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. 

Spaçi - The Synonym of Hell!

By Agim Hamiti

     Every passerby who steps for the first time in Spaç occupies himself from a general apathy, similar to what proves man when inadvertently becomes a witness of a life in agony. Even if the passenger in question is not only, entering the pit of great natural that makes this place, he will feel the need of a contemplative silence, to deepen the world of his feelings surprised.

     The site is surrounded on all sides by a series of high hills. If you see them from the pit of Spaç, they create the impression of two mountain ranges in semicircular shape placed opposite of each other, because relief is extremely rugged. In two symmetrical points where they meet, southeast of the northwest, the narrow deep bed of a natural stream opens two windows of this large pool.

      Shrubs, partially covering the slopes of the surrounding hills, undergo a rigorous war with nature, to survive the cruelty of the barren land in the process of dissolution. Their roots stemming half gripped tightly by penetrated sideways on burned brown stones, or through cracks in the stratified slabs. Their leaves can be viewed disclosed in the sun for only a few hours since when it starts to heat, they shrink to slow water evaporation achieved with lots of difficulty.

     In general the surface of the land is brown and gray in layers of slabs that brake. Sulfuric acid, very present to the water flow to the area, is the main factor of the process of disintegration of the normal surface of the earth. The eye can see green grass very rarely, only in a flat place maybe that has a favored chance to escape the destructive power of acid. Even the deep bed through steep stream, which during the summer remains almost dry, keeps the color of acid salts. These phenomena of a unstable structure of the earth's surface appears more to the eye, due to the sharp slope of the surrounding hills. They create the impression of a natural anomaly.

      After observing the surrounding land, appearing to be a victim of chemical reactions and atmospheric agents, the newly arrived traveler in these parts, to somehow clear his whirlpool of turbulent emotions, would express the disappointment his own way, usually in accordance with the profession he exercises. 

A shepherd would have said:

      «Over here the sheep’s tooth could not find a string of grass, let alone the tongue of a cow!"

      A mason worker, after taking two stone pieces and bashing them against each other, would see how it falls crushed like dust to his feet, he would smile in disbelief murmuring:

      « You could not lay two such stones one in top of the other let alone making limestone liquid out of them."

      As a geologist would declare enthusiastically:

      « As dark as this land appears on the outside, as rich it is in the Inside."

     This intimation he would make for copper there in the subsoil, which contains a lower percentage of gold.

      A police expert, as soon as he would see this hole appearing as if it was prepared by giant excavators, without thinking, would express himself briefly and clearly:

      "A natural prison"

     Coordination of thoughts of the last two experts mentioned above brought to light the government decision for the creation of a heavy forced work camp for political prisoners, in the spring of 1968 on this dark gloomy pit. So the natural deception Spaç was joined by and human deception: the political prison.

     Once the national land was full of sucking the sweat and blood of the Army of prisoners with shaved heads sacrificed by the Communist regime as enemies of the party, it was the turn of the underworld to seek revenge. To the long string of hard labor camps and prisons present new addresses were added: the horrible mine of Spaçi and her sister mines later on. All these life-sucking addresses were supplied with contingents of political prisoners of the communist regime. With Spaç a new era began, the underground exploitation of political victims, whose lives were calculated by the Directorate of Camps and Prisons with numbers of ore mineral wagon produced.

 II

     The uphill of Sisyphus. That is the name the political prisoners of Spaç called the strong mountain path, which led from the camp to the mine. Sisyphus remains a mythical figure and his uphill imagined. The Sisyphus of Spaç were unjustly sacrificed people from dictatorship and their ascent - land. The uphill was worked gradually in a stairway shape, otherwise no one could walk in the heady slope. The steps sustainability was secured by a concrete slab of a 110 cm long and 35 cm wide, based on two iron rods stuck in the ground on each side. The steps during the winter snow could barely be distinguished. Walking additionally difficult and every Sisyphus from Spac had broken his hand, leg, knee, or was stuck by a iron rod on ribs in the crash. A crippled enemy was less dangerous for those who were convicted without cause.

