By Shkëlqim ABAZI
Part forty-six
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
The catacombs have now been replaced by the “Gulag.” Many ended up in prisons. Those who tried to avoid it were thrown into the lunatic asylum, and those fortunate enough to escape this found solace in the rope’s noose, on the edge of some lost forest; others who survived were reduced to professional mutes, or butt-kissing spies, while the unfortunate ones slung the cross over their backs and struggled up the “Calvary,” filling the flock of Panurge’s sheep (Panurgu – Panurge is a reference to a character from Rabelais).
The country now resembled a huge fold with controlled pathways, where only loyal dogs could freely enter and exit. Most were turned into sponges, their brains saturated with every temptation, and they were forced to March, proud and shitted, into the “REPUBLIC OF FOOLS.” Logic was deflowered, stages were confused, and time ended up eunuch, then they hung it on the hook of millennia, where it was absorbed by the treacherous vortex of the “Era of Blood, or the Time of Enver”!
X
The pens were broken. Testimonies were written on cell walls, stamped on ancient sarcophagi, like testaments that no neoanthropos (neoanthropos – new man) will be able to decipher. On the foreheads of the galleys, they scrawled figures, hoping someone would explore them in the future; under the marshy peat, they sealed testimonies with living skeletons, which descendants will track down, after a relative era. The trace of time dissolved in timeless times. Times, times, and times everywhere!
When the old men in prisons recounted the horrors and boundless misery, the live burial of dozens of unfortunates under the peat of Maliq or in the bog of Hoçisht, the hundreds disappeared in Vlashuk, in Beden, in Thumanë, in Burrel, in Spaç, and elsewhere where there had been prisons…, no one remembered the date, the month, the year, but they repeated in chorus: “the time” and they attached a criminal’s name, as if to give the state’s macabre nature colossal dimensions.
When they emphasized: “the time” of Vangjel Rrëmbeci, they meant the massacres of the late forties, “the time” of Tasi Marko, or Sotir Vullkani, evoked those same tribulations, only a few kilometers apart; “the time” of Haxhi Pela personified the rapes of the men of that era (zamanit), whose mustaches they threw off like the feathers of a dead bird, into the mud pits of Beden; “the time” of Azbi Lamçe, although seemingly a little gentler, in reality embodied the treacherous eliminations of prominent nationalists; that of Çelo Arza and Haxhi Gora was equated with the revolt of May 1973, with the execution of four martyrs and the re-sentencing of over eighty others; that of Edmond Caja coincided with the escalation of sadistic methods, for maximum efficiency in breaking bones. Thus, the names of the uncivilized (jahil – ignorant/uncivilized) who sealed these misfortunes and the binomial; crime-criminal, were forever ingrained in the collective memory, seizing the dark space by branding “the times.”
In the early days of the prison, this “confusion” struck me, so I wondered: “Why don’t the old men mention dates and years, but only ‘time’?! Have their memories perhaps been scattered?” Naturally, the investigation remained suspended like a kite carried by the wind after whims, I interpreted the enigma according to the circumstances, but I did not reach a precise conclusion. I had to experience some sharp events to grasp the partial core of the case; however, I would understand the answer one late December, from my friend, Sami Dangëllia.
December 31, 1969
That afternoon, we faced the bitter unexpected, we found Azir Krasniqi crucified at the base of the pillar. I never found out what his specific fault was! But to end up like Christ, it was not necessary to commit any punishable act. It was enough for the policeman to feel like doing a favor, to push the night of the New Year’s Eve, and the reason was easily found, especially for the Kosovars, whom they had condemned as Tito’s “spies” and considered “enemies of the people,” even labeling and treating them as “the most dangerous foreigners, of all foreigners!” who, according to them, deserved to be crucified against the pillars of torture!
Azir’s case was a repeated practice, originating since they collaborated with their Yugoslav brethren (I am speaking of the time when they were still “brothers in arms”), they started with the execution of Adem Boletini, the “traitor” son of Isa Boletini, with the handover of the “criminal” Bedri Pejani to the Yugoslav “brothers,” and continued with the motiveless sentencing of the offspring of great fighters, the Boletinis, Vokshis, Krasniqis, etc. On the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, I found myself facing the stubborn fact.
