Journey to Albania[1]

Part Four

Photo-report by our correspondent Lamberti Sorrentino

Tirana December

I was lost in the streets of Shkodër. Next to me were three young artillerymen, wearing brand new uniforms; I asked them which road would lead me to the hotel. They looked at each other, puzzled; meanwhile, they had corrected their posture, as if I were an officer. They stared at me, worried now: finally, one of them tried to answer me in Italian—no more than ten words, certainly, he knew—and that's when I realized that those three were Albanian soldiers. They had nothing, in their faces or uniforms, that distinguished them from ours. They were serene and content. I watched them for a long time, as it was worth it. They were unrecognizable in their own country, just like the Albanian royal guard in Rome: one stands close to them, on trams or in the streets, and they are mistaken for Italians. In Rome, there are two battalions of these royal guards who parade on festive days in kilts and white fezzes, or with straight, tight trousers down to the foot and red fezzes. Albanians from the north and south, with an Italian colonel and their own subordinates, mingled among the crowds in Rome. In Albania, the army has mixed instructors; thus, with discipline and military practice, they also learn the language. True soldiers, born military men, the Albanians have understood that belonging to a serious and regular army means creating a national force, one that they join by right of conscription, not out of servitude to this or that lord: a centuries-old aspiration. The uniform fills them with pride; having stars on their collars commits them to a dignity that refines them, both in service and outside of it. After some time, they develop an eye for it; and only an instructor officer who has been here since the early days of the union prides himself on distinguishing them from a distance. But the greatest surprise I had was when I met the Albanian carabinieri, unaware of Italian, with the V.E. (Victor Emmanuel) on their tricolor cockade affixed to their tricorne.

Tirana Radio broadcasts, in addition to bulletins, music programs of all kinds. The national songbook, rich and interesting, is particularly broadcast; there are numerous artists who have studied singing in Italy, and their aspiration is to make known in our cities the songs that express the Albanian soul.

In Shkodër, I visited the barracks of the Albanian militia. A house adapted as a barracks, with a garden that is expanding; in the atrium, there were about ten malësorë, highlanders from the mountains of Shkodër, splendidly strong and agile, with a perfect masculinity. They wore the Malësorë costume, with sashes, boots, and colorful handkerchiefs. The commanding consul was giving them straightforward speeches: they listened and understood him, it was clear to see.

— I told you in the village: the militia is for all Albanians, for all those —who are willing to give without asking. More than rights, among us, there are duties. At any moment, you may be called into service to work or fight, as is proper for a soldier; you may also be called just to show up. The militia requires serious men, people willing to do anything: if you are not up for it, stay at home; those who join us will become part of a great family. You know now that fascism is a revolution: you will be its armed guard on this side of the Adriatic. I like to repeat this to you, and I like that you remember: it will not be an easy life. No one is forced: you can still return home: whoever wants to leave, may do so and remain in peace: friends as before. If I pass through your village, I will still go and drink your coffee and smoke your cigarette. Think carefully. Interpreter, translate.

While the interpreter repeated the speech in Albanian, the men nodded their heads yes or no, agreeing; the speech was to their liking. They looked the consul in the face, and then began to discuss among themselves, in a tight group. Finally, their spokesperson, a village chief, said in Italian:

— We will all enlist. And we will send you the other men from our village. Very well: we want to serve in the militia and have Mussolini as our great leader. But we do not want to have as our leader... — and here he named a local tyrant who had oppressed them for years.

This issue with the local chiefs is the complaint of the Albanian populations of the mountains and the plains. The peasants have had to get used to seeing the state in the person of a small feudal lord who has strongly and unjustly oppressed them, often for personal interests. Now that Italian justice is in place, the Albanians no longer want to deal with these chiefs: they become soldiers, they join the party, and they hope — above all — that the social and political dynamism of the new organization will overthrow certain outdated hierarchies, which are now anachronistic and harmful. It is only a matter of time: the Albanians entering the ranks of the party, the army, and the militia form the foundation of the popular state: and as the level of the pyramid rises, the old hierarchies fall: a new order is being built spontaneously and irresistibly: either as a moral fact, as a replacement of old values, or as a rejuvenation of the command structure.

