By Gëzim Peshkëpia
Part Two
Memorie.al / From time to time, I had published occasional writings about isolated events, always with a lingering hesitation toward those well-known authors who brought this tragic era to life through their books. A passive description is not enough; therefore, I felt compelled to become a commentator of this period – aiming to present not only the tragic elements but the overall lived experience. With these brief sketches of stories, I do not claim to bring vivid images to life, but rather a very small contribution to the memorial in honor of their memory.
To be continued from the previous issue
PRISON DIARY
Interrogation Session
-“Do you know me?”
-“No,” I lied.
-“I am Kadri Rasim Ismailati, a communist since ’42. (He lied to me by a year; from his death announcement, I learned he had been one since ’43.) I am the Deputy Director of the Directorate of Internal Affairs for the Sigurimi. I have a character like… steel,” he added, clenching his right hand into a fist.
-“Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you: How old are you?”
-“Thirty-five.”
-“I don’t promise to release you, but if you want to celebrate your fortieth birthday by your mother’s side, tell me what you discussed…?”
At that moment, Nasho Gjinopulli entered, who had surely been listening in a nearby room to what the “cell rat” Gjergj Luka – who had been with me for nearly a month and a half – was saying. While searching for something in a drawer, Kadri continued:
-“With Ingri Bego…?”
-“With Stefo… What’s his last name again?”
Nasho: “Çami. Yeah, he’s Foto Çami’s brother.”
Kadri: “Whose? That Çami from Kruja?!”
-“With this Dori with…!”
-“What’s wrong with you, why are you trembling? Hey Nasho, why have you left him like this, in his work apron?”
-“Notify his mother to bring one, or send someone to pick up a coat for him.”
-“They won’t bring it, there’s nothing I can do,” Nasho continued, walking out with a paper that looked like an official record in his hand.
From the interrogation room window, I could see how the snow had whitened the entire limited horizon I could glimpse. On the train platform, there was a layer of snow about thirty centimeters deep.
-“Shall we tear up all these records and make a deal?”
-“Come, I’ll take you in the car and we’ll go over by the ‘Dinamo’ stadium. There, in some club, we’ll have a fernet and a coffee and talk like men. You should know we hold a lot in our hands. Those lawyers who used to bother us – we got rid of them.
If you show yourself to be sincere, we’ll say a word to the court… because we are in control… we can push for a minimum sentence of 3-4 years and… well, what do you say?
Because you should know… Here, do you see this? An internment order. It’s stamped with the name left blank. Just a name and a signature from me, and off to Elbasan! Were you out there when we interned two hundred families from Tirana? We are drafting the plan for 1976 now.”
He had taken off one shoe and was warming his foot by the stove. I looked at him and remembered Ganiu, with whom I once worked in a welding brigade. As soon as he saw him on the street, he would say: “God, look at the size of that man’s hoof! If he kicks you, he’ll never miss, and there’s no dodging him in a cell…!”
-“Well, even Ingri and Stefo hesitated like this at first, but now that they’ve confessed, they are at peace. We allow them food, cigarettes…!”
-“You can’t arrest them easily, no, because one is Muço Saliu’s cousin and the other is Foto Çami’s brother; whereas with me, it was easy because I have no ‘umbrella’ (protection)…!”
-“Hey, you’re an interesting type! You have so many doubts about our words. Get your head straight; we don’t even care about members of the Central Committee, let alone these nobodies. I wanted to help you, but you are showing that you are consistent in your line and not one of those who slipped up by accident.
We know everything, but I wanted to see if you’ve reflected at all…! For example: which one of you said, ‘If I get my hands on these Sigurimi guys, I swear I’ll tear their faces off with my teeth.’
We have it recorded, you should know; here it’s only about sincerity, resilience, and your sentence is at stake. If I took you to the cells now to see your friends inside, would you talk…?”
-“I have nothing to say. You arrested me for nothing. I didn’t speak against the regime.”
-“Well, what did you talk about with Ingri?”
-“About literature, music, sports, girls…!” Kadri noted the answer next to the name. He had a list of 7-8 names on the table.
-“What about X…?”
-“How should I know?”
Suddenly he lunged from the table, approached me, and grabbed me by the ears, lifting me from the chair.
-“How should I know?” (Ku di gjo un?)
He mocked my Tirana dialect. “To hell with your dialect and that of that filth, Beqir Balluku.” He began to strike me with fists and kicks, and surprisingly, for all that size, his blows lacked strength. When he kicked me, I remembered Ganiu talking about the size of his foot, and at that moment, from the laughter, a bubble of snot came out of my nose.
I pretended to sob so as not to anger him with my laughter, for who knows what would have awaited me then. The only thing that caused me pain was his shaking. I had weakened significantly. I had lost over twenty kilograms.
He would pull me from one side of the wall and with his other hand push me toward the opposite wall, and as I tried to cushion the blow by putting my hands forward, he would pull me back with all his might by the apron I was wearing.
It felt as if my lungs would come out of my mouth. I was ready to endure his blows for fifteen minutes rather than this devilish invention of this monster. Fortunately, this didn’t last long because he began to gasp for breath and lacked the strength to continue.
The Two Boys
“The boys have been very busy lately,” Kadri told me, “that’s why they haven’t interrogated you yet…”
My two main interrogators were Nasho Gjinopulli and Kosta Gazeli. The first was from the Directorate of Internal Affairs of Tirana, while the second was a chief interrogator of the Ministry of Interior. Nasho was bitter and cynical. Sometimes they spoke Greek between them.
The prototype of a man who had suffered from an inferiority complex in his social circle, he had found the right place in that position to feel equal, if not superior, among his former friends who hadn’t valued him before, predicting him to be a failure. A careerist, cunning, and very sharp.
Before I was arrested, a friend of mine who was his neighbor had spoken to me about this. He told me, among other things, that he had a very gentle, almost lost, father. The neighborhood kids had even nicknamed him “The Bastard.”
Pale-faced, he showed self-confidence and acted blunt in conversation. He would strike with the back of his hand and kick the shins. Kosta was more built.
The latter liked to talk at length and, to showcase his erudition, would transition from names of “decadent” painters to Modugno, Celentano, and the Beatles, “expounding” on Freud – all of whom would later be attributed to me in the indictment.
During the interrogation, he would pluck my chest hairs. This was his “hobby.” With others who weren’t hairy, I don’t know what methods he used. One day he struck me with a fist and broke my canine tooth, the remaining half of which was later removed by Hasani, a dentist I knew from before prison. His face fell when he saw my swollen lip, as he understood what had happened.
Another time he punched me in the stomach and threw me to the ground.
-“Hey, you dog,” I said to him, “if I were outside, would you dare to strike me?”
-“He’d strike you regardless,” Nasho intervened, “because he has that ‘poor thing’ behind him,”-alluding to the revolver.
From that day on, I nicknamed him “Cassius Clay.”
-“Yes,” Nasho told me, “he’s ‘Cassius Clay’ and you’re ‘Joe Frazier.’ You have the right to a rematch. Just get through this ten-year sentence first, because the second one will be easy for us. Our trouble was getting you inside; as for getting out, this double-gate you entered through with a car becomes as small as the eye of a needle.” Memorie.al
