From Sokrat Shyti
Part eight
Memorie.al / The writer Sokrat Shyti is the “great unknown” who, for several years, has revealed the tip of the iceberg of his literary creativity. I say this based on the limited number of his published books in recent years, primarily the voluminous novel “Nata fantazmë” (Tirana 2014). His novels: “PËRTEJ MISTERIT”, “MES TUNDIMIT DHE VORBULLËS”, “GËRRYERJET E MAKTHIT”, “HIJA E TURPIT DHE E VDEKJES”, “KOLONELI KRYEDHJAK”, “SHPRESAT E NËMURA”, “PËSHTJELLIMET E FATIT” I, II, “MBIJETESA NË KASOLLEN E LOPËS”, as well as other works, all novels ranging from 350 to 550 pages, are in manuscript form waiting to be published. The dreams and initial excitement of the young novelist, returning 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 Moscow State University, right after the rupture of Albanian-Soviet relations in 1960, Sokrat Shyti worked at Radio “Diapazon” (which at that time was located on Kavaja Street), in an editorial office with his journalist friends – Vangjel Lezho and Fadil Kokomani – both later arrested and subsequently executed by the communist regime. Besides the radio, Sokrati, at the age of 21, if we may imagine, had passionate literary interests at that time. He wrote his first novel “Madam doktoresha” and was on the verge of publication, but… alas! Right after the arrest of his friends, to fill the cup, a brother of his, a painter, fled abroad.
Sokrat was arrested in September 1963, and in November of that year, he was sent into internment (together with his mother and younger sister) to a location between Ardenica and Kolonje in Lushnja. For 27 consecutive years, the family lived in a livestock shed made of reeds, without windows, while Sokrat was subjected to forced labor. During these 27 years, he was legally obligated to report three times a day to the regional 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 livestock shed, he gave birth and raised his children. It was precisely from this event, or rather a very long history of persecution, that he was inspired to write the book “Survival in the Livestock Shed”!
Agron Tufa
Continued from the previous issue
EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK “SURVIVAL IN THE COW SHED”
This was the saddest summer I was spending at home. I hadn’t thought that I would feel so deeply in my being the absence of my father. When my dear brother passed away in his sleep, and I who was sleeping next to him first noticed how his warm body began to cool, horrified, I ran to my mother to give her the terrible news. The virginal world of childhood still did not understand the horrific consequences this sudden death would bring to our family, on the threshold of youthful blossoming!
However, being attached to my parents and society and passing time in various activities and games, the overwhelming pain of the beginning seemed to diminish without being felt, losing the previous force of the shocking imagination, and showing signs of healing.
After nine years, the pain for the death of the head of the family reappeared in me quite differently, as a result of premature maturity. Instead of the former childish demands, serious concerns about the future began to arise, which took on extremely alarming dimensions, and the impression was formed that this phenomenon would go through quite complicated, mysterious, and unpredictable labyrinths.
And even more strangely: my future would not depend at all on my family! For however much the presence of my father served as a moral force and compass of direction with his wise advice, the further course of life and its flow would be determined by the dark forces of politics, disregarding any personal natural inclination or ability.
This assumption implied that in the following two years of high school, the foundations of the future would be laid. Because the possibility should not be excluded that in general lines, it was sketched somewhere, and suddenly, a mysterious surprise could happen at the last decisive moment: the youthful dream could crumble like a dust. I observed with despair and regret that the parental family was losing its primary role in the growth and education of children. It was happening almost the same as with birds, which after gaining their feathers and strengthening their wings, seek a new nest.
Not to mention that most forget entirely their origins when they pair up! I had a certain reassurance, as I knew myself, that nothing like this would ever happen to me. On the contrary, a premonition whispered to me now and then that the bond of blood would always keep me connected to the family land, and more than necessary, could even become an insurmountable obstacle to making extremely important decisions during the unique turning points of life, which give fate the right direction.
After my father’s departure from this noisy, stealthy life, only his wise advice would remain in my memory as the most valuable inheritance, which, together with the genetic heritage, would give me the necessary strength to face the hardships of survival. Generally, our childhood had a certain independence from parental care. Or in other words, between us and our parents, there existed a mutual independence because they had no time to take care of us.
Thus we learned to direct our own lives, starting from the management of school, preparation for lessons, to spending free time and controlling our behavior. This dual independence created in our minds the first crystals of premature maturity and rooted the desire to work. We began to enjoy our first pleasures when we attempted to earn even a modest income on our own. I devoted part of my free time to my father’s shop: I kept the environment clean, delivered finished garments to specific addresses, (in addition to household chores, filling water and chopping wood).
