“Ah, Dante, if you had experienced Burrel, you would have conceptualized ‘Hell’ differently. Here they call it Burrel, where you enter and do not leave,’ they used to tell us when we passed under that door, although…” / The rare testimony of the former political prisoner

By Shkëlqim ABAZI  

Part thirty-five

                                                                S P A Ç

                                                    The Grave of the Living

Tirana, 2018

(My memories and those of others)

Memorie.al /Now in my old age, I feel obliged 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, burying them in nameless pits? In no case do I presume to usurp the monopoly on truth or claim the laurels for an event where I was accidentally present, even though I desperately tried to help my friends, who tactfully and kindly deterred me: “Brother, open your eyes… don’t get involved… you only have two months and a little more 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 months after, until I was released. Nevertheless, everything I saw and heard during those three days; I would not want to take to the grave.

               Continued from the previous issue

“And no one knew where the ‘veteran’ of the magpies would land with his blasphemous oratory, if it weren’t for the brilliant city poet’s complaint thundering from the beyond-world:

“What are you babbling about, you fool? We first met him in the Burrel prison, and we know he could barely write the letters! The bastard was camouflaged, Mr. Poet! He chose to act ignorant so people would believe him!”

“My dear fellow, I practically raised him and taught him everything from the alpha!” the poet of delicate feelings defended him.

Just then, the black Head Investigator’s hell-ghost, the butcher who had convicted the Poet and Namik and the entire retinue of the Party’s “enemies,” even friends and sympathizers of internationalism, sprang up from the beyond; he started shrieking as if in a courtroom:

“Even in the grave, your mouth won’t shut up, you coward!” he threatened him. “We knew what kind of head he had even then, that’s why we gave him that punishment! Why, did we condemn him for no reason? Huh, what are you telling us now that he has gone to America?”

“What black America, may I see you in worse shape than you are now!”

“But ‘WHAT IF’ he has left?”

“Aren’t you tired yet of ‘WHAT IFs’?”

“‘WHAT IF’ you knew what a scoundrel he was…”

“He was like a lamb, intelligent and erudite, with character and…, but you couldn’t…”

“‘WHAT IF’ you knew what a devil hid behind the angel, you would burst in your grave!”

“What did you say?”

“‘WHAT IF’ you understood, oh Poet…! He must have grown as tall as a dagger while tending sheep!”

“May God destroy you, you started with ‘WHAT IF,’ you arrested him with ‘WHAT IF,’ you condemned him with ‘WHAT IF,’ you re-sentenced him with ‘WHAT IF,’ the poor thing spent twenty years with ‘WHAT IF,’ and even in democracy, you want to put him in the grave with ‘WHAT IF’!” the Poet cursed.

“Worry and curse all you want, but the curse of poets and mothers won’t touch you!”

The zhërr of a bell interrupted the quarrel in the kingdom of Hades.

Every time the bell rang, a metallic, dry voice came from beyond the receiver:

“The AMC number you are requesting does not exist! Please contact the information service. Thank you!”

“Ptu-u, damn it, I’m looking for my friend, not information!” I snapped back at the icy voice that spoke without a shred of feeling: “does not exist!”

“Hey, you leech, Namik exists and resists, and you hear me! He resisted the prisons and tortures of the State Security, let alone some leech companies! Besides, who are you to decide the existence or non-existence of others? Some siren left in the rocky crevices who sang to Odysseus? Calypso who held him captive? Ajkuna who mourns Omer on the mountain peak? Or the modern velina-gorgon who tempts young carnations to leave their money in shameful chats? No, you can’t tempt us, not even with all the fairies of advertising!”

The zhërr-zhërr whips my eardrum, just like the prison loudspeaker, fixed to the pillar in front of the mess hall.

“What misery you cause us, may you turn into a tambourine and may the Gypsy players beat you, I hope!” Zhërr by day, zhërr by night…!

“Hello! The A.M.C. number you are req… Does not exist. Thank you…” “Are you serious, may your tongue wither!? Are you messing with me, you simpleton? She says it doesn’t exist!”

“But in communism, why did we exist, tell me? Or did you just want us to fill the prisons?”

“I wasn’t born then, and I am not responsible,” you excuse yourself, you little snitch!

“Alright, then ask your father, you sly thing, he was the investigator, the prosecutor, the judge, the officer, the police, the operative, or the executioner, with a rifle and a rope in hand!”

“I am not responsible for my father’s crimes,” you defend yourself again!

“Well, fine, I didn’t ask you to account for his deeds, but don’t say ‘it does not exist’? We are here, you monster, you will have us as a nail, today and forever! Oh, how many obstacles we have overcome, from the investigations with barbaric violence, to endless misery, boundless hunger, non-stop torture, barbed German handcuffs, cruel courts, death squads, chains and ropes on our hands and feet, barbed wire, brutal police, cunning operatives, cold cells, extermination camps, etc., etc., all the way to facing death!”

Zhërr-zhërr the bell rings.

“We are calling from the kingdom of Hades!”

“From where did you say?”

“From the beyond-world, you lot!”

“Ua-a Malo, where did you spring from, man?!”

