Part Thirty-One
Memorie.al / The writer Sokrat Shyti is the “great unknown” who, for several years now, has shown the tip of the iceberg of his literary creativity. 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 MYSTERY,” “BETWEEN TEMPTATION AND WHIRLPOOL,” “THE DIGGING OF NIGHTMARES,” “THE SHADOW OF SHAME AND DEATH,” “THE HEAD OF THE COLONEL,” “THE HOPELESS HOPES,” “CONFUSIONS OF FATE” I, II, “SURVIVAL IN THE COW’S HUT,” as well as other works, all novels ranging from 350 to 550 pages, are in manuscripts waiting to be published. The dreams and the initial fervor of the young novelist returning from studies abroad full of energy and love for art and literature were abruptly cut short by the harsh edge of the communist dictatorship.
Who is Sokrat Shyti?
Having 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 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. Besides the radio, the 21-year-old Sokrat, if we can imagine him, had a passionate interest in literature at that time. He wrote his first novel “Madam Doctor” and it was on the verge of publication, but… alas! Immediately after the arrest of his friends, as if to fill the cup, a brother of his, a painter, fled abroad.
Sokrat was arrested in September 1963, and in November of that year, he and his family (with his mother and younger sister) were interned in a location 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 those 27 years, he was legally obliged to appear three times a day before the local authority. He had no right to leave the place of internment and was deprived of any kind of documentation, etc. In these conditions, amidst a cow shed, he gave birth to and raised his children. It is precisely based on this event, or rather a very long history of persecution, that he was inspired to write the book “Survival in the Cow’s Hut”!
Agron Tufa
Continued from the previous issue
EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK “SURVIVAL IN THE COW’S HUT”
– “Most of these cases are committed by some incompetent cadres, who do not adequately understand the Party’s directives. Here, malicious deceivers benefit with party ties, who have intentionally entered to sow the seed of division…!”
– “The weed sprouts even in stone; it doesn’t need fertilization or watering,” interrupted the mother. “The evil always sprouts from deception, which the wicked have in their blood, but the first line is not understood immediately from the sweetened taste. Only the second time, when you know what it contains inside, do you take the right stance: If you liked it, you are also of this mold.
When you feel that it traps you in a corner and you still don’t care, then you are careless; you don’t think at all about the purpose it serves. Unfortunately, among us, the majority are cowards like rabbits or careless, making it easy for deceivers to sow the seed of division. Therefore, it often happens that the truth is found when a blade of grass has sprouted over the grave of the innocent!”
– “In your case, that did not happen!” – the son-in-law protested.
– “So, according to you, justice was served?” – her mother replied in a reproachful tone.
– “At least some glaring mistakes were corrected,” insisted Stavri.
– “The human soul is not a tool that can be fixed once broken. Perhaps that’s how you communists see it, as an instrument to squeeze us, whenever you feel like venting your grievances or have us swallow the rabbit. Do you know how I understand the establishment of justice? After correcting a mistake, give me the punishment that I deserve according to the crime committed. The state has both the stone and the nut: they don’t keep the kernels of the nut for themselves while showing us the stone. If they have a soul, let them draft laws for people, not for animals. Because in most cases, they punish the innocent instead of correcting their own injustices!”
– “Your daughter has truly been endowed with reasoning,” said Stavri, shaking his head. “You insist on your point until the end.”
– “It is not about insisting like a donkey, but knowing how to defend an opinion when it is expressed. Defense should not be perceived by the opponent as obstinacy or arrogance. If you disagree, you should try to prove that I am wrong. If you present convincing evidence, and I still do not accept it, then you have the right to call me stubborn as a mule. But you must provide the evidence yourself, based on your judgment with your brain, not just repeat like a parrot: the Party teaches us this and that. I, for example, when I express an opinion, it comes from within me. Of course, the Gospel is our guide, as it cleanses our minds from daily temptations and shows us the path we must follow. However, our actions must be carried out using our own reasoning.”
– “I know that we missed exchanging thoughts with one another…,” said Stavri to put an end to these tensions. “If your daughter were present, you would make my back softer than my belly!” … – he laughed.
Despite appearing to pay close attention to their conversation, I was not genuinely interested in what they were discussing, as I already knew my mother’s and my sister’s husband’s viewpoints in detail. They were both just, wonderful individuals, each reasoning about the situation from their own perspective without any ulterior motives. In those moments, I imagined the journey to Tirana, how the meeting with my older brother would go after such a long-forced separation, how he would feel before me, and what justifications he would come up with for this “cold” stance.
It was very important to determine the most appropriate way to behave, especially the use of a language that wouldn’t burden me with guilt. After all, he had had enough troubles. If the collective of the People’s Theatre hadn’t supported and backed him strongly, he might have ended up in Berat, as the director of the district theater. And that would mean a point of no return, a brake, and a halt to his artistic career.
On Saturday, since we had no rehearsals, I set off for Tirana on the volunteer bus, which was going to Durres to see the play “Adem Reka,” and they would return on foot, to honor the heroic act of saving the tugboat from colliding with the port’s pier.
