66 pages • 2 hours read
Ismail KadareA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more. For select classroom titles, we also provide Teaching Guides with discussion and quiz questions to prompt student engagement.
Summary
Chapter Summaries & Analyses
Character Analysis
Themes
Symbols & Motifs
Important Quotes
Essay Topics
Tools
A 26-year-old man born and raised in the High Plateau, Gjorg Berisha is one of the central protagonists of Broken April. The opening scene of the novel immediately places him in a high-stakes situation, as he shoots and kills a man. His attitude toward killing Zef shows he is not a hateful or violent person. When Gjorg attends Zef’s funeral later in Chapter 1, he observes the mourners, thinking, “They were cold as the March day, as he himself had been cold, without hatred, yesterday evening as he lay in wait for his quarry” (15). He kills Zef not out of emotional rage, but out of obligation to honor the blood feud. Gjorg isn’t afraid to question his actions. While positioning Zef’s body to honor the Kanun, he asks himself, “Why am I doing this?” (9). He doesn’t always have an answer, and despite questioning the Kanun, he continues to honor it. He is thoughtful but also meanders, unable to formulate a solid plan for the remaining days granted to him. Throughout the novel, Gjorg questions the dominant worldview of rural Albania, thus appearing as a sympathetic character and not a one-dimensional killer.
Gjorg displays sensitivity throughout the story and seeks personal redemption for what he did. After killing Zef, Gjorg has no intention of boasting about what he did. Rather, “On the contrary, he had always been thought quiet and sensible, quite the last young fellow one would expect to play the fool” (18-19). Gjorg’s reputation as a quiet and reasonable person helps establish him as a sympathetic character, even after he starts the story by murdering someone. As the story progresses, Gjorg’s emotional depth increases. When he leaves for Orosh to play the death tax, he finds himself open and sensitive to the world around him:
He felt that his heart had leaped from his chest, and, opened up in that way, he was vulnerable, sensitive to everything, so that he might rejoice in anything, be cast down by anything, small or large, a butterfly, a leaf, boundless snow, or the depressing rain falling on that very day. But all that—and the sky itself might fall down upon him—his heart endured and could endure even more (34).
Gjorg isn’t proud of what he did. Instead, the killing brings on an unexpected sensitivity to his surroundings. Everything appears beautiful and powerful. Killing didn’t make Gjorg stronger; it made him more vulnerable. In becoming more sensitive to the exterior world, his obsession with Diana’s ethereal beauty feels logical and appropriate.
As his freedom slips away, Gjorg becomes more disconnected from reality, showing the toll the story has taken on him. In his last days under the long bessa, he wanders aimlessly, finding, “In that way, hour by hour and day by day, his mind was breaking away from reality, and his ramblings came to seem a journey in a dream” (164). Gjorg’s disassociation from the outside world shows the increasing effects of his trauma. The thoughtful and sensitive characteristics that made him a sympathetic character also become his detriment. He loses sense of where he is and ultimately meets a bullet because of his disconnection with his surroundings.
Strikingly beautiful, Diana Vorpsi is another protagonist of Broken April. A city dweller from Tirana, Diana has just married Bessian Vorpsi, an egotistical writer. Throughout the story, men ogle Diana, showing the objectification women endure in many societies. Even when Diana isn’t placed in a scene, she becomes a topic for misogynists. As Gjorg wanders from inn to inn, he overhears strangers describing Diana. The way the men speak about her is crude enough that Gjorg fantasizes about killing everyone in the inn. Later, when Gjorg speaks to a man riding a black ox, the man says of Diana, “that woman was beautiful as a fairy. Her eyes pierced you through and through” (212). For the ox rider and Gjorg, Diana’s beauty takes on a magical quality. She is pedestalized, to the detriment of the men who worship her: Gjorg’s obsession with Diana finds him traversing unsafe roads, where he becomes an easy target for a would-be assassin.
Additionally, her own husband makes frequent unwanted advances, valuing her body more than her entire self. Diana has no control over the body she was born into. Through no fault of hers, tension festers between her and the men who come and go in her life. The men who objectify and worship her the most—Bessian and Gjorg—end the story in worse positions than where they started, a plot element that creates a cautionary message for how men should treat and view women.
Aside from her physical beauty, Diana is forthright and strong. Even with her egotistical and talkative husband, she isn’t afraid to speak her mind:
Usually, she let [Bessian] know whatever thoughts happened to come to her, and indeed he never took it amiss if she let slip a word that might pain him, because when all was said and done that was the price one paid for sincerity (89).
Diana being a woman puts her in a less powerful position in Albanian society, but she isn’t afraid to be outspoken. Strangers, too, aren’t off limits to Diana’s sharp tongue. When a drunken surveyor who has been scanning her up and down tries to approach Diana, Kadare writes: “‘What do you want?’ she said coldly, without concealing her disgust” (105). The man doesn’t stay long after that. Regularly, Diana shows herself to be a person who isn’t afraid to speak her mind. She is willing to put her foot down, even in a world dominated by men.
