The False Apocalypse

by Lubonja, Fatos; Hodgson, John; Hodgson, John

  I don’t know what he made of my reply. If he had been sent as a provocateur, I imagine that this must have been under heavy duress, and he would have been relieved at my answer. If he was sincere in his offer, he no doubt left unconvinced and disappointed in me.

  I didn’t even think of mentioning this unexpected proposal to anybody else in the Forum. I was concerned to spare this man, and myself. I might have mentioned it to Daut and Kurt, whom I trust, but they weren’t present.

  In fact, with both Daut and Kurt I share the experience of a second sentence in prison, which marks us out even from this fellow-prisoner of ours who came with his alarming suggestion. It is the difference that separates a prisoner sentenced in perpetuity from another who will be freed in a few years’ time, the difference between someone who still hopes that the State might release him, and someone against whom the State has declared total enmity, and who can hope for nothing but its overthrow. I do not forget the day when they came and took Kurt from our line-up on the parade ground at Spaç. As he climbed the steps, with his hands handcuffed, he shouted ‘Damn the narks!’ Nobody who hoped to be released would have said that.

  The survival strategies of those who were sent back to prison with a second sentence in perpetuity were of a different kind. These prisoners had their own subculture within the subculture of the prison itself. As the years passed, they acquired an increasingly stubborn disdain for human weakness, contempt for any surrender to the violence of the state, to the point of an obsession. This now makes them ill-adapted to the present time.

  The fact that I thought of nobody but Kurt and Daut to trust shows that I am suspicious of the Forum. We are undergoing an ordeal by this fire that has only now been ignited, and it seems that the Forum is melting even before the flames have taken hold. Just see how everybody has abandoned the office in the last few days.

  Chapter XXXI

  White Raincoats

  The mortal fear created by the events in the South brought to light an important difference between Berisha and the Forum leaders. The President had dared to play his final card, that of civil war, because he was involved in a life or death struggle. But the Forum leaders did not have this spur. Only the people in the South were fighting for their lives, and the Forum’s attitude towards them began to change.

  ‘Vlora is the only place safe from these bandits in power’ said Kalakulla. ‘Let’s all move there and try to take control of this revolt. It’s slipping out of our hands,’

  But this idea found no support. In those March days, against this background of gunfire and anxiety, the members of the Forum ducked the question of their attitude to the South. They either disagreed or fell back on ambiguity.

  The majority held fast to the position that the Forum had supported a political solution from the start.

  ‘Yes,’ said Qorri, ‘but as we try to achieve this solution, we can’t speak for the South. The South should have its own representatives. We too would be stronger with them beside us.’

  But another current was emerging within the Forum that sought to make decisions on behalf of Vlora, and thus leave Vlora in the lurch. This tendency spread very fast. In those difficult days when men with knuckledusters could lurk in any alley, everyone experienced pendulum swings between fear and self-respect, and for some people the pendulum came to rest in favour of fear. Many people turned their backs on Vlora because they were the sort who, when difficult times came, turned to mush and sought shelter under the wing of someone stronger. But this tendency also included people of another kind, who deep down felt closer to Berisha than to the people in the South. There was a tacit alliance between them and Berisha’s people that arose out of their common past. They came from the same stock, the elite of the communist regime, and even if they quarrelled or hated one another they shared a common code that marked them off from the rest. Most of them had belonged to the Party of Labour. They had family ties. They had held privileged positions, and had all behaved in the same way under the old regime, according to a shared morality. They never imagined that outsiders could worm their way among them to take away their power. Just as animals of one species may fight and draw blood, but not go so far as to kill one another, these people too felt an affinity to their own kind.

  But even within this category, some were also linked to Berisha by a less well known but much stronger organization, which had secured the peaceful transition from one system to another in 1991. Ever since the formation of the PD and its first rallies, there had been rumours of a secret agreement that its leaders would wear white double-breasted raincoats in order to be recognized by the police and the regime’s secret services, and not be touched. White was chosen for visibility, but also because it was the colour of peace. And so the double-breasted white raincoats represented the bridge between two regimes. The secret network that had built this bridge also destroyed the Sigurimi personnel files of most of the PD activists before they infiltrated the democratic movement. This network could not simply be called the former Sigurimi. It was composed of its former covert operatives who suddenly became more important than its public officers. It was a network that seemed to evaporate as it evolved, something familiar and yet unknown, whose members were not bound by personal ties, but by their compromised past. So, when the anxious wife of one of the top communist leaders had phoned the last communist prime minister in 1991 and said, ‘What’s going on? We’re all done for!’ the latter had replied, ‘Don’t worry. They’re all our people.’

  In fact the situation had spun out of control because of Berisha’s unbridled ambition for power and also a thousand unforeseen events. Now it was time for them to remember that they were all one family. How could they fight one another to the death? In the Parliament, more than half of the PD deputies were former covert Sigurimi operatives. They were a symbol of the continuity of power. These same people, as soon as the crisis erupted, had been able to withdraw their deposits from the pyramid schemes, with interest. How could all these things be forgotten?

