FLASH
Shkruar nga Pamfleti
Now in my old age, I feel compelled to confess my truth, as I lived it. I'm talking about modest men, who never boasted about their achievements, and about others who were silenced by the regime and buried in nameless tombs. In no case do I undertake to usurp the monopoly of the truth or to claim laurels for an event, where I was a casual attendee, although I was eager to feel a little bit my friends, who tactfully and kindly avoided me: "Byrazer, open your eyes... don't get confused... because you still have two months left"! Worry that stuck with me like a talisman, from the morning of May 21, 22 and 23, 1974, even followed me for the following months, until I was released. However, everything I saw and heard in those three days, I would not want to take to my grave.
Based on the Latin American aphorism: "Honor can be lost, but it can never be won", he had an eye for Armenia, especially after the brilliance in the war and, after it, because he allegedly defamed the name of the leader of "Madh" proletarian, so it had to be eliminated without hesitation.
Whereas Sadik Premtja, the headstrong pragmatist and fanatical and consistent believer in Marxist ideology, who did not abandon it until his death, was known as the central figure of Albanian communism, theoretician and brave, qualities that raised anger and endangered one's career, so " The pocket", cynical and cunning, had to be eliminated unequivocally.
As his comrades-antagonists got rid of them during the war, or right after it, with assassinations, contrived tricks and ridiculous trials, a part of the fugitives, he poisoned them by means of counter-espionage or, they invented "accidents", where they had secured asylum, others he threatened, neutralized and sewed up their mouths, with the elimination of relatives in the homeland; he fomented strife, introduced division and incited phobia with subversive methods, until he took out the rest of the political emigration.
Again, the two aforementioned enemies did not give up and did not stop the fight against Enver even when he reached the political zenith. The "arrogants" terrorized him, each from his own position and attacked him with arguments, until they disturbed his comfort. That's why he left no stone unturned; reconciled UDB and KGB agents, who applied Dzerzhinsky methods successfully, in Trotsky's case, and even borrowed from Allen Dulles's CIA, although they hated him as an imperialist; started dozens of expeditions with specialized personnel and amateurs, financed real detectives and charlatans with gold, sent under the guise of fugitives students, writers, artists and all kinds of exponents from Albania, Kosovo and Albanian-speaking territories, with a fixed mission: to exterminate " the professor" and "Pocket".
But the attempts failed to be discovered by the targets or people close to them. As the projects were delayed to be finalized, he became obsessed with the phobia of elimination, fear, hatred and panic, increased in the progression with the failures and turned into a nightmare, which was about to destroy Albania, except to see the corpses of the enemies exposed in the museum stands. .
And he used every means, from the special and special directorates in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Interior, to multiplying the personnel of the embassies, with specialists of the intelligence service...!
In prison, I met losers from the contingent of "silent heroes", who started apostasy with a mission, but they didn't speak, because they were terrified of the price, with which they had to repay the failure, (a part of the eyes paid with the head, from the moment first, who escaped the bullet, left the bones in prisons, until today I don't know if there is any specimen of this species of uriths, which even if they were alive, would undoubtedly be eternal çyryks.) This category belonged to "Morocco". .
"Morocco"
I was conditioned by the peculiar character, perhaps peculiar to the rare specimen, of the survivor of the species of the failed anti-explorers, who ended up with it. I could not make friends with "Morocco". Except Tomori, no one succeeded. But at least, I can be ranked among the people he respected or, happened to talk to, when he was immersed in total misery.
As for the way he pushed the prison, it can be said completely, he was a recluse. He ate alone: When most had finished eating, he sat down. He played alone: He admired chess, but he also played backgammon and dominoes.
When "Morocco" played, you could say that a Shakespearean spectacle was unfolding. He would place the field on the bed, or outside in the square, or wherever you would call his brain, line up the stones, make a move with the white, sit on the opposite arm and play the black, then move, think for a few moments, while making the move of the other arm, he stood up again, went out and was delayed with a cast, before playing the figure in the opposing court, when he returned he moved the correct figure.
This ritual consumed him all day, sometimes he was traffic-stopped, without closing the game. After the game was over, the commotion started. Imaginary rivals fought with dirty language and the fight lasted until the "loser" accepted the result.
To resolve the dispute, the arbitrator intervened. "Morocco" started the advice with the seriousness of an impartial judge and with a fatherly tone:
"Don't mess with your husband, my beloved, today you won, tomorrow the other one. But you have to study bro, study, did you understand or not? Dear theory, theory! He closed the didactic advice and took the chess literature, immersed himself in it for hours. The same thing happened when playing dominoes.
He walked alone: - In every season, winter, spring, summer, autumn, snow, rain, wind, sleet, he didn't want to know, he continued to walk, with his arms crossed on his chest or, behind his back, as they had tied him up and shot him upside down, with his chin touching his larynx.
I vetëm, fliste me veten. Po s’e kuptoi ndonjëherë, se ish tek pullë. Mendja bipolare imagjinonte një të dytë në krah dhe s’reshte së foluri, por edhe kur nuk dërdëlliste, kërcëllinte dhëmbë gjer në egërsi.
Ai flinte vetëm:
Në një hapësirë enkas për të, diferencim i pazakontë, për kushte burgu, shtatëdhjetë centimetër në një krahë, po aq në tjetrin, ishin privilegj i tij. Madje, kur një individ asocial, kërkonte të përfitonte paksa më tepër se i takonte, e shpotisnin: “Na u herë ‘Marroku’”.
I linin cepat, sepse s’pranoi fqinj. Kur ndodhte t’i shpinin dike, merrte jatakun në krahë dhe e shtrinte ku t’ia jepte truri, mes sheshit, te dera e banjave, mbi vatrat e kuzhinës private, para kuzhinës kolektive, madje ngrinte limerin dhe ia këpuste gjumit, për shatë palë qejfe, edhe mbi çatinë e depos së ushqimeve.
Mjerë kush e kritikonte!
Po të bëje këtë gafë, do dëgjoje një mori sharjesh, sepse veç Tomorit, tërbimit të tij, s’i shpëtonte kush, i dënuar, ushtarak, madje dhe operative, apo drejtuesit e kampit.
Në pamjen të parë, ishte i vrazhdë, nursëz, çapraz, sherrxhi, çakërdar, por s’përbënte agresivitet aktiv. Veç lumit të fyerjeve me fjalë të pista dhe ndonjë kërcënimi pa zarar, s’ishte i dhunshëm.
Ai ishte me hënë, kish periudha kur fliste e fliste, madje edhe në gjumë, pastaj një kohë, zhytej në heshtje totale. E merrnin dhe e çonin në spitalin e burgut në Tiranë, e kuronin disa muaj, por bënte sërish të njëjtat, kur e kthenin.
S’e pashë të ndryshonte sjellje, madje edhe biruca s’jepte efekt, me ta nxjerrë, vazhdonte avazin. Sido i papërgjegjshëm, e kishte një ilaç, Tomorin.
Kur e konstatova sefte shtanga dhe e pyeta; ç’e bënte të veçantë në sytë e “Marrokut”?! Fillimisht s’deshi të më tregonte, po kur një ditë iu desh ta qetësonte, e pyeta sërish:
“S’e kuptoj, ç’të lidh me ‘Marrokun’”?
“Burgu”!
“Në burg jemi të tërë, or mik”!
“Jemi, po s’jemi të njëjtë”! – ma preu shkurt.
“Sigurisht, por shumë prej nesh, s’e meritojnë burgun”!
“Ndoshta, po gjithkush ka kusuret e veta”!
“Edhe ‘Marroku’”?
“Më shumë se gjithkush”!
Sa dëgjoi ta përmendnin, “Marroku” u avit dhe hoqi Tomorin mënjanë, unë iu ktheva librave. Pas do kohe, Tomori më ftoi:
“Paske vënë ambasadat me Brazilit”? – e shpotita, ngaqë kafeja ishte produkti më i pa gjindshëm.
