From Sokrat Shyti
Part thirty-four
Memorie.al / The writer Sokrat Shyti is the “great unknown” who, in recent years, has shown the tip of the iceberg of his literary creation. I say this based on the limited number of his published books in recent years, primarily the voluminous novel “Phantom Night” (Tirana 2014). The novels: “BEYOND THE MYSTERY,” “BETWEEN TEMPTATION AND WHIRLPOOL,” “DIGGING OF NIGHTMARES,” “THE SHADOW OF SHAME AND DEATH,” “COLONEL THE HEAD OF THE MOUNTAINS,” “THE HOPES OF DOWNTRODDEN,” “THE TURBULENCES OF FATE” I, II, “SURVIVAL IN THE COW SHED,” 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 enthusiasm of the young novelist, who returned from studying abroad filled with energy and love for art and literature, were cut short early on by the ruthless blade of the communist dictatorship.
Who is Sokrat Shyti?
Returned 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 Kavaja Street), in a newsroom 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 Doctor” and was on the verge of publication, but… alas! Immediately after the arrest of his friends, as if to fill the cup, a painter brother of his fled abroad.
Sokrat was arrested in September 1963, and in November of that year, he was interned along with his family (his mother and younger sister) in a place between Ardenica and Kolonje of Lushnje. For 27 consecutive years, the family lived in a cow shed made of reeds, without windows, while Sokrat was subjected to forced labor. Throughout these 27 years, he was legally required to report three times a day to the local authority. He had no right to leave the place of internment and was deprived of all types of documents, etc. Under these conditions, amid a cow shed, he gave birth to and raised his children. It is precisely from this event, or rather a very long history of persecution, that he based his book “Survival in the Cow Shed”!
Agron Tufa
Continued from the previous number
EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK, “SURVIVAL IN THE COW SHED”
The efforts, clarity and determination to see the brave project through to the end (even when surrounded by threats of annihilation), are among the rare exceptional exceptions, which occur once in a million cases. Accepting this reasoning as a postulate, this wonderful coincidence completely justifies his attitude and reluctance to visit his mother in that hellish shelter. Therefore, he should not be tormented by regret in the future, why he stayed away from his mother for so many years, when he himself was constantly tormented internally by terribly corrosive torture. (This reasoning is enough to convince him that the tears at the end of the meeting were not caused by remorse of guilt for his cold attitude, but simply as a moment of weakness under the influence of raki).
This was also proven by the manner of the meeting and conversation with his older brother, which began with heightened tension. The first signs of discord appeared with his harsh remark to me: why did you come to this unsuitable place, where officers of the Ministry of the Interior are waiting, and someone can sit at our table, to keep us company, with the intention of sniffing and absorbing the purpose of the meeting between the two brothers, after a long time? And the irritation took on especially harsh proportions, after my explanation, when I explained that part of the way, from the poplars to here, I made in the company of two officers of the Ministry of the Interior, one of these heartless inquisitors of manuscripts.
(It was at this very moment that the brother’s face suffered an immediate pallor from the use of this terrible adverb, the blood drained from the soles of his feet!). And after this announcement, the conversation descended into a bed of discord. However, he did not raise his voice, as he usually did when he got angry, even though he did not like my thoughts, frightened by the eavesdropping observation. Therefore, our conversation then developed without excessive friction and feigned flattery, almost to the right extent. And most importantly, in the end he achieved his goal, despite the rather short time of the meeting, which quite naturally could have continued at his house, if I had agreed to go, but which in fact I objected to with the explanation that I must return to Lushnje tonight.
When we left the bar, we walked a few silent steps to the intersection. Here we parted without that initial longing: he returned to the theater, I passed through “Skënderbej” square and took a few steps to the great boulevard, “Dëshmorët e Kombit”. I was thinking about how to pass these minutes until the time to go to the train station approached. I had no inner urge to meet any acquaintances, from my former work or college friends, since their interest seemed to me so feigned and annoying, so irritating and irritating. So it seemed appropriate to walk along the boulevard and main streets, to see if there had been any changes.
