By Shkëlqim ABAZI
Part sixteen
SPAC
The Grave of the Living
Tirana, 2018
(My memories and those of others)
Memorie.al / Now in my old age, I feel it is my duty to tell my truth, just as I lived it. To speak of the modest men who never boasted of their deeds and of others whose mouths the regime sealed and buried them in nameless pits. In no case do I take it upon myself to usurp the monopoly of truth or to claim laurels for an event where I was a random witness, even though I tried with all my heart to help my friends, who politely and kindly avoided me: “Brother, open your eyes… don’t get involved… you only have two months and a little left!” A worry that clung to me like an amulet, from the morning of May 21, 22, and 23, 1974, and even followed me in the following months until I was released. Nevertheless, everything I saw and heard those three days, I would not want to take to the grave.
Continued from the previous issue
“Where did it hit you?”!
“In the old hole!”
“Are you bleeding?”
“No, hell no!” – and he came out again, tying his drawstring pants. The water in the taps ran redder than ever.
“I cupped my hands under the first stream. Blood?”
“The communists drowned the world in blood, now they’re bringing it to us through pipes!” I scooped up handfuls, once, twice, three times. “I must be filthy, but…!” (The towel turned black).
“If you want to see black, slaughter the communists, their blood is pitch black and their soul is tar…”! – Nuni had said.
“Put your head under the water, you’re looking like a boy from exile!”
“Is the blood black, Zake?” – And I shook the towel at him.
“What blood, may your mind shut down; you look like a charcoal burner!”
“I see, I see!”
“May your eyes burst, that’s what you see, and you fool!”
“The dust from the gallery, Zake…!”
Friu-u, fri-fiu-fi-u, the serpentine whistles started.
Roll call?!
“To the roll call! T’ rrrroo-o-oll call!” the herald yelled.
“Wash up after the roll call, you’re a disgrace!”
The Punitive Pen
The crowd poured into the central square from the crooked corners, as the humming of the prison-city was smeared with the roar of the stream’s waterfall and shattered the mournful echo.
“All roads lead to Rome!” the old ones used to say; “All hovels lead you to the square,” Shyqi translated, and the brown flock hurried to get into line, to escape the truncheon.
The square filled with ghosts escaped from hell.
Suddenly, the whistles were cut short and an officer with two policemen took the top of the steps, followed by Medi Noku, with two or three informers.
I was seeing the yellowish officer for the first time.
“Start!” – the yellowish one ordered and wrote something in a notebook.
“Hats off!” – the policemen yelled.
Three hundred heads formed a motley panorama: gray, black, yellow, large, small heads, from which the aroma of male sweat burst forth, the stench of which shrunk the barbed wire.
From behind the infirmary, a trio appeared; two young men held by the arms an old man who shuffled with difficulty.
“You scoundrels! – the trio reached the bottom of the stairs. – “Did you want to delay us, huh?!”
“The old man had an injec…!”
“We don’t buy that nonsense!”
“No, but the doc…!”
“Come here, handcuffs for this scoundrel!” “Yes sir, comrade commander!”
“He was si…” – the poor man tried to defend himself. “Prengë, the stick for the other one!”
“Yes sir!” – a black pipe was slammed onto the back of the wretched man, like a whip from hell.
“Put your hands behind you, did you hear, you there?” – the German handcuffs went onto a pair of hands.
“The butterfly in his flesh, Jak!”
“Yes sir, comrade commander!” – the noise of the screw kriq-friq scratched the silence.
“Kum-kum-kum,” someone coughed. The sound shattered the gong of the prison loudspeaker.
“Who do you want to mock, convict?” – the small policeman stretched onto the tips of his boots.
“Myself!”
“Do you know that this place is the Party?” – the other policeman insisted. “Kum-kum-kum!” The cough didn’t ask the policeman for permission.
“Silence, convicts, or by Go… the Ideal, we’ll have to…!” But the cough continued incessantly, kum-kum-kum.
