By Reshat KRIPA
Part Five
Memorie.al / Arbëri stood in his corner in the hall, waiting for the arrival of the plane that would take him to another world and meditating. He meditated and dreamed of the road full of nettles and thorns through which his life had passed. He recalled the worries that had accompanied him for years. He had many passions. He wanted to become a lawyer, journalist, doctor, engineer, artist, writer, or whatever else was possible. But fate had condemned him not to reach any of the dreamed-of peaks. He encountered disappointment at every step of his life.
Continued from the previous issue
“Have you decided?”
“I have no other way,” was the answer. Petrit returned to the hall. The supervising teacher approached him and asked where Arbëri had gone.
“He had a headache,” Petrit replied.
But the teacher knew the reason. He was one of the rare teachers in that school who admired Arbëri for his intelligence but did not have the power to oppose his superiors.
Arbëri returned home. His mother asked him about the evening, and he told her everything that had happened. She said:
“Long live, you are a worthy son of that father! Come sit next to me. I promised you that I would tell you everything when you reached the age of maturity, and you are exactly at that age now…!”
Arbëri looked at her in surprise. They had talked and talked countless times, told each other every issue, so he couldn’t understand what was left…?!
“Now you are over eighteen. You also finished high school. You are no longer a child. You have entered a higher phase, so I want to tell you something I couldn’t tell you before.”
“I’m waiting, tell me.”
His mother remained in doubt. She had talked with Andrea, and he had advised her to take the courage to tell her son the truth, as he was now at an age where he would understand the reason why she hadn’t told him. One day he would definitely find out the truth, and it would be better for him to learn it from his mother than from others.
So she decided to speak, but she wanted someone nearby to help her express herself properly. If her mother were alive, it would be easier, but she had passed away three years ago. She composed herself and broke away from the dilemma.
“No son, you are now the man of this house, and I want to talk to you, like between two adults.”
“I’m ready, Mother, I’m listening,” the boy repeated, standing opposite her as if they were peers.
His mother noticed her son’s posture, and this encouraged her to begin:
“When you were little, you always asked me when we would meet your father, and I would tell you that he had flown to the sky and was waiting for us there. As you grew up, you understood that he had gone to the other world, but you constantly asked me where his grave was so we could place a bouquet of flowers on it. I was silent, I didn’t know how to answer, and this was because your father had no grave.”
“No grave?! How is that possible?!”
“Yes, my son. This is our homeland. Listen to me and, please, don’t interrupt me. Your father returned from France when Albania was on the verge of occupation. At the Sorbonne University, where he had completed his law studies, he had met Resuli, who was studying psychology. They had formed a close friendship. Sokoli opened a law office where he served the needy who presented themselves, while Resuli started working as a psychology teacher at the high school. The country’s occupation by the Italian fascists affected the relationship between the two friends.
They had different worldviews. Sokoli sided with the nationalists, while Resuli sided with the communists. Nevertheless, they maintained good relations. Both participated in the large joint conference organized between representatives of the two currents for better cooperation in the fight against the occupier. But the decisions of this conference could not be implemented. The communist side rejected them, so the former friends turned into enemies.
Father had his law office near our house. We constantly passed by it whenever we entered or left the house. That’s how we met and fell in love with each other. We got married after three years. Until then, I lived only with my mother. My father and your grandfather had emigrated early to the United States of America. Sokoli, like me, was an only child. His parents had died. So the three of us lived together. Sokoli was a principled man and never violated them.”
Meanwhile, his mother got up and took out the program her husband had left her from the chest.
“Read it,” she told him.
Arbëri read it and said with a special simplicity:
“Well, this should be the program of every democratic government.”
“Yes, my son, your father gave his life for this program. These were his main principles, and he tried to implement them at every step of his life. But fate had assigned him another destination. We had been married for no more than a year and the three of us were talking in our house. I had confirmed that I was pregnant two months ago. It was September of the second year after the war. The wall clock chimed ten times. A loud ring was heard at the door. We looked at each other in the eye. Who could it be at that late hour? Sokoli got up and headed for the door.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Forces of People’s Defense,’ replied a voice that sounded very familiar to Sokoli.
