Meeting once again with Pope Frances

By Visar Zhiti

Meeting once again with Pope Francis, shaking hands with His Holiness, staring into each other’s eyes, gilded by the goodness of His vision in which heavenly elation mixes with the dedication of a compassionate shepherd, exchanging a few words with him, he immediately says what you really need, and though these moments close to him are very brief, they pour a sense of biblical eternity into you... Along that minute passageway, where you started to walk off from the side where the diplomatic corps is set, you approach Him, waiting on his feet, white, candle-like, ethereal, you also feel Him to be an old friend, special emotions and a beautiful responsibility grab you, superb.

You are heading towards Him as an Albanian citizen, a representative of your country, carrying with you centuries of testimonies, Buzukian liturgical whispers, and as you cast another step, instead of adorning your breast with medals that others surrounding you have plenty of, you fill your chest with the pain of the wounds of your country’s martyrs, carrying Fishta and his “Lute of Highland" in English, along with the images of two Albanian cardinals, whom you have been accompanied by in the dictatorship’s hell, and they shoulder you on both sides, you continue to walk, dazzled by the magical smiles of our saint, Mother Teresa, spreading throughout the air like doves’ wings, another step, and the revamped walls of temples quake, the Onufrian cardinal red icons move, you feel the proverbial brotherhood allegiance among religions in your country, present-day distresses suffocate you, your step heavies, your personal tragedy weighs on your shoulders, while, underfoot the wickedness of those who enacted it emerge like traps – assassins’ offspring, insults, your steps are confused by the slurs of the presidential clan of the republic of banality, the sad silence of your people, their exodus, the Sisyphean stone of torment, the love of those who only know how to love, etc., the patron hermit angel that leads the generation of the fatherland,  O’ resurgent angels where are you?...

Meanwhile, you have arrived before Pope Francis, stopped there, bowing slightly... His Holiness was waiting for you, staring at you, immediately understands you, he shake hands with you, his hands that thousands of people from all over the world have held, nameless and famous, from your country too, children and the elderly, poor men, artists, statesmen from all the continents, heads of religions, etc., etc., those hands with which he has washed the feet of prisoners of all kinds, the feet of the miserable, of deprived, murdered men, the journey of humanity, but now he is with you, for you all, and you feel the need to say something in the name of what you are, that you have not said before. I love Albania he says to you once again, but sounding new, special, his voice reminds you, His sacred masses, and you, heartened, say to him that as much as Your Holiness and the Holy See have done last year and now for Albanians and their church, etc., was not done for 1,000 years, 2,000 years, and he laughs out loud, we are grateful to you, you add, and he stretches out his hands and strongly holds yours, and you feel the apostolic warmth of the strongest moral leader of the world.

You would like to have continued to say that the world has become better because of Him, but you have to leave and let the next person from another country, meet with him, yet your wife, like a Mary dressed in black, completes what was left unsaid by embracing Pope Francis, and as you leave, you see the vision of the Son, Christ in Heaven, through Michelangelo’s large windows. Amen!

AAFH translation

Letter of the Ambassador of Hungary

Statue of the "Budapest Lad"

Statue of the "Budapest Lad"

Memorable Meeting

Thomas Marsh

Figure Sculptor

Orange, Virginia

www.thomasmarshsculptor.net

June 11, 2016

Washington, DC

Dear Muçi,

I was so happy to see you at the ceremony, and was hoping you would be there! And it meant very much to me that you could again greet my sons. I try to remind them always of the struggles that you and your countrymen have faced for the cause of freedom.

It would be such a great honor to create a bust or a statue of Petro Zheji for you and for Albania. I trust that when the time is right, we will be able to do this project. I will be ready whenever you are ready.

Yes, friendship is so important. In today's world there are so many secular pressures for people to discard their friendship loyalties. You are clearly a man of your word, and a man of courage, and I am proud to call you my friend.

God bless you always, my friend,

Thomas

P.S. Again, please give my best wishes to Uran.

Thomas Marsh and Mustafa Xhepa

Ferit the “Cow”, Partisan

By Visar Zhiti

(Excerpt from the book, “Trails of Hell” pg. 227,228)

Hundreds of spoons clattered and scared the swarm of flies buzzing all around. We no longer washed our bowls; instead, we wiped them clean using the last bite of our bread, which we still ate despite the bitter taste of aluminum, because waiting in another line would mean another long torment for us. Washing the dishes every day from the water pipe, perforated in a row of holes, (I could compare it to a monster’s fife), where cold water spouted, would have caused us more distress.
In the meantime, the prisoner Ferit the “Cow,” was observing and waiting there. As soon as you left your bowl on the ledge of the washing station unattended for longer than a minute - just to wash your hands or to drink water, there, he would snatch it. And you had truly forgotten it. “Aha! You lost it,” he would smirk. He would sell you back your bowl a few hours or days later, and you could not always borrow someone else’s bowl to eat. You would have to buy it back cheap –for a pack of Partisan cigarettes. Ah, the partisans! Was Ferit the “Cow" a partisan? He says, “Yes.” His surname was not actually “Cow.” Ever since he stole a cow from the Cooperative and put children’s rain boots over the cow’s hooves so that the tracks of the cow’s hooves could not be traced as he walked to sell it at a faraway market, and, so they say, fooled the animal to eat straw by putting his green-tinted sunglasses over the cow’s eyes so that the yellowed straw looked green as fresh grass, etc.. etc.… - he is full of adventures, from that time, the nickname “Cow” stuck with him.  He quite resembles the good face of a cow: in the way his cheeks droop, in the way he stares at you and in the way he bellows when he speaks.