     Every beginning is difficult, but forced labor in the mine for the conditions of political prisoners contained within itself a whole system first, which created a multitude of difficulties in progression. Henceforth they were forced to work in the complete absence of sunlight and its curative effects for the body. The prisoners sucked compressor air mixed with a real cocktail of gases, fumes, vapor contaminated water and heavy smell of decomposition of dead rats and stench of the mine without maintenance. During the shift work whole tons of dynamite would burn continuously, releasing lots of poisonous gases in the primitive mine, where the ventilation system did not exist. Continuous smoke of carbide lamps will give its modest contribution to overall air pollution, which prisoners would suck in labor fronts. Scent of the air was causing vomiting to convicts who entered for the first time in medieval mine of Spaç. The lungs of prisoners, absorbing this polluted air, gave one of their mucosa’s on their war struggle for a grueling existence in the name of hope.

     In labor fronts pyrites, where temperatures ranged between 35-40 degrees Celsius, underground water sources with high sulfuric acid leaked constantly on the bodies of the prisoners with the clothes off due to not resisting the heat. By scorching their skin, acid wounds were created, which made it a torture undressing and dressing at work and in the dorm.

     Overall, the situation of working conditions corresponded to a medieval level. Required rate very high, which was required daily or nightly from prisoners by unsparing the whip of police, putting aside the technical security requirements which were included only on paper, listed as a formality from free personnel.  The prisoners never worked under conditions which providing life security, there were cases when after only a few hours of work in the mine fronts they were pulling out dead people.

     The base materials, which served to create normal working conditions (track, spools, boards etc.) were send to other sectors to free workers on the outside world, while major deficiencies deliberately created in Spaç were «fulfilled» by police force instead. In such a horrible environment the only thing that was priced the cheapest cost wise was the prisoner who was in this case the defeated army paying the unbelievable war dues that the barbaric force was taking on justice.

     Police were chosen specifically for this case. All persons in uniform were typical embodiment of virgin ignorance and chronic hunger of that rural area. Having escaped from extreme misery cooperatives, they had secured uniforms, annual food and clothing free salary they had not dared to imagine before, the privilege of housing issues in the nearest industrial town, and favorite jobs for women. In the near future, their children will be offered state scholarship to be educated, because the father was serving in a position "of special importance".

     Happy beyond any expectations, originally the guards lived as in a dream, after escaping from corn bread rations and nothing else to eat. When they were told that the people with shaved heads and brown uniforms are enemies of the government in power, this claim in their empty mind was deciphered based on their self-interest code:

     "They want to take away from you the good life that the government in power provided and topple the government then."  

     This made them so aggressive, that intervention form command officer was definitely needed, to somehow curb their volcanic patriotism. The lure of material interest had them sucked spiritually in the Gears of a blind car repressive state.

  *

     Numerous factors that affected the overall deterioration of the situation of the prisoners, being intertwined with each other, empowered and become even more threatening. Entries to mine, as gluttonous dragon mouth open, sucked in three working 24-hour shifts. Vapors coming outdoors out of their warm bellies created the impression, that the living prey they had swallowed and was moving through their viscera forced them to liberate the excess energy.

     «Just make it out!". This was the greeting exchanged between the Prisoners working on various fronts, when seeing each other in intersections of the galleries. This greeting implying that they could make it out on stretcher from there, or may not make it out at all, as happened to the other fellow sufferers.

     Crackling of a breaking body in the structure of the gallery where they worked, the fall of a stone, or landslides on their plastic helmets, was in the minds of the prisoners that at any moment they could become prey to the wiles of death. Parallel to physical torture and psychological war, permanent anxiety and insecurity in the primitive mine was making everyday life horrible for these live corps.

     The government in power of red vampires aimed the prisoners’ health, while the death traps underground threatened their lives. Caught between two fires permanent crushed inmates physically and spiritually made a desperate choice; facing the threat of police, they were forced to choose endangering of life in the mine instead. Perhaps even death could be merciful to them, while ruthless camp police did not make the ideological error of mercy to the enemies of the government in power party.

     The first results of the tons of ore mineral brought the first victims, whose numbers were increasing continuously. Although the men were convicted unjustly for doing nothing with years in jail, no one responded to their death resentencing without trial. Families of the victims were forbidden by law to take the bodies of deceased relatives within the barbed wire. While they were convicted without committing any crime, their punishment should have perpetuated.