“Na ka ftuar Dhori”! – ma preu dhe doli.
E ndoqa në kuzhinë, ku mbi ca tulla të nxira nga bloza, ishin ulur katër korçarë dhe dy të tjerë. Andon Vanko, piqte kafe në një teneqe konserve dhe Stavri Qirko, e ndante në ca sapllakë çaji.
“Paskeni gjetur thesarin e Marko Polos”? – shpotita sërish.
“I erdhën Dhorit familja”! – sqaroi Ndonkë rrobaqepësi.
“Shyqyr që i kishe mirë, së shpejti pranë tyre”! – e urova Gërnjotin, me atributet e zotit të shtëpisë, ndonëse ia prenë njëzet e pesë, mbas arratisë nga burgu i Burrelit, më gjashtëdhjetë e shtatën.
Ne urimin e bënim për adet, fundja kush s’e ëndërron lirinë dhe shpresa vdes e fundit!
“Amin”! – më mbajtën iso të tjerët.
“Ia paske shtruar me kafeçka bre faqkë dhe mua s’më dhe njëckë”! “Marroku” ja behu nga hiçi.
“Hajde ta pish, mo”! – e ftoi Gaqo Menkshi.
“Ikë, mo bythkë, s’të kërkova kafe tynë”! – e fyeu “Marroku”.
Ndonëse nga një lagje dhe me njohje të lashtë, ata e urrenin njeri- tjetrin, bash për shkak të grindjeve fqinjësore.
“Eja mo, djalkë”! – desh ta qetësonte Andon Treska.
“S’dua as nga tinë, o b…th qelbur”! – dhe shpërtheu në sharje, që s’ka kalem t’i shkruajë. Stavri i ofroi një sapllak, por ai e kapi përfund dhe ia zbrazi në fytyrë:
“As nga ti surrat mushkë”! – dhe vazhdoi të sharat.
“Ç’të gjeti, bre”? – u ndërkrye Dhori.
“Tinë bre faqkë, ma ke bërë mutin në qafë dhe ma pike kafeçkën me këtë skërbythjen e, këtë kokë lopën këtuzë”! – shënjoi herë Gaqon, herë Stavrin, duke sharë e mallkuar.
“Shporru ce na çave kokën”! – i shfreu Dhori. – “Unë të ftoj për kafe, ti më fyen miqtë! Thyej qafën, bre ‘Xhepi’”!
“Marroku” u drodh si në elektroshok, flegrat i fërgëlluan si turi tigri, kur gatitet të kërcejë mbi preh, bëri dy tre rrotullime rreth vetes, luhati kryet, përplasi thembrat si mëzat kur rrëmojnë tokën dhe shafran i verdhë, iu kthye bashkëqytetarëve, me zhargonin më të ndyrë.
Tashmë fyerjet u derdhën si breshëri gjylesh, mbi muret e kështjellës nën rrethim:
“U bëtë ju shkërdhata, të më jepni mentë mua”! – etj., etj., dhe iu kthye Dhorit: – “Mos m’u krekos o b…thkë dhjerë, që të kam dhënë karamelka që kaqkë! Se do t’i thyej ato meçkat, që mi ke si nofullat e kalit të Goles”! – përveshi mëngët, nxori dy parakrahë si cingla dhe shtrëngoi grushtet, si qepë Boboshtice, duke iu sulur Dhorit.
Kampioni absolut i boksit, u step dhe i hapi udhë, por Andon Vankua, i doli në mbrojtje të atit dhe në inat e sipër, mund ta kish qëlluar:
“Ore ‘Xhepi’ i m…tit, ç’pate me babushin tim”?
Por Tomori e hoqi me marifet, diç i tha dhe “Marroku” iku siç kish ardhur.
“Leri ato libra dhe eja dalim për një kafe”!