Communist Joke
After a few hours, the whole world would turn the last page of the calendar; naturally, even socialist Albania made no exception to this rule, despite the extreme poverty. On this occasion, some festive signs were noticeable in Reps. The micro-town, with about one hundred to one hundred and fifty inhabitants, not counting the soldiers and convicts, with about twenty dilapidated buildings, plastered with planks of rough timber and asbestos roofs, unlike other days, shone with single-colored lights, and here and there, a cotton rug, glued with paste to the window panes, as a banal imitation of snowflakes, completed the décor of two or three buildings, the ambulance, the office of the People’s Council and the Democratic Front, including the prison command.
From the slope of the construction site, watching the change, my eyes fixed on the only shop opposite the laboratory building, where people with bags were bustling. “Looks like trading has broken out openly, oh Xhaf Dema!” – I nudged my friend, who was curiously watching this unusual coming and going. It seems the “call of the ancestors” reawakened in the merchant, reminding him of the time when he received and saw off customers, on the threshold of his small shop, on a street in Tirana.
“What trading are you talking about, man?” – he snapped back, annoyed, but his eyes expressed the concern of his trade.
“Then what are you observing so intently?” – I egged him on to pass the time.
“Empty sacks, man, that’s all I see!”
“You’re wrong Xhaf, today they have plenty!”
“Oh man, these shops are so empty, if a mouse falls, it’ll break its head!”
“I know, but for today, they have!” – I insisted.
“Only lice and potato peels, they have, my friend!” – he said cynically and added: – “I exchange more plums with Xheloli here, than all those wretches there!” – he pointed a finger at the crowd on the muddy road.
“Tonight they’ll have a blast; raki will be clinking, for seven layers of joy!” – I touched his weakest spot.
“Don’t kill us; I drink with Xheloli in one day, as much as all those poor sods in one year!” – Xhafa boasted.
“Oh Xhaf my boy, the world is rejoicing!” – Shyqi teased him from a distance.
“Some rejoicing, by God! They’re broke and drained, Shyq, with one year’s savings; they can barely feed the kids for one night!” – Xhafa lamented their situation.
“They’re rejoicing and having a blast, man, unlike you and me, in prison!” – Shyqi pushed further.
“They’re worse off than in prison, truly they’re not behind wires, like us, but they’re muzzled, man!” – Xhafa shot back with a ready answer.
“They are the fortunate ones of the world because the Party leads them at the forefront, Xhaf!”
“What trash Party, man?!”
“Trash or leek Party, today it has filled their table with all the good things in the world!”
“It has filled them with trash, I swear! These are dying of hunger, for a crumb; did you hear me, Shyq my boy?”
“What’s there to hear?!” – Shyqi turned back.
“This, precisely, that you haven’t understood yet…”!
“I don’t know what’s left for me not to understand now? Whatever I wanted to know, I’ve learned, a long time ago!”
“You don’t know that all the people are scavenging for the time of the onion, and are separated from the world, as if they were lepers!”
“They feel happy in the ugly socialist homeland, Xhafo, even though they stink of onion and garlic, an hour away, yet they dance, in the wolf’s mouth!” – Xhelal Bey appeared from nowhere, stuck the handle of the shovel, so as not to slip, and winked at us maliciously, combing his mustache with his fingers.
“Bravo Xhelolo, you said it very well, I swear! They’ve turned all of Albania into an onion and garlic outhouse, by the Prophet!”
It seems Xhelal Bey’s quote suited Xhafa, who enriched it with his own expressions.
“My friend Xhaferr, I sincerely understand your anger and Xhelal Bey’s opposition, and I don’t blame you, on this significant day, you deserved a glass of raki, but unfortunately, we don’t have it. Nevertheless, this doesn’t give you the right to profane the entire people, although you currently enjoy the advantage of expressing dissatisfaction and bitterness over material shortages,” – Professor Agimi, with this complicated tirade, supposedly supported them, while being careful to maintain balance, so as not to slip down the slope.
“I don’t have much left to care about, man; they don’t have any excess down there either!” – Xhafa seemed comforted.
