Memorie.al / The secretary of the party organization entered the office and, addressing me in a loud voice so that the accountant could also hear, said: – “Notify everyone in the administration to gather at 11 o’clock in the elementary school yard, because we have a very important meeting:”. The accountant asked her: – “And why is this meeting?” – “You are quiet! – The secretary answered curtly, but with a smile on her lips. – As if you don’t know! The whole village is talking about it and you haven’t heard”?! – And then addressing me again, – “We are going to take a stance on Hajri, because he doesn’t keep his mouth shut”! – “But him, what does he say”?!
– “He’s an uneducated old man, who doesn’t know how to hide his thoughts. He says openly what’s in his head. These types don’t ruin our work, they’re not enemies. The enemy hides his thoughts, doesn’t say them openly, but spreads them ear to ear, insidiously”, – the secretary cut me off, jokingly, but not without a hint of sarcasm. – “Why, do you also blame Hajri”?!
That was it. And she left the office, as always in a hurry, because she was very busy with work.
– “Can’t we have just one insignificant meeting! All meetings turn out to be very important…” – the accountant told me laughing. – “The whole village is talking about this and I don’t know anything”? – I asked myself.
– “What’s the story, Zenepe”? – I asked the accountant.
– “Euuu! They have nothing better to do! They’re going to denounce Hajri.” – “You know, that old man whose house is next to mine? They’ve reported that he expressed dissatisfaction with the authorities. They say they’re going to take away his Front card. Poor Hajri”!
Hajri, the wise old man who prayed to God five times a day, secretly from others, even secretly from his own sons, but everyone knew, was a great believer. So honest and guileless, that sometimes some young person would even play an excessive joke on him.
Once, one of the Kazdedaj sons, a butcher from the sector that distributed meat for the Mersjan and Hoxhaj neighborhoods, met Hajri at the bread shop, waiting for the first morning batch to come out of the oven. Because those from the “Bad Neighborhood” had their oven nearby and came themselves to get bread. Hajri was waiting in line to get his daily bread ration, convinced that this was as Allah had commanded!
The Kazdedaj boy put his arm around Hajri, moved him a little away from the line so others wouldn’t hear, and said: – “Last night I saw you in a dream. You were dressed in a new robe (xhybe), with a green turban on your head, and, with your face lifted to the sky, you heard the voice of Muhammad (peace be upon him), and I heard it too. He told you: Shaqiri is building a new house. Bless his house so that it doesn’t collapse for a hundred years”!
Hajri believed it. He must be a holy man, since Muhammad (pbuh) was entrusting him with a divine task! In the afternoon, as it started to get dark, when the two builders had left, he went to Shaqiri’s, walked around the house that was being built, muttered something to him. Shaqiri, who was coming home from the stable of the first brigade, saw him and thought he had come to congratulate him on the start of the house construction, as is the custom in the village, welcomed him, they had coffee on the occasion, and parted. So, what harm could this old man bring to the authorities?!
– “Why was he supposedly dissatisfied, when the party had given both his sons a secondary education, had put them to work, one as a teacher and the other as a salesman, when both of them, with their good work, had earned the respect of the whole village”?
– “That’s not the point, – the accountant interrupted me. – True, Uncle Hajri sometimes lets out a word without control, but without malice. He’s been like that all his life. Why did they remember today…?!
– “Eh, you don’t know? Do you remember when, on New Year’s Eve, an authorization for a television came from the district? According to the queue, it was Hajri’s turn, because the big shots had taken it earlier. And the village wasn’t against it. But so-and-so said the TV was his, and who knows what he fabricated against poor Hajri”?!
– “Okay, but Hajri got the television…”!
– “That’s the point, that so-and-so got angry that the organization didn’t give it to him, and who knows what he cooked up, to then accuse the organization of giving the authorization to an ‘enemy'”?!
– “Do you think they’ll take away his Front card”?
– “Let’s see. I’ve heard that the party secretary will defend him…”!
– “Okay, now go and notify the administration employees. I don’t think you’ll leave this job to me. Don’t forget the bakers, the miller, the carpenter, the cook”. The accountant left. She returned after a quarter of an hour. Right after her, the secretary entered the office:
– “Did you make the notification”?
– “Yes”.
The secretary seemed worried.
When the time approached 11:00, people began to gather in the school yard. The Front activists had announced that one person from each house should participate in the meeting. It was a warm and beautiful spring day, the sun was shining.
The elderly sat cross-legged on the ground, leaning their backs against the school wall. I sat down too. Next to me came and sat Mehmet Qerimi, a former officer of Zog, an old man with a noble appearance, the head of a large Derjan family.