  Events in Vlora were like a cancerous growth that put their survival in danger. Vlora was known to be the stronghold of the Socialist Party, which was the largest party in the Forum, and the leading figures in the Forum were members of this party. But who was this Albert Shyti, a migrant worker who had returned from Greece, and was announced as the chairman of a Salvation Committee for Vlora? Who were these intellectuals in the South, talking to CNN and the BBC and giving interviews without asking Tirana? And what if, once they had settled their accounts with Berisha, this cancer spread and these strangers took over in Tirana, seizing the power that Berisha’s people had inherited, and wanting to know all about their collaboration with the former regime?

  ***

  Preç Zogaj, the Democratic Alliance’s number two in the Forum, was drinking coffee with the lead correspondent of the Voice of America in the lobby of the Rogner, less than a hundred yards from the President’s office. The correspondent was known to be in regular contact with Berisha, and Zogaj was asking him to facilitate a secret meeting between Berisha and his opponents.

  ‘Tell him that otherwise we’ll ask for asylum in embassies, and that would be bad for all of us.’

  The VoA correspondent listened attentively.

  ‘Is this your personal suggestion, or does it emanate from your people?’ he asked.

  ‘Both mine, and from my people,’ Zogaj replied.

  The correspondent promised to talk to Berisha. If fact he could hardly wait to make this important phone call.

  On the next day, 5th March, Zogaj waited for a reply in the lobby of the Rogner. The VoA correspondent turned up at one o’clock in the afternoon. He hadn’t met Berisha yet but hoped to do so later that day.

  The correspondent was not totally sure that Berisha would meet him to discuss this issue. They had talked only once on the phone.

  ‘How does the situation look?’ Berisha had asked.

  ‘Not too good.’

  ‘Why?’

  �
��Preç Zogaj told me that the opposition people are thinking of taking refuge in embassies. Think of the impression this would create abroad.’

  Both Berisha and the correspondent knew perfectly well that the Forum had not discussed fleeing to the embassies, and some members of the Forum were in fact waiting for Berisha to take flight. But this confession of weakness from the opposition was a gesture.

  There was silence on Berisha’s end of the phone.

  ‘Let them go. Nice idea,’ he replied at last, pretending to think this would only benefit him.

  But the correspondent detected his ploy.

  ‘We should talk a bit,’ he said. ‘I also have a proposal from some of these opposition people.’

  ‘Come to my office and we’ll talk.’

  But Berisha had still not phoned back.

  Zogaj could not wait. He had to find someone else with Berisha’s ear. The director of Albania was perhaps his closest confidant and Zogaj set off in search of him. He had to act before another of the ‘white raincoats’ took this initiative. Anyone who succeeded in mediating in this situation would become the man of the moment. Clearly Berisha was going to lose power, but he was still strong enough to choose to whom he would surrender it, and this would certainly be someone who would guarantee he wouldn’t be harmed.

  Did Berisha trust even the VoA correspondent, the director of Albania, or anyone? Was there anyone to whom he confided his true purposes? No, Berisha was not the sort to confide in anyone, even in his closest circle. This was at the same time his strength and his weakness: it created the distance that preserved his authority, but also deprived him of the advice of true friends. He kept his loyal people close to him, to bolster his confidence in his power to retaliate, but not to listen to their advice. When these people pretended to give him their own opinions, they showed their loyalty by emphasizing what they knew he liked to hear. Now they were suggesting it was time for him to settle accounts with his enemies, because they knew that this was what he was thinking. But he was scared to make this decision. Berisha was well aware that he could use the State of Emergency as a threat but he could not send in the army to commit acts of butchery. The reports he had received from the army staff told him that none of the soldiers wanted to shoot. Two pilots who had been sent into the air to bombard the rebels had preferred to seek political asylum in Italy. The international community too had made it plain that they would not tolerate butchery in the middle of Europe.

  Berisha had hastened to announce that he would ensure that the State of Emergency encroached as little as possible on the rights and freedoms of his fellow-countrymen, and that the forces suppressing the rebellion would make every effort to protect lives and property. The restrictions on the press would be minimal.

  But these words were not enough for the West. Italian Foreign Minister Lamberto Dini phoned to ask for all military operations to be suspended. Berisha was obliged to promise that he would not use force to recover control of the south, an assurance that Dini had immediately made public.

  Berisha now felt weaker than ever. They had forced him onto the defensive. Now his aim was to survive, not to win. The phone conversations with the VoA correspondent and the director of Albania showed that they read his mind better than anybody. Of course, their own survival was at stake, and if Berisha sank, so would they. Both had been his mouthpieces and had spoken his language, stirring up hatred and urging the use of force, for as long as they thought that the ensuing storm would cast them up high and dry. Now they were carefully suggesting something that he was ready to listen to. The VoA correspondent knew that a rumour was coursing through Tirana that Berisha, not the opposition, was making plans to escape, and of course he did not like to hear this. Nor did Berisha like this rumour, because he interpreted it as an indirect appeal to do this very thing. He had sent his children away, but had decided to stay himself as long as he could.

  ***

  At about half past four, the director of Albania asked the VoA correspondent to go urgently to the Rogner, where he was waiting with Zogaj. The correspondent realized at once that Zogaj was also involved in this affair. Zogaj had with him a friend who had recently come back from abroad and was planning to launch a newspaper. They were sitting in an inconspicuous corner of the lobby.

  The director of Albania told Zogaj that everything was ready, if he could merely promise that his side would participate. The time for the meeting had not been set, but they would be informed of this while they drank their coffee.

  At six o’clock the director’s mobile rang.

  ‘I’m here at the Rogner with Zogaj,’ the director said.

  Berisha’s voice could be recognized on the phone, but his words were indistinct.

  ‘At the Presidency at nine o’clock,’ the director said to Zogaj.

  Zogaj had told them that he, Ceka, and Meidani would go to the meeting, but not that the veteran Socialist leader and former editor-in-chief of Zëri i Popullit, Namik Dokle, would also be there. The director passed this on to Berisha, who accepted.

  ‘Just remember that this is top secret,’ the director said.

  Zogaj set off to inform his people. They had only three hours’ to spare. The correspondent and the director said that they would wait for him to return to the Rogner, however late he was.

  Chapter XXXII

  Katowice

  Qorri saw a big envelope pushed under his door. It looked very old, as if from an earlier era. He opened it with great curiosity. Inside were some typewritten sheets. On the first page were a few handwritten lines addressed to him. ‘Fatos Qorri, you have sold out to the communists and betrayed your fellow-prisoners and your own suffering. Several times you have expressed the suspicion that both political sides are birds of a feather, products of the Party of Labour. We send you this document so that in the future you won’t be able to say you didn’t know.’

  There was a note lower down, ‘from a group of your old fellow-prisoners.’

  The document was headed ‘Katowice.’ The text purported to be a copy of a secret speech by Ramiz Alia, the former communist president, made while he was still in power.

  ‘Our system now faces capitulation to the capitalist system... let us change our strategy... creating political pluralism and respect for human rights... in this way we will gain the support of the West and of anti-communist dissidents... let our opponents create right-wing, left-wing, or centre parties. We will even encourage them. The main thing is that all these parties should be controlled by us... people who support our strategy...’

  ‘...beware of the children of those who have been persecuted politically, who are themselves so old or ill that they can barely walk. We will give these people passports to leave Albania, and this will satisfy them. Their property belongs to us, because we created it.’

  ‘We have enough people to fill seven Central Committees, so there’s no need to be afraid.’

  ‘Within two or three parliaments we will succeed in creating a capitalist class out of the communist class, which will perpetuate our political power into the future. Rest assured that the future belongs to us. We will never allow our enemies to recover political power.’

  Qorri could not understand how, while he was reading the letter, he could see Ramiz Alia reading in a dark hall of the Central Committee. It took him a while to realize that he had been asleep. He rubbed his eyes to be sure it had been a dream, and then opened them.

  Katowice. He had heard about this document, a supposed record of a meeting held by Gorbachev in the city of Katowice, which, he remembered, was either in Poland or Ukraine. Qorri had never bothered to find out more, because he had never believed that this document was authentic. It was not the habit of communist leaders to talk so frankly. They always clothed their sinister intentions in fine words about socialism and the people. He was sure that this document had not set these events in motion, but had been written after them.

  It was the fact that he had seen this document in a dream that struck him
.

  Had this dream come from repressed guilt at having joined forces with his former persecutors? No, that wasn’t the case. He hadn’t repressed this feeling, but analysed it in full awareness. Berisha, more than anyone else, incarnated the spirit of his former persecutors. But the document in his dream made no distinction between Berisha and his allies. Did this dream come from a part of him that had begun to falter? The truth was more complicated than he had thought and more complicated than he had described in his articles. After the fall of the Stalinist communism, a semi dictatorial regime had come to power in Albania, in which it was nevertheless possible to divide the ‘grey’ collaborators with communism into the ‘dark grey’ and ‘light grey’. The dark grey had stayed with Berisha, while the light grey had become the first dissidents against authoritarianism. Now he had to differentiate shades of light grey. It was better to admit that it was impossible to categorize this complex reality.

  He left Kindergarten 19 and set off for the Forum’s office. He found nobody there, or in the offices of Gjinushi’s Social Democratic Party underneath. There was a strange emptiness in the air. At least it was a sunny day.

  Chapter XXXIII

  Agreement of 6th March

  Close to midnight, Zogaj appeared again at the entrance to the Rogner, his face even ruddier than usual. He looked pleased. The director of Albania and the VoA correspondent were waiting for him.

  ‘We’re saved!’ he announced with glee. What did he mean? Who was being saved, Albania or themselves?