At that moment I compared myself to the most primitive inhabitant of this country, come from an unheard of wilderness, with a certificate in my pocket, which replaces a passport. It is precisely this piece of paper that allows me to walk freely through the streets of the capital, where I once lived and worked as a journalist on the Radio. But now I was a nobody, a human being without an identity, devalued to the point of complete denial, with every step I took in the nightmare of the patrols coming out and escorting me to the Police Department to check my driving license, lest it be forged! Within these years I had lost almost all connections and relationships with my tribe, acquaintances, friends, and girlfriends who lived in Tirana! My name was covered in layers of dust! No one remembered the boy from the Radio, who wrote stories and fairy tales.
My only friend, Vangjeli, was lying in a cell! The editorial office of Rinëse ve Fëmijëve must have undergone changes, except for the communist chief. I had no doubt that among the new arrivals; some were loyal collaborators of the Sigurimi, especially after the increase in the role of the institution, the transition from Radio-Diffusion to Radio Television. But these movements and purges did not enter the sphere of my thoughts, considering that I was outside any orbit of the capital. In fact, until yesterday I did not figure in any orbit of the Lushnje district! I had been transformed into a robot loader, stripped of all rights of citizenship: I was struggling through fallow fields and canals, loaded with oil cans, silent as fish in gravel, chewing the pains of stressed thoughts within the morass of repression!
In my brain, boycotted and ignored by the world of letters, there was not a single ray of hope that perhaps after some time, the concrete lid of creativity could be unlocked, to allow the lava of inspiration to pour out, and with the hardened magma to structure literary works. I had given up on this project; “Here is how fate exiled me to the cowshed and punished me. – So I said to myself, walking along the boulevard. – I must get used to this reality. And I thank my generous benefactor a thousand times, thanks to whom I will pass from hellish survival, to a simple life, and especially I was saved from the madness of loneliness, the most terrible cruel punishment, which the demons were impatiently waiting for to happen”!
When I looked around, I noticed that I had arrived in front of the “Dajti” hotel. My kind and extremely warm meetings with my benefactor, the troupim, who helped me type the manuscript of the novel “Madam Doctor”, found me a typewriter, undertook to circulate it in the two editorial offices of the League and, most importantly, now the only copy is in his hands, (according to (the statement he made before me, when he came to see me after three months of exile).
If I were allowed, I would certainly have gladly entered the lobby at this moment, to take a quick look at the bar, just to see if he was sitting at the table near the counter, throwing thoughts about the novel on the theme of War onto the thick pad, which instead of freeing him from the burden of inspiration, caused the opposite, confused him with the harsh ambiguity between the truth that had happened and what he was asked to describe, since he was not allowed, as a member of the first two hundred militants, to sketch and paint a reality that the “Commander” did not like.
Precisely for this reason, this terribly gnawing ambiguity, both sides of which he knew in detail, irritated him. Therefore, this unusual state of his character (he always talks calmly, calmly, without forced emotions, except for the case when he exploded in front of the First Deputy Minister of Education, on the issue of changing my field of study), impressed me when I saw him so distracted and that he had put crosses and question marks on two pages of the notebook! But of course I did not dare to ask him what was hindering his inspiration, why he was facing so many obstacles. The only way to escape this impasse was to turn back, leave him alone in his work, without harassment, until his confusion cleared up. But at this very moment, he asked me the strange question:
“How would you act if you were faced with such a forced dilemma, between a forced thought and the reality that had occurred? Which one would you reflect in your work”? This surprising question puzzled me, not because I didn’t know how to answer, but because it wasn’t up to me to explain his nervousness, which had forced him to put crosses on both sides of the notebook. These belong to his life, they are part of the irreconcilable contradictions between forced thinking and the truth, which he has seen and experienced himself.
