By Alma N. Liço
Memorie.al / Bummm…bummm…bummm. As never before, the door knocked with force. No, it couldn’t be the generous neighbors from Tirana, who came so friendly every day to meet him and ask him what he needed. They never knocked so violently as if they wanted to tear that old wooden gate out of its place. Someone else was behind her. Someone, in terms of aggressiveness, did not at all promise to be welcomed. Who was threatening like this?! Which one could it be? Could something worse happen to him than the disaster of the last two months?! Her only daughter, along with her husband and three minor children, had been exiled to a remote village in the Dumre area. His heart was wounded. Left alone in that house, she couldn’t find comfort. The motive of her life was taken hostage. She was exiled and condemned to suffer in a wretched hut, among bushy hills and endless torment. Political persecution…no guilt…no explanation…?!
Ohhh…Who could be behind that gate?!
He got up with difficulty from the bed where he was lying half-lying, killing time, and lazily approached the door that kept knocking insistently. Disoriented as she was, she bumped into one of the pots in the yard and fell with it. It was torn to pieces, while the stems of dried flowers scattered in the yard. He felt a cut on his right knee and saw that he was bleeding. It was so bad. A piece of the broken vase, he had cut it as if it were a knife.
But the frantic knocking at the door that didn’t stop made him struggle to get up and walk over to her. Trembling, he turned the key in the lock. Three unknown men appeared on her doorstep. The people who were knocking pushed the old woman, risking to knock her down again. One of them even wore a police uniform. Without deigning for her to regain her composure and ask them what they wanted from a seventy-year-old woman, one of them, in a sharp tone, almost shouted:
– “Where is the room where your daughter lived”?
Not understanding at all the reason for such a question, the grandmother barely blurted out:
– “…Yesssss…we lived together in this house…we had nothing separate…but she…”!
Irritated, he cut her off and continued:
– “Where is your bedroom, daughter”!…and without waiting for an answer, he pushed her forward. The other two men followed behind him, and entered the yard. Poor woman, she still didn’t understand what was happening. The man who was getting angry pushed the doors of the two rooms of the house on the ground floor, already deserted. “EUREKA”…one of them was really empty. Relieved at this discovery, he turned to her again, and added:
– “Do you see this friend? He is disabled, damaged in the mine. Her name is Zenel Disha. The Neighborhood Council has decided to house her in her daughter’s room. She doesn’t live here anymore. We know everything”!!!
That arrogant communication left no room for dissent. Three men against a miserable old woman, wounded heart. Three men, who were raping her in her apartment, a modest family property.
He barely raised his head and directed his gaze at the man who would live in that small house, together with him. He was terrified. That strange resident was about forty-five. Fallen hair exposed the signs of cracks on the head, which may have been caused by the accident in the mine. His wrinkled face and flaming red eyes gave him a frightening appearance. Instinctively, she plucked up the courage and moved a little closer. I smell alcohol. He laughed uncontrollably, obnoxiously, and held out his hand.
– “Mother, how are you? I will take you now…forget the oyster”.
He did not understand how he managed to contain himself, without releasing a gasp that reached his throat and that he was able to swallow.
Without giving him time to collect himself, the man in civilian clothes addressed him again:
– “Give Zeneli the key to the room, as tomorrow he will bring his furniture… and don’t even think of knocking on any door… as a firm decision has been made on this. Ohhh…the dog key in the lock. Take Zenel”!
Seconds later, the three men left triumphantly, the same way they had come, pulling the outer door violently behind them. The poor grandmother crawled to the kitchen, where after cleaning her bleeding leg as best she could, she disinfected it with iodine, which she always kept at home. The neighborhood ambulance was quite far away, and she could not go there for treatment without someone accompanying her.
He tied it with a piece of old cloth and tightened it as best he could. The pain of the soul made him forget the stab wounds on his knee. Three men against her. Even a policeman among them. And the police, why was it necessary?! Did they really think that a seventy-year-old woman would be able to oppose and resist…?! Ohhh…how cruel…?!
It was already decided, he would share the house with an idiot. With a patient who had been locked up in a psychiatric hospital for years. How would he be able to cope with it, especially since he looked drunk?! With whom could he share a surprise that would follow such a traumatic coexistence? His heart was beating out of his chest. It was at war with its possibilities and impossibilities. But in the meantime, she wanted with all her soul to be strong, useful for her buried daughter, for her grandchildren…if one day they would be free…! If…he begged with all his soul, they would find that house open…to welcome them with open arms…he had to resist…!
It was written in tears. No one could see them, much less erase them. She, the respected teacher, who for forty years had visited the villages to teach the children ABC, felt completely helpless, attacked by those who could have been her students. He didn’t sleep at all that night. A torrential rain lashed mercilessly against the panes of the small windows, causing the roof of that old adobe house to drip.
The grandmother counted the raindrops that fell on a basin, which she placed on the floor whenever it rained. Their rhythm created an exasperating monotony, so much so that it seemed as if the drops were crashing over his head. At the bracket, they got mixed up, and she started the count all over again. And again they confused and superimposed senselessly on each other. Tomorrow would bring a new, terrifying reality to the drag of her already rather sad days.
Around ten in the morning, a small truck drove down the narrow cobbled street the next day, and screeched to a halt in front of the house. With the help of two strong boys, the new “member” of the family put the few pieces of furniture he had in my parents’ room. They were old, dirty, and smelled bad. Then, without uttering a word, he was locked inside it, and had not moved at all for the next twenty-four hours, not even going out to the common and only bathroom of that house, which, like many ground-floor apartments, of those years, it was located at the end of the yard.
Thus, began the surprising confrontation with his unusual actions for the grandmother. Twenty-four hours, no noise, no movement. Was it good…?! Was he alive…?! Maybe he needed help…?! He had to learn it. After a moment’s hesitation, the grandmother knocked on his door. Again nothing happened. What happened to him?! Wasn’t he dead…?! The sick end was…and grandma knocked again…!
When there was no hope of opening that door, the self-named “chun” neighbor of hers the day before appeared at the door, sleepy, with red and puffy eyes.
– “What do you want?! – Why do you wake me up”! – he grumbled.
Scared, poor grandmother, she barely said:
– “Are you fine…?! Do you need anything”?
– “No… – He answered emphatically. I want to sleep. Leave me alone, understood”? – He sighed, slammed the door and did not cross the threshold of that door for another twenty-four hours. The grandmother experienced the same anxiety again…but she didn’t knock again. Two days without leaving that room…was there anything to eat…?! What about personal needs, where did he fulfill them?!
The next day, early in the morning, he went out quietly, throwing two empty bottles of alcoholic beverages into the small yard. He disappeared, only to return in the evening. He tried to open the kitchen door where the grandmother was standing, and since he found it closed, he knocked on it. After hesitating a bit, she opened that door. She had to face the evil that would already be present every day in her life. He had to try not to make enemies of that madman. He went inside and sat on the grandmother’s minder. I smell urine and alcohol.
His eyes were not bursting from swollen red veins. Without waiting for her to say anything, he started blurting out unrelated phrases. He experienced a delirium from what he received, which made him believe that the communist state could not exist without him…! That he was the loyal one who protected him from his enemies…that he was ready to kill anyone who did not love the party. Deserted grandmother. After some hours of this incoherent and fruitless lecture, she begged him to go to sleep, as she too was very tired and needed rest.
– “Okay, nona… shall I spoil you? – rain Rain…! Because you killed the coma… don’t break the cap because it’s still alive…”!
And after repeating for the umpteenth time the heroics of that day, he left towards his room. Thinking that the torture in the presence of the prisoner was over for the time being, the grandmother breathed a sigh of relief. But five minutes later, he came out to the yard again, and started singing in a hoarse voice…: “Enver Hoxha sharpened his sword…”!
After sharpening his sword for an hour, he finally entered his room, and was not felt again. The next day, grave silence again. He didn’t drink anything. He did not leave the room at all.
The desolate grandmother began to acclimatize to his strange behavior, and treat it as an evil with which she had to live. Recognizing this reality, one of the very nice neighbors installed new and secure latches on her kitchen and bedroom doors.
In order to avoid his frightening and unbearable evening visits, as soon as she felt the crack of the lock of the courtyard gate, the grandmother turned off the light and remained in absolute silence. He wanted to let him understand that he had fallen asleep, and that he should not disturb him. But he was not convinced that she could sleep at that hour, and he kept knocking on her kitchen door. So, alcohol vapors penetrated through her spaces, and almost took her breath away.
With a frozen heart, the grandmother couldn’t wait for him to get tired and give up his silly insistence, so that she would open the door for him. Sometimes he would withdraw, but he would because endless scandals in the yard…sometimes he would break a vase…sometimes he would sing his favorite song…! Sometimes he urinated and defecated in the middle of the yard. It happened that after a rainy night that filth would spread throughout the small room paved with cracked cement. Deserted grandmother. He had to clean up the next day, vomiting and expelling his intestines, from the nausea.
In such evenings, trapped, she cried silently and prayed to God to give her strength and courage to face this absurd situation. Even in her worst nightmares, she never imagined that at that age, she would share an apartment with a madman, and suffer all the consequences of that.
Feeling failure in the evening invasion, his sick mind found another diabolical way to force his grandmother to open the door. On one of the walls of the courtyard, the fuse box for electricity was placed. Releasing one of them caused it to shut down the entire house.
For several days, the grandmother endured this situation, spending the whole evening in the dark, not even daring to light a candle, which would be a signal that she was not sleeping. The poor thing hoped that he would get tired of this childish and dirty game, and would give up the power cut every night. But he continued this kind of blackmail experiment with the same zeal.
He even shouted loudly when everything was covered in darkness. Finally, the desolate grandmother surrendered. In exchange for the lighting, he had to endure every night for two hours his croaking and idiocy, as well as the heavy smell caused by the lack of hygiene. In his delirious crises, he fantasized that the communist politicians of the leadership “Bloc” were his close friends who asked him for special services, which only he was capable of performing.