While one of my childhood friends was more agile and daring: he sold water to farmers on market days, especially during the hot summer months when the sun burned like a frying pan, and there was no shade to hide from the scorching rays. Alongside this, he engaged in a small trade, selling hand and machine sewing needles, without hesitation or intimidation, loudly advertising his goods:
“Czechoslovak needles, with a round butt!” Extreme poverty forced us to give our childhood dimensions of adulthood, making us experience days and nights with the scanty juice of fantasy, without resting for a moment, falling into the lap of lethargy, and searching for chickpeas in the grain.
Imagining the main features of childhood, especially the mutual independence from our parents and critically observing the financial situation of the family, (the only income was my sister’s monthly salary, who worked at the post office in the letter sector), I thought of seeking a temporary two-month job, to cover my own expenses for the upcoming school year.
The difficulty of finding a job was related to the type of work that my mother would not oppose. For ordinary agricultural work, going to the farm sector’s plots to plant corn early in the morning, as soon as the sun rose, and returning home after sunset, exhausted, was easily done without needing any bureaucratic interference. However, this would worry and disappoint my mother and offend my sister. Naturally, this would weigh heavily on them socially, and I wouldn’t hesitate to emphasize, “Did you come here to calm your mother or to earn two coins?!” Since this solution was not feasible, I continued to dig around to find a more suitable way…!
Suddenly, I remembered the remark by Muka that our gymnasium director was informed by our “Model” school director, and in that moment, hope was born within me that this good man could help me. Therefore, without delay, I left the house, telling my mother that I was going for a walk around the city, and made my way to my school, where I completed the last three grades. It was a new two-story building, the first school being built in our city, as before this, houses of one or two stories belonging to wealthy former landowners were used, which had been nationalized.
As soon as I crossed the iron gate and found myself in the large courtyard (where students line up according to their classes before the lessons begin, to collectively repeat the eternal oath of “Always ready!” after the commander of the squadron’s call: “In the fight for the cause of the Party and the people, be ready!”), the chilling scene of March 5, 1953 appeared before my eyes, when I was a squad commander and was quite worried, waiting on the platform of the stairs for the director’s order to give the morning command, but he continued to hesitate, thus a stifling, exhausting silence hung over the courtyard, so we could not satiate ourselves with air; it seemed to us that it was thinning and diminishing because we were expecting something terribly frightening to happen that would soon terrify us!
I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the director was making some strange movements, lifting his head up and lowering it, experiencing difficulties in expressing himself, as though at that moment he was trying for the first time to speak Albanian, or something was hindering him in his mouth; perhaps he began to experience signs of a sudden paralysis. This suggestion scared me, creating a terrifying impression that perhaps he was being overwhelmed by specific crises that block the voice’s emission along with the movement of the jaws, compelling the impaired person to make extraordinary efforts to utter syllables and words!
Finally, after much effort, having chewed and chewed the fragmented syllables, he managed to formulate the most difficult sentence of his life. With a changed voice, trembling from fear, he said:
“Dear students! Today the most shocking and greatest tragedy in world history has occurred: The Genius of the world proletariat, the Generalissimo of World War II, the glorious strategist of victory over Nazism and Fascism, the esteemed leader of the Soviet peoples and the Peace Camp, the genius Teacher of all humanity, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin has passed away!” After these words, his face took on an indeterminate expression: it resembled a wax mask, pale, bloodless, and amorphous!
I was filled with terror, fearing that he would collapse there and create a dreadful chaos, since we others did not know where to focus our minds first, on the tragedy of global proportions or on the half-dead director! But after a minute, he seemed to come to his senses a bit, raised his head, and cast his gaze over the silent mass of students. Perhaps this terrifying state was caused because he still hadn’t found the continuation of his speech. Or he changed his mind; he wasn’t convinced that he should express himself exactly that way. Thus, the initial obstacles reappeared, the stiffening of the jaws and the thickening of the tongue.
When he realized that the spasm was not leaving him, he thought to make the most reasonable assessment. He told the students: “On this tragic day, when our entire earthly globe mourns the loss of the most glorious leader of the twentieth century, we will express our deep sorrow by standing in silence for five minutes. Eternal glory to the genius Stalin!”
And immediately after this call, the unbelievable miracle happened: he raised his right hand aloft, like a Nazi salute, leaving us all stunned by this insane act! Dazed to the point of confusion, I cast a bewildered glance at our teachers, to see what stance they would take after this mad action, whether anyone would follow his example or scorn it with hatred. Of course, my behavior would depend on their stance.
But fortunately, my inner voice was faster and more agile, advising me to keep my feet on the ground and not to follow the director’s folly, thus I performed the pioneer salute for the students to follow my example. I noticed that not everyone complied: some, who did not see at all what was happening around them, remained with their heads bowed, without saluting, thinking that this way they expressed the profound sorrow more fully. And, most importantly, they would not have any future repercussions.