“From the pyrite zone?”

“Did you dial the wrong number?”

“Hello! Hello, can you hear me?”

“Yes!”

“Enough with the self-praise, may your mind be shut down, you’ve become like the veterans!”

“Hey, Comrade Xhel…”

“Comrade you’re… just forget it entirely, who knows where we will end up with those partisan-style mumblings!” Xhelal Bey’s voice boomed at me.

“You’re alive!”

“Alive and kicking, man! We are here; we have nowhere to go, within this circle…”

“This is eee…”

“Well, alright, Havzi was silenced, so now I’ll say it!”

“Stop joking, Xhelol-o, and pass the phone!”

“O-oo, Xhafa!”

“Don’t be surprised, son, when you pass this way, come and let’s have two or three shots!”

“Still drinking shots? You never get tired of raki, Xhaferr Dema!”

“We are having great fun here, man…” Piu-piu, the signal was lost, the phone went silent.

Zhërr-zhërr the bell rings.

“Hello, what’s up?”

“What’s happening up there on the surface?”

“Another call from Hades?”

“Talk to the friend!”

“Which one?”

“Talk!”

“Hello!”

“Get lost, you ass, I’m going to break your jaw, it looks like Goles’ horse’s!”

“’Marrok’, still arguing?”

“I won’t leave you; now I’m with Faqka!”

“I know you and Dhori left for that world long ago, but I was looking for Namik.”

“I’m talking for Namik, you fool!”

“You’re Arshin…?”

“Me!”

“Where are you, Arshin Laraku?”

“Right here, man, in this world, we are together now!”

“Brea-e, brea-e-e, Zakja!”

“It’s me, man!”

“How are you doing, Zake, have you met Nevzatka for me? We are sharing planks here, man!”

“I can hardly believe it, Riza Bey Kamenica!”

“Why, am I not good enough for your eyes, huh?!”

“You fill my eye, but you can’t fill my mind!”

“That’s the kind of mind you have, if it were sound, you wouldn’t be here, man!”

“Oh-oo, Ali Hoxhallari is there too?!”

“You yourself disturbed my bones, didn’t you? I was sleeping with Balo, bad but cozy, but we had settled in! You came and woke us up, now wait!”

“I hoped you would calm down!”

“Forget what you hope for, there is no peace on earth as long as even one communist foot remains!”

“Look at your work, Tomor, we parted ways long ago!”

“What did you say; my friend, that I should work, and Nexhmija the whore should eat?”

“She is eating and drinking and living like a queen, dear boy!” Shyq Gruda’s voice rose, more cheerful than the day he found a whole, unspoiled cabbage head in the soup cauldron.

“Which slut, the widow, the black spider…?”

“Despite all your cursing, Ilija Iljadhi, she took the prison money, every single bit, while we are fading away one by one, without enjoying a single penny!” interrupted the painter of the eagle, Mersin Vlashi.

“And you, what are you looking for here?” he turned to me.

“Namik!”

“He is in heave-e-en, people!”

“Where did you say, Malo?”

“In paradise, man!”

“Stop bothering us, Smail, we get where you are!”

“You too, Esat, are you there?”

“Did you want to see me in the rice fields of the People’s Republic of China, Your Excellency? No, better bones-rusted in your furnace, than a golden throne in the world’s toilet!”

Piu-piu, the connection was interrupted, the signal was lost again.

“Ah, may you disappear, you phantom companies, you bring our guts to our throats, a person doesn’t dare to connect with friends!” Zhërr the bell, zhërr-rr.

“Hello! The A.M.C. number you are req… Does not exist. Thank you…”

“You again, you little snitch?”

“You are speaking with the kingdom of the dead, sir!”

“Hello!”

A familiar voice! “Gather your thoughts, son, the poor thing is just a grain of wheat and fiu…”

“Hello!”

“Where did you find the phones?”

“What can’t you find, if you have Mehmet Hamza, dear friend? He can find you handcuffs, let alone a measly cell phone!”

“Aha-ha-ha, I had forgotten! Did he bring those messages?”

“You mean for the Yangtze River and Chinese Tibet?”

“Yes, did he bring them?”

“He told me to find them for you, as a villager, at half price! Hey, call him; you sell me and my trousers as a villager!”

But thank goodness he found no buyer for this delicate merchandise!

“Did he bring them?”

“Did he bring them, you say?! Both of them, man, but without Mao and the Dalai Lama!”

“Stop the lies, Esat, I needed Namik?”

“You found a church to pray in! You had him among you and didn’t appreciate his worth, now we have him!”

“See if you can arrange a swap with Mehmet; we’ll give him a treat too, and he can consider it an honor!”

“Forget the honor; with his merchant habit, he’d sell his own father for five cents!”

Piu-piu, the call was interrupted.

Hades ordered Cerberus to lock the gate of the Underworld Kingdom. The insiders remained where they were, the outsiders remained here, above ground.

