From Sokrat Shyti
Part forty-one
Memorie.al / The writer Sokrat Shyti is the “great unknown” who, for several years, has shown just the tip of the iceberg of his literary creativity. I say this considering the limited number of his published books in recent years, primarily the voluminous novel “The Phantom Night” (Tirana 2014). The novels: “BEYOND THE MYSTERY,” “BETWEEN TEMPTATION AND WHIRLPOOL,” “DIGGING INTO THE HORROR,” “THE SHADOW OF SHAME AND DEATH,” “COLONEL KRYEDHJAK,” “THE DIRTY HOPES,” “THE TWISTS OF FATE” I, II, “SURVIVAL IN THE COWSHED,” along with other works, all novels consisting of 350 – 550 pages, are in manuscript waiting to be published. The dreams and initial fervor of the young novelist, who returned from studies abroad full of energy and love for art and literature, were cut short early on by the brutal edge of communist dictatorship.
Who is Sokrat Shyti?
Having returned from studies at the State University of Moscow just after the break in Albanian-Soviet relations in 1960, Sokrat Shyti worked at Radio “Diapazon” (which at that time was located on Kavajës Street), in an editorial team with his journalist friends—Vangjel Lezho and Fadil Kokomani—both of whom were later arrested and executed by the communist regime. In addition to the radio, 21-year-old Sokrat, if we can imagine him, had passionate literary interests at that time. He wrote his first novel “Madam Doctor,” which was on the verge of publication, but… alas! Soon after the arrest of his friends, as if to fill the cup, one of his brothers, a painter, defected abroad.
Sokrat was arrested in September 1963, and in November of that year, he was interned along with his family (with his mother and younger sister) in a location between Ardenica and Kolonje of Lushnja. For 27 continuous years, the family lived in a cowshed made of reeds, without windows, while Sokrat was subjected to forced labor. Throughout those 27 years, he was legally required to report three times a day to the local authority. He had no right to move from the place of internment and was deprived of any kind of documentation, etc. In these conditions, among a cowshed, he birthed and raised his children. It is precisely from this experience, or more accurately, from a very long story of persecution, that he based his writing of the book “Survival in the Cowshed!”
Agron Tufa
Continuation from the previous issue
EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK “SURVIVAL IN THE COWSHED”
When he saw the situation from this perspective, he harshly reproached himself and did not forgive the foolishness of his hasty behavior; he called the district chief prosecutor to learn the content of the conversation between Prosecutor Bardhi and the former journalist from Radio Broadcasting, without thinking it through or fully devising a plan of action to secure success. In fact, this phone call inadvertently harmed him: through his hasty action, he revealed to the district chief prosecutor his vengeful intent, when he should have done the opposite, keeping it as secret as possible in his mind so as not to ignite sparks of suspicion in anyone’s head.
What irritated the chief prosecutor more than anything else was the disdain from the chairman of the power, his malice in humiliating him through the interruption of the signal by slamming down the receiver. This arrogant behavior drove him to distraction because it seemed to him as if he had been told directly: “You think you can throw dust in my eyes?! You still don’t understand that I gave you my answer through my action: slamming the phone shut, I silently told you: Now that I’ve crossed the river, I’ll let the horse shit on you!”
What annoys the chief prosecutor even more is that he could not find an excuse or reason to put the boundary at the gaffe of the puffed-up chairman, whom he could not stomach seeing prance around like a peacock, as if he had liberated Myzeqe! Every time he happened to witness this disgusting scene, filled with shameful pride, it made his stomach turn, as there was no mention of bravery; at most, he might have fired twice more than the last partisan of the battalion!…
Since he could not find a way to take out his humiliation, he promised himself that he would keep that arrogant disdain in his ear, confident that the right opportunity would come for the puffed-up one to be subjugated and licked when the filthy bribery scandals that the messengers take to their homes would come to light. To avoid despair from not finding a way to take revenge, he began to think the opposite: that during the phone conversation, there were moments of pleasure and pride in his cunning stance towards the chairman of the power, as he never expressed remorse for servility in that instant. On the contrary, he felt proud that he employed greater cunning and subtlety while not selling out his subordinate.
