In memory of the 2981 victims of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, among them three Albanians
[Disastrous September, by the Albanian-American author, Skifter Këlliçi, takes place on two different days: May 10 and September 11, 2001. The novel tells the story of a well-known CNN reporter named Steve Ferguson, engaged to Jacqueline Cramer, a flight attendant based at Logan International Airport in Boston, Massachusetts. In addition, the novel explores the lives of four Albanians. Besim Istrefi, Rrok Camaj, and Marko Muzaka worked as window washers in the Twin Towers. Sokol Kama, a journalist and writer, works in security at Logan International Airport. On September 11, 2001 just a few days before Steve and Jacqueline’s wedding, two planes, bound for Los Angeles, depart from Boston. Terrorists hijack them and crash them into the Twin Towers in New York. The author, who worked at Logan International Airport during the attacks, offers a gripping account of the tragedy and shows how it could have been avoided.]
By SKIFTER KELLICI
[Translated from the Albanian by Carrie Hooper]
“What am I doing?” Growled Jaser, shaking the pipe. “I’m fulfilling my obligation to Islam along with my brothers who hit this building with a plane. I locked the door so as many infidels as possible on the upper floors, including you, who, by marrying a Christian, violated our sacred laws, and me, would die.”
When Said heard these words, he understood everything, and a piercing scream rose from deep within. Now he knew why Jaser avoided his glances and why his eyes darkened, as if he were concealing something behind his smiles. The attack on the Twin Towers had been the culmination of the criminals’ work, supposedly in the name of Allah.
When he heard people shouting and knocking on the door, among them, likely Besim, Marko, and Rrok, Said prepared to fight Jaser.
“Come here, you slime!” fumed Jaser. “I’ll kill you like a dog with this pipe. If there hadn’t been a security checkpoint on the first floor, I would have brought a gun and blown everybody to bits!”
Said remained motionless, his blood frozen, and waited with baited breath. This was his first encounter with an armed man who didn’t just want to rob him, but wanted to take his life, a person Said had helped and loved like a brother. But Jaser had become convinced he needed weapons not to defend himself, but to attack and kill people like Said whom he considered traitors of Islam. Said was strong and muscular, but unarmed, except for his open hands, ready to fend off the threatening pipe. Would he die just a few days before Serena was due to give birth to their daughter? No, that was out of the question.
When Jaser, chattering as if delirious, pointed the pipe at Said’s left arm, his most vulnerable part, he leaned forward, turned away, and stepped back, almost losing his balance, but he persisted with his attack. Said avoided being struck by the pipe, but it scratched his forearm.
He felt a sharp pain, and blood soaked his shirt. Still, he managed to kick Jaser in the stomach. He doubled over, groaning in pain. Said jumped on him, and the two of them fell to the ground. Jaser injured his head and remained unconscious for a moment, but he didn’t let go of the pipe. He raised it, and Said felt its point graze his throat. In a matter of seconds, Jaser would stab him.
Said grabbed Jaser’s hand, and with his other hand, he clenched his throat and dug his nails into his smooth skin. Jaser sighed, shook his head, and let go of the pipe. Said grabbed it and stabbed him in the throat. Jaser winked, opened his mouth, and tried to stand. But shaking violently, he fell to the ground again.
Said remained motionless, his blood frozen, and waited with baited breath. This was his first encounter with an armed man who didn’t just want to rob him, but wanted to take his life, a person Said had helped and loved like a brother.
While his phone rang incessantly, Said, with one hand on his bleeding wound, stood up, swayed, staggered toward the door, and forced it open. A steady stream of people passed into the corridor. Some fell, and others fell on top of them, but they picked themselves up and continued toward the stairs which led to the lower floors. Said was among them. Along the way, he saw Rrok’s small, thin, bent frame. He could hardly walk. He had taken off his sweater and had wrapped it in a living being in his hand. Said approached him and asked, “Rrok, how are you feeling?”
When Rrok turned toward him, Said saw his pale, worn face, his tired, fluttering eyes, and his heaving chest. He looked like a dead man, risen from the grave.
Despite the intense pain in his forearm, Said clutched Rrok’s sweater. Before he could open it, he heard the cry of a little boy, no more than a year old. He squirmed and extended his little hands toward him, as if he were his father.
“I found him at the bottom of the stairs,” Rrok murmured. “I don’t know his parents.”
“How awful!” thought Said. “Will anyone find them? Will they escape this chaos?”
