself.

  The unrest was general and caught up everyone like an epidemic. Hatreds long stifled broke out anew and old vendettas came to life again. Innocent people were caught up in them and there were fatal misunderstandings and cases of mistaken identity.

  The foreigners in both consulates never left the house. The kavasses brought them news of everything that went on. The only exception was Cologna, who couldn’t bear the loneliness of his damp house. The old doctor could neither sleep nor work. He came to the Consulate as usual, although he had to make his way through raging mobs and past the places of execution that sprang up now here, now there. They all noticed that he was in a state of constant agitation, that his eyes burned with a fevered brilliance, that he was apt to tremble and stammer. The mindless tide that was eddying through the valley drew the old man as a whirlpool draws a stalk of straw.

  One day about noon, as he was returning from the Consulate, Cologna came acros
s a large group of Moslem rabble in the middle of the bazaar, leading a fettered and bruised man. He had ample time to turn into one of the side alleys, but the crowd exerted a morbid and irresistible fascination for him. As soon as he came a few steps closer, a hoarse voice called out from the center of the mob: “Doctor, doctor, don’t let me die, for God’s sake!”

  As if spellbound, Cologna walked up close and focused his nearsighted eyes on the man—a Catholic from Foynitsa, by the name of Kulier. The man shouted disconnectedly, not knowing what to say first, begging them to let him go as he was innocent. Glancing around the crowd to find someone he might talk to, Cologna met several bloodshot stares. Before he could open his mouth or do anything, a tall man with a hollow colorless face detached himself from the group and thrust himself in front of the doctor. “On your way! Go on,” he said. His voice shook with a smoldering rage, which broke through his feeble pretense of restraint.

  Had it not been for this man and his voice, the old doctor might have gone on and abandoned the man from Foynitsa, for whom there was no help, to his fate. But the voice drew him on like a deep dark body of water. He wanted to say that he knew this man Kulier as a loyal citizen, to ask what he had done and where they were taking him, but the tall Moslem would not let him speak.

  “For the second time, on your way,” the Moslem said in a raised voice.

  “No, you can’t do that. Where are you taking him?” the doctor said.

  “If you want to know, I’m going to hang the dog, like the other dogs.”

  “How’s that? Why? You can’t go around hanging innocent people. I’m going to call the Mayor.”

  Cologna was beginning to shout too, not realizing what he was letting himself in for.

  Now there was a muttering in the crowd. From a couple of minarets, one quite near and the other some way off, the muezzins were calling out the hour of prayer and their voices broke over the crowd in a strained, double-pitched howl that rose and fell on the air. The onlookers began to join the swelling crowd.