By Shkëlqim ABAZI
Part Nineteen
SPAÇI
The Grave of the Living
Tirana, 2018
(My own memories and those of others)
Memorie.al / Now in old age, I feel obliged to tell my truth, as I lived it. To speak about the modest men who never boasted of their deeds, and about others whose mouths the regime sealed and buried them in nameless pits. In no case do I assume the monopoly of truth or pretend to the laurels for an event where I was accidentally present, although I strove with all my soul to help my friends somewhat, who tactfully 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.
Continues from the previous issue
‘Our eagle-eyed Party knows all languages and uncovers enemies even if they hide inside a buffalo horn. Did you understand that or not? And it brings them before the people’s justice, to give them the deserved punishment.’ He tortured me as much as he wished. They charged me with three articles of the Penal Code of the People’s Republic of Albania… they gave me twenty years of prison and a five-year internment, and made me a politician. Did you understand that, eh?’
“I heard you, kind Uncle Ali, but I didn’t take it to heart (didn’t grasp the meaning)!”
‘May you never take it to heart, eh…!’
Metamorphosis
He was released around 1985. The very first year after the sentence, his old woman died in a madhouse. The poor soul lost her mind, because after they forced her to testify against her husband, she couldn’t live much longer! The sons, daughters-in-law, grandsons, and granddaughters, after twenty years, forgot their beloved father, good father-in-law, and caring grandfather, and scattered like raven’s fledglings, out of sight and out of mind.
Without even reaching the doorstep of his home, they sent him to internment in Malinat, about two hours away from the village, amidst foul-faced whores and thieves, where he felt like a sheep in a flock of goats and thought prison was a bed of roses. The operative and the plenipotentiary official called him for roll call twice a day, while the pimps and whores provoked him incessantly.
As time flowed, the old man grew gloomy and withdrew into his shell like a snail. Now, abandoned by his relatives and trampled upon by villains and officials, life seemed meaningless. At that time, I was working on the farm, but during the late-winter-spring period, jobs dwindled, so forces were concentrated in auxiliary sectors. They sent me to Malinat for tomato stakes.
After about a week, it was my turn to fetch water at the only spring supplying the village. With a water container in my hand, I wound around the bend and went down a slope, at the end of which flowed the stream, starting from the height of the Tank tower. In a small glade by the spring, an older man of small stature was sitting, dressed in faded homespun cloth and a worn-out plush cap.
He was chewing with his legs crossed, with a pruning hook on his knees and an old handkerchief spread over the ground, worn down by thousands of feet. It seemed he had chosen the spring to soften his bite and flavor his black bread. At first glance, he gave me the impression of a dilapidated vagrant, who for some reason reminded me of Ali Hoxhallari.
I greeted him as one greets any stranger, filled the container, and started to leave, but right at the top of the steep slope, a provocative cough forced me to turn my head. The hesitation lasted a moment, and feeling uncertain, I quickened my steps and disappeared among the bushes, when I heard: “Why didn’t you stay so we could light up one [cigarette], eh?!”
I stopped, checked the bushes for any suspicious signs, and returned my gaze to the frail figure. Under the mustaches yellowed by tobacco smoke, a pair of thin lips opened, revealing some sparse and decayed teeth, while the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes traced horizontal furrows that cut vertically across his dark face and disappeared beneath the unkempt, graying beard. All doubt evaporated, it was the aged Ali, goodness gracious, it had been years since we had last seen each other.
“How are you, oh Ali!” – I opened my arms and embraced him, full of longing.
“Ejvallah (Thank God), how happy you made me, son!”
“How have you been, oh Like?”
“A life of misfortune, one foot in the grave, eh!”
“Hope dies last, Uncle Ali!”
“That one died long ago, now all that’s left is this old wreck with no value!” – he punched his chest.
“Life is always valuable!” – I tried to rekindle the interest of the wretched old man.
“Once, yes, but now, the filth has smothered us, eh!” – he wiped away some crumbs that were tangled in his unshaven hair and continued: – “What’s new, are you married, eh?”
“For some time now!”
“Vallahi (By God), I knew it, you are smart!”
“How are your children?” – I asked as a matter of custom.
“Why do you want them, better an empty cradle than the devil inside, eh!”
I was surprised; I found the once optimistic, smiling, and cheerful Like completely changed. His wrinkled face expressed deep sadness and pain, while his hollowed eyes resembled coals trying to hide from the cruelties of the world that had cast him into Tartarus.
“Who do you live with, Like?” – I changed the subject.
“Alone, eh!”
“What about your sons?”
“Only God knows where they are!”
“You don’t meet them?”
“Why would I meet them when they haven’t shown up for so many years, eh!”
“This misery surrounds us all, eh, Like!” – I tried to lighten the burden of his woes.
“You are young and have life ahead of you, eh!”
“You are still well-preserved!” – I attempted to give him courage.
“Ah-ha-a, the heat is gone with August, Like’s soul! I suffered greatly, but I wish I had seen one hour of comfort!”
“Hum-hum,” a white dog grinned at me.
“Quiet, Balo!”
“Hum-hum,” the dog continued.
“Come here, my son, this is my friend, eh!”
The dog crossed to the opposite side, gobbled up a piece of bread offered by its owner, and rubbed against the homespun cloth.
“Wander off a little, eh, or have you become a scoundrel too, eh?” – Ali pressured him, as if speaking to a servant.
“Ham-ham,” the dog replied in a dog-like way.
“I know, you have your own pleasure, dear Balo, but we are old now!” – he looked around: “Be careful, you are the only one left to me!” – he stroked the withered sole of his foot over its head and tickled it. The dog stretched out on one side and trembled with pleasure from its owner’s hand, then threw a “ham-hum-hhhem” toward the sky, stretched out its tongue a palm’s length, and closed its eyes.
“Sleep, my son, you are tired all night!”
“Is this your dog?”
“Out of all the living, only him is left!” – he stretched his hand, wrinkled like parchment, over the dog’s head. – “You bad one, you never betrayed me, Balo!” – the dog snored again; grr-rr and doubled up on the ground.
“Is he from Greece?”
“No, he is from my house.”
“Ah-a, I thought he was one of those traitors you escaped with!” – I teased him to restore his humor.
“We didn’t betray anything, neither me nor the dogs, eh!”
“But you stepped on Greece, didn’t you?”
“Oh-h-ah, if I knew what awaited me, I wouldn’t have returned. No matter how bitter exile is, it is far, far better than prison and internment. Besides, with three hundred head of sheep and three dogs, I would have spent my old age comfortably.” – he sighed an “ah” from the depth of his chest and inhaled from his pipe.
“How are you getting by, eh, Like?” – I wanted to bring him back to reality.
“It’s wretched, man, with whores, lechers, and villains!”
“Like Zejnullah?”
“What Zejnullah, eh, in the village you had only one, here they have gathered all the scoundrels and whores of the world!”
“Leave them to their own business and mind yours!” – I tried to calm him down.
“Good, good, but they won’t leave you alone! Ah, the bad thing about prison, eh!” – the old man burst out.
“Here you are free, Like, without police behind you!”
“What freedom are you talking about, eh? There you had the police behind you, but in front there were men of honor, whose conversation was engaging! Here, only Balo is left to me!”
“Hum-hum-hëm,” the dog stirred as soon as it heard its name mentioned.
“Be quiet, we’re having a man’s conversation now!”
“At least you know his language!” – I provoked him.
“Balo is better than this despicable crowd!” – hum-hum, grr-grr.
“Turkish? Arabic?”
“Ha-ha-ha, you haven’t forgotten, eh!” – for the first time, his face brightened, and a ray of light flashed in his eyes.
“You are a finished politician, eh, Like!” – I teased him to make him laugh.
“What kind of wretched politician, with the foxes of the heath, I will do politics, eh!”
“Man adapts to conditions!”
“What are you talking about, eh, Balo can’t get along with them, let alone me?!”
“Enver Hoxha, oh long live, as tall as these mountains, oh as tall as these rocks, the voice of the eagle, oh you raised it high, all this people… you dumped them in shit!” – Like continued the song, started by some youthful voices. “Hum-hum-ham-grr,” Balo echoed him.