There were nights when he returned bloodied from the fists or beatings that usually took place between ordinary drunkards, and on such occasions, he beat his chest for his bravery in the face of several enemies, whom he had been able to exterminate. He looked like a kind of Don Quixote, like he was fighting windmills. But unlike Cervantes’ hero, his “enemies” were real, as he was covered with lacerated wounds or bruises. Ahh…Rosinante was also missing?!
When she saw him bleeding, besides the horror, the grandmother also felt pity for his irresponsibility. She gently begged him to seek medical help, which he stubbornly refused. Committed to a psychiatric hospital for years, he was probably terrified of doctors and refused any contact with them.
At times when she found he was calmer, she begged him to go to his room, as she felt tired and needed to sleep. Despite her repeated pleas, he would leave when he felt like it. He would then frolic up and down the little yard, singing his favorite song, or fantasizing out loud about imaginary battles.
Anyway, at least every week the wretch was locked inside for two days, without feeling at all. The grandmother was getting used to this strange regime, and somehow reassured herself that she had the strength to cope with the situation. Sometimes he even felt sorry for her. There was a case when he did not leave the room for four days and did not react even when his grandmother knocked on the door several times. Alarmed, she asked a neighbor to notify the official authorities and ask for help for a person who had been locked up for four days, without any sign of life, that there was a person alive.
A few hours later, the neighbor came accompanied by two policemen and a nurse, who, after several calls, broke down the door. Her noise woke him up. Closing their noses against the heavy wind, they approached him, and asked him how he felt. With bleary eyes, half raised in bed, he replied that he didn’t need anything. Just let him sleep in peace. To the grandmother’s surprise, he did not show any kind of aggressiveness towards the policemen, who entered there by force. Maybe he harbored some hidden fear towards them?! Maybe!
Thus, endless months of horror dragged on for the grandmother. In the letters she sent, she never wrote about the unbalanced “member” of the family and the suffering caused by him. The poor thing tried to spare us this grief, for which we were utterly powerless to help.
…Two years later, my parents decided to bring me back to my grandmother. I was only twelve years old. As a minor, the deportation order was not as stifling for me as it was for my parents. They considered me already prepared enough to not leave my grandmother alone. Indeed, the sufferings of exile had matured me prematurely.
Arriving in Tirana, I also faced this unexpected. I crossed the threshold of the house, where I was born and spent the first ten years of my childhood, and entered a little haunted the yard that was once so dear to me. Everything seemed so different to me. But really, it was me who had changed. The two years of exile had left deep traces in my consciousness.
Grandma was waiting for me impatiently. Through a letter, the parents had informed him of my arrival. I don’t know how many minutes we were hugging in the yard, while our tears were flowing. How old the poor grandmother was, after our exile. We finally got ourselves together. I picked up the suitcase, which I had dropped on the patio floor, and hurried to the bedroom. The grandmother broke down and said to me:
– “…Not there, don’t…”!
– “Why, – I asked him, what is likely”?!
She invited me to the kitchen, and after we sat down in the minder, in a meek voice, she told me what had happened after our exile. I was terrified. I was completely unprepared for this reality. The tall grandmother, she was obliged not to hide anything from me, since I too had to be protected as much as possible from that uncoordinated individual. He told me in detail everything he had removed. Hugging her, with tears in my eyes, I repeated to her that she would not suffer so much, as she would no longer be alone.
The next morning I confronted him in the yard. It was no surprise to me. At first he was stunned, and then he asked me who I was. With a kind of reluctance I introduced myself to him, and surprisingly I saw a kind of satisfaction in his eyes. Henceforth, there would be two people in that house whose attention he would demand. Typical behavior of an abandoned, lonely man. It was exactly as my grandmother had described.
It was scary looking with those bloodshot eyes, with a head deformed by stitches, or surgery marks. I instinctively felt a kind of pity for him. He was innocently guilty. Responsible for this abnormal situation was the dictatorial bandit state, which violated even the most basic rights, such as the privacy of the apartment. I behaved exactly as my grandmother taught me, locking up when we could and avoiding confronting him as much as possible. Despite everything, at least the grandmother was no longer alone.
A year and a half later, a severe flu epidemic claimed my grandmother’s life. He gave his soul to my arms. I cannot describe the pain of her loss and the difficulties of that funeral in the midst of the winter and the epidemic. Along with her departure, all my dreams for a life different from the one imposed on me by exile also went down.
Amazingly, the unbalanced one disappeared for four days from the house when the grandmother closed her eyes. I can’t know what he felt. It was so vague and incomprehensible, his relationship with life and death. Sorry maybe…?! I do not know.
After a failed attempt to attend high school, and expulsion after the end of its first year, I eventually returned, near my family, to the village of internment.
While our house in Tirana, remained in the hands of the madman. It was completely destroyed. We spent twenty-three years in exile. Suffering, endless pain. One day this ordeal came to an end, but nothing could ever go back to the way it was before. Alas, we never met him again. We didn’t even learn the end of it.
Only the memories remained. They accompany us as inseparable companions on the train of time. No one can steal them from us. Memorie.al
P.S.: Dedicated to a very traumatic period in the life of my grandmother, Shefikat Sefa. (Narazan). In honor of her figure, as one of the first teachers (women) of the district of Elbasan, today a street in this city bears her name.
