By Sokrat Shyti
Part One
Memorie.al / 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, mainly the voluminous novel “Nata fantazmë” (Tirana 2014). The 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 awaiting publication. The dreams and initial enthusiasm of the young novelist, returning from studies abroad filled with energy and love for art and literature, were cut short early by the ruthless blade of the communist dictatorship.
Who is Sokrat Shyti?
Returning from studies at the State University of Moscow, shortly after the interruption of Albanian-Soviet relations in 1960, Sokrat Shyti worked at Radio “Diapazon” (which at that time was located on Kavajë Street), in an editorial team with his journalist friends – Vangjel Lezho and Fadil Kokomani – both of whom were later arrested and subsequently executed by the communist regime. In addition to the radio, 21-year-old Sokrat had passionate literary interests at that time. He wrote his first novel “Madam doktore” and was on the verge of publication, but… alas! Shortly after the arrest of his friends, to top it off, a brother of his, a painter, fled abroad.
Sokrat was arrested in September 1963, and in November of that year, he was interned with his family (his mother and younger sister) in a location between Ardenica and Kolonje in Lushnja. For 27 consecutive years, the family lived in a cow shed made of reeds, without windows, while Sokrat was subjected to forced labor. Throughout the 27 years, he was legally required to report three times a day to the regional commissioner. He had no right to leave the place of internment and was deprived of any type of documentation, etc. In these conditions, amidst a cow shed, he gave birth and raised children. Specifically, based on this event, or more precisely a very long history of persecution, he was inspired to write the book “Survival in the Cow Shed”!
Agron Tufa
PART OF THE BOOK “Survival in the Cow Shed”
It was the time when World War II had spread its metastases to the eastern borders of Europe, with the largest communist state, the Soviet Union, and was preparing for the wildest and bloodiest assault in all of world history, which would sacrifice tens of millions of innocent victims on the old continent, as the German nation had been engulfed by the crises of madness after reading the book “Mein Kampf” and the injection of the terrifying fever of hysteria into their minds, transforming from a cultured nation into a vampire nation, under the blind urge towards the absurd idea that their Führer had been appointed by God to lead all of humanity, as only the flag with the broken cross expresses the true philosophical meaning of life and eliminates the monstrous injustices against Germany, which had been brutally torn apart by the centuries, reducing it to a miserable state, leaving it with very little territory to expand its national breath and further develop its unwavering conviction as an elite nation.
In these shameful and unacceptable conditions, the Führer felt beforehand that other Germans were on the verge of insanity, excited by the intoxicating delirium of the superiority of the superior race, prompting an extraordinary speed and intensity of action to change the map and colors of the globe. The long-awaited time had come for the magnificent German nation, which, under the iron leadership of the Almighty Chancellor, would burn with the fire of monstrous hatred the two sinful culprits of this century-old catastrophe:
the eternal speculators, the deceitful and usurious Jews, masters of the largest financial capital in the world, and the uncultured Russian muzhiks, the nomadic hordes with a backward mentality that, although dressed in primitive trousers and kaftans, challenge the civilized nations, especially annoying the superior Aryan race, as the muzhiks roam with a swagger across one-sixth of the globe, in contrast to the mental development, which is light years away from the initial status of civilization!
Just as the most horrific and terrifying slaughterhouse in human history was preparing to start, soon to flood the entire Russian border, the brutal, bloodthirsty assault fulfilled the dream of the craziest hysteria of all time, while Hitler, engulfed in the frenzy of rage, experienced the peak of glory, calling himself the First Emperor of the earthly globe and under the influence of this mentality arrogantly disregarded the tragic defeat of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, at the hands of Kutuzov and Suvorov.
At that time, he referred to the cynical explanations of this shameful failure as cowardly propagandists, who blamed the fierce threats of the Russian Winter, this undefeated adversary at all times, who had withstood the most furious invasions of foreign hordes, armed to the teeth! The Hysterical Madman categorically refused to accept the historical reality that within the giant jaws of the Russian Winter, the bones of the terrifying hordes of Genghis Khan disintegrated, while the renowned divisions of Napoleon Bonaparte, the ruler of all of Europe, froze and fossilized!
(Based on these uncontested facts, sharp military analysts predicted in due time where the reckless folly of the Führer would lead him, who blindly believed in the triumph of the Third Reich, within the summer months, before the autumn season began, as he saw the greatness of the most motorized army in the world as the only absolute truth, which could not be shaken, nor broken by even the most terrifying supernatural powers, let alone to speculate about laughable defeats in the infinite Russian expanses.