Radio Tirana talked several times a day about this march, and the central newspapers wrote about the revolutionary enthusiasm of the school youth, workers, and cooperatives, who made concrete pledges for excellent results in their studies and to fulfill two quotas every day until the end of the month. As expected, from departure to arrival, the bus was filled with revolutionary songs, predetermined by the regional youth committee.
– “There’s quite a liveliness…” – I whispered slowly to the driver, as I had known him since childhood.
– “I hear this tune every day…” – replied the driver with a laugh. – “But at this job, I am better off than at the fire station. Here, I have a set schedule; there are no emergencies, so in my free time, I can relax and have a coffee with my friends. Are you going to Tirana today to sort out things for yourself?” – he suddenly asked.
– “Where did this thought come from?” – I replied, surprised.
– “I’ve heard about it. According to whispers up and down, it is said that after they took away the duty you were assigned without any fault of yours, after the theater performance, you are given the right to choose one of two paths: If you want to stay in Lushnje, these from the Committee are obliged to find you work. Meanwhile, if you want to return to Tirana, they won’t stop you, but not as a transfer. This means you have to find your own job.
Precisely at this point, the saw gets stuck on the nail since you are a high-ranking cadre, and conversing with the director or the head of personnel in Tirana has no value without the approval of the leaders here. In other words: if one hits the nail, the other the hoof, you’re wasting your time running around. What I just said is true, or is it just nonsense?” – he added, throwing a quick glance at me.
– “Only partially,” – I answered.
– “How do I understand this partially?!” – the driver asked curiously.
– “That the duty was taken away from me, but without the right to return to live in Tirana!” – I explained, feeling desperate.
– “How is that possible?!” – he was astonished.
– “That’s how they have decided!” – I emphasized, as if to say, “Can we drop this subject?”
– “Are those here holding you back, or do the big bosses in the capital not accept you?” – he added further.
– “I don’t delve into those specifics, as they are troubling questions. Since it’s not happening, it doesn’t matter to me where the obstacle is, here or there.”
– “That makes sense. Don’t take it the wrong way, as we’ve known each other since childhood. But since the opportunity has arisen, let me ask: have you really lived all these years in a cow shed? I’ve heard that too…” – he hurried to excuse himself. – “If that’s the case, you must have gone through hell!” – he stressed in a saddened tone. – “What befalls a poor man and he can’t escape it,” – I replied with a sigh.
– “When you are wrongfully punished because you’ve gotten into a messy situation, you tell yourself: one goes with their head and suffers. But when it comes from an unexpected direction…!”
– “Well, such are the laws and rules of our state,” – I interrupted him to avoid getting into a minefield.
– “They don’t say it for nothing: when the judge catches you, you have nowhere to go…,” – said the driver, shaking his head. – “But still, the worst is behind you, from here on, you will live better…”!
– “That’s what we hope!”… – I sighed.
– “But what about the big fellow in Tirana, how are his troubles?” – he became curious.
– “I’ve heard of him as well: let’s see how true it is when I meet him…”!
– “Is it the first time you are going back since they brought you here?!” – he asked, quite surprised.
– “When you worked as a driver at the fire station, could you leave without permission?” – I replied.
– “No way! For such an act, they would lock you up! And they wouldn’t even prolong it: they would brand you as an enemy, and that stigma wouldn’t leave you for your entire life!”
– “I understand where you are going with this, since during all these years you’ve always been surrounded by fire: you couldn’t move freely because you had your hands and feet tied! And during all this time, you didn’t exchange words with anyone except the people at home?!… Why do you say you were worse off than the prisoners, since they talk to each other!… But what about the scoundrel who caused you trouble, where did he end up?… I’m sorry! I overstepped with that last question.”
During the conversation, a person becomes more curious than allowed, loses control of themselves, and without realizing it, pokes their friend at a sensitive point. Anyway, as childhood friends, we are forgiven when we rush ahead of ourselves. In my opinion, it’s better for you to get off here, at Plepat, as all roads intersect there…” – he said, breaking the bus.
When I got off, I stood for a moment, bewildered, as if I was seeing this junction for the first time! In reality, I had passed through here dozens of times, starting from my childhood when I came for vacations at the Pioneer Camp and later, especially during frequent services at the Radio. The terrible shell of isolation, the prolonged and uninterrupted quarantine, had thickened and expanded the years, forming a layer of floral mirage. This is why I compared myself to those laid out in the reanimation unit, who don’t understand or remember what has happened when the anesthesia wears off, falling into a half-formed daydream with their eyes open, trying to outline the truth of why they are here.
When I glanced toward the pioneer camp, I tried to recall some concrete, memorable event that had impressed me greatly. But nothing came to mind. It seemed that all the days had been almost the same, full of sunshine from morning till evening, and after morning gymnastics, we eagerly awaited bath time in the sea, the most enjoyable fun for all, as here we tested our skills and agility, racing with each other in swimming.