Translated from The Albanian by Kelly Mema

A Band of Terrorists

By Visar Zhiti

(Excerpt from the book “Trails of Hell” pg. 221,222)

“I have already heard of you from Bajo. My prison sentence was burdened by some poems, yet they weren’t even mine.”
            I felt my heart sink.

 “Moreover, I was denounced by my wife.” He said, while we, like two Sisyphus, struggled to push something immense, rattling in front of us.

            “Were you married?”

            “No.”

            “It’s for the better. The Communists would have destroyed your family, your honor… Is your mother still alive?”

            “I have both of my parents.”

             “You don’t suffer much in prison when you have your mother.”

            “ Why was your wife like that?” I muttered under my breath, as we went deeper into the rocky nothingness, that mine, after another turn, where darkness drifted away and the other soul closed in on you.”  

            “Eh, we did not get along well,” he continued. “When we were on trial for divorce court proceedings, she denounced me for listening to foreign radio stations: ‘The Voice of America,’ and ‘The Vatican’ and …”

            “I, too, was convicted for listening to ‘Radio-Prishtina,’” I said.

            “Yes, yes, I know.  The Communists wrote in their newspaper ‘The Voice of the People’ or rather, Against the People, that some friends from Kosova and their Chinese brothers had come to visit Albania. For the Communists, blood has no potency - it is not sacred; it is but a red fluid that might easily be shed for the ideal. Always, someone else’s blood. Their ideal… Yes, it is very clear: they do not even have an ideal. They are a band of terrorists.”

Translated from The Albanian by Kelly Mema

Condensed Milk

By Varlam Shalamov

Envy, like all our feelings, had been dulled and weakened by hunger. We lacked the strength to experience emotions, to seek easier work, to walk, to ask, to beg. ...We envied only our acquaintances, the ones who had been lucky enough to get office work, a job in the hospital or the stables-wherever there was none of the long physical labor glorified as heroic and noble in signs above all the camp gates. In a word, we envied only Shestakov. 
    

External circumstances alone were capable of jolting us out of apathy and distracting us from slowly approaching death. It had to be an external and not an internal force. Inside there was only an empty scorched sensation, and we were indifferent to everything, making plans no further than the next day. 
    

Even now I wanted to go back to the barracks and lie down on the bunk, but instead I was standing at the doors of the commissary. Purchases could be made only by petty criminals and thieves who were repeated offenders. The latter were classified as "friends of the people." There was no reason for us politicals to be there, but we couldn't take our eyes off the loaves of bread that were brown as chocolate. Our heads swam from the sweet heavy aroma of fresh bread that tickled the nostrils. I stood there, not knowing when I would find the strength within myself to return back to the barracks. I was staring at the bread when Shestakov called to me. 
    

I'd known Shestakov on the "mainland," in Butyr Prison where we were cellmates. We weren't friends, just acquaintances. Shestakov didn't work in the mine. He was an engineer-geologist, and he was taken into the prospecting s group-in the office. The lucky man barely said hello to his Moscow acquaintances. We weren't offended. Everyone looked out for himself here.

"Have a smoke," Shestakov said and he handed me a scrap of newspaper, sprinkled some tobacco on it, and lit a match, a real match. 
     

I lit up. 
    

"I have to talk to you," Shestakov said. 
    

"To me?" 
     

"Yeah." 
    

We walked behind the barracks and sat down on the lip of I the old mine. My legs immediately became heavy, but Shestakov kept swinging his new regulation-issue boots that smelled slightly of fish grease. His pant legs were rolled up, revealing checkered socks. I stared at Shestakov's feet with sincere admiration, even delight. At least one person from our cell didn't wear foot rags. Under us the ground shook from dull explosions; they were preparing the ground for the night shift. Small stones fell at our feet, rustling like unobtrusive gray birds. 
           

"Let's go farther," said Shestakov. 
    

"Don't worry, it won't kill us. Your socks will stay in one piece." 
     

"That's not what I'm talking about," said Shestakov and swept his index finger along the line of the horizon. "What do you think of all that?" 
             

"It's sure to kill us," I said. It was the last thing I wanted to think of. 
             

"Nothing doing. I'm not willing to die."

"So?" 
    