     In the documents that accidental deaths motivated the same justifying expression had grown roots:

      «It was an accident, did not follow safety rules at work."

     When a prisoner dared to enforce the safety technical security rules in any job front with obvious risk, frenetic police rushed on shouting:

      "Really, you think that the peoples government is that crazy, to secure the life of its own enemies? "

     Many prisoners were falling asleep in the wet mine due to extreme fatigue and exhausting hours after midnight. They used to catch a cold which ended up in hopeless condition. Others mutilated themselves in circumstances where health served as an intensification of evil, in order to escape from the hard work required for years and years.

     This painful story, written with the blood of its victims, became so threatening that even subjected high brand Albanians could not withstand, without the explosion of a massive revolt of political prisoners. It was the first time that a protest against the oppressive and degrading regime was publicly expressed on May 21, 1973. The price which was paid it was extremely expensive. Four shot and 86 resentenced with a total of 1400 years in prison (14 centuries human life!).

     A terror beyond human conception came upon the prisoners who were forced to undergo an entire system of multiple tortures. But, surely, The Revolt of Spaç '73 was unique  in the history of humanity in terms of its victims by the court sentenced to death. Besides the four executed by fire squad, there was a hanging by rope.

 III

     A military court sentenced to death by hanging on the rope the noble Snitch, loyal friend of prisoners: the dog that they had grown themselves. The prisoners had found him a tiny puppy in the Spaç newly established camp. They even named him themselves. With a shared care, they raised the Snitch healthy and very communicative. But over time this loyal dog who was well fed and spoiled, began to show an anti class phenomenon. As showing nice and sociable with the brown uniforms the Snitch became increasingly aggressive with green police uniforms in camp. The latter had begun to worry seriously regarding the questionable behavior of the dog.

     Guards had attempted twice to get rid of the Snitch, trying to poison him. But the prisoners, and the convicted doctor in the camp, had done their utmost to save the live of the faithful dog. Thanks to his strong body and openhanded attentions of prisoners, the latter managed to escape death twice.

     The third time was the real deal. This time the police had a green light from the government and could dispose without difficulty any prisoner (as it happened) let alone their own dog. On May 30th 1973 the Snitch’s life was in the hands of a murderous guard group from Spac who were eager to get rid of him. In the common behavior and character of these officers together you could never find any nobility like a gesture of pity toward the Snitch, just like in the most desperate barking of the Snitch you could not find out so much ferocity as only on the call "in formation now! from one of them.

     Between the fire squad execution and the hanging on the rope, this military court chose the second version of the execution on the grounds:

     «Our Political Party did a favor to the people that caused the revolt by executing them by the fire squad and not by hanging on the rope, as they deserved. Therefore they had to definitely hang their dog ".

     Just like they said after the dog had no right to appeal their decision under a unstoppable dictatorship where people are treated worse than animals. However the Snitch paid back the green uniforms even in the last moments of his life. As he put the rope on his neck, he bit in the hand corporal named Ndue, who thought of himself as a dog specialist.

      In the fatal moments of his last breath, the struggling paws of the Snitch were moving in the air, as if they wanted to restrain the police that he hated so much. To the surprise of the just mentioned he did not scream, but opening his eyes wide, emitted a grunt of drowned, which witnessed more threat of contempt, than fear. Stunned by the strange behavior of the dog in this fatal minute, Sergeant Prenga again voiced the suspicion that he had for the Snitch when he got along with the brown uniforms and threatened the green ones:

      «I have told you guys this dog was a spy agent, brought in purpose to the camp." This time the cops did not laugh with these words, because the Snitch surprised them on how he was dying, and were not paying attention to his specific qualities in life. To these creatures raised through the deepest abyss of Mirdita highlands, the instinct of communication with the animal was more developed than the original habits of contemporary civilization. Precisely for this reason they came to understand the Snitch, for the first and last time at this sublime moment.

      The behavior of the animal on the rope was a demonstration of contempt message to the surrounding world that in which human barbarity executes the animal nobility.

 IV

     After the establishment of the camp, Spaç visitors significantly intensified. Obviously, they were not tourists curious about customs of rural Mirdita, but family members or relatives of the prisoners, who were coming to see them.  

