Milan Samak

Milan Samak Biography

Milan SAMAK (1913- ) was born in Prilep, Macedonia, at that time the Ottoman Empire. He survived through three wars: the Balkan Wars that separated Macedonia, and the two World Wars. He studied in the gymnasium in Bitola and obtained a law degree from the Belgrade University. As a member of the Communist Party he was active participant in the uprising of Macedonia in Prilep and throughout the liberation war for Macedonia. Soon after the Socialist Revolution, he served as president of the regional court in Bitola, Macedonia, and strictly defended the principle of government non-intervention in the judiciary system. He was offered a seat in the Supreme Court of SR Macedonia, but declined. He served as an attorney ever since, until the early 80s when he retired. In his retirement, he has spent time writing novels, three of which are published: LET MY SON KNOW, AM I A KILLER, and TERROR, and one long poem called: CRUCIFY, CRUCIFY HER, PONTIUS. He also wrote a play, ARSLAN BEG, which had theatrical success in Macedonia, earlier during his career as an attorney. This excerpt is the first chapter from his novel TERROR, published in 1989, which deals with the psychological terror of a young student in Belgrade caught inside corrupt aristocratic family during the period between the two World Wars.

TEROR

translation from Macedonian to English by Vele Samak

1. Your Honor,

I was very happy when you suggested to me in your office that I write down everything that happened to me, and, after having read my testimony, decided to continue the investigation. The suggestion came at the right time, for we exhausted our efforts in those four hours, during which both you and my attorney, tried to give the investigation a reasonable course. Nevertheless, despite your great efforts, there was nothing that you could do. It is also my duty to explain to you my bad behavior, for I tortured you during those four hours. I owe that behavior to the events of my life during the past year, which were complicated with numerous dramatic turnarounds, that made them confusing and unclear. The reason also lies in the fact that I was incapable of thinking, even less capable of logically and rationally expressing the events that I went through. Such events rarely occur to people, but I often doubt that anybody has ever experienced such evil. I owe the reason for this to my mental and physical weaknesses because of which, despite my desires and torments, I could not cooperate with you. Please understand that the weariness that covered me started to accumule in me much earlier, before the execution of the crime.

The first hard mental stroke caught me just a few moments before I commited the murder. Like a bolt of lightning, the question of whether to murder or not emerged in my mind. I asked myself this question after I realized that my entire future is destroyed by which, all my tormenting efforts of the past year were left aimless.

At that moment I had already seen the police coming through the yard, called by Teresa, to imprison me in their cells and kill me slowly, by tearing my body (meat) and breaking my bones.

I did not answer to my question because something forced me to commit the crime without an answer.

Did I commit the murder because I felt the creeping rampage of fear, I can not, at least for the moment, answer; did an old, wild and primitive desire for vengeance, accumulated in my subconscious for a long time, finally surface just before the act, again I would not be able to answer that with any certainty. Perhaps through writing, or during the course of the investigation that we will continue, you will discover the answer, provided of course that I survive my written scrutiny (?) of myself. In that moment I knew only one thing: that only through murder would I be able to dispel all my heavy torments that tore my soul apart and gloomed my mind, threatening to take it away.

Instead of easing my difficult condition after the commited murder, I felt disgusted by what I had done and drowned myself into a deeper mental pain; immediately it became clear to me that my life was ruined forever, along with my fate, lost long before the murder.

From this I lost myself completely. I was thrown into a senseless emptiness, dark and remorseless. It seemed that every hope of my return to life was lost inside. That was a condition of a living, but lifeless person who could not become a rational being.

After several such difficult moments in which I was supported by the innate atavistic habits that are determined to save human beings, I felt that this new pain would not leave me.

Two policemen came, tied my hands and quickly brought me in jail. During the entire trip I felt how the pain became duller, and with that, closer to bodily aches. I was conscious only for the moment when the prison door of the small cell was shut and locked. In that moment I felt a new mental stroke because of my freedom that was taken away from me. It felt as if the stroke made a sharp cut on my soul. Despite all the poverty and torture that I went through, including the slavery of my country, I always felt new, my own, spiritual and intimate freedom; on top of that, I always cared for it not to be diminished by not taking responsibilities which I could not fulfill, and with all my power I avoided hurting somebody, which would have tortured me and further lessened my freedom. That is exactly why I felt the locking of the prison door as making a cut on my soul, as if I was suddenly and quickly stricken by a sharp knife.

Frightened, I ran (away) to the bed, and lay down the way I was dressed. On the bed I felt how my senses along with my thoughts became more and more blunt, and everything that was me turned into one pain, with which I clenched my entire soul. I was afraid to think out of fear that I would demolish myself. I lay still obscured and drawn within myself waiting for the pain to loosen.

The numerous (large) prison movements welded me in that position, because of the dinner that was served. Many human steps where moving, many human voices could be heard, openings and closings of countless doors. I heard all of this as loud noise. I was afraid that it would take me back from oblivion into normal life, where I thought I would fail. Even when the people from the prison came to my room and brough my dinner, I was afraid that they would start talking to me and thus return me to the real world, where from (where) I had escaped together with my blunt pain, for going back to life I had to deal with myself, and I had no power to do that. Fortunately, nobody spoke to me. Perhaps they thought that I was sleeping and didn't want to disturb my dream.

From time to time there would appear new thoughts out of somewhere inside of me and pierce me quickly. I defended myself and ran away out of fear of being brought back into the events of the past, and especially not into that horror I had encountered right after the murder. Despite my inner struggle, I kept my initial position intact, where I felt the heavy pain, and in the end, completely exhausted, late in the night, I fell asleep. Those were heavy enervations that attack me even now from time to time, although I gave up on everything even myself, thereby partly diminishing them.

Temporarily I saved myself from the pain deep within the night, even though I didn't have neither a deep nor an easy dream, because I dreamed of difficult dreams, the kind that are dreamed of by man after experiencing heavy torments, or after seeing awful scenes in front of him. My psychic battles continued throughout my dreams. This is why my dream wasn't of the kind that relaxes a person and empowers him for the future challenges of life.

I would have continued sleeping were I not awaken at 8 o'clock. They brought me milk and two rolls for breakfast. I took only one bite, hardly swallowed it, and then I couldn't eat anymore. They told me that they would bring me in for questioning. They brought me to your office, where my new torments began...

Those were my physical and mental capacities when I was brought in front of you to answer for my grave sin. On the way to your office I thought about confessing everything and asking that the court be as strict as possible with me. I thought that it would quickly end my investigation and I would be brought back to the cell, where I would continue suffering my pain that was slowly turning into some kind of vengeance against me, for I started to feel like a martyr and only as a martyr could I stay alive. By becoming a martyr, I thought I found the right condition through which I would spend the rest of my life. By God's grace, this kind of self-sacrifice lessened my pain and made it easily bearable because it also paid for my sin. Even one such unfortunate judgment of my life helped. That's why I wanted to go back inside the cell as soon as possible, where I would lie on the bed, and resort to self-punishment.

Once you started questioning me, I confessed the crime, and asked for the heaviest punishment, which I thought would pay my debts to the world. But that was not enough for you since you started asking me for my every move, for my every thought. I tried to answer you with all my power, but as you know, I couldn't. At the end it was clear to you that the investigation was fruitless and you sent me back to prison.

This is why your suggestion made me happy, if one could speak about happiness in a person who should have given up his life.

When I returned to prison I felt again the heavy pain, and what seemed worse, I felt that my writing would make no sense for me, because whatever I did or wrote there was no escape for me. This created such an apathy for myself that any normal person would have give up the struggle. I was forced not to give up for fear of the embarrassment you would put me through. Hesitating, with heavy struggle, carrying a load of apathy and pain, I remembered once again the on question that caught me just before the murder. The truth about the crime, whether I did it willingly, was forced by the people, my life, and my destiny, or was it just a terrible accident, was of the utmost importance to me. Maybe that's not as important for the law as it is important for my self-judgment. Criminals are not only judged by the law, but also by themselves. The desire to discover the truth showed me that the strenuous writing had its own benefit and a goal.

Then I remembered that that the writing would bring me back into living activity and save me from the passivity in which I was and because of which I felt completely thrown away forever; The increasing signs of the new activity helped me to accept your suggestion. I thought of it as a temporary salvation. I am thankful to you once again.

As soon as I worked out a plan for writing, how to start and where to start, I asked myself whether I could be objective enough. Objectivity, as you judges know well, is a devilishly difficult thing when one has to judge others, and especially difficult when one has to judge one's own sins. Antic Grecians, for that reason, used to blindfold the justice. I remembered that my writing would have absolutely no sense for you and for me if I am not objective all the way through, from beginning to end. I decided to express only the facts, my true thoughts and events. I relied on your experience, which can easily help you distinguish the objective from the subjective, in determining the truth. Together we will reject every subjectivity, in order to find the truth. When you finally get to read what is written, please have no mercy for my subjective mistakes, for which I'm already thankful.

At the end of my explanation, I ask you for something that is outside of the investigation: if you ever find my life comical, especially for my pure love of a woman, I beg you not to ponder upon those things in front of me, for my love was the greatest cause of my great tragedy.

And then, if you ever find a lack of clarity in my writing, which I think will be rare, rest assured that is not from my illiteracy. In gymnasium, and occasionally later as a student, I wrote stories and poems. My works were always praised. Therefore, my mistakes would come as a result of inner struggles at the time of writing, when, I think, I will strain my blood one drip at a time.