He opened the door. In front of him stood his school friend, Resuli, accompanied by four other people in military uniform. They entered the hallway, and there Resuli shouted loudly:
‘In the name of the people, you are arrested!’
‘Arrested, and why?’
‘As an enemy of the people.’
One of the soldiers put handcuffs on his hands. I, distraught, screamed: ‘Don’t take my Sokoli! He hasn’t done anything!’ – and I jumped to hug him.”
His mother paused for a few moments. Arbëri remembered that he had also heard her scream in the performance of the drama “The Flower of Memory.”
Afërdita continued: “One of the soldiers pushed me forcefully, and I fell in the hallway. The hyenas snatched Sokoli and left. The next day I went to the Internal Affairs Branch to inquire, but they didn’t even accept me. Only after a week did they notify me to bring his clothes. I was confused. I didn’t know what to do. I decided to go to Resuli’s house. I knocked. His wife opened the door.
– ‘What do you want?’ she asked with an icy voice. I was surprised. Why did she act like that? Her shadow continued to stand in front of the door.
‘I want to talk to your husband,’ I said.
‘My husband has an office,’ she told me and closed the door.
I returned home with a broken heart. I never expected her to receive me that way. I had nothing left but to surrender to fate. I went to the Branch every day to inquire about my husband, but everything fell on deaf ears. No one answered me. They didn’t even accept any food for him. Four months passed like this. One day someone came and brought the terrible news: Sokoli had closed his eyes due to a cardiac arrest.
Only after five years did I learn the truth. Late one evening, there was a knock at the door. I opened it. A young man stood before me, signaling me to be quiet. He came inside. I asked him his name. He didn’t tell me.
‘I was in a cell with Sokoli,’ he said.
– ‘I was accused of distributing anti-communist leaflets along with two friends.’ Sokoli closed his eyes in my lap. He had just returned from the room where they had tortured him. He was in a very serious condition.
‘I want to leave you a message,’ he told me.
Inside the lining of my jacket, I had hidden a leaflet, one of those we distributed, and a small pencil.
‘Can you write?’ I asked, showing him the paper and the pencil.
He took them and began to write on the other side of the leaflet, with trembling hands. He handed it to me. ‘Promise me you will bring it to my wife?’
I promised him. As soon as he finished, he flew to the other world. I didn’t read the letter at all. I kept it like that for the entire period I was imprisoned. I also checked his pockets, in case there was anything else. At the bottom of the jacket, between the lining and the fabric, I found a locket. I thought of keeping it and bringing it to you, but it was impossible. When I was released, they would surely check me and find it. So I put it back in place.’
I took the letter and opened it.
‘My Afërdita!’ Sokoli wrote to me. ‘I am in the final moments of my life…! My hands are shaking… but I cannot bear not to tell you, the one who with his tortures… brought me to this condition…! It is none other than my school friend Resuli…! Never forget this…! I am leaving you a message…! If you give birth to a girl, name her ‘Shqipe’… and if it is a boy; ‘Arbër’… Tell them that their father gave his life… precisely for Arbëria… and the double-headed Eagle…! Goodbye, my heart…! Do not mourn…! I am going to heaven… next to the Great and Mighty God…! I kiss you… with longing…!’
On the other side of the page was the leaflet of the young man who brought me the letter, which read:
‘Brothers and sisters! Wake up from the heavy sleep of slavery! Look at the oppression being done to you by the communists! Look at the horrible crimes, the terror, the murders, and the terrible tortures happening everywhere in Albania today! Your future will be happy if you rise up to fight!’
‘So Resuli was his torturer?’ I asked him.
‘Precisely Captain Resuli, who today has been appointed to the Directorate of Security, in the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Tirana,’ he replied, and then continued – ‘Sokoli closed his eyes as soon as he handed me the letter, without making a sound, just as he had stood before the tortures. I promised him that if I were released, I would come to his family to keep the promise I made him.’
‘Thank you!’ I told him and begged him to stay that night there.