     The deep valley edge weave dusty road was the only artery linking this open wound in the body of contemporary Albanian society with its other parts. The pressure of sad feelings that a casual visitor would feel before the rise of the camp was compounded by the sharp spiritual pain of those who saw their family members with bold heads and in brown uniforms, within a siege of very high triple barbed wire. Teary eyes and broken hearts came and went through the winding road edge deep valley, which slipped stealthily and quietly over its own bedplates as if it was scared of the ruthless police in the camp.

      And yet, the worst ongoing course of time becomes commonplace. Even inflamed Spaçi visitors in some case joked with of their detained relatives. So one day, during a meeting with his brother, one of these visitors saw Sergeant Gjoka walking along proudly with a skinny rabbit he had killed in his hands whose ribs could be numbered, the brother said:

     - An uglier cop and skinnier rabbit my eyes have never seen to this day

     - Worthy of each other – laughing the prisoner brother replied.

What about the own impressions of these hapless residents Spaç camp, what were they?

      Different opinions were shown and many definitions were made, but, apparently, the most inhuman features of this exterminator camp were stressed in the background of the third shift, or the night shift. Perhaps for this reason, a poem written by Zef Jushi a prisoner who once had graduated in the Italian Military Academy was unanimously acclaimed as the anthem of Spaç. The author was inspired by the gruesome sight of the third shift:

Strange dry wild things on a giant chump,

At a time when life sleeps so it can regenerate,

Tired, sleepy, we walk up the hill,

To the stark black mountain

Nothing from what’s left of life we have,

Except tired eyes watching in the heights,

And broken hearts with dried wishes,

That beat and hope.

Down dark earth, above a piece of sky we have left,

Where time flies and so do dreams, and cruel hopes

Sky scratched with barbed wire bar,

Deep humanity hatred.

You musicians, artists and poets,

Why not leave humanity a memory;

Deep concerns to continue throughout life,

Until annihilation?

Dry wild things I said? ... And no larvae,

Waiting for wings to start flying,

The world to fill in those days white

With honey and bite?

 V

     Although the five year measurement of extreme violence punishment of this camp Spaçi, awarded by the government after the revolt of 1973, was completed a few months ago, the situation continued to remain tense, due to revolutionary inertia. Terror is a component of the dictatorship who does not know how to stop, as soon as it takes momentum.

     Savage violence against detainees continued. Furthermore, most of the officers called it insufficient physical punishment without the loss of feeling to repetitive inmates. At the end of each work shift, camp police cuffed prisoners accused of insufficient work. There they went through collective torture from all guards whose shift was about to end, under the blazing eyes of the watch officer and commissioner or the camp commander. Each of the police, to disclose to superiors present his zeal in carrying out his immense duty, tried to devise a new method of torture. Upon completion of the punishing ceremony, prisoners were ostracized for a month in the dungeon.

     Dungeons were built with doors directly into nature. Upper side of Cells was at the height of earth excavation for the leveling of the land where they were raised. Roofless corridors of these dungeons were covered with a strong iron harrow, one side of which entered deep into the earth, while the other side was cemented with the cells. Heavy doors were left specially 20 cm above the cement floor. Rain or snow entered freely up to human waist on these dungeons surrounded by concrete. While in winter one could not sleep due to the cold, in summer the detainees could not breathe.

      In the residential quarters, room inspections were exercised twice a month. For hours, soldiers and police officers made a mess and overthrew everything in the bedrooms with collective beds shaped after bunk beds but three-story high made of unfinished wood. In one sleeping room 7x6x3 meters 54 prisoners. Blankets, sheets, mattresses and other personal items, such as pens, nail cutters, envelopes, notebooks, etc. were thrown in the middle of the room and soldiers and policemen with their watery and muddy boots stepped all over them. After search, the prisoners barely found their belongings. Often soldiers and police took things they liked, like pens, cigarette holders, belts, etc. If someone complained about something missing he went through a severe physical punishment, where accused of deliberately insulting military personnel in the forced labor camp by hostile enemy intention of a political prisoner.

      During room inspection time, they read books of the Dictator volumes to prisoners for reeducation. A devastating war of nerves in winter very difficult to withstand from them standing on their feet for few hours and could not sit because the ground was covered with snow.