Even after that, whenever he recalled and re-evaluated the phone conversation with the pompous, heavy-spirited chairman from different perspectives, he still emerged victorious. Therefore, it seemed abnormal and unrealistic to him to magnify the extent of the disdain. First of all, the conversation with the chairman took place on a secret line; no one had heard what they said to each other at all. (Surely, it would have been torturously awkward, and he would die painfully of shame if the chairman’s disdain towards him were revealed in public or at a conference. In these uncertain situations, the dimensions of insult and nervousness swell and multiply, like the waters of rivers during floods, significantly raising the temperature of shame to restore, at all costs, the trampled dignity.)
Whenever frictions, clashes, and discrepancies in opinion and stance occur between two important leaders, the mutual values of each are placed on the scales to analyze the consequences arising from the disruption of the balance. Above all, the chief prosecutor wanted to clarify his interests, especially at what point it would benefit him to have a good relationship with the power chairman. (By this, he meant economic and demographic gain, which grouped the relocation of his relatives from deep mountain villages to the city: passport issuance and securing state employment.)
Regarding the personal professional aspect, the strengthening or weakening of his positions in the role of district chief prosecutor, he multiplied the influence of the power chairman by zero without any hesitation, deeming it almost negligible due to the fact that, according to reliable data, he had no close acquaintances or friendships with the Chief Prosecutor of the Republic, nor with any member of the Political Bureau, who often use monstrous retaliation with the intervention of the authority when someone does not fulfill their goals and orders.)
Meanwhile, Prosecutor Bardhi, with a character and nature contrary to that of his superior, was trying to figure out which internal spy had informed the chairman of the Executive Committee about the former journalist’s visit to his office, and just as importantly, why was the power chairman so interested in this meeting. Because the very fact that he called the chief prosecutor to gather information about the meeting did not indicate mere curiosity. This assumption directed him towards the fabrication of a trap set specifically to obstruct and hinder the fulfillment of the first secretary’s plans over the next two years.
With the cynical intervention, he delighted in his malice towards the former journalist, considering the exhausting work in agriculture, along with the terrible punishments when the daily quota was not met. He felt regret that he could not help me escape from this painful entanglement, despite the strong legal opposition to the military call-up of an internee being an unlawful act.
Seeing the situation from this perspective, he became curious to know what his boss had told the chairman of the Executive Committee regarding the conversation that took place without the presence of a third party and without keeping a record. But what impressed him more was that the chief prosecutor played the role of the ignorant one and did not call him into his office to ask why the conversation between him and the former journalist lasted so long!
Instead of showing interest in this matter, the burly chief prosecutor, with his drooping head and proud gaze, opened the door and said he felt the need to have a coffee at the nearest club, the only remedy that cleared his mind after reading the bulky files; therefore, if he wanted, he could accompany him.
Prosecutor Bardhi raised his gaze at his boss’s portrait to sniff out his intentions and, as he sat, he declined the invitation, telling him that he was currently at the peak of the case and could not break away at that moment, as it interrupted his line of reasoning.
The chief prosecutor closed the door and left, whistling, pleased that his subordinate did not accompany him, since, in reality, he found it bothersome to drink coffee with him due to their completely contrasting characters: Prosecutor Bardhi initiated and concluded conversations with the laws, while his boss preferred discussions about scheming women who trap men with “sheep and bull horns.”
But despite the formal nature of the invitation, Prosecutor Bardhi sensed where his boss’s intention lay: to subtly inform him that he was fully aware of what he had discussed with the interned former journalist, even though he was not present there. He clearly expressed this through his cunning and devilish glance, where malice and boastful pride were evidently simmering, his permanent tools that he constantly used to create a feeling of terror during court sessions, as without them he felt devalued, not presenting himself as the impressive prosecutor he was, in stark contrast to the somewhat astonished and bewildered visage of his “soft-hearted” subordinate, who never raised his voice and remained unflustered, not even when the accused twisted their narratives!
Just when Prosecutor Bardhi was about to resume reading the bulky file where he had left off (regarding the sabotage at two construction sites, where an engineer and several malicious technicians were accused as defendants, who had used improperly sized rebar for the supporting columns), he was again troubled by the thought of why the chief prosecutor had not been curious and did not call him into his office to reprimand him for spending so long with the interned former journalist, wasting all that time on idle chatter when the workload did not allow for a breath!