"I have a map," Shestakov said sluggishly. "I'll make up a group of workers, take you and we'll go to Black Springs. That's fifteen kilometers from here. I'll have a pass. And we'll make a run for the sea. Agreed?" 
            

He recited all this as indifferently as he did quickly. 
    

"And when we get to the sea? What then? Swim?" 
    

"Who cares. The important thing is to begin. I can't live like this any longer. 'Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.'" Shestakov pronounced the sentence with an air of pomp. "Who said that?" 
            

It was a familiar sentence. I tried, but lacked the strength to remember who ha'd said those words and when. All that smacked of books was forgotten. No one believed in books. 
    

I rolled up my pants and showed the breaks in the skin from scurvy. 
       "You'll be all right in the woods," said Shestakov.  "Berries, vitamins. I'll lead the way. I know the road. I have a map." 
    

I closed my eyes and thought. There were three roads to the sea from here—all of them five hundred kilometers long, no less. Even Shestakov wouldn't make it, not to mention me. Could he be taking me along as food? No, of course not. But why was he lying? He knew all that as well as I did. And suddenly I was afraid of Shestakov, the only one of us who was working in the field in which he'd been trained. Who had set him up here and at what price? Everything here had to be paid for. Either with another man's blood or another man's life. 
    

"Okay," I said, opening my eyes. "But I need to eat and get my strength up." 
    

"Great, great. You definitely have to do that. I'll bring you some. ..canned food. We can get it. ..." 


There are a lot of canned foods in the world-meat, fish, fruit, vegetables. ...But best of all was condensed milk. Of course, there was no sense drinking it with hot water. You had to eat it with a spoon, smear it on bread, or swallow it slowly, from the can, eat it little by little, watching how the light liquid mass grew yellow and how a small sugar star would stick to the can. … 
    

"Tomorrow," I said, choking from joy. "Condensed milk." 
    

"Fine, fine, condensed milk." And Shestakov left. 
    

I returned to the barracks and closed my eyes. It was hard to think. For the first time I could visualize the material nature of our psyche in all its palpability. It was painful to think, but necessary. 
    

He'd make a group for an escape and turn everyone in. That was crystal clear. He'd pay for his office job with our blood, with my blood. They'd either kill us there, at Black Springs, or bring us in alive and give us an extra sentence—ten or fifteen years. He couldn't help but know that there was no escape. But the milk, the condensed milk ... 
    

I fell asleep and in my ragged hungry dreams saw Shestakov's can of condensed milk, a monstrous can with a sky-blue label. Enormous and blue as the night sky, the can had a thousand holes punched in it, and the milk seeped out and flowed in a stream as broad as the Milky Way. My hands easily reached the sky and greedily I drank the thick, sweet, starry milk. 
    

I don't remember what I did that day nor how I worked. I waited. I waited for the sun to set in the west and for the horses to neigh, for they guessed the end of the workday better than people. 
   

The work horn roared hoarsely, and I set out for the barracks where I found Shestakov. He pulled two cans of condensed milk from his pockets. 
    

I punched a hole in each of the cans with the edge of an ax, and a thick white stream flowed over the lid onto my hand. 
    

"You should punch a second hole for the air," said Shestakov. 
       

"That's all right," I said, licking my dirty sweet fingers.

"Let's have a spoon," said Shestakov, turning to the laborers surrounding us. Licked clean, ten glistening spoons were stretched out over the table. Everyone stood and watched as I ate. No one was indelicate about it, nor was there the slightest expectation that they might be permitted to participate. None of them could even hope that I would share this milk with them. Such things were unheard of, and their interest was absolutely selfless. I also knew that it was impossible not to stare at food disappearing in another man's mouth. I sat down so as to be comfortable and drank the milk without any bread, washing it down from time to time with cold water. I finished both cans. The audience disappeared—the show was over. Shestakov watched me with sympathy. 
     

"You know," I said, carefully licking the spoon, "I changed my mind. Go without me." 
    

Shestakov comprehended immediately and left without saying a word to me. 
    

It was, of course, a weak, worthless act of vengeance just like all my feelings. But what else could I do? Warn the others? I didn't know them. But they needed a warning. Shestakov managed to convince five people. They made their escape the next week; two were killed at Black Springs and the other three stood trial a month later. Shestakov's case was considered separately "because of production considerations.”  He was taken away, and I met him again at a different time six months later. He wasn't given any extra sentence for the escape attempt; the authorities played the game honestly with him even though they could have acted quite differently. 
    

He was working in the prospecting group, was shaved and well fed, and his checkered socks were in one piece. He didn't say hello to me, but there was really no reason for him to act that way. I mean, after all, two cans of condensed milk aren't such a big deal.

Translated from the Russian by John Glad

The following gulag autobiographical tale "Condensed Milk" is borrowed from Kolyma Tales.  For those unaware, Solzhenitsyn had asked Shalamov to co-author The Gulag Archipelago, since Shalamov had lived at much crueler gulags.  Shalamov refused for already he’d grown old and beat.