– “I belong to the generation of writers who know: Romanticism, Futurism, Realism, and Socialist Realism. We of this generation find it quite difficult to adapt to the method of socialist realism, because we are used to writing things as we have experienced them. That is why we contradict ourselves, frictions with our consciousness begin, we are confused by a confusion that disturbs our thoughts, and we remain at an undefined crossroads. I believe you understand me, where do I mean…”?!
I just shook my head, as if to say: “Although I understand the great embarrassment that torments you, I do not mind openly expressing my opinion on this, because the bartender here next to us records our conversation” – “I have written three times the scenes of the struggles between the partisans and the ballistic brigades…”- he added, leafing through the notebook, to show me the pages with crosses on them. – “In the first variant, the commanders of the two formations propose to avoid senseless bloodshed between brothers, because both groups have the same goal, the liberation of the country from foreign invaders. Well, the answer from the General Staff comes in the negative.
Here the deviation from the truth begins. The talks are devalued. Fighting leads to bloodshed! Aren’t these scenes painful to describe in fiction? There are no more ugly phenomena for a nation than fratricide! Regardless of the fact that such clashes have actually occurred among all peoples and nations, under the inciting impetus of politics to seize power, the reader in peacetime is irritated by such cruel events. Therefore, when the writer undertakes to reflect these events artistically, he must bear the heavy weight of the great responsibility of truth. I believe you got into the depths of my explanation…”, he concluded his elaboration of the inner turmoil, giving me a piercing look for several seconds.
All my cells shuddered from this shocking statement, because for the first time it was unfolded so openly before me! First of all, this way of expression was a test of trust in me, because it revealed secret thoughts (which happen only in those cases when one creates in oneself complete confidence in the interlocutor, who has managed to enter the inner consciousness, as a trusted friend). But at the same time, it also reveals the darkest part of one’s own worldview; one sees the harsh conflict between thought and reality. It was precisely this second thing that worried me the most and most seriously.
Because when an idealistic intellectual militant from the first hours of the Party’s formation, is confused by the shocking shadows of doubt of consciousness, about what has really happened, he comes to the conclusion that the horn of deception has long since swallowed and continues to swallow today and in the future, authors of independent thoughts! Therefore, this statement terrifies me. And I asked myself: does my worldview allow me to be a double-minded writer? Do I have the courage and boldness to describe the distorted reality of life, why does Socialist Realism demand it this way?
In music, it happens differently: with seven notes and verses intertwined with partisanship, he composes revolutionary music. In the figurative arts, he grasps a theme that is often emphasized in the Leader’s speeches, to create an attractive picture, convinced that many curious people will gather around it. What about literature? Or is it the same routine here too?! Read carefully the works of the Leader, the minutes of powerful current events, especially those that significantly transcends the borders and spaces of states: it is enough to penetrate the very essence of the scent and purpose of “Zeus” to write a major work.
But for such cases, the writer is selected at the top of the elite, who believes blindly and spiritually in the mythical greatness of the demigod Leader, whom he sees and portrays in the historical novel, as a prophet with extraordinary foresight and a global vision, like no other character in written literature, although in reality, Enver Hoxha’s “heroism” lies in the speech he gave at the Conference of 81 Communist and Workers’ Parties, with how much “courage” and “boldness” he challenged the Socialist Camp, when in fact he played the role of Mao Zedong’s parrot, to earn as a temporary reward the nickname “Disciple of Marxism-Leninism”!
(It was the first time that a historical novel of such sensational proportions had been written, with the main character the living leader of a small country, a novel that was translated within a short time into many languages of the world, with the aim of the glory of Enver Hoxha, to climb to the highest and most dizzying peak, where not even the geniuses of world communism could climb! The author challenged the greatest poet of Soviet literature, Mayakovsky, who wrote the poem about Lenin, only after his death!).
– “My eyes do it, or are you my friend”?… – I heard behind my back the familiar voice of the writer, with whom I had been talking in silence for several minutes through meditations.