Ndërhyrja efikase, më kujtoi rastin e parë. Pasi u ndamë me korçarët e pyeta:
“Si arrite ta neutralizoje”?
“Thjesht e veçova, gjersa u qetësua”.
“Çudi, patriotëve, s’iu la gjë pa thënë, ty të ndoqi si manar”.
“Ashtu e ka ai”!
“Më bëri përshtypje kjo mesele marrokësh…”, – desha ta mbyllja.
“Byrazer, jemi të gjithë nga pak marrokë, unë, ti dhe të tjerët”! – shtoi Tomori i menduar.
“Mbase”! – pohova, sa për të thënë diçka.
“S’e luan topi! Ai s’është aq i marrë, sa e kujtojmë, po i gjete telat, të bëhet urë”.
“Për ato telat e kisha llafin, si ia gjete”? – dhe iu riktheva sërish temës.
“Si të të them, kemi qenë ca ditë në birucë dhe…”!
“Ehu-u, sa kanë bërë birucë me të … dhe ai s’i përfill fare”!
“Vërtet, po s’kanë ditur t’i prekin kordat”! – frymori sikur do merrte vrull për të kapërcyer kaluçin. – “Mos harro, se edhe ai s’ka qenë përherë marrok, ama jeta është luftë”! – i shpëtoi pa dashje.
“Do isha kurioz të dija, si mund të ketë qenë ai, në kushte normale”?
“Më normal nga normalët dhe nga shumë normal, që njeh ti”!
“Si”?
“Ka qenë oficer i Zbulimit me jashtë”.
“Ai”?!
"You can't believe it when you see it in this degree, if you don't play the ball", - he said to me from under his eyebrows and emphasized, maybe to be believed: - "It is more than correct"!
"And that obsession, what's up with it? How much does 'Jhepi' listen to, hissing like a bees' nest is being stung, isn't this related to some issue that the Korcars know about? – I returned to the topic that interested me.
"No, it's another story. After all, it is organically connected with the first one".
"With whom"?
"With what we talked about! Bash gets so angry because of that"!
"What is it about"?!
"For the 'Pocket' that is"! - he squinted his eyes and continued: - "Enver Hoxha has two enemies left, who make him tremble because it's me who dances, when the cat is missing, as soon as he smells it, he takes the hole."
“Oh-u-ah, where are his enemies counted! Every time they fire him, he invents others to make the situation tense"!
"Correct, but these two play the role of the cat for him."
"How do I understand"?!
"He has not left opponents without disappearing, with rigged and manipulated trials..."!
"We know"! - I interrupted him.
"Of course! You couldn't take them all, because they left outside where they continue their lives".
"We know this too"!
"Without a doubt! But my uncle, as an opponent, and Sadik Premtja, as his former friend, ruined his comfort".
"Ore, what do you say? How will he know about exile!? He made them nests, with a meal"!
"That's what you think, but the facts say otherwise."
"What facts are you talking about"? - I objected.
"For those dozens of agents, who started in France, time after time! Have you heard what the returnees tell?
"I definitely heard them"!
"Did you talk to Ahmet Nivica"?
"I have spoken"!
"He knows a lot, but the day will come when we will hear even more"!
"Ishallah! But I don't understand what this has to do with 'Morocco'"? - I interrupted him.
"Right there, his descent begins"!
"For what reason"?
"The apostates took him to eliminate 'Jepi'"!
"Couldn't do it"?
"I didn't want to. It's better to say, it de-conspired itself"!
"And then"? – my curiosity increased.
"Then? The postal package is finished, with you and me"!
"How, how"?!
"He was one of the most capable discoverers, maybe the smartest, to be like that"!
"I don't understand you"?
"You will not understand"! - he was silent again.
I tried to penetrate the convoluted labyrinths of modern-day agent networks, but I was badly confused. No matter how many times I killed, what I heard seemed too complicated to digest. If someone else had told me, I wouldn't have believed it, but the seriousness of my friend left no room for dilemmas./Memorie.al
Lini një Përgjigje