Mehmeti looked tired. I could tell from his breathing, deep but irregular, sometimes more rapid. Age, I thought, he’s approaching his eighties…! From the trembling of his hands, from his breathing, I understood that Uncle Mehmet was very agitated.
From the school, they had brought a table into the yard, covered it with a white cloth, and placed some chairs facing the people sitting down. And there, the village bigwigs arrived. Among them, an elegant man stood out, who wasn’t our fellow villager. He was the delegate from the district.
And precisely this man, the elegant one, this instructor from the Party Committee, got up and spoke on behalf of the Democratic Front Council. His face expressed almost nothing. Without gestures, with a voice he neither raised nor lowered, calm, as if he were talking about the clear and warm weather, and not as if he were talking about the fate of an elderly man, his family, and Derjan, which would have its name come out as a village that supposedly had an undiscovered enemy.
“But according to verified information,” he said, “this old man, Hajri, has supposedly been making propaganda against the party and the authorities. In conversations with villagers, he always complains about the poor life, nostalgically talks about the past life, complains that the authorities have not recognized his right to those few properties he had before, moreover, even debts owed to him by some villagers for a cow or a goat he supposedly sold them were denied.
He is not grateful to the authorities and the party for the new life created for him, for the education of his sons and their employment (one a teacher, the other a salesman), for the new and happy life of the entire village, with the road connecting it to Burrel, with the agricultural high school, with the house of culture, and so on, and so on”!
– “His fault is very great, – the delegate concluded, – he deserves to be judged as an enemy, but the party is magnanimous, and therefore, taking into account his age, it proposes that his Front card simply be taken away, while everyone else should put their finger to their head and think before they speak recklessly, inciting hostile work”.
Thus spoke the delegate and sat down. The one chairing the meeting invited those present to discuss. Silence. No one was asking for the floor. The delegate became worried. What would he report to the party committee, if there were no discussions? He turned his head left and right, whispering something to those beside him. Apparently, he was asking them to encourage discussions. Another two or three minutes passed. Silence!
The delegate’s face expressed nothing. It was cold, icy. Perhaps he himself wasn’t convinced of what he had said. But what can you do! Party duty! A “strike” had to be given in Derjan, as a preventive measure against hostile propaganda. Silence!
I took out my cigarette pack, opened it, took a cigarette, but I didn’t manage to close it when I saw Mehmet’s hand, trembling, reach out towards the pack and take a cigarette. He put it to his lips. I was surprised! I knew well that Mehmet had quit smoking over ten years ago. I brought the match to light it, but he put his hand forward, which was now trembling even more, and stopped me. He didn’t light it. I hesitated when I saw that not only Mehmet’s hand was trembling, but also his face, his whole body.
I was astonished: what was happening? The unlit cigarette on Mehmet’s lips was getting smaller, going into his mouth, slowly, until it disappeared completely. Mehmet ate the cigarette. What state of mind must a person be in, whom, ten years after quitting smoking, eats a cigarette, without realizing what he’s doing?
At that moment, someone from the presidium shouted: – “Mehmet Qerimi! You have often talked with Hajri. Tell us, what did he tell you”?
It’s clear: Mehmet talked with Hajri. But someone told, or heard it themselves, or eavesdropped, then “embellished” it, and finally reported it. On this basis, the “strike” was organized.
– “We asked about health. He told me lately he hasn’t been feeling well.”
– “No, no, leave that. Tell us what he complained to you about”, – the vigilant one insisted.
– “He didn’t tell me anything else”! – Mehmet said curtly and fell silent.
Just one phrase, but said in such a tone, as if it were part of a military report he might have left unsaid when he was an officer, part of a military order that allows no discussion. He did not succumb to the provocation. I call this a “man,” a character of steel.
And the discussions were closed. I don’t know what the delegate reported to the district, but the truth is the meeting failed, the goal wasn’t achieved. A couple of very lukewarm discussions, neither here nor there, appealed to Hajri to be more careful next time in conversations with villagers. His two sons also made such discussions, forced to keep their jobs. Because the party held everything in its hands, even the school, even the job, even their very lives.
Because the party had given Derjan the high school, the cultural center, and the road down to Burrel. Because the Party held everything in its hands! But the people of Derjan in this meeting were not fooled. Because, in the end, for the wise old man Hajri, it didn’t matter at all whether he had the Front card or not, only that his sons wouldn’t be fired from their jobs. Didn’t the kulak Hysen Preni live without a Front card, just like all the other peasants?
The meeting ended. Mehmet Qerimi continued to tremble. I asked him: – “How is your health, Uncle Mehmet”? – “I’m fine. Very well. Because if you say you’re not well, they’ll say you’re dissatisfied with the authorities”! / Memorie.al