“Tell me, Xhelal Bey, will the peoples around the world be celebrating?” – Kosta R. mocked.
“Pity the knights, for their feet are dangling!” – Xhelal Bey replied with his typical laugh. – “Where did your mind go, Kosta?” – and he burst out, “ha-ha-ha.”
“Oh Xhelal Bey, we are not allowed to doubt the findings of the distinguished Marxist-Leninist, Comrade Enver, who has discovered for us that the world is dying of hunger, not to mention affording extra expenses!” – Kosta deepened the irony.
“Shut up, you narrow-minded one, and look at yourself being cut into pieces by leek wheels of dried meat!” – the hypothetical Bey retaliated.
“We are living in the time of the leek, Comrade Xhelal!” – Someone prompted him from behind.
“Xhelal of your mother and of…, but forget it, forget it!” – Xhelali retorted. “Time again!”
“The time of the onion!”
“The time of the garlic!”
“The time of the leek!”
“What terrible fate befell us, the inhabitants of the ‘REPUBLIC OF FOOLS’ on the ‘CONTINENT OF FORGETFULNESS’?”
“The world celebrates the significant days, my dear friends!” – the professor continued his lecture:
“They celebrate, man, but not like us?” – Shyqi ironized.
“Certainly, my dear, because we celebrate differently, with prisons full, with men in lines and women on shooting ranges, where they fire artillery volleys and sacrifice human bodies, instead of roasting a turkey.”
“They are lionesses, respected professor?!” – Xhelal Bey interrupted him.
“The world is different, Xhelal Bey! Women are females, and men are males. They truly work hard, but they celebrate with pomp and fanfare. Especially the New Year, they organize it with carnivals, with songs and dances, distribute bags of gifts, fire multi-colored fireworks, and await the turn of the years in urban centers, where they follow concerts, sing, dance, gaze at the sky that catches fire, then disperse to restaurants, or homes, for private or popular dinners, organized by municipal authorities, in cities or communes, where they celebrate until dawn.”
“Isn’t this method too bourgeois, respected professor?” – Someone interrupted him.
“Our communists have outlawed these ‘Santa-Fooleries’ for good, branded them with the mark of backward customs, and anathematized them as mines that blow up socialist well-being, and at the same time as opium that spreads ideological poison and confuses the minds of the youth. Undoubtedly, capitalism uses these remnants of the bourgeois past as a dazzling mirror, to confuse the masses and to hinder the triumph of the proletarian revolution…”!
XI
While we were exchanging these remarks, darkness covered us. When we stepped into the camp, night had seized us. But we suddenly found ourselves facing unimaginable cruelty; on the pole in front of the guard officer’s office, they had crucified a prisoner!
“Lord, oh Lord, what a disgrace!”
My legs gave out when I saw Azir Krasniqi, bruised, as the policeman barked at him from behind the bars:
“This is how the soul will leave all Titoists!” and he guffawed: “ha-ha-ha.”
The ala-Mongol punishment was the cruelest joke on New Year’s Eve! I found a corner and started to encourage him, without considering the consequences. I was young, both in age and in prison. Just as Sami Dangëllia was descending with his bowl in hand, he stopped when he saw me and signaled for me to approach him.
“What are you looking for in that corner?” – he snapped at me, annoyed.
“I am encouraging him!” – I showed him the crucified man and thought of going back again.
“You must be a raving brave man, sir!” – he continued ironically.
“It’s a pity, I feel so sorry…”
“It serves us right, huh?!”
“I don’t know how I feel when I see him in that state.”
“It serves us right, eh?” – he emphasized the “h” in a way I have rarely heard a second time.
“Are we going to leave him like that?!” – I grew bold.
“Try it, the other pole is waiting!” – and he showed the pole, about ten meters away from the one where the beaten man was lying, and added with a frowned face: – “They can barely wait to make them a pair, and not just two, but ten, twenty, all of them!”
Strange! Had Sami been weakened so much? He was considered a man with an unyielding character, qualities for which he had been in prison since late forty-four and was endlessly re-sentenced.
“What could have happened to him? I was expecting encouragement, meanwhile…!” Naturally, I reasoned according to my yardstick of that time.
