By Shkëlqim ABAZI
Part thirty-one
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
Sign of the Prison
In the morning, the wake-up was without the usual noise. We took it easy, hoping to catch a little more sleep before starting the day’s routine, which meant washing the dirty clothes, then visiting friends with whom our shifts didn’t match up, having a chat or a coffee, if available, or a stroll in the square to stretch our legs, an exchange of thoughts, and then whoever could find a sunny spot could draw out the rheumatism.
I went drowsily to the latrine, then rinsed my eyes at the basin and headed to the barrack where Tomor Allajbeu slept, because throughout the week, we had met in passing – when I was returning from the second shift, he was going to the third, and we would meet on the steep climb:
“How are you, Tomor?”
“Fine, lest I invoke evil!” he’d return.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“As for sleep, you can kiss it goodbye with Milo; the snakes and Malua won’t let you! The moment I dozed off for a bit, the whistle blew; I opened my eyes. The whistle stopped, I closed them; Malua started, calling one for solitary confinement – I squinted my eyes. Calling another for a visit – I snapped my eyes open. Then the roll call caught me. They made us return three times there, and dinner found us still in line!”
“The week is over, just deal with it,” I encouraged him.
“This one’s gone, the next one comes, that one goes too, and the next, and the next, and the… life are gone. Good night!”
“May you come out safe?”
“May we meet well tomorrow?”
I went down, he went up…! I found Tomor in bed.
“Are you in bed, my friend?”
“I hope they leave us alone!” he replied in a half-voice.
“Apparently, we dodged it today; the Party was generous!” I teased him for fun.
“I know the Party’s ‘generosity’ well, but let me doze off for a bit, I’m dying!”
“Come on, let’s chat a little, our tongues have grown thick!”
“Please, go away, we are here, we have nowhere to go!” He threw the blanket over his head. “We’ll talk after lunch until we’re sick of it!” he added, head-covered.
“As you wish, I’m going!”
But right on the doorstep, I heard: “Fiu-fiu, friu-u-u-iu. Fi-fi-friu-u-u,” while the mouth of the stream multiplied and amplified them likes the howling of hounds.
Fiu-u-u, fri, fri-fri-u-uuuuu! Malua was silent.
“Damn it, they found us,” when the snakes whistled and Malua was silent, trouble followed.
“Inspection, comrade, hide it quickly, if you have anything forbidden!”
The whisper spread far and wide across the square. Everyone hurried to eliminate the last item that might be found; after ensuring they were “clean,” they ran to escape the relentless club; they hadn’t left us to regenerate our energies for the following week, or to fulfill immediate needs, but for a nobler purpose: a meticulous inspection, to “protect” us from “subversion” [i.e., subversive materials]!
Because genuine breaks were given sparingly, only when achieved through sublime sacrifices, as in the Spaç revolt, where we would grant ourselves three days of rest, but would pay for it with the price of four lives and over seventeen hundred years of prison. This belongs to the future, as it hadn’t happened yet.
The Meticulous Inspection
The camp military personnel appeared in single file from the main entrance, followed by an unknown squad. As if they were a swarm of referees of some confusing sport, each one blew his whistle for his own sake. As the whistles scratched the calm of the prison-grave, the cacophony ripped through the sky. They blew and blew until their cheeks burst, and they divided, one group of ten to one side, the other to the opposite side.
Whenever the authorities aimed for a surprise inspection, they brought police from the Rrëshen Internal Affairs Branch, because they were unknown, unconsumed, and uncompromised with the convicts; consequently, they considered the inspection more effective. Each group of ten was accompanied by a string of Mehdi Noku’s sycophants and the operative’s spies.
Thus, each group occupied a dormitory, while the last one surrounded the pjacë (square) like the praetorians surrounding the Colosseum arena. From what was seen, they had received instructions to inspect thoroughly, because they immediately started with orders:
“Over here, man!” one.
“Don’t move from your spot, or by the…” another.
“Shove that old woman over there, Prengë!” a rascal with his cap thrown back.
“With those two old dogs who have taken the corner, Pjetër!” another with a rascal.