Suddenly, a “Gaz” 69, seven-seater, stopped right by my feet. Terror gripped me to the core, as I feared it might be a Ministry of Internal Affairs pursuit vehicle, with someone inside who recognized me. In that moment, a horrific thought seized me that the “Jeep” had come specifically for me, to take me away like a deserter, even though I had the permission issued by the Department of Internal Affairs with me!
(Malicious individuals can easily tear it up or declare it invalid, unjustly, explaining that leaving the place of internment for extraordinary cases is at the discretion of the relevant ministry’s director!)
-“What vehicle did you come here with?” – I heard a familiar voice from inside the “Gaz”.
-“With the volunteer bus,” – I replied, not daring to stick my head out to see.
-“Are you waiting for a car, or just got off?” – added the familiar voice.
-“Since you’re headed to Tirana, hop in as we’ll take you to the entrance of the People’s Theatre!” – said the officer sitting next to the driver in an authoritative tone, and without waiting for a response, leaned slightly forward to let me pass. – “Is this your first trip to the capital since your departure on October 5, 1964?” – he asked without turning his head back.
-“The first time I move outside the district,” – I replied, directing my gaze toward the head of internments to see if he would give me any indication.
-“Even though several years have passed, you should remember me,” – said the officer sitting next to the driver. – “Because such painful moments for a writer are never forgotten. Look at how the situation twists: precisely me, who was tasked back then to burn your manuscripts, I’ve been assigned to follow a different procedure for you this time, but don’t sour your face like last time.
-The bitter we left behind. From here on, the stage of rehabilitation has begun…” – my boss intervened to calm me. “But you must understand it clearly now: there will be no full rehabilitation. Only a few rights will be granted, for movement in some cities: instead of a passport, you will be issued a double-sided green card, where the permitted cities will be noted, with the necessary condition to notify the Internal Affairs Department,” – explained the vehicle’s driver boastfully, as if to say: “We, from the Ministry, had no intention of making any concessions. This gift you have is from the generosity of the First Secretary of the district. But only this.”
-“Sokrat, during these years, has displayed exemplary behavior…” – the officer from the Department intervened, trying to soften the position of the Ministry’s envoy.
-“The wise goat increases the share of the tax,” – the ministry officer remarked pompously. “If he hadn’t had fully compliant behavior, no matter how much the First Secretary intervened, we wouldn’t have backed down. For all those years you lived in the cow shed, did it ever seem to you like the big fellow?” – he asked, turning his body toward me. – “For him, no administrative measure was taken, as for the three of you, but we did draw a line at the threshold. Which means: even though you’re not interned, you are still under our surveillance.
You, as a former journalist, know that the organs of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat have keen senses and revolutionary sharpness; they do not allow any millimeter shift from the enforcement of the decision. You should know: you barely escaped without moving from the People’s Theatre!” – he emphasized boastfully, as if wanting to show his important role in keeping me here, that (without this strong bone, they would have covered their tracks!).
– “Not only my brother and his family, but we also appreciate your help…” – I replied, looking directly into the eyes of the officer from the Department of Internal Affairs. – “Now it’s time to soften the punishment a bit for the three of you: once you are issued the green card, you won’t have to report three times a day to the Authority.
And your connection with the Department of Internal Affairs will be maintained through your supervisor. But always on the condition that you must earn these leniencies. Because if we receive a signal of any deviation, no matter how small, we will immediately return you to your previous state!”
I didn’t respond. And until the end of the journey, I remained silent. Because I could not bear to listen to this boastful type, who appropriated the merits of others so zealously, trying in every word to present himself as brave and passionately dedicated to the task entrusted to him, and make others believe that he had all the chances and possibilities to climb the career ladder. By remaining silent, he could not guess what thoughts were brewing in my head during these moments of silence: “that all your pompous displays are worthless compared to the brave and benevolent decisions of the First Secretary, which brought about the great fundamental turn, removed the yoke of animality, and are returning me to normalcy, creating the possibility to connect with my sister and brother, smoothing out the sharp frictions between Arqelin and the family, and facilitating the peaceful resolution of the engagement, which without these measures would remain a shattered dream!”
Only God knows how furious and enraged he would become if the scent began to gnaw at his wounded pride even slightly, and the provocation of impatience pushed him to take terrifying actions! When the “Gaz” 69 stopped before the imposing building of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, in my imagination, the scene lit up with the horrifying vision of the burning of manuscripts and correspondence, and the boastful portrait of this pompous officer, who presented himself as the exemplary guardian of the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, took on the dimensions of a cannibal or that of a gluttonous beast! Therefore, I could hardly wait to break free from him.
– “Beware of excessive sentimentality! Keep in mind the instructions I gave you!” – said the commanding officer of the Ministry of Internal Affairs in a sharp tone.
I waved goodbye and headed toward the entrance of the People’s Theatre. There, I asked the ticket seller if all the actors were in the theatre’s premises, especially Ilia Shyti. She stretched her neck and fixed her gaze on my eyes for a few seconds before responding.
– “I’m sorry for the excessive question: are you perhaps Ilia’s brother?” – she asked me curiously. – “Because, from your appearance, you have a resemblance.”/Memorie.al
Continues in the next issue
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