Diana also demonstrates that she is an engaged and critical thinker. She responds viscerally to what she learns. When Ali Binak’s doctor describes a man who makes a living off being wounded, Bessian notices, “[Diana] seemed to him to be even more pale. This conversation must stop as soon as possible, he thought” (193). Often, the men accept the world for what it is, while Diana feels the cracks and flaws. Diana’s curiosity takes her to places in the High Plateau where even Bessian won’t go. In Chapter 6, she sneaks away from Bessian and enters a tower of refuge, hoping Gjorg is there. A witness who sees her later remarks, “In fact, as some person remembered thereafter, she had drawn away from the people in the square and approached the tower as lightly as a moth fluttering towards a lamp” (198). Comparing Diana to a moth flying toward a lamp suggests she is unhesitant, even fearless, when approaching the tower of refuge. What she sees inside the tower shocks her, but she isn’t afraid to venture inside, showing curiosity and bravery not seen in the novel’s other characters of Broken April.
A talkative and pretentious writer, Bessian Vorpsi has made a career of writing about the Kanun. His fascination with the High Plateau and the people who live there inspires him to take his wife to the North country for their honeymoon. Bessian is not a primary protagonist like Gjorg and Diana, but his profession is the motivating force that brings him and Diana to Gjorg, setting off important events for the story. Bessian’s knowledge of the Kanun gives Kadare an avenue to provide exposition to the reader. When Bessian is introduced in Chapter 3, he talks endlessly about the High Plateau to Diana; Kadare thus immediately establishes Bessian’s talkative nature while also providing rich world-building details.
For as well researched as Bessian is, however, details about the High Plateau remain unknown to him. When he meets Ali Binak, famous across the High Plateau, Bessian doesn’t know who he is. Later, when Diana enters the tower of refuge, Bessian panics, all his researched knowledge useless. Bessian’s studious nature enables him to talk and talk, but he proves to be unknowing and timid in real-life situations. With this character, Kadare shows that studying and writing about a culture aren’t enough to fully grasp it.
Bessian routinely looks down at his wife, thinking of her as a lesser person. During one of their carriage rides, he rambles: “He talked on, his head quite close to her shoulder, as if he meant to ask her for answers to all the questions or speculations that he advanced, though his delivery scarcely allowed for any response on her part” (81). He doesn’t give her a chance to respond, widening the distance that grows between them throughout the novel. As Diana grows increasingly aloof to him, he makes her unspoken emotions about himself:
He smiled to himself and realized that he was not in the least unhappy. After all, she had always found him somewhat remote, and there was no harm if she were to become a little aloof herself. Perhaps she would seem even more desirable to him (92).
Bessian’s hubris and demeaning opinion of his wife turn him into an antagonistic character for Diana. He isn’t the primary villain of the story, but his treatment of his wife adds to the tension of the story and sets him up for downfall.
Despite his all-knowing attitude, Bessian proves to be a frightened and weak man. As the honeymoon descends into awkward tension of unspoken feelings, Bessian thinks, “the only reason that he had put off having it out with his wife was fear. I’m afraid of what she might say, he thought, I’m afraid, but why?” (176). Bessian wants to yell at his wife, but his fear is too great. For all his angry and frustrated thoughts, fear dominates him the most. Thinking of what Diana might say to him, Bessian feels, “No, it would be better that she keep silent all through this dreadful trial, that she turn into a mummy, and that he never hear her say to him the things that would give him pain” (176). He’d rather his wife stay silent than face being hurt. This decision is the apex of his fear and cowardice; he won’t talk to his own wife because he’s afraid of the pain the truth will bring.
A steward of the blood at the kulla of Orosh, Mark Ukacierra is the only other character besides the protagonists with a dedicated chapter (Chapter 4). In the brief time the novel focuses on him, Mark shows himself to be a conservative and devout follower of the Kanun. When Diana and Bessian arrive in Orosh, Mark detests them. Compared to the city, he cherishes the High Plateau, feeling, “That part of the world was the only permissible one, normal and reasonable. The other part of the world, ‘down there,’ was a marshy hollow in the earth that gave off foul vapors and the atmosphere of degeneracy” (142). With his conservative worldview, Mark becomes a foil to Diana, who sees many of the customs of the High Plateau as violent and unnecessary. Mark’s perspective adds complexity to the story. Where Diana and Bessian see the High Plateau as dated compared to the city, Mark looks down at their way of life as degenerative and sinful.
Mark has doubts of his own. Despite his absolute devotion to the Kanun, he nevertheless acknowledges its ambiguities. When meditating on the Code, he thinks, “In his mind, all this was vague and ambiguous, like many other things in the Kanun” (149). Even a devotee like Mark finds flaws in the belief system he cherishes. His doubts show that a dedicated follower of something cannot stop their mind from asking questions, adding to Kadare’s commentary on tradition and making Mark a rounder character in the process. Similarly, when worrying about the decline of blood feuds, Mark admits, “At times, Mark had thought of mad things that he dared not confess to anyone. Oh, if only the women as well as the men were subject to the rules of blood-letting” (144). Mark’s thoughts reveal that part of his dedication to the Kanun is performative. His secret blasphemies show the fragility of traditions, even ones as old as the Kanun.