(As a communist with ideal principles, it did not occur to him that the hidden mystery was always present somewhere in the environment of his office, eavesdropping discreetly with sophisticated equipment placed in an inconspicuous corner, by order of the head of the prosecution organ!)
Nevertheless, through his professional instincts, he understood that strange fabrications intertwined within their institution, under the pressure of verbal and telephone orders from above, which meant that up to this point, he had never been entrusted with the review or analysis of a case file with fundamentally political issues (but mostly those of economic sabotage or ordinary actions: theft, beatings, insults, disturbances of public tranquility, “offenses” against mid-level officials by some loose cannons).
Comparing the intervention of the chairman of the Executive Committee to summon the former interned journalist under the pretext of reaching the age limit (with the terrible machinations being devised against some undesirable intellectuals), it seemed to him a light and simple act, when the secret orders could wreak havoc, erasing people without a trace from the face of the earth, branding them as enemies of the people, and dissolving them like salt in water.
While in natural phenomena after the bitter frosts, sunny weather appears, in human life the opposite happens: after a surprising positive turn, dark backstories are set with hidden traps. “But it could happen much worse than this,” muttered Prosecutor Bardhi: “They could instigate two false witnesses, of which we have plenty, to ensnare the interned former journalist in the labyrinths of the penal code, under the article of agitation and propaganda against the people’s power, stripping away his freedom for ten years, and sending his family back to the cowshed!
They didn’t employ this trap only out of fear of exposure, as, with the direct protection of the first secretary of the Party Committee, no one dares to attack the former journalist, neither openly nor indirectly, given that throughout these years, he has remained completely isolated, having not entered any club or public space…! Nevertheless, this does not mean they have given up on their sinister thoughts of preparing a trap.
Particularly in the military, the terrain and conditions are suitable for such schemes because the military collective is heterogeneous; especially in work units, there are a majority of slanderers ready to concoct all kinds of tales to gain a chance for release, while military prosecutors are guided more easily and quickly than we civilians by blind obedience to their superiors. Therefore, the possibilities of arresting him are quite simple actions to carry out.
From this perspective, it is possible that the primary aim of the military call is to serve this purpose; perhaps it is seen as a secret agreement between the chairman of the power and an official in Tirana, the same person who influenced the family’s deportation to the cowshed, under the pretext of malice to create the impression among the rural and urban masses, as well as the civil servants, that we are dealing with a very dangerous individual, which is why he is treated so brutally!
I think I am not wrong in assuming that the setup of a trap against him began at the moment when the manuscript of the satirical novel ‘Madam Doctor’ started circulating in the Writers’ Union. I do not know of any other case in our literature where a writer has written a novel at the age of twenty-one. This very fact does not rule out the possibility that the root of the malice stems from the Writers’ Union, from the ambitious ones with a dreadful spirit who absolutely do not allow even the slightest dimming of their fame’s luster; therefore, they are willing to use their influence with powerful officials to bury their rival in the abyss of oblivion, just as actually happened.
Exactly like a bolt of lightning, the shocking news of his return from the hellish life in the cowshed hit them, and they quickly rushed to set up the suppressive mechanism to prevent him from coming to Tirana. But now the strategy of revenge changes: their entire focus is directed towards the flow of free time, the only way to completely remove his opportunity to write, alongside their satanic efforts to complicate his life…!
After this lengthy meditation, he felt tired and lost the desire to read. He wanted to have an unadulterated coffee to clear his thoughts, and then get to work. However, he decided not to go to the nearest café, as there he might encounter the chief prosecutor, who, upon seeing him alone, would become furious at the insult and humiliation of not accepting his invitation. Therefore, to avoid drawing attention to himself in the city center, where many passersby milled about, he took the road towards the Internal Affairs Department. And when he reached the intersection with the main boulevard, he suddenly changed his mind, feeling a desire to take a walk to the new martyrs’ cemetery, where there were fewer passersby and he could fill his lungs with clean air.