Above the others, a swaggering, hell-raised captain (perhaps a commander) gnashed his teeth; he stopped, threw his cap over his eyes, and grimaced at someone on one side, then hopped to the other and shouted there too; he glared darkly at the crowd of convicts, threatened again, and made a grimace all nose and lips, with his allakineze cap in his hand, wetted a handkerchief with spit, and began to rub the red star.
The gesture of this buffoon reminded me of the story of a partisan who, they said, self-immolated because he refused to step on the star.
“Who are you staring at with those eyes, man!” he snapped at me when he realized I was staring intently.
“You, sir!”
“Me! Why, man, did I take out my guns, eh?!”
“By watching your gestures, I am trying to figure out who must be the leader here?” I replied, because I didn’t know what to say, and I played along, aiming to escape punishment.
“And in the end?”
“From what I see, you must be the commander of them all!”
“Really, eh?!” he said ironically.
“That’s the conclusion I reached!” I insisted devilishly.
“You hit the bull’s-eye, man; I am indeed the commander of the Rrëshen police!”
“It shows!” I supported him.
“Shut up, man!” he shouted and moved on.
After the introduction, he acted like a rooster and turned to the policeman who was leaning against the socialist emulation stand:
“Fran-a, why are you loafing like that, man?!”
“I’m sheltering in the shade, Comrade Commander!”
“Very well, but why are you leaving those convicts under the shelter there; put them in the sun, man!”
“As you command! Move away from that spot, man, to the square!” He pushed two old men who were huddled beneath the eternit [asbestos-cement] sheets.
“I suffer from high blood pressure, Mr. Police!”
“May you drop dead? What about the other one?” He turned to the one folded in half.
“I have heart trouble, respected sir!” the other replied.
“May you die instantly; I don’t want your respect!”
“But who will take out the ore then!” someone muttered quietly.
“Long live the Party, we’ll put in ten of us for one of you!” the policeman replied and looked for the “subversive” with his eyes.
“What did you say, man!” “One falls, thousands rise!” the poor soul dared to mock the famous slogan.
“Now I’ll show you how you can laugh at the Party’s slogans!” the policeman lunged forward.
In the dormitories, no soul remained except the guards, the clerks of the technical office, and a few spies who were needed to tell who slept in which bed when forbidden items were found.
They gathered us: old men, sick people, cripples, some with unwashed eyes, some in just their underwear and shirts, as the moment caught us. The sleepy ones from the third shift, stained with pyrite dust, had their teeth and the whites of their eyes showing.
“Everyone to the ground!” the commander gave the order.
We lay flat under the scorching sun, side by side. The drowsy ones, leaning against their comrades’ backs, continued to snore with a cacophony of rumbles that occupied the entire area. We panted on the dusty ground like sheep, while the police huddled in the shade.
“You have too much hair on your head, man!” the commander pointed his finger at Fetah Malasi.
“He is to be released in ten days!” I dared to defend him.
“We will see about that!”
“I just informed you!”
“Who asked you, man?” the arrogant one addressed me.
“You, sir!”
“Look at your own head, man!”
“I am shaven!”
“You are shaven, but we’ll skin you completely, did you hear or not?” and he shook his finger threateningly.
“I heard!” I shut my mouth.
“Where is the barber, man?” the rooster hopped onto a stool and crowed from above: “Quickly, man!”
The snub-nosed man from Mallakastër jumped up:
“Here, comrade…” He doubled over to the point of subservience.
“Say sir, convict! He is not your comrade, man!” the policeman standing nearby pressed him. “He’s a commander, man, you snub-nosed brute!” and he shook a rubber hose.
“Forgive me, Mr. Police!” Pale as saffron, the snub-nosed man turned to the big one:
“At your service, Mr. Commander!” He bowed, hitting his head against Fetah’s back and his rear end against Xhelal Bey’s face.
“I don’t want your service, but I want you here, for five minutes, and bald! Bald, convict, bald? Bald! Everyone bald! Did you hear me, man, bald?”
“As you command, Mr. Commander!” The snub-nosed man looked around, hoping to find a clear path.
“Right now, man, did you hear the commander?” the policeman urged him with the tip of the hose.
In an attempt to carry out the order, the snub-nosed man nearly rolled over our heads.
“You’re killing us, you walking corpse!” Bejo Kalaj complained.
“Make way for the barber, man!” the policeman ordered.
“Should we smell your backside, you fool?” Xhelal Bey shot back.