“Is this a bureau secretary, you there?” – and the pipe continued over backs.
Behind the tail of the crowd appeared the prison doctor, approaching slowly, whispering something to the head of the technical office and then withdrawing. The latter bent toward the officer.
“Silence, convicts!”
“Meow-meow!” – squealed the cat from the roof of my barrack.
“Hey, are you going to shut up or…?”!
“Meow-meow!” – the spy-cat raised one paw from the top of the roof, licked something underneath, and let out a piercing meow-meow.
Not a peep except the cat, meow-meow! “What is it, you wretch!” – the officer burst out.
“Meow-meow!” – the cat retorted.
“Jak, Prengë, bring those two carnations, so the whole populace can see them!”
“Come here, or by the I-I-I… Ideal of the Party, I’ll tear your arms off completely!”
“Untie him, Jak!”
Meow, meow.
“Yes sir, comrade commander!” – but the iron had already touched the bone and blood was dripping.
“Convicts, these two deliberately wanted to delay us…!”
Meow…!
“Let it be the last time, because for the Ideal…!”
Meow-meow!
-“And you, you coward, you chose to get sick at roll call time?”
Meow…!
“Did you hear?” – he leaned into the old man and burst out at the accompanying men: – “Get in line!” The punished men joined their comrades.
“The Party hopes you will be rehabilitated, but you…!”
Meow-meow…!
“…you just don’t want to!” – he included us with a fatherly look and continued: – “We’ll go out of our way for you, but you don’t want to take the right path…!”
Meow-meow!
“…we try nicely, but you still won’t…!”
Meow-meow!
“…may the fault be on your own necks!”
Meow, meow!
“Forward the first ones!”
“Two, four, six,…., one hundred and six, two hundred and six, three hundred and six, plus one hundred and ninety, the second shift, plus three in the hospital, plus eight in the solitary cell, five hundred and seven.”
Meow-meow.
“In order?” – he turned to the policemen.
Meow!
“Yes sir, comrade commander!” Fifi-fri-fiu, fiu, friu-iu.
Meow!
“Disperse!”
“Roll call over!”
Meow.
“You forgot the cat, commander!”
Meow.
“What business does the command have with cats?”!
“It’s on the list with us, since it eats the government’s bread! Sh-sh-sh-t! The 731-er…!”
“Mail!” – Malo’s voice seized the barbed wire enclosure.
“Is there mail today?”
“Looks like it!”
“Well, thank goodness, our eyes have been dry for two weeks now!”
“Did Thanasi arrive?”!
“The herald too!”
“Listen up, folks.”
The hoarse voice roared up the creek, scratched the barbed wires and was sewn onto Fani’s funnel, but when he started calling out names, he got a honeyed timbre:
“Bejo Kalaj, Njazi Bylybashi, Pashuk Bardhi, Andon Treska, Gjet Kadeli, Haki Slatina, Pavllo Popa, Fiqiri Muho, Riza Kamenica, Luan Koka, Xhevdet Zeqo, Xhevit Qesja, Milto Feshti, Zef Ashta, Bashkim…, Pajtim…, Luigj Miri, Kadri Thaçi, Marash Gjoka, Apostol Thana, Ylber Merdani, Myslim Iljazi, Çaush Çoku, Çun Mhilli, Mustafa Bylyshi, Sotir…, Mehmet…!”
“Vampire!”
“Damn it!”
“You couldn’t even choose the name, little brother!”
“I know.”
“How old are you?”
“About eighty.”
“And that plague?”
“Oh-oh, about twenty less!”
“No wonder, he stole yours!”
“Thank you!”
“Change it, man!”
“The 731-er is waiting for you with a ten behind your back!”
The cacophony was interrupted by the herald: …, Abdullah…, Vasil…, Myftar…, Haki…., Petref…, Enver…!”
“Toilet!”
“Hy-h, may your name disappear!”