In general, this part of the road, from the bridge over the stream to the new martyrs’ cemetery, with the citrus plantation on the right, served as a walking path for young couples and a few solitary individuals seeking to escape the noise to clear their thoughts. But quite contrary to the slow pace that a walk requires, Prosecutor Bardhi maintained his hurried rhythm, giving every passerby the impression that this was the only way he knew how to step. Therefore, whenever he happened to take part in a funeral procession, he felt an uncomfortable annoyance from the strain of following the obligatory, dragged-out walking ritual.
Those who do not know him, upon seeing him walking briskly, assume that something unpleasant has happened to him, and in order to reach his destination as quickly as possible, he gives his legs double the energy, which disorients him and dulls his attention to the extent that he does not notice the passersby who come close to him and greet him. Anyone who sees him with his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat and his back hunched forward creates the impression that this man is propelled by a special driving force, distinct from that of others. The opposite occurs when he meets someone with whom he wishes to exchange thoughts: instantly, he is filled with an insatiable desire to spill forth a torrent of reasoning without allowing the other person time to respond!
Perhaps this was not the natural way of speaking, but it manifested itself when he began practicing the profession of a prosecutor, and day by day this habit thickened, taking on the proportions of a vice, ultimately displacing his personal nature. Just where the park space begins before the state buildings on the first floor, and on the right side the gravel road branches off to go to the bakeries, I almost collided with Prosecutor Bardhi because, at that moment, I was looking down, captivated by the “small” connecting bridge between the park’s curb and the street, separated by a narrow canal, and did not notice.
– “Where are you rushing off to?” I asked him, forgetting that this was his usual pace.
– “How nice to see you!…,” he said. “Do you have free time and would you like to take a walk together? Or has your mother-in-law tasked you with something?” he added with a smile.
– “With great pleasure! But with one condition: reduce your walking pace by three times,” I replied.
– “Though a tough condition for me, I promise to fulfill it,” he said, linking his arm with mine.
– “Are you coming straight from work? Surely the overload forced you to disconnect from the files…?!”
– “We have quite a tiring and stressful workload!” said Prosecutor Bardhi. “The nature of this job deprives us of many rights. First of all, the duty of the prosecution limits our social life: I cannot talk in a public setting, and I cannot have coffee with someone I like. Because the harsh shadow of the duty always intrudes. Here we have a concrete example: anyone who sees us walking together, arm in arm, will think I am committing the greatest sin since the cynics view the class struggle of the Proletariat’s Dictatorship only through dark lenses.
According to them, we belong to two opposing camps, and we should be positioned in different trenches; thus, social and friendly ties between us cannot exist! Even though this mentality and such distorted relations cannot be described otherwise than as terrible paradoxes, they often occur in our daily lives! These corrosive phenomena hinder the progress of society. But more than anyone else, the consequences of class divides are felt by the guilty without guilt!
Writers, as the most sensitive part of society, find themselves facing a duality of reality through the method of writing, which causes confusion with contradictions. It is precisely here that the harsh class struggle of socialist realism begins; the separation of the two groupings targets the talented from the elite, determining the conditions for who will be kept in the Writers’ Union, who will be discarded, and who will be deported or imprisoned! Certainly, I tell these thoughts to myself, to no one else. You are the first to hear them from my mouth. As a lover of literature, I dedicate my free time to artistic reading, and now I feel pleasure in discussing and exchanging thoughts with a writer.
Meanwhile, as a consequence of this paradox, the majority of society views you through a class prism, and the derogatory label “declassed” appears before their eyes instead of honoring talent! There is a mistaken and distorted concept of the intellectual. The term “intellectual” is used so often in speeches that it creates the impression that over the years; almost half of our population is intellectuals, simply because they have completed higher studies at two- or three-year institutes, or at a university! In reality, to be an intellectual in the true sense of the word, one must possess, in addition to talent and culture, the will and ability to reflect the phenomena of life in their personal creativity.
In my view, intellectuals fall into two categories: creators and scholars. Among them are interpreters. We others, who have completed higher education and work in various fields, are simply professionals, not intellectuals. However, over time, some of us, those with persistent will and aims to deepen knowledge in new directions, engage in research work.
This should be encouraged. But it should not turn into a sick obsession, the desire to become necessarily recognized. This more pronounced obsession is found among historians, who compete to obtain a “Doctorate” and the title of “Professor”! Memorie.al
Continuation in the next issue
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