In the main Albanian cities, there is a tourist office, equipped similarly to the best offices of “Cit” in Italy. Specialized staff is available to the public: the tourist offices in Tirana and Durres can provide all the necessary tickets for a trip to Japan or Hawaii within half an hour.

Don't forget Father Valentini if you go to Shkodër. — I am wary of benefactors; and I wouldn't have gone to the Jesuit college if a certain rare informative material hadn’t been found only there. “Let’s go see this benefactor,” I said to myself. I walked through a series of narrow streets, entered a doorway, and found myself in the echo of a sad and slow choir. — Is Father Valentini here? — Go ahead. Bell, doorway, corridor: another corridor, an atrium, another garden, a staircase; then a glass door: I had been walking for ten minutes. The lay brother discreetly knocked with his knuckles. It was pouring rain: — Come in — at the far end of the room, a large window covering the entire front wall was immersed in rain; the muffled echo of the gutters and drainpipes could be heard. In the gray perspective of the nearby dusk, the shadow of the trees appeared through the drenched glass, mysterious and wavering. Then I smelled the scent of books, of many books together. Books only need time, more than space, to form those societies that are called libraries: whether it’s hot, cold, humid, or dry, it doesn’t matter. This library had, for me, the charm of disorder: or at least a natural order, not elevated to the level of a mental habit, of vice, which ruins everything. This library is inhabited, consulted, active. The thrill of a workshop wouldn’t have overwhelmed me like the pulse of life that came to me, after fifteen days of travel through rural and primitive lands, from those books. I almost didn’t notice that a priest was looking at me with his hand extended: there was a bit of there was a slyness in his quiet eyes, thickened by his glasses. His hand was warm and dry: I felt him as a friend, a friend of study, and I had a great desire to sit down and not move. It was in that large room that I thought about the primitiveness of Albania, its land and its people; from that oasis of books, fresh and welcoming, I felt that the country around me, which I was finishing exploring, was all genuine, in its raw state. It was the contrast between that entirely spiritual environment, and what I had seen, all instinct, that revealed a truth to me. I felt an indefinable impression that brought me closer to this land forever: everything that had surprised and bewildered me became clear and easy. It seemed to me that I finally found, in the Albanians, a similarity with the traditional sense of my own people in the mountains of Salerno, and that of the Albanians. I realized that such affinities are determined by the contacts maintained by certain peoples over the past centuries, with the distant ages: when there were basic laws, more or less the same for everyone; and the peoples, even without knowing each other, resembled one another.

Two flashes of lightning illuminated the windows: that’s how we realized night had fallen. A bell rang in one of the buildings of the convent. Father Valentini turned on the electric light: in front of my eyes passed a collection of ancient coins found in Albania, photographs taken by the Father during his trips to the mountains, manuscripts of Venetian diplomats in Turkey, when Venice was a people and a nation, concerning Albania.

The Albanian loves family, is attached to home and land. Many Albanians have had to emigrate to earn their daily bread in distant countries; but they do not abandon their traditions. Generally, they return to their homeland over time.

— Do you speak Albanian, Father? — I asked him.

— Like Italian — he replied: — in fact, better than Italian. I’ve been here for fifteen years, and I preach in Albanian. Now, it’s less spontaneous for me to preach in Italian. Yes — he told me shortly after — I’m from Veneto, and here it feels like home. Historical past has an enormous value, not only for communities but also for the individual.

— You could never leave it. You could never leave it, Albania? — I asked. He looked at me puzzled: my words crossed his mind, perhaps opening up a possibility he had never thought of before. That Father who uses the Leica camera and collects ancient coins, who teaches, leads, writes, and above all studies, and above all occupies this library where it is beautiful to arrive, but where it would be better to stay; this Father Valentini seems to me a complete man. Between him and a commander of armies, there is not much difference: for the second, what happens around him, outside of him, matters; for the first, what happens inside, in the conscience, is of value.

Another bell rang: — Now you must go; I’m heading to the refectory — he told me gently. He added at the doorway: — Come back.

Outside, I did not find a carriage; I had no umbrella or hat; and the rain soaked my neck, drenching me.

Here is the Drin in flood, worse than last year, worse than the other years. It is said that the poor Albanian farmer does not work, that the Albanian does not love the land. But why work? You cultivate the land, sow corn, then the Drin comes and takes everything away. This is a sad lament of a farmer from Alessio, spoken to me as I stood with my car on the edge of the half-flooded road; there, sitting on his heels, the man recognized himself as innocent of what was happening to him. For me, it was impossible to move forward. The farmer watched the water rise, slowly; it was now only a meter away from him, and soon it would reach him, pushing him further back. The other bank was over a kilometer away; the flood had turned a modest river into an immense, tumultuous, dark artery, scarred with whirlpools, with wide patches of mud, bristling with uprooted trees and debris of all kinds. In a nearby village, the water had arrived suddenly, at night, into the ground-level rooms. The men were far away, working somewhere on the roads: the women climbed onto the roofs, clinging to the chimneys, with the children. Our soldiers arrived shortly after they were offered boats to rescue them, but they refused; they barely accepted the relief supplies, ashamed to show themselves to strangers, while their men were far away. There were deaths and missing people. The farmer, with melancholy, tells me that a hundred meters downstream an empty cradle was found. — And the child? He points to the water now lapping at his feet, and with bitter fear he says just one word: — Drin. I have come all the way from Shkodër, struggling to advance: the road is frequently submerged; in some places, the water reached the hood. It’s market day in Shkodër, and from thirty kilometers around, farmers and mountaineers come with their loaded donkeys; women are not missing either. Men, women, and animals move forward laboriously and fatalistically; the floodwaters reach their knees. In the gray morning, all gray from one end of the horizon to the other, these resigned people walk in the water without showing signs of fatigue or surprise, without a complaint or a curse. It has always been like this over the centuries: since the memory of the Albanian people exists, generations have passed on the conviction that in the month of December, when the Drin overflows, one must reckon with the water, which suddenly becomes the master of the roads and things: and that it is inevitable to walk in it up to the knees, to spend nights on the roofs: with children crying, watching for this bad water to retreat. Sometimes the water steals a cradle from the houses, with the child inside, and carries it far away to die. Every dawn in December, they look at the tree trunks, the marks left by the water on the bark, to see if the level will rise again or fall.

The Albanian Fascist Party and the Albanian Fascist Militia are typical creations of the Empire; through these organizations, which in Albanian territory repeat the experiences of the Motherland, the revolution is embedded as morality and power in the body of the new Kingdom linked to the Crown of Savoy. Albanian youth who once lived on the streets now proudly belong to our organizations. Parents also join the Militia.

The town greeted us with a hum of lights and voices: the lights were dim, the voices cheerful. The car stopped in front of a café, illuminated by a reddish light bulb that had been forgotten for who knows how long, right in the middle of the ceiling. A dim, faded light fell from it, casting a shadow on the patrons, blending them into a mass like moving tar: a dozen soldiers, who, upon our arrival, stood at the door. I turned on the radio. One of the passengers, an Albanian officer, had to call from that town to have his own car come from the capital. In the Plymouth, used as public transport between Shkodër and Tirana, an old car from King Zog's time, there were eight of us, including the driver; three on the back seat, three on the jump seats; and in the front, there were two: the driver and me, who had paid double to have a seat alone. I turned on the radio again, but it was the Albanian driver who found the station. — This is Sofia — he said, satisfied. It was a complicated song, with four voices. The broadcast was interrupted by a voice blowing in my face and echoing in my ear: — Is there room? — In the window frame appeared the head of a soldier. I felt the heat of his body. The Albanian driver talked about a crossbow, spoke of crossbows, there were eight of us. — Is there room? — the soldier repeated, staring at me. And in the violet light of the radio, I could distinguish his regular features, I saw his eyes burning: — Don’t you hear? He says it's full. — Just a little space, just a little, I have to get to Durrës, drop me at the junction; if I get there tonight, I’ll catch the boat, if I miss it, I lose a day: I’ll pay whatever you want. — Come up — I said to the soldier, and he sat next to me. With the soldier, a calm and elemental energy entered the car. The driver and I, squeezing together, felt the presence of the new person with us. I tried to engage him during the ride through the radio; he listened silently, looking over the glowing beams of the headlights. He had his satchel on his knees, taking up as little space as possible. I offered him a cigarette, lit it for him. — On leave? — Yes, but I really don’t know what it’s about. I was working, my company has been assigned to tasks for four days road work. They promised us a wage. But it's not for the wage that we work. It's to obey. What the superiors command is fine. It was four o'clock, and the quartermaster told me that I had leave. What nonsense, don’t joke, quartermaster, I said. Leaves are suspended. But he insisted, took me to the centurion: and it’s true, ten days of leave, to depart immediately. Holy Mary, if leaves are suspended, tell me, centurion, tell me, is there something going on? The centurion assured me everything was fine; that there was an order from Lecce; maybe some protection. But what protection; my poor wife doesn’t know anyone, except Agent Luigino, who is a friend of mine. But: can an agent get special leave? I didn’t see, I didn’t understand anything anymore. My comrades tried to comfort me. One of them showed me a letter from my town, in the province of Lecce, from his wife, who also knows my wife, and it says nothing. The letter is a week old. In the end, I felt a little comforted. If tonight I take the post to Durrës, tomorrow by noon I’ll be home. Silence returned to the car. The Albanian driver also offered a cigarette to the soldier and explained to him that we would be at the Durrës junction in an hour: at the junction, cars coming from Tirana pass by; he advises him: — In the evening, cars don’t stop: throw yourself in front of them. — Don’t worry, I might even throw myself under the wheels, if needed, to stop them. And besides: my leave is authorized by the centurion to use vehicles. Another pause. The driver turns on the radio: a French song. The desolate night surrounds us. — How old is your daughter? — I ask the soldier, taking advantage of the music, which isolates us even more than the night, the journey. The soldier smiles: — Five years old. It’s been a year since I last saw her. — What do you do for a living?

— Lumberjack. We don't work all year round; but now there are jobs in Puglia, and I work as a laborer. You can earn fifteen lire a day; I was working at a site twenty kilometers away, which I would reach by bicycle. We have a small house that costs us 250 lire a year, nice and comfortable: a kitchen and a large room. My wife is a thrifty woman. I hope nothing has happened — he concludes with a sudden drop in his voice. I ask to distract him: — Were you here since the landing? — I arrived with the first group. It was a Sunday, and I had taken my daughter and Luigino's son to the cinema. I return home and find Luigino at the door, and people in the kitchen. What's going on, I ask; nothing, Luigino replies, tomorrow you have to report to the Legion. My cousin was also called up. No one knew what it was about: where would we go? I had already been to Africa and Spain, I couldn’t miss this mission. It was April 2; on April 7, we landed in Durrës. We get along well with the Albanians: they are suspicious at first, but once they understood that we respect them, that we respect their homes, their livestock, their women, then we get along. They bring gifts: they always want to offer us tobacco, raki, coffee! It’s understood that we reciprocate. And you manage to save a little money: in six months, I sent 150 lire home; I’m bringing another 150 with me. But money, what does it matter? Health is what counts. I, you see, can go even two days without eating, I don't mind it: but when you have children, it’s different, an innocent creature shouldn’t suffer. In my home, after six years of marriage, I have never let anything be missing, thank God. At the junction, he gets off: — Good luck — we all shout to him. We pray that the soldier’s little girl is well. He left an emptiness in the car; a man, I think; truly a man.

To be continued...

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[1] Tempo – Roma 21 dicembre 1939