The director whispered nervously to me to get the students into the classrooms without reciting the morning oath. I signaled to two first-grade teachers to climb the stairs amidst the deep silence. When the yard emptied and the bewildered teachers did not know how to act—whether to get into their respective classrooms according to the lesson schedule, or whether they should wait in the teachers’ lounge for special instructions on this unusual day—someone gave the order for the homeroom teachers to be in their classrooms to keep the students under control, and in all the internal school space, not even a fly was to stir.
The Albanian language teacher pulled me aside to tell me that for now, I would not enter my classroom because that’s how the situation required it. So, I stayed by the front window, from where I could see all the entrances and exits. After a while, I noticed three people crossing the threshold of the door, beginning to climb the stairs. I recognized one of them: he was the head of the education department, who had once come to our class to see what was missing and how it should be filled. I knew that the other worked at the prosecutor’s office. As for the third, I was seeing him for the first time. Accompanied by the Albanian teacher, they passed in front of me without asking any questions and entered the director’s office.
Although I was twelve years old and had just entered adolescence, I knew why they had come. They were surely going to examine the director’s insane action, and a decision would be made—the mildest one being his dismissal from office, as he could not lead the teachers after the Nazi salute. Alongside this, his mental state would also be assessed: could he be trusted in the future with the honorable duty of a teacher after serving his punishment, or should he be permanently excluded from education for inappropriate behavior, which even open enemies would not dare to exhibit in a school environment, in front of hundreds of students?!
After nearly an hour, they came out of the director’s office with the director himself, descended the stairs, crossed the yard, went over the gate, and got into a “Jeep” that was parked on the road, behind the surrounding wall. At that moment, the Albanian language teacher approached me to advise me on how to act if anyone asked me; “What happened at the ‘Model’ school on the morning of March 5, especially about what was said regarding the death of Stalin?” And then finally, the curious one would want to know exactly how the director dared to honor so openly, like a Nazi. But most importantly, – he emphasized, – not a word should come from you about who came to our school while we were all in our classrooms, teachers and students alike.
When I went home after class was over, my father, who was there to have lunch, beckoned me to follow him into the room, where he asked me to describe in detail the strange event of that morning, which constituted the main news of the day in our city, and everyone was dealing with this matter (the Party Committee, the Executive, the Trade Unions, the Presidency of the Democratic Front, the Internal Affairs Department, the Prosecutor’s Office, the Court).
—“Surely, soon this matter will be raised in every workplace, emphasizing the influences of dangerous displays that, in specific cases, erupt like volcanoes and cause ideological confusion,” — my father explained after listening to my description. — “For now, I am unable to provide any thoughts on what prompted such open madness, what chaos has clouded his mind to such an unbelievable degree!
I know the former director of your school well. (I say ‘former’ because from now on, it is unclear where he will end up). We have often discussed various issues, and at no time have I noticed any signs of confusion or insanity. Generally, he expressed his thoughts within the ideological framework, without any hesitations or retrogressive tendencies. Since he was not known for his erudition and comprehensive culture, I didn’t expect him to offer smart and sharp determinations.
However, it was never expected that he would take on the role of being so reckless in front of the school, especially on the most delicate day, when the slightest mistake is magnified through a magnifying lens. Who knows what dreadful impulse forced his brain to make such a horrific salute when nothing threatened him! In such cases, everyone keeps a stiff posture, with their hands folded behind their bodies, and in the end, says: “Eternal be his memory!”
I don’t know how to explain it… — my father repeated. — His brain must have surely suffered a deep mental slip at that moment, causing him to perform that insane act! Not even the best psychiatrist or the sharpest psychologist can define what happened in his nervous system, considering that strange and dangerous exceptions are an integral part of our mental world. That much is enough to know. For me, as a parent, and for you, it is important to stay as far away from curious interests as possible.
Because these provocations swell like the waters of rivers during torrential rains, overflowing their banks and sweeping away everything in their currents, causing disasters. You are a child; you cannot grasp the ambitions of those in power. Regardless of the horrific dimensions that the insane action of your former principal carries, it is not in our state’s interest to echo such madness.
Therefore, in my opinion, they will present him before a psychiatric medical-legal commission, which will verify the irresponsible condition of the former principal and eventually conclude that: his brain has completely lost the ability to engage in mental activities, and even doubts arise about ordinary tasks, which means he must be excluded from them henceforth. As a result, he should be kept entirely isolated from society, assigned a pension for survival, or some craft work.
I consider it a great fortune for you that, at this honorable moment, your inner voice came to your aid, showing you how to act; to use the pioneer salute. Otherwise, certain people would have taken action against us…” — added my father, worried. — Because they are not yet satisfied, having punished our family!
Not just here, but everywhere, the officials and party members have a pathological hatred for their intellectual politicians because they are afraid of sharp reasoning that reveals mediocrity and deceit. This bitter fate will follow you too—he sighed deeply. — But you walk your path of dignity, for it is important for anyone to remain faithful to honesty, no matter how the circumstances present themselves. Memorie.al
Continued in the next issue