II

It is interesting how a person, when getting old, returns again and again to the phenomenon of childhood and youth! Lately, the sufferings and horrors of the prison have been flashing before me so often. They disrupt my sleep; I relive in dreams and half-dreams the tortures of Shkodra’s cells, the physical agony, the chair fixed in concrete, the empty stomach, the cracked head, the blind eye, the deaf ear, the cruel investigators, the ignorant prosecutors, the heartless judges, and the ignorant police, dressed in black, who parade by with grimmer faces than back then, with handcuffs, with clubs, with indictments, with penal codes. In my ear, the scream “enemy” thunders, followed by the stick.

I writhe on the chair fixed in concrete, and blood drips from my wrists tied with German cuffs to my broken fingers, as well as from my shattered bones, from my cracked head, to my crushed jaws…!

“Save me, oh God!”

But… the devil howls and shakes the thick file with the white hands of Faik Minarolli:

“The defendant is an opponent and sworn enemy of the Party and Socialist Albania! As such, he represents a pronounced social danger and…!”

“Enemies to the rope, hooray-a!” the monochromatic crowd cheers in unison. “Yes, we will tie him to the rock in Tartarus…!”

“Hooray-a! Long live people’s justice!”

“I say we tie him for ten years, since he is a minor…!”

“Why ten?”

“How many then?”

“Twenty.”

“Why twenty?”

“How many then?”

“A lifetime.”

“Why a lifetime?”

“How many then?”

“An eternity.”

“Why an…?”

“How many…?”

“We will leave him tied to the rock for a few years, and he is here with us anyway; after all, who prevents us from tying him again if he has a bit of liver left…?”

“Hooray-a! Long live people’s justice!”

Then Repsi appears to me, with the chilling cold, the tar-black cells, the ignorant scoundrels, with chisels, vices, and hands wrapped in rags; the cart-o-phone, the pick-axe-o-phone, the shovel-o-phone, and Nasho the corrosive, followed by the operative, Pjetër Tarazhi, strutting with black gloves and an even blacker soul than his polished boots.

A giant hen spreads its wings to protect me, like chicks from the hawk. The line of dear old men appears to me; Esheref Zajmi, with his eternal irony that you could not separate from sarcasm, with his fine knives and boxwood; Raqka with books and prayers on his lips; Daut Runa, with endless advice; Sulo Gorica, with boundless kindness; Izet Gumeni, with his firm word; Father Mark Hasi, with a head full of brains and a body worn out by tuberculosis; the wise advice of Hafëz Sabri Koçi echoes; the scrutinizing eyes of Father Zef Pllumi stare intently at me; Muharrem Dyli waves his hands like the old paladins and gives the command: “Forward, my friend, you have Rremo behind you…”; his brother, Old Riza, with his wise word; the two inseparable friends, Ilia Iliadhi, (Sancho) intelligent and sanguine, fiery and dynamic, and Namik Zeneli, (Don Quixote), just as intelligent if not more, a wise and invisible emissary, phlegmatic without self-importance or self-praise; the jealous professors who gave me knowledge without any gain advise me, etc., etc.

Then the gate of Burrel appears to me, with the invisible inscription, but known to all the unfortunate who passed through it.

“Lasciate ogni speranza, o voi chi entrate qui!” Dante wrote on the gate of hell:

“Ah, Dante, if you had experienced BURREL, perhaps you would have conceptualized HELL differently!”

“Here they call it Burrel, where you enter and do not leave,” they used to tell us when we passed under that door, although several hundred wretches crossed that threshold on their own feet, several hundred unfortunate ones passed sliding, wrapped in blankets, all the way to the pit at the foot of Qershiza! Beyond that door wander the shadows of clever and wise men, of the pen and the book, of the word and the faith, who conveyed the history that the hypocritical rulers tried to hide!

God willed that I should come out alive, only to end up in another hell blacker than hell… Spaç, “the grave of the enemies”!

In the black holes of copper and pyrite, my friends parade by, their faces so black I can barely distinguish them… because the mineral-left grime could not be removed even after forty years. I recall the black days and nights, because the mine had no days, only nights and endless nights.

Weak, tired crowds appear to me as if in a retro film, coughing, vomiting, with phlegm mixed with streaks of blood, malnourished, broken in half by the heavy work; and police with wire ropes, with irons and with clubs in their hands.

The shouts still pierce me:

“The Plan, the Plan!”

The dialogue with no way out chills my flesh:

“I am sick, Mr. Pjetër!”

“Haven’t you died on the spot yet?”

“I can’t do it anymore!”

“It’s either the plan or your life; I want the wagons!”

“There is no mineral at the face!”

“I don’t need to know, take the pickaxe and dig, man!”

“Can the rock be dug?”

“The irons, you lot!” and the unfortunate ended up tied to the pillars.

Somewhere a head was cut off, somewhere a body collapsed, somewhere a heart stopped, somewhere a life was extinguished…! Horror and terror, I flutter like a broken-winged bird! While the reel spins non-stop, and the film moves at a dizzying speed, projecting the colorless days, the months and years covered by the darkness of the tunnels, and eternal nights!

The movement slows down, the reel stops, and the figures freeze like the wedding guests of the legend with horses and the bride with a veil. The peak moment arrives, the Revolt of Spaç, the unrepeatable moment of modern times. Memorie.al

                                                         To be continued in the next issue