The muddled brain of the dictator regarded the uncompromising power and greatness of the Russian Winter as a paranoid delusion. In his ears reached the absurd and laughable propaganda of the defeatists, that Ded Moroz together with Stalin’s Red Army would atrophy and dismantle to complete destruction the most specialized Hitlerian armies, and consequently, the well-thought-out dream would turn to ash and dust, the Volga and Don would take on mythical, even biblical proportions, so much so that these rivers would rise with monumental splendor of eternal glory!)
Just at the threshold of the beginning of this unprecedented murderous adventure in world history, within a nearly ruined ground floor building in the town of Lushnja, in small Albania, the last child was born in the large family of a 42-year-old tailor. Here, in this miserable building with two rooms, each with one window, without ceilings and floors, I spent my childhood. The roof of the left room, to prevent it from collapsing, rested on a thick wooden beam, in the shape of a parallelepiped, deeply embedded in the middle of the plot.
(Later, when I grew up and began to understand, I learned from my mother that this ruinous building had once served as a shelter for the family of a servant of a wealthy gentleman, as it was located in the center of the town, very close to the cobbled street that led to the “Stan” neighborhood, and only a deep ditch separated it from the solid building of the German Command. The favorable position of the house had protected it from being flattened and it still stood with its spirit among the ruins in a state of extreme dilapidation).
Three years later (when the terrible war was nearing its end, the German occupiers began to feel the ground slipping beneath their feet, and the breath of freedom was felt everywhere), my family moved to another building, with two entrances, a hundred meters further, owned by a wealthy landowner, who fled from terror and fear that criminals in the turmoil would attack his house, robbing and violating his wife, so he moved to a more protected and secure city. Thus, we were given the opportunity to live in a shelter with more spacious and abundant spaces.
Thirty meters in front of this building, with a completely unique architecture, rose like statues of antiquity two sufficiently thick walls, which perhaps served as the giant frames of the entrance gate to the palace of a Turkish pasha five hundred years ago. Behind the house lay a very large yard, with almond and pomegranate trees, the most pleasant space for the children of the neighborhood. On the right side, a very narrow alley led to the deep well with a stone mouth, on which were carved the deep lines for pulling up ropes during the raising of large buckets.
Later, when I began to understand, I found it quite astonishing and meaningless that this exposed place, completely unprotected on all sides, the mouth of the well, was used as a shelter during bombings by both families, whenever the alarm was given! It was remarkable how terrified women and girls rushed towards the well’s mouth, holding their little children by the hand, under the conviction that the water source is deemed sacred by all peoples of the world, and being such, it cannot be touched, it is protected in the same way as holy places, and no one dares to drop bombs there!
For us children of the neighborhood, the endless expanse of the yard and the constantly green meadow just above constituted a wonder in itself, because we had the opportunity to fulfill our desires with the toys of that time: “cingla,” “command,” “war games,” “caladibranče.” Below the shelter, we played with a rag ball, sometimes hurting our toes. When the weather turned harsh, freezing cold winds blew and rain fell, we would gather in the corners, under a shelter, to avoid getting wet, and there we organized contests, testing how trained our memory was.
The one who found the most names of actors from films we had seen in cinemas won; names of countries and capitals; names of characters from the books we had read. Finally, it was the turn of another important prize, the artistic narration of stories and fairy tales. Looking at it from every angle, I can honestly say that the children of our neighborhood had special activities, vitality, and fun. For this, the main credit belonged to our parents, their sound education, with which they cherished us in childhood, especially teaching us how to organize our free time as productively and beneficially as possible.
Besides playing, competing, reading books, and watching cardboard puppet shows, we, the children of this neighborhood, also performed useful social work for those families where elderly people lived. It should also be noted that another interesting thing: the love and respect among us were always accompanied by strict demands regarding anyone’s behavior. This way, we felt empowered not to hesitate to severely reprimand one another in any case, even for the slightest display of inappropriate behavior.
No one was disheartened because the cherry on top was always placed in my family, for the fact that only here an amazing tradition was carried out (which you could find very rarely in other Albanian families): in our home, an inspiring ritual was experienced, thanks to my father’s dedicated, rich culture, who felt it was his primary duty to nurture our spirit and mind, even though he returned home rather tired and almost worn out from daily work: in the evenings, he would gather us around the coals, to listen to fragments of novels from the most prominent authors, translated by him from French, English, and German, languages he had learned and mastered fluently at the renowned high school, ‘Zosimea’ in Janina, which he finished with a gold medal!
During those minutes of extraordinary magnetic attraction, I was overwhelmed by an intoxicating pleasure unmatched by any other. It was marvelous to hear the pearls of world literature from my father’s mouth, how beautifully, fluidly, and perfectly the brilliant thoughts were interpreted, almost as if these were read by a talented actor directly in the Albanian language!