“Forgive me, Comrade Xhelal, I can’t help it…”
“Comrade Xhelal is your mother’s and father’s! Why, am I your comrade, you stinking spy?” He slapped him on the neck.
“Did you hear the order, man?”
“As you command, Mr. Police!”
“Then move your feet!”
“I have nowhere to put them!” the snub-nosed man whined.
“Over their heads, man, over their heads!” the policeman mocked.
“Over their heads! Over their heads!” others echoed him, and laughter erupted.
As soon as he managed to get into the open space, he rushed to the shop, from where he returned in the blink of an eye with the clippers and a dirty napkin.
“In line now!” the commander ordered. “Start with this ram here!” He pointed his finger at Kujtim Zharri, who was in the first row.
Kujtim, red-cheeked and healthy, indeed resembled a ram, with his head full of hair and a thick, tangled mustache like horns. The barber hesitated with the clippers in hand.
“What are you waiting for, man?” the military man urged him.
“He has a medical report, Mr. Commander!”
“What report, man, he looks like Khrushchev with a face red as fire and a neck like a Caucasus bull?”
“I am sick!” Kujtim defended himself.
“Where is the doctor, man?”
“Doctor, doctor, doctor!” the others repeated.
“Did you hear the order, gentlemen?”
“Bring the doctor quickly, man!” three or four policemen jumped in unison. From the far corner appeared the pale figure of Kosovrasti [the doctor].
“Here, Mr. Commander!”
“What is wrong with this Khrushchev here?” the officer asked.
“He has psychological problems, how can I explain it better…”
“Leave him, the next one!” the commander interrupted him.
“The clippers won’t even touch him!”
“The next one, I said!”
“He also won’t…”
“The next one, man!”
“This one is bald!”
“Shave him completely!”
“He is already shaved!”
“The next one! The next one…”
Grr-grr, the clippers worked on human heads as if they were on the backs of animals. “All of them, I said!”
It became an unbearable chaos; the hair of one tangled with the hair of another, as the wind from the stream lifted it and threw it into our eyes and under our shirts. The heat and sweat stuck it to our skin, and the itching began. Now, like a colony of lepers, everyone was competing to scratch the most.
As they kept us confined in a hundred square meters of pen, the midday sun climbed to the zenith. Now seven hundred men were gasping for breath from thirst, and the sweat stuck our clothes to our bodies, while the salty stench of male secretions weighed down the air. The scorching heat stimulated the lack of fluids, and the dehydrating effects began, while the policemen’s taunts reached their peak and turned into a massacre.
In the dormitories, the massacre continued; they took everything their hands could find and piled it up in front of the doors: books, notebooks, musical instruments, pieces of wood for carving, wire knives, some tool adapted for fine work, backgammon and chess boxes, bags of salt and sugar, pieces of bread, and everything that aroused suspicion. The uneducated policemen decided what should be thrown away and what should be left, even though they didn’t speak Albanian correctly; they became censors of knowledgeable minds and indiscriminately lynched the pearls of foreign letters.
To preempt the inspections and save whatever could be saved from confiscation, everyone had created their own hiding spot. Inside the straw of the mattress, we opened tunnels where we hid pencils, fountain pens, and other small items; we pulled out the nails from the poplar planks of the walls, from the fibers of the ceilings, and shoved whatever we could into the cavities, then hammered them back into the old holes so they wouldn’t be noticed. We stuffed “valuable” items into the holes dug under the beds and covered them with cardboard sheets. Some books and notebooks we stuffed into clothing bags, others we submerged in pots, plates, and pans in the food depot.
Gëzim Medolli, Astrit Delvina, and Aleko Zoto left no corner of the tunnel untouched, hiding papers in tin boxes, in preserved food packaging, in pipe holes, in rock cavities, etc. They masked them with a little clay and waited to retrieve them. Fully confident that they had secured them from the police, they did a favor to the hungry rodents, who gained fat by consuming essays, short stories, novellas, novels, poems, and modernist paintings. Besides these, we had devised some finer tricks.
On a French language method, I glued the portrait of Marx; on the dictionary, I put the color photo of Mao Zedong, while Mërkur Babameto disguised the translations of Dostoevsky under the imposing mustache of Stalin. Memorie.al
Continues in the next issue