He refused. He left, and I could never meet him again. Apparently, he must have been from another city and went there.
I also inquired where they had buried him, but no one told me anything. Silence had covered everything. These were the things I wanted to tell you, my son. I told you so you would know the truth and at the same time to help you cope with life in the future.”
She took the letter out of her bag and handed it to her son: “Read it.”
He began to read it. He didn’t speak a word. His mother noticed that tears had begun to flow from his eyes. He mumbled something through his lips. Afërdita understood that it was an oath.
“Son, where are you going at this late hour of the night?” his mother asked when she saw him open the door and go out.
“To the world of dreams,” was the answer.
“But don’t forget, not all dreams come true.”
He didn’t speak. He felt as if the city with its noises and lights was suffocating him. He wanted to meditate alone. His mother’s story had shaken him deeply. A peculiar dualism began to develop in his consciousness. He walked and didn’t notice who was around him. Someone greeted him, but he didn’t even return the greeting. He had flown into his inner world. He wanted to go as far away as possible where no one could find him.
He reached the seashore and began to walk and walk without stopping until he arrived at a place that seemed more isolated than others. There was no one in sight all around. Nothing else was heard except the roar of the sea waves, which that night was very fierce, just like his emotional state. His thoughts were getting tangled up. He wanted an answer that no one could give him. He shouted loudly:
“Who am I? Who do I belong to?”
“You belong to yourself,” his conscience seemed to answer.
He remained in this state for almost an hour. Then he began to meditate; “Is that why they didn’t give me the gold medal?” An inner voice told him that this was a consequence of his origin. His mother’s story had led him to the idea that he belonged to the class that had lost in the clash between the two worlds.
He envisioned his father, a distinguished lawyer, graduated from one of the most famous universities in the world. He envisioned Resuli, also graduated with him, two close friends, who he thought nothing could separate. The world war broke out, an unprecedented slaughter in the history of mankind. The two friends had different worldviews on the situation, so they split into two fronts. Nevertheless, both sides had the same goal, the expulsion of the occupier. Therefore, they constantly cooperated on every situation. In some cases, they had fought together. This continued until the great conference that divided them.
“Why? How is it possible that, after finding a common language, signing a joint agreement, they suddenly turned into opponents or, to be more precise, into enemies?!” This question troubled him the most. But he could not accept that his father was a traitor and collaborator, while Resuli was a patriot. The program his father had joined showed that he was not like that. He couldn’t understand how Resuli could have reached the point of behaving like a savage towards his closest friend. Who had corrupted his character?
Before his eyes appeared the attitude taken towards his mother, whom, for no reason, they had transformed from a distinguished teacher into a school cleaner, and moreover, they had even removed her from there, to send her as a worker to the agricultural enterprise, she who, if it had been another time, would have climbed the highest steps of the scenic art. She had demonstrated this with the performance of the drama “The Flower of Memory.”
All these thoughts revolved in his consciousness. Before his eyes appeared the verses of a poem by a well-known poet he had once read: “From Korça to Shkodra, darkness reigns, across fields, across hills, a savage beast roars! Eat, drink, eat, and drink hour and moment. For the jackal, the dark night is the best moment, the delicate moment!”
It seemed to him, too, that he was living in such a world. It seemed as if the fates of people had been taken over by the savage beasts. Suddenly, the dualism had disappeared. Now it seemed to him that he had found the path of life. He would overcome all the nettles and thorns that might come his way. He now felt mature and would find a way to behave in such cases.
The only enigma that remained unsolved for him was whether he should express his thoughts to Blerina, as he was still unsure about her convictions. Would this division of opinions create a rift between them? Would the story of Sokoli and Resuli be repeated? His conscience did not accept a breakdown of their love. Nevertheless, he decided to remain silent. But was he acting right? He didn’t know how to answer this question.
Meanwhile, dawn had begun to break. He had spent an entire night dreaming with his eyes open. He got up and headed home. “Did you come, son?” his mother asked. “Yes, Mother,” was the reply. His mother did not press him further. Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue
