On the Road of Time – Chapter 16

On the Road of Time – Chapter 16

After breakfast the next morning we left the hotel and went to the intersection at the promenade near the sea. There were pigeons flying individually, in clusters and in waves all around us, sweeping down at the quay, collecting everything that had been discarded by the visitors the night before. They were very aggressive and pecked at crumbs, seeds, fruit peels and other discarded food right from under our feet. They were not afraid and were used to being around people. There were tall buildings in front of us and behind the buildings we could see the port cranes rising. We encountered only a small number of visitors at this hour and truck and car traffic was also light. The city was just waking up. Street sweepers were cleaning and washing the streets and the quay. We crossed the street and arrived at a crossroad. On the left at the corner, about a couple of meters above the sidewalk, was a board on the wall with the inscription: “Rruga Anastas Dursaku.” We had found the street we were looking for. The entrance to it was surrounded by palm trees. This was the place where the night before we had made arrangements to meet Ismet and Marieta. We did not wait long and after they arrived we all went up the road towards the royal palace. To the right were thick walls that had belonged to the old fortress. The street was divided from the park by a row of benches, tall palm trees and cast iron poles with lamps on top of them. “They look the same,” I said to Ismet, “they look the same as sixty years ago.” We continued to walk looking for the house where we were accommodated and… we found it. We recognized it by the greenish metal window shutters and by the balcony. We found the iron, now rusty, crooked double door leading to the cigarette factory. Both sides of the door were tied together with a thick chain and a large padlock hung on it. Nothing had changed here, on this part of the street. The palm trees had grown taller on the other side of the street. The grass had been cut short, the benches were painted and the paths were cleared. We stood there staring at the three-storey grey building with its small windows and closed shutters. The children from the village Ezerets were placed on the ground floor which had windows at almost the same level as the pavement. The children from the village Krchishta were placed on the first floor and the children from the village Grache were placed on the second floor. There was one more floor now but it did not exist then. From the cracked façade on the old walls it looked like it was added later. Nobody lived there now. The narrow street between the building and the cigarette factory still exists. Then, when we were here, there was a door with four rows of barbed wire on it. The door was put there to keep us from leaving. I mentioned to Ismet and Marieta several times that this was the house where we once lived and from the expression on their faces I realized that they were sharing our excitement. Then, while they sat on the park bench, we continued to explore our former place of residence. We took to the narrow cobblestone lane. On the left there was a large yard from which we entered our then home. In one of the corners, the furthest one, under the tall mulberry tree, there was a constant fire burning. We had boiled water in a cauldron to wash our clothes. The yard was now hidden behind a gate, fenced with wooden boards. We knocked repeatedly on the gate until finally a girl, wearing a transparent summer shirt and very tight blue jeans, opened it. We greeted her with the three or four Albanian words we knew but that was the extent of our conversation. We were stuck; we could not tell her what we wanted, especially of our great desire to see the house. A man came out of a small house, probably built illegally in the middle of the yard, and asked something. We stuck our heads inside the gate and said we wanted to come inside. The man shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he did not understand, waved his hands and went back into the house.

The yard was unrecognizable. The large mulberry tree and the water tap were gone. The orange trees were gone. They had been replaced by a ten storey building now under construction. We came back to “Anastas Dursaku” street and crossed to the other side. There, while standing under the shade of a large palm tree, we stared at the window shutters behind which were our rooms. We were cramped in those chambers which had two sinks but we never saw water come out of them. We had to go out to the yard to wash. Now, after so many years, we stood there staring at the window shutters behind which we spent seven months of our lives... After catching up with Marieta and Ismet we left “Anastas Dursaku” street and following the narrow passages, remnants of the old city, we headed for the city centre. Ismet later told us that he was a retired colonel, a graduate of the military academy of Kiev. He told us that after Nikita Khrushchev and Enver Hoxha had their fallout, he was removed from the army and sent to a prison camp where he served for five years. The city centre was surrounded by a chain of ten storey buildings among which were many old, one storey houses. We were looking for the houses in which we were placed after being moved from the “Pesutsite” but there was no trace of them. The houses were gone, replaced by new residential skyscrapers. The narrow street which then was our exclusive place, where we played soccer with a ball made of rags, was now a wide road driven on almost exclusively by Mercedes. From what I remember, there was a soccer stadium around here somewhere. They used to take us there, not to watch soccer matches, but to spend half a day of our time playing in the low cut green grass. And then, at noon, we would march single file, singing songs, along the main road straight to the port, then turn right past the Albanian Navy barracks, and end our march under the willow tree. We did not find “our” stadium. Neither did we find the large field where, after a severe rainstorm, we were sent to collect the flattened out grain stems that were not harvested. We collected all the grain heads and placed them in huge piles beside the harvesting machine. Marianthy went from group to group, urging us, telling us that by doing this we were helping the people’s government and that we were fighting against Anglo-American imperialism. I guess she was not at all concerned about us baking under the summer sun and burning with thirst. We held competitions to see which unit would collect more heads of grain, sing louder, and make a bigger pile. So, through our effort and sweat, burning and enduring thirst in the big field, we became stronger and bolder in our preparedness for bigger things in the future. There was plenty of space in our child’s minds for memories, which is why we did not forget the words of our daily slogans that were drilled into our minds day after day. The big field was no longer there, but on the same site there were large residential buildings which, unlike the former, complemented the new character of the now unrecognizable Durres or Durasi, as some liked to call it. But, in the midst of modern Durres, there were also little signs that reminded us of the old Durres. There was the municipal building with the big clock, the street that was now called “Anastas Dursaku”, the grey building in which we were placed, the royal palace; all almost untouched by modern times. These were places that had not yet been touched by the Albanian renaissance. Looking to our left we recognized the short houses, the cobblestone path and the small yard with the crooked iron gate standing in front of the palace. We had never been inside the yard. We didn’t go this time either even though the entry was not guarded by armed guards. From here, from this height, in the place where once a swamp used to sit, one could see the most beautiful part of modern Durres. One could watch the port and the ships in the open sea waiting in line to dock. And beyond that, blurred in the light summer fog, one could see tall buildings divided from the sea by a long sandy strip of beach.

And beyond there, far away, barely visible to the naked eye, was a small corner. There, where the land met the sea, ended the sandy area of the great beach...

That’s how we remembered it. How many times had we run up and down this street? How many times had we gone up to the locked iron gate at the royal palace where there always was an armed guard on duty? How many times had we run up and down in step, making a tap… tap… tap… sound like that of a single person running. When running together you had no time to catch your breath, to let the pain in your side subside, to stop and gasp for air… you just ran, you ran to unconsciousness. That’s what Marianthy taught us, that’s how she wanted us to be. She wanted to hear the sound tap… tap… tap… tap… a single military tap per step no matter how many were walking, marching, or running. And now, sixty years later, as I remembered the tapping sounds, it seemed that I could still feel the pain in my side, the shortness of breath and the drenching sweat... Tap - tap – tap! Tap – tap – tap! Our child’s steps rang on the street now called “Anastas Dursaku”… And those who couldn’t stay in step because they had pain in their sides, were denied breakfast and were humiliated in public. That’s how Marianthy wanted it; to bring us up as soldiers… And when we returned all sweaty and exhausted, our peers waited for us in front of the barbed wire gate with guns on their shoulders. Why?... That’s how Marianthy wanted it… She often used to say that General Markos had pulled her out of the combat formations and sent her here to Durres for the sole purpose of turning us into fighters; to teach us to want to fight and to grow quickly and continue the work of our fathers and brothers who were bravely fighting against the Anglo-American imperialists. That’s what she used to tell us. But in 1947 when Macedonian schools were opened, our Macedonian teacher used to tell us that our fathers and brothers were fighting for Macedonia. Who to believe? We understood and loved our Macedonian teacher, but we did not understand Marianthy and on top of that we hated her. We had no place in our hearts for her, even as young children. Then when we found out that she was fooling around with an Albanian we called Fortsa Karotsa (a night watchman, a Greek from Epirus snitched on her) we demanded that she leave. And sneaking under her room window, we swore at her and called her every dirty word in the book. Marianthy left at the end of September 1948. It was peaceful the next day. The harsh sharp ringing sound of the bell that used to wake us up early in the morning was silenced. The days of having to run in the early dawn, in the dark, still sleeping while getting into formation out in the square were over. The days of having to run along the designated route as fast as we could, all in step, past the barracks, every morning at the same time as the Albanian navy was doing gymnastics were over. Every day when the sailors came out of the barracks they were met with our jeers and mockery because that’s what Marianthy encouraged us to do. By doing this we were told that we would become stronger and braver and better prepared for greater things in comparison to the Albanian defenders of the sea. Evdoxia introduced new rules. We were to wake up at six o’clock in the morning, do ten minutes of gymnastics at seven o’clock (no gymnastics for the small children), wash, get dressed (our clothes were in tatters) and then eat breakfast. The hard marches, the long runs, the running to the palace, the marching songs, the jeering at the sailors, the standing under the willow tree and the calling out of slogans about Markos were all removed from our daily routine. The box disappeared from the willow tree and the voices of the two women on the radio, who every day at twelve o'clock sharp spoke about the great battles and about DAG’s (Democratic Army of Greece) victories, went silent. It was strange that all of that suddenly disappeared and we finally had some peace and began to feel like children again… October came and with it came the cold. Strong cold winds began to blow from the sea turning the cold concrete floor even colder.

We slept on the concrete floor in our rooms. We were issued two blankets to every five children. We used one on the concrete floor and the other as a cover. We were lined up like rifle shells all in a row and hugged one another to keep warm. The clothes we came with were summer clothes, worn out and useless against the cold. Our shoes were also worn out and torn up and we, more or less, walked barefoot. A day or two after Marianthy left, we found out that the Albanian city committee fired Fortsa Karotsa. All we had left after that was the caretaker, who having no job to do snoozed under the willow tree. The first days we had no one to supply us with food, but soon they appointed another Albanian. In addition to food this person also supplied us with socks and shoes. The food was better too. Each day every child received a bun of rye bread the size of two fists and a spoon of sugar. Almost every day we were served potatoes for lunch. The potatoes were sliced lengthwise, seasoned with flour and very sweet red pepper and boiled in a large cauldron. In the shelter we called the appointed Albanian officer in charge of supplying us with food, “Shoku Karotsa.” We constantly accompanied him and his Albanian assistant who spoke a little Macedonian. The Albanian assistant pulled a chariot (similar to an Indian rickshaw) filled to the top with bags usually containing pasta. From May to late August 1948 we ate exclusively pasta for lunch every day. By volume and by weight, we received more food than the Albanians. We were not starving but we were not sufficiently fed either. One day a truck came inside the shelter yard and offloaded a whole bunch of military shirts. They gave us one each. The shirts served us as winter coats. They were so large, we got lost inside of them. They were long, stretching all the way down to our knees. We also had to fold the sleeves several times in order to see our fingers. The shirts were not new and had been scorched in many places. There were also dried up blood stains on some. In some of the pockets we found photographs of women, children, girls and whole families. There were also letters, mostly written in Greek. Some written in pencil, some in ink and some had drops and spots of blood on them. We got those who could read Greek to read them to us out loud. Most of us did not know the Greek alphabet so we could not read but we listened very carefully and felt very, very sad. We did not know these people, but through their letters and pictures we shared their joys and sorrows. Through their letters and pictures we became very close to them because, like us, they too were separated from their families, but unlike us they were able to make contact with their loved ones through letters.... We received neither letters nor pictures and we sent none either because we had no idea who was where at the time. One thing we knew was that our homeland was at war and that was for certain. When we heard familiar names of mountains and hills from the box hanging on the willow tree we knew clouds of war hung over our villages and our homes were on fire and burning. Did our folks stay home? We did not know. And even though we knew that the letters and pictures that we had found in the pockets of the bloodied military shirts, bloodied by the war, would leave us with cumbersome and awfully painful memories, it seemed that they were the only living thread that tied them to their family while they were still alive. We were alive and yet we had no thread running from us to our families and from them to us. We felt very sad and grieved over each letter we read and over each photograph we looked at; images that gave us nightmares. We no longer dreamed of green meadows, of ripe fruit and of birds singing... we now dreamt of burning houses and weeping mothers... It became even colder in November. Dark clouds hung over the city and over the sea, it rained more and stronger winds blew colder air from the sea. The time to return home grew longer.

Our parents told us that we would be back home soon. That’s what they were told. They said the sooner the conflict ends, the sooner your children would be returned to you. Your children would be back as soon as the government forces were defeated, they were told. As soon as the government was expelled and the military planes and the artillery disappeared, your children would be coming back they were told. That’s what they were told. Had the military planes and artillery disappeared? At the end of the month one afternoon, twenty military trucks arrived and were parked on the road a little further from the naval barracks. They were brand new vehicles and people were saying that they had just arrived from Russia. We heard a loud voice in the evening saying: “Pack your bags! We are leaving!” We had nothing to pack. Half the clothes our mothers sent with us by now were worn out. We took very little clothing because we were told we would be coming back very soon. “We are going home, we are going home!!! Home!!! Home!!!” our voices thundered as we prepared to return to our homes.

We were overwhelmed with happiness and joy. The news was sudden like lightning coming down from the sky. We yelled, jumped, embraced and shook one another and filled the place with laughter at the great news which filled us with hope. Never before until now had we had such radiance and clarity in our eyes. Filled with immense feelings of joy we could not sleep and impatiently waited for dawn to arrive. The next day they woke us very early in the morning. They grouped us and lined us up by villages. We knew very well how to stand in line. Then single file, they loaded us onto the Russian military trucks. We did not turn back, not even for a last look at the three storey grey house, the willow tree, or the playground where we had spent seven months of our young innocent lives, of our not so happy childhood. The trucks left early in the morning and with them ran and flew our thoughts and imagination. It seemed to us that the trucks were not moving fast enough and that we could walk home faster. All this time we imagined how it would be; how fast we would run to our mothers, to embrace them and hug them; how it would feel to be hugged back and be called by name; how our mother’s tears would roll down their cheeks when they first saw us; how they would smile and be full of happiness. We imagined ourselves running in our yards, in our village streets. We imagined filling every street and every corner with noise and laughter, we imagined… …No, the new Russian military trucks did not take us home. They took us high up the mountains to a meadow covered with snow near the border. There we were loaded onto different trucks that took us to trains which transferred us even further north to wider and greener fields…