      Food, other than the name, had nothing in common with human food: seven months leek soup (green or dry) and five months stewed peppers boiled. Rarely in summer served vegetables. Given by a ration once in a while rice pilaf, mixed with millet and sometimes a little milk as antidote.

     Meat planned for prisoners, who worked in the mine, was consumed by officers, police, soldiers and the camp inmates serving as (spies to command). In this abuse attended also the migratory birds who was the nickname for the spy inmates specialized for dungeon work, which were used by district investigators, to deceive the inexperienced newly arrested during the investigation process. But the most absurd phenomenon was the arrest within the camp and resentencing for "subversion" of prisoner enemies!? How such action was legally justified from the distracted dictatorship? The only plausible explanation was Mussolini's old quote: Communist is a man without law.

                                                                         *

      During the days that the camp was hit by arrest waves, investigators went there healthy with black bags inflated; these were filled with evidence of hostile activity conducted within the political prison! They were accompanied by operatives of the camp commander or commissar and several other officers of the command. After the nearest siege guards were doubled, the cat-mouse game began.

     The signal given from camp operative or any investigator, fifteen or twenty policemen who were on alert behind the gate of the inner wall of the square where inmates lined up, the aggressive running began directed toward several groups where the prisoners lined up. Each group had responsible police officers, who were given the names of prisoners who they would arrest in his group. Formation was based on work brigades, while the unemployed were aside. This helped police to find their prey in each group. However, under the guidelines, they had to develop a spectacular game for the bloody eyes staring professionals with inflated black bags.

     The officers pretended like they could not find the sacrificed. They pushed the

prisoners from one side to another, looked some in the face,  would restrained one  and put  handcuffs on him , then say  "no, it’s not him!", proceed further. Look at the list with names of prisoners to be arrested, gathered together as if they would consult the fixed location of the person who had the order to be arrested and, as directed on to any other team, suddenly changed direction and ended with the person they were supposed to arrest. This sickening game with the feelings and nerves of the prisoners went on for half an hour. The arrested were taken by different policemen, who were brought in cuffs to pre arrest.

     Arrests of prisoners for hostile activities within the prison stoped just after the suicide of Prime Minister M. Shehu. The main objective of the old dictator had always been misleading the public opinion. Once he got rid of the leading contender who would take  the reins of power after the death of the sick dictator, he organized a visit to the Gallery of Fine Arts. By doing this the dictator Hoxha wanted to show that political policy problems were in check so now he had plenty of time to enjoy art! But his mumbling mouth and that he could barely stand on his feet proved that he lived in the hallucination fever that the ghost of former Prime Minister was taking his spirit. What the dictator tried to cover revealed it even more.

      To convince the public opinion, that what the old clown was saying were no jokes, the Dictator shortened the sentencing of innocent prisoners, after 20 years...

 VI

       Despite demagogic purpose, reducing the sentencing gave some breathing room to the camp abnormal situation. Even honest prisoners somehow got hope that they could get out from prison one day. Such a thing was dismissed earlier from most determined and the most honest of political prisoners. After each call, for formation « for the department of prisoners to line up on the field!", All the inmates of the above mentioned category dressed up as thick as possible and filled the pockets with packs of cigarettes, before they lined up according to the order. They left messages friend to friend for any personal or family problems. It was not known which of them will be grabbed by the wave of the day and which will be saved for another day in the future. Known only was that occasional waves of arrests aimed at precisely that part of the prisoners, who camp command had described as the troubled ones who would not rehabilitate. So, that part which alternative life or morals, gave solutions in favor of the latter.

       Did the Albanian dictatorship's cruelty have any limits?

       In reality it was only fantasy capacity of the cynical evil servants of the dictatorship that defined the limits of the cruelty, when the law was not prohibiting any crime against the enemies of the party. Here are some examples from people who lived through.

                                                                          *

       In March of 1979, the camp command Spaç exposed some extraordinary photographs booth ground floor of dormitories. They showed three former prisoners recently shot to death in Spaç: Xhelal Komprencka, Vangel Lezho and Fadil Kokomani. No Albanian land invader had ever allowed their self to show off with posting such images, each executed with a bullet to the face and tied up by a pillar, his hands in handcuffs. The blood had leaked onto a white sheet, with which they had covered their prison rags before shooting them.