“What a fucked-up race these scoundrels and whores are that they’ve gathered here!” – he vented, as if confronting a shadow behind his back.
“Leave them, they are in their own tune!” – I tried to soothe his anger.
“May the devil take these pig-like creatures who sing to the disaster, may their seed dry up and their root not remain!” He tightly held his worn-out plush cap, grabbed the pruning hook with one hand, shook the dog with the other, and stood up.
“The scoundrels are coming; I don’t want them to see you with me!”
“Stay, Like?”
“Open your eyes, son! These bastards are poisonous seed, they don’t even care for the fathers who gave birth to them!”
“Ptu-uh,” he spat phlegm towards the voices and climbed the steep slope with surprising agility for his age, raised his hand and waved it in the void, as if saying goodbye to me, while Balo wagged his shaggy tail, and they disappeared among the heath, never to be seen again…!
This was my last meeting with Ali, because we would meet again after a dozen years, but this time… with his bones and Balo’s, left in the wool clothes.
Mixed Skeletons
After the victory of the Democratic Party, radical reforms were made in the police organs, Security State agents and lackeys who destroyed human lives were being prematurely released. I was assigned the duty of Chief of Personnel at the Berat Order Branch. As a prison survivor, I inquired about the fate of my fellow sufferers who ended their lives abandoned even by family members, so much so that their graves were unknown.
When the Chief of Order, I.S., requested a meeting, I suspected some preventive measure to escape democratic punishment, although he had been an officer for less than a year, but over fifteen years in the police. He had started his career as a soldier-policeman, then an effective policeman, and later graduated from the Police Academy, but it seems he did not enjoy the trust of the titleholders for high duties, so they neglected him. At the end of 1991, he was titled an officer, and on the eve of democracy, he was appointed Chief of Order.
We exchanged greetings, and he expressed his regard, but I took it with reservations and asked him if there was anything wrong.
“No, your trust makes me feel privileged, today I have come to unload a burden that I have carried on my back for years.”
“Speak without formality!” – I urged him, even inviting him for coffee to make it easier.
“I would be happy to buy it for you!” – he interrupted me. – “Not because of the duty, nor out of servility, but I never imagined the day would come when you would drink coffee with me!”
“Why would you think that way?”
“Because of my past in these organs.”
“You don’t have to be complexed; I can drink coffee with anyone, but if I prove that you were involved in political affairs and caused misfortunes for such motives, you will be removed like the others.”
“Precisely why I came, to cleanse my soul and empty my sorrow. Until now, I hadn’t seen any convenient path to free myself from this nightmare.”
“Express yourself freely,” – I encouraged him.
“I think it is the right time, and you are the right person.”
“I am listening attentively.”
“When I was a soldier, they sent me as an assistant plenipotentiary in Tërpan,” – he began. – “We covered a wide territory, with no possibility of moving by transport means, we were forced to walk, and often slept there. It happened that I stayed for months without going down to the city, because the area included Tërpan, Malinat, and…”
“I know, I have been in that region.”
“Exactly, that’s where I want to get to. Our superiors had instructed us to keep the internees under control, especially the political ones. But what am I saying? Truth be told, the surveillance of political internees, although few in number compared to the ordinary ones, was our duty. Since I was there every day, the villagers, farm workers, internees—ordinary and political—got to know me, and certainly the Party leaders too. I gained everyone’s trust, due to the fact that my family also originated from that region.”
“Get to the point!” – I interrupted him, as the introduction seemed too long.
“Excuse me, I wanted you to form an idea about what I’m going to tell you.”
“Speak, nonetheless.”
“I will speak because I am bursting! I don’t feel at peace without venting this regret that has burdened me for years!” – he struck his chest.
“Speak without formality.”
“There is an unmarked grave there, it’s not even a grave, but a hole! A forgotten, covered hole! In it lie the bones of one unfortunate man, actually two: a man and a dog that moan, gasp, howl…”
“Ali Hoxhallari!?” – I interrupted him unconsciously.
“Yes! You knew it!” – he sighed, relieved.
“No, I don’t know anything concrete!”
“Then is it telepathy?”
“No, conjecture!”
“Very strange!” – he blushed right up to the roots of his hair. “I thought I was the only one who knew!” – he sighed, perhaps to reproach himself for having tortured himself all those years. – “But it wasn’t a secret!”
“When you mentioned the dog, I conjectured Ali, but I didn’t know they had buried him there.”
“They didn’t bury him, they interred him! I waited, but no one came forward, now that I’ve confessed, I feel peaceful.”
“Come, let’s have coffee!” – I invited him to go down to the bar adjacent to the prison building.
“Does it sit well with you here?” – he asked me. Perhaps he expected a negative answer.
“The owners are good people!”
“I’m not talking about them, doesn’t the place remind you of the suffering?”
“They sentenced me in Shkodër, even though prisons were all the same everywhere.”
“I was talking about the police?”
“They also had the same face, only the names changed!”
“No, we weren’t that similar! Maybe we looked that way to you, who saw us from the cell, or to those from outside, but ask us, who served here!”
“Why, were you different?!”
“Completely! The overwhelming majority were struggling police officers and officials, whom no one cared about, they despised and treated us like maternity rags, that are ironed as long as they serve and burned in the crematorium as soon as they fulfill their mission. They called us; ‘polo‘ to our face, ‘lolo‘ behind our backs, they ordered us to escort one and the other, without explanation, then they appropriated every merit, every reward, every decoration, and charged us with the failures, as if we were scabs or swabs that wipe shoes. Therefore, the police supported the Democratic Party.”
I didn’t want to believe him, a thought told me he was defending himself for his past actions.
“Chief, do you know what I’m thinking?” – he looked at me askance.
“What?”
“I meant; I can guess!”
“What do you say, am I right?”
“Completely, but don’t judge us without getting under our skin. Not to defend ourselves, but it is an unknown reality to you and those who look at us askance.”
“I don’t put everyone in the same bag, even though I can’t penetrate your conscience, just as you can’t enter mine.”
“I accept that. But we also felt tormented when we saw you being unjustly condemned. Although we couldn’t oppose the State Security, we found other ways.”
“For example?”
“We incompletely performed the duties they assigned us, or didn’t perform them at all, and we held back in the reports we made, even though the persons targeted to be hit were known to us personally.”
“Are you playing the lawyer, so I’ll believe you?”
“Allow me to illustrate it with one case, at the Malinat Spring stream, when you and Ali Hoxhallari, deformed a song about the leader.”
“You even recorded that?!”
“Oh-h-u, we recorded everything!”
“You were behind the hedge?!”
“Our informant!”
“Should I take that as gospel?”
“Without hesitation!”
“Are you putting pressure, or trying to put me in your debt?”
“What value would that have? I mentioned it to say that we didn’t report everything, we understood that both the surveilled and the supervisor would have one end, the former, prison without fault, the latter, the garbage can.”
“You were that conscious?!”
“Experience, dear friend! We weren’t blind not to see how our comrades were having their heads eaten? We didn’t like the superiors, because they were opportunists, boastful, who increased the decorations on their chests and the mistresses in their beds, with our work.”
“Is that so?!” – I pretended to be surprised.
“When he asked the superior to give him details about the object under surveillance, the stone-drunk chief lined us up and snapped at a devoted colleague: Who wants to know more? You? You? You? Do you know who you are? You don’t know, huh! Fine, I’ll tell you! Toilet sticks, that clean the filth of the gutter and hide it behind the hedge!’
Who wouldn’t be humiliated, except the spies they placed behind us? So, the base police understood and acted more or less the same, meaning they didn’t act at all.”
“Then how were the prisons filled with innocent people?!”
“The State Security recruited personnel with scoundrel origins, with whom they prepared the contingent of the sworn-in and distributed them everywhere. They supplied the political prisons, because they didn’t trust us, they sent us as guards to institutions or set us after gamblers, thieves, and whores like hounds…” Memorie.al
Continues in the next issue