“What did I do wrong?”!
“It’s cursed!”
“I know, but he was born after me!”
“Change it, man!”
“Easy to say, but who will do it?”
“Through the court, man!”
“With an eighty lek fine on your head, and then both the name and the grave, and the… are forgotten!”
“Really?!”
Again the herald drowned out the cacophony: “Vesel…, Vasfi…, Vat…, Muhamet…, Mynir…, Maxhun…, Pjerin…”, etc., etc., etc.
“Bring it here!”
“Here, you!”
“Here, hey!”
“Here, man, Vata is at work!”
“Bring it, give it to me, is that envelope mine or yours!”
“Oh God, a year is up!”
“Me, two!”
“I haven’t had a letter in twenty years!”
“Long live the party of envelope-rippers!” – the madman retorted.
“What did you say, man?”
“Thank goodness they don’t write to me, or they’d bring me shredded thighs!” – and he moved on.
“Whatever! Whatever!”
“…, until they all finished.”
“Didn’t anyone write to the cat?” – the madman circled the square and returned to where he was.
“She’s an orphan, her father was killed because he wanted to escape, her mother was ripped apart by mice!” – Esati blurted out.
“That’s why she’s wailing on the rooftop, the poor thing!”
“Good for him, he did what was right!”
“Who, man?”
“The tomcat! One less enemy!” – the madman clapped: – “Hurray-a!”
“She’s female and she’ll increase the herd,” Xhelal Bey spoiled his mood.
“But where will she find a male?”
“Oh-oh-a, there are males here, as many as the devil and his son can eat!”
“They won’t go near her because she’s a spy! Unless Prengë Rrapi rapes her!” – the madman joined the other group. “What did you say, friend?”
“Come on, let’s eliminate that lineage!” – Tomor Allajbeu intervened.
“Sh-sh-sh-t, the 731-er… agitation and propaganda!” – Esati pointed out the boundaries of the infamous article.
For those who were at work, their comrades collected the letters, while we newcomers from Reps stayed until the bundle of envelopes was finished, out of curiosity, because no one expected a letter without the news reaching the family first. After the transfer, the letters went to the old address. The card-keeper was too lazy to read them, and a courier was needed to take them to the new address, so they cut it short, burned them in the stove, and closed the matter; thus increasing the enemies’ torment and satisfying their masochism.
In fact, even family members who came for a visit were turned back, without considering the three-day journey to reach the heart of Mirdita, because cars wouldn’t take them, hotels wouldn’t open their doors to them, so they walked aimlessly, with bags on their shoulders. In the summer, they managed somehow, dozing behind a haystack or a bush, but winter was worse, temperatures dropped below zero, it rained, it snowed, the wind blew fiercely, and no one would let you cross their threshold.
“Money raises water uphill!” Xhaf Dema preached, but even that didn’t hold water.
“No one puts up with the money, even when you have it, Xhaf, because they implement Comrade Enver’s orders: ‘Let’s make life hell for internal and external enemies!’ and the hounds implemented it to the letter. ‘After all, they deserve it, why are they chasing after enemies?'”
I walked away, losing hope.
Whoever got a letter found a corner, alone or two or three together, and read, some with their eyes, some out loud. Below the acacia tree, I saw Zake with an envelope in his hand, turning it back and forth, as if the photos of his loved ones were printed on the surface.
I bowed my head and headed downhill.
“Hey, you rascal, how are you now?” “Better.”
“Did you pull yourself together a bit, man?”
“A little more” – and I made my way towards the dormitory.
“Hey boy, won’t you come here for a bit, if you have time!” – he invited me tactfully.
“Time? O-h-u-u, I have three more years, friend!”
“No, man, I don’t need that much; five minutes are enough for you to read this card for me!” I turned and sat next to him.
“Dear father, we are well, we rejoice in this for you too! Today Fatua’s leave ends and we sat down to write you this card… we pray it finds you healthy and well, as we are here too!”