– “When did you arrive”?
– “This morning and I will leave today,” – I replied after we hugged each other with longing.
– “Did you have any urgent concern”? – He added, looking at me intently.
– “Of course, I had no easy time securing permission to come to Tirana, after three years of absence. And I would not have been granted it, if some unexpected turns of fortune had not occurred recently…” – I emphasized. – “But these things being fragile are not discussed on the street…”!
– “You are very right”! – the writer immediately intervened.
– “Are you waiting for a car here and are you obliged not to leave this place”?
– “No, I will leave by train”, – I replied.
– “Then we will have time to exchange some thoughts together…” – he said, putting his arm around me.
– “With all the great desire to stay with you…”!
– “Do you mind if the shadows here, who we associate with, see me?”.. – He interrupted me. – “Don’t worry. They know my attitude towards you since the time we met on the street, three months after your arrival in the village of Ardenice. They know that I support you. So let’s have a coffee at the bar of ‘Dajti’, like before. And so that no one bothers us and that we are not overheard by others, let’s sit at the last table. When the train time approaches, I will find you a car, to the station…” – After these words, we entered the lobby of “Dajti”.
The images of three years ago appeared before my eyes, when I entered the surroundings of this luxurious building, the most famous bar in Albania, how my hesitation and fear of someone approaching me at all, to ask me who you are and who you are looking for, confused me! At that moment, I turned my head to the wardrobe, to see if it was the same person from three years ago. And I met his gaze, who was following me: “What took you so long, that you haven’t appeared here”?!
But in my opinion, he must have been more impressed by my appearance, my simple attire, with a denim jacket and velvet trousers. Because here men with collars came in and out, with polished shoes and most of them perfumed. While the barman and the waiters greeted the writer with respect and adoration, the bartender was surprised, why the honored customer this time did not sit at his table, but took a seat at the farthest table. The waiter approached us, to take our order.
– “Two coffees and water”, – the writer said in his deep voice. – Or shall we have a drink on the occasion of our meeting after so long”?
– “What drink do you prefer”? – I asked him, my face reddening – I have to wish for something? – the writer added with smiling eyes.
– “In this last month, three auspicious events have happened to me and my family, which I call miracles”, – I said excitedly.
– “When you are so happy, why were you so gloomy and so thoughtful”?! – he asked me curiously.
– “Sad memories had come to me”.
Among them, I was also disturbed by the scenes here, when you once explained to me why some pages of the notebook have crosses and question marks on the manuscript, – I added with some trepidation. – It has remained in my memory as a permanent annoyance, because it constitutes the dignity of the writer”.
– “I remember, I remember: we explained something about self-doubt…, – he repeated, shaking his head. – You are the first and the last who knows my inner secret. No way. Now tell me about the auspicious events, which he called miracles”.
– “I am convinced that these miracles will multiply your pleasure, since they are the author of your friend, the First Secretary of the Lushnje district”.
– “I am very happy that my friend has been raised to the height of his dignity”! – the writer added excitedly.
– “You should know: this brilliant phenomenon happens very rarely in our time, because we are hindered by self-doubt. Only a leader with a Great Spirit and unbending courage finds the strength to overcome the reluctance of duty and climb to uncharted heights. One day we met here and talked for a long time. When he mentioned your name, I waited with curiosity to hear what he thought of you. My eyes and body laughed at the projects he had in mind”!…
– “So you know the happy events…”, – I added, sighing with pleasure.
– “I heard some projects from his mouth. Now tell me what really happened, so that I can make comparisons. One minute”!.. – he said, when the waiter came to us and placed the glasses with the pastries and coffee cups on the table. – “Then we will start with the drink: I wish you all the best! With patience and willpower, your great goal for literature will be fulfilled later”!
– “And I wish you as much health and as few doubts as possible”!… – I returned, clinking my glass with him. His intelligent eyes remained fixed on my eyebrows when I mentioned the second greeting. Memorie.al
Continues next issue
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