Although he was safe, the boy continued to cry.
“Do you have any idea where Besim and Marko are?” asked Said as they continued their difficult descent.
Rrok could only lift his eyes. He could not and didn’t even try to hold back the tears which trickled down his face. At that moment, Said understood everything. Marko and Besim had remained on the upper floors from where it would have been virtually impossible to escape.
Said’s telephone, which had remained silent for a few minutes, started ringing again. Holding the boy, who, to his astonishment had stopped crying, Said answered it and heard Serena’s voice. After she had heard about the World Trade Center attack on the news, she had cut her hospital appointment short. A doctor had taken her to Liberty Street, where she, Maria, and thousands of others waited to learn the fate of their loved ones. The crowd even tried to cut through the long line of police officers who could barely control them.
“Oh, Said, thank God I reached you! Where are you?” asked Serena.
“I’m on my way downstairs. I should reach the exit soon.”
“Are you all right, Darling? You sound tired.”
Said wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I’m fine. I told you, I’ll see you soon.”
But he didn’t know when or if he would see her. Still, he hoped he would see her. He didn’t know how he arrived in the lobby of Tower 1 and walked through it with Rrok following him, barely able to move. He was sure the tower would collapse and bury them both alive. Said and Rrok exited the building and continued their interminable walk toward the street, inundated with people coming out of the World Trade Center, Deutsche Bank, and an Orthodox church. They went as far away as possible from the building.
At some point, Rrok stopped. When Said lost sight of him, he turned around and saw his eyes roll back in his head, he foamed at the mouth, his face turned ashen, and his breathing grew shallow.
“Hold on just a little longer,” said Said, looking toward the burning building.
The crackling flames had almost reached the center of the tower, and smoke rose in the sky.
Rrok took a few effortful and unsteady steps forward. Said, with the child in his arms, ran toward him. Rrok gave Said an apologetic look and collapsed.
“Save yourself, Said,” he managed to say. “I can’t go any farther. The tower could fall any minute, and pieces could hit you. It could become your and this poor orphan’s grave. The child must live.”
Said bent over him, put an arm around him, and tried to lift him to his feet.
“I told you,” Rrok moaned, so exhausted his words came out as broken syllables, “save yourself. You have a family. Your wife will give birth soon. No one’s waiting for me except my niece, Marta. It wasn’t a given I would go back to Gruda or that Besim would go back to Kosovo.”
He tried to say more and open his fluttering eyes, but he couldn’t. He lay there, motionless, as if he were sleeping.
Said bit his lip to contain his overwhelming sorrow. Just as Marko had tried to save Besim, so, too, Said had tried to save Rrok from the lava which gushed from the tower’s ruins and swallowed everything in its path. With a heavy heart, Said fled from that scene of death. His phone rang. He barely managed to answer it. It was his wife again.
“Serena,” he said, “I’m at the end of Liberty Street.”
“Turn right. I’ll wave my handkerchief,” she said.
Said did as directed. (Continues)
Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19,
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About the Author
Skifter Këllici was born in Tirana, Albania and received a diploma in history and literature from the University of Tirana. He worked as a journalist, scholar, and sportscaster on radio and television. He is the author of several novels and nonfiction books, including the children’s books, “Memories of the Old Neighborhood” and “In the Footsteps” as well as the historical novels, “Assassination in Paris”, “The Murderer with the White Hands”, and “September Disaster.” He wrote the screenplay for “In the Footsteps” which won a special prize at the International Children’s Film Festival in Giffoni, Italy in 1979. He has lived in Boston, Massachusetts since 1999.
About the Translator
Carrie Hooper was born and raised in Elmira, New York. She has been blind since birth. She received a B.A. in vocal performance from Mansfield University, Mansfield, Pennsylvania. She went on to receive an M.A. in German and an M.A. in vocal performance from the State University of New York at Buffalo. After completing her studies, she spent a year at the Royal University College of Music in Stockholm, Sweden as a Fulbright scholar. Carrie currently lives in Elmira, New York. She taught German, Italian, and Romanian at Elmira College. She has a passion for foreign languages and in addition to the languages mentioned above, she is also proficient in Swedish, Spanish, and Albanian. Music also plays an important role in Carrie’s life. She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, plays the piano and organ at a church, and sings in a community chorus. Carrie not only loves music and languages, but also enjoys poetry. She has published three books: “Piktura në fjalë” (“Word Paintings”), a bilingual collection of poetry (Albanian-English), “My Life in My Words