“Quick, inside!” – he yelled at me and disappeared through the door.
Instead of turning right, he went left and occupied the end of my bed, settled the bowl with the dried meat leek, hung his feet in the corridor, and greeted Dom Ernest Troshani:
“How are you, Father?”
“God wills well, dear Sami!” – the priest replied, sipping his soup. – “What’s up, Sami?” – he added, wiping a couple of drops of liquid that hung on his unshaved beard.
“I’m pushing along somehow, but this boy here, we don’t think he’s doing too well!” – the tone became derisive. I froze, because I valued Sami above everyone.
“Where could I have stepped wrong? Where could I have made a mistake?!”
But I found no fault in myself; even if I wanted to, they wouldn’t let me make mistakes, I was under strict surveillance, they guided me, advised me, and I adhered to them point by point.
“What happened, man?” – the priest addressed Sami, his eyes fixed on me. “I don’t think I’ve done anything reckless!” – I defended myself. “You were consuming the most reckless act when I came down the stairs!” – he burst out at me. “What harm has the boy done?” – the priest worried. “Acted wrong, not badly!” – Sami specified. “Concretely, for Christ’s sake, I understand nothing!” – Dom Ernest lamented.
“You saw, I believe, Azir Krasniqi, tied to the pole,” – Sami began his explanation. “Of course, I felt very weak and prayed to Christ!” – the priest expressed his regret. “We all feel that way, Father!” – Sami reinforced. – “But what were you looking for there?” – he snapped at me. “Mistake!” – Dom Ernest scolded, turning to Sami: – “The boy is young and doesn’t know that these people are ready to tie all of us up, even to tear us apart and devour us like cannibals!”
“I’ve been enduring them for twenty-five years on my back, dear Dom!” – Sami lamented. – “But come on, fill your head with some sense, my friend…” – and he cast a reproachful look at me. “Sami is right, my son!” – the priest supported him. – “By Christ, these are the spawn of the Devil, each one worse than the other!” – he continued the rhetoric. “Undoubtedly, they are like that!” – Sami supported him and added: – “But they are also in competition among themselves, who will name the era. Do you understand, boy?” – he turned to me authoritatively. – “Perhaps Gjeto Gjini challenges Çelo Arza to seal the time with his name, just as the previous executioners stamped the previous times. That’s why they chose this night, as the boundary dividing the two years…!”
“For reprisals, they specifically chose this night, today, when the whole world celebrates the turn of the years, and Christians forgive each other’s sins, praying to the Almighty God to save them, wishing each other a more successful and prosperous year, these are crucifying us like Christ, against the poles, killing prisoners and defying God!” – the priest completed his friend’s unfinished sentence. – “Protect us, Holy Mary!” – he sighed and made the sign of the cross. For a moment, I felt guilty: “Today the Gregorian calendar turns a new page, tomorrow…!” – I spoke into the smoke.
“You’re talking nonsense, my son, and this changes nothing in their criminal mentality!” – Sami interrupted me. “Naturally, it means nothing to the criminals, because ultimately they rejoice in their crimes and don’t count us among the living, but I believe the day will soon come when they will pay for every misery. They are insensitive, my son, they don’t know how to hold their hand back either before the prisoner or before God!” – the priest intervened.
“The atrocities are increasing, blood is flowing, time and dates are changing…” – I continued my babbling. “What time and what date are you talking about, my friend? Or those rusty bits and pieces that rattle like skeletons stripped of flesh? The calendar has lost its meaning, there are no days, no dates, no years, only naked ‘time,’ crawling like a gorged snake.”
“Time, you say?!”
“Yes, ‘time,’” – Sami sighed. – “The ‘Era of Blood’ or the ‘Time of Enver,’ call it what you want, or more precisely let’s say: ‘The Time of the Snake’!” – He took the bowl where the leek wheels had merged with the pieces of dried meat and walked away to his bunk. “Oh God, how terrible!” It fell to our lot to live the dark time, “The Era of Blood or the Time of Enver” or, as Sami called it, “The Time of the Snake”! Memorie.al
To be continued in the next issue