       For what crime were sentenced to death the three prisoners of Spaç?

       For two letters addressed to the central government in Tirana, where was denounced the antinationalistic activity of the dictator Hoxha.

*

      A long «wowww!" drew the attention of Spaç prisoners moving in front of the sleeping dormitories. One prisoner threw himself from the balcony of the second floor of dormitories, attempting suicide. While falling, the brown-coat opened as a parachute.

      The date was June 6 1979. Two resentencing were waiting inside the gate of great camp filled with migratory birds. Camp-operative - Shyqyri Tosca from Tirana - was compiling the list. Among other names, Philip”s name apeared, a former teacher newly detained from the city of Lezha. During the investigation he signed due to torture, a statement of cooperation with the State Security. However, he had decided not to become a Dungeon spy. For this reason, Philip emphatically rejected operative’s proposal in camp, to start snitching and hunting for enemies of the party.

       Threatened by operative Shyqyri, that he would pay dearly his refusal, Philip jumped from the second floor balcony. He did not die, but suffered heavy damage: four fractures on his feet and hands and some broken ribs. While they they were taking him in a stretcher to prisons emergency room he was talking in agony:

          "Let me die, let me die, I cannot do a horrible thing and snitch."

       Despite Philip’s serious health condition the operative Shyqyriu refused to let him go in  Tirana hospital for treatment. The prisoner doctor tried his best to help him. When Philip gained his conciseness after the trauma, his first visitor was operator Shyqyriu: 

    - So, Philip, you thought you could get away from me, hee? Death did not accept you, because we have some scores to settle together. You better get ready now, because when you get up in your feet the real game with me begins.

      Despite the prisoner’s doctor's insistence that Philip should be send to the hospital in Tirana, Operative Shyqyriu did not want to hear it. Only when he learned that the injureds legs had gangrene, he approved the delayed admission in hospital.

                                                                       *

       In December of 1979, television was introduced for the first time in camp of Spaç. Some people got involved to make it work. The prisoners could not wait anxiously to see the small screen - most for the first time. Unfortunately, that day the investigators with black bags raced back to the camp; arrests will be made.

       Among those arrested was Muçua, a villager from Vlora district, almost illiterate. Cursing addressed to the dictator had turned into a irreplaceable serum for his mood. This sin he had paid dearly. Skinny to the bone, without teeth, bodyweight of this former shepherd without school did not reach the 50 kilograms. Despite the significant decline health, Muçua was more resistant to torture. While police officers tortured, he yelled continuously, until lost his consciousness. After a long period of time, guards declared  Muço psychotic and generally did  not deal with him anymore. But investigators with black bags do not ever forget the name of the prisoner, who dared to curse daily the glorious leader.

    Since Mucua had never seen television, was really curious to see it that night of December. For the first time he allowed himself to request his unrelenting persecutors a demand:

    - I know that my house will be prison, as long as you are in power. In addition let me see the TV tonight and then arrest me whenever you want; I’m here. I have 18 years in prison and have not seen this beautiful invention of science.

The investigator made a sign to his two policemen and Muçua ended in the resentencing cell together with his dream to see the TV. However, he had the opportunity to see another invention of science: the cuffs they put on him day were the type that tightened themselves in every movement the detainee made.

     For lack of room, the TV set on a table on the balcony of the second floor close to dormitories. About 1,400 prisoners set in front him, on the terrace where they were counted three times a day. When television was turned on, a drizzling rain started. But the ones who were looking at TV for the first time did not go away due to rain. With a Plastic cover in the head, though the water was going through their old clothes, they were under hypnosis of the sights of the small screen, reminding them nostalgically: There was once free life …
                                                               *

        A special booth sticker demonstrated in general the cultural level of some political prisoners of the dictatorship. The top of the poster read: addresses must be writen as follows. In the center was attached a stretched envelope showing where you should write the address of the recipient and where it's sender. This was an argument that the dictatorship introduced mine slaves in that camp, more than political opponents.

Translated from the Albanian by J.Luzaj