The letter with wide handwriting and many spelling mistakes continued with some insignificant details, like so-and-so is like this; so-and-so is like that, up to the climax news:
“Now we are giving you two pieces of good news. First: on Sunday we married off Vera, but we didn’t have a wedding party, because the in-laws’ grandfather died in Burrel. We held a small celebration without musicians, but we cut it short when the in-laws arrived with the groom and two young men from Moglica, because he wouldn’t come, we with songs, they with a shroud. But we gave Vera away, to good friends!”
“Good fortune to the girl and the groom, God willing! May they not have my fate and my grandfather’s?” – he let out a sigh from the depths of his chest, as two tears streamed down the deep furrows and fell onto the envelope he held in his hands.
A lump formed in my throat, but I continued: “Taku’s wife gave birth to a boy, a chubby boy, and three and a half kilos. The bride and the baby are well and they send you their greetings. We will name him Riza…”!
“What, what!? A boy!? You should have whispered this to me first, man!”
“Now it was its turn!”
“Oh God, what news! I have a son, friends!” – he cried out, snatched the letter from me, and cradled it, as if holding the long-awaited baby in his arms. – “The seed of Riza Kamenica is not lost, Nevzatkë, you wicked ghoul!” – and he kissed the letter as if kissing the infant.
“How happy you made me, son!” – it was unclear whether he was addressing me or the infant in distant Kamenica. – “Wait; let me kiss your forehead, man!” – he pressed his tear-moistened lips to mine, his mustache tickled me, and I felt as if my father had kissed me.
“Hold yourself together, Zake!”
“I’ve become a grandfather, man!” – and he jumped up, teary-eyed.
“As far as I know, you were a grandfather already!”
“I was a grandfather of girls! Now I am a grandfather of a male, man!”
“Congratulations, with long life and good fortune, may he grow up with mother and father, with grandmother and grandfather!”
“Thank you and God willing at the wedding, may you have my blessing, son!” The news made him so happy that he lost interest in the rest of the letter.
“Forget the rest; read me the part that talks about Riza!” – he put his finger on the lines, without knowing exactly where those words were.
I repeated it two or three times, but he couldn’t contain himself because he flew to the seventh heaven:
“God protects the hearth of Riza Kamenica!” – and he burst into tears. – “The scoundrels thought they would close my door, but the hearth of Riza Kamenica will not be extinguished, may you all be turned to pitch black and may no trace or sign of you remain!” – with the card in his hand, he made his way towards the square…!
I headed for the dormitory, but at the door I remembered I hadn’t washed, and I changed direction.
“What are you doing, Tomor?” – I asked my friend Tomor Balliu, at the private kitchen.
“I’m heating up a cauldron of water, for the clothes.”
“Can I take a bucket, to wash myself?”
“Take two, the fire is lit!”
In the barrack, I took my clean clothes, hung my blanket in a free bunk, and turned to get water.
“If you need more, give me a shout!” – Tomçja filled two buckets for me.
“I think it’s enough!”
“As tarred as you are, not even the river can clean you!”
“The gallery, brother!”
“Go now, wash up!”
I entered the cubicle where I undressed, got wet, and lathered up, but the sludge covered the cement beneath my feet and it had no end. I lathered up a second time, scrubbed myself with a rag until my flesh smarted, but the palms of my hands remained as black as they were in the beginning.
“The day is gone, oh God!” Two hours later it would be ten. Relieved of the filth, I lay down on the mattress and my eyes closed. Sleep? I don’t know…! From my brain, the dreams of galleries and policemen faded, memories withered, hopes fled, and they gave way to the apathy that struck me like a vampire’s fang. The darkness surrounded me without contours and without a horizon, with the speed of falling into the abyss, and I plunged into the chasm of oblivion…! Another Black Night awaited me. Black Night? The Black Night entwined with the third shift would accompany us like the cross on Christ’s back. Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue.