These evenings enveloped my soul with such a mesmerizing magic that it seemed as if I was transforming into a dreamer! (Now I affirm with complete certainty and without any doubt that during these nights, the inclination for literature began to take root in my soul and mind, the first crystals of inspiration formed, which remained suppressed for decades under the pressure of the hellish violence of class struggle, and only when the right moment came, the creative fire was ignited, from which began to flow the fiery lava of many novels…).
The warm evenings were quite pleasant and entertaining when the adults in the family put on interesting shows for us younger ones. We would sit cross-legged on a bench in front of a white cloth illuminated by an oil lamp, where various cardboard figures were projected according to a specific script, and each of the movable puppets spoke in its own voice. We had the right to boast and take pride in our original cinema in front of the children from other neighborhoods who came to watch. Naturally, we felt satisfied and happy that our neighborhood stood at the forefront. But certainly, the credit belonged to the adults, especially my older brother, the main organizer of this entertainment.
Naturally, these shows sparked quite an interesting idea in us, which after many discussions transformed into a unanimous decision for our group of children to stage a real theatrical piece, with the help of my older brother. He welcomed our proposal and was ready to direct it, on the condition that we immediately set to work. The fiery passion, ongoing readiness, and tireless dedication bore the fruits we expected to ripen: we successfully staged the theatrical piece “Çeta e Petritave,” which was honored with a diploma at the National Theater Festival in Berat! (The jury also awarded me a diploma for outstanding performance in my role)!
After this doubly successful evaluation of the performance and role, my attention shifted towards a new aspiration, which later took the form of a fixation that in the future, I would become an actor! Therefore, immediately after completing the 7-year school with excellent results, without any hesitation, I sought the right to study at the Artistic Lyceum in Tirana, in the Theater department. But something surprisingly unbelievable happened: the positive response from the education section did not match reality! We were extremely stunned: how could such an absurd anomaly be tolerated in the state offices?!
In addition to myself, the members of my family were also bewildered and disappointed by this disorder! Because no one with common sense could accept that a state body at the grassroots level, such as the education section, was unaware of the announcement from a year ago from the center, that the drama department at the Artistic Lyceum had closed its doors?! Therefore, we didn’t know what to name this chaos, caused by paradoxical official ineptitude! Understandably, I bore the consequences of this ineptitude: I spent a year at home, reading dramas, tragedies, comedies, novels, and stories!…
But I dedicated myself even more to the experiences of traumatic scenes, the struggles to secure survival in the terrible years of bread scarcity, when we would spend the whole night waiting in line with a bag on our heads, in the corner of the sports field to buy, at dawn, special bread at five times the price! The emaciated faces, transformed by hunger, appeared before my eyes: to prevent our throats from drying up, we would drink cups of sour milk…!
In these threatening health conditions, our wonderful father made efforts and found various ways to secure bread from the farming customers, whom he asked to pay the value of the seam allowances in kind. This perfect solution helped both parties, as it eased the payment obligations for the hardworking farmers and allowed us to feel the crushing consequences of the crisis less than most, as we primarily saw our salvation in eating wild cabbage and boiled nettles, with a handful of cornmeal!…
In September of the following year, I was granted the right to study at a well-known high school in the northern city of Shkodra, as a boarder. It was the first time I traveled alone, and I would live four years away from my family. Like every boy my age, I became curious to learn something about boarding life, where I would spend three-quarters of my time over those four years. But initially, my attention was drawn to the difficult journey, especially the means of transportation, the narrow ‘SAT’ buses, where one could barely fit and reach their destination through that threadbare corridor.
And the most problematic part was buying the ticket, because one had to queue at the ‘Sahat’ agency for endless hours. The very narrow spaces of the winter buses, left as war spoils after the country’s liberation, with that dripping ventilation like bread rations, created a near-asphyxiating condition for the passengers and prevented us from seeing and enjoying the landscapes outside the windows during the journey. Thus, everyone eagerly awaited the arrival at the terminal station to stretch their legs and catch their breath.
The group of boarders was immediately distinguishable from other travelers by their wooden suitcases and very simple clothing. As guests for the first time, we followed the instructions given to us: after crossing the large square of the ancient city, we would enter the narrow alley on the right side of the ‘Great Cafe.’ Naturally, with our distinctive appearance, we drew the attention of passersby, who in those moments were asking themselves and each other; from which region have the beginner schoolchildren disembarked?!
At the end of the narrow gravel road, the solid two-story building of the dormitory immediately caught the eye, its length comparable to that of the sports field, where I would live for four years. (Before liberation, this Roman-style building had served as an educational institution for Jesuits). The outer corridor with arched columns within the large courtyard, surrounded by high walls, gave you an idea of what this building with special architecture had served, adjacent to the old “Migjeni” theater, very close to the tower of Gjon Markagjoni and the building of rare beauty, and the wonderful garden of the cultural center, (where during the summer exams we studied). Memorie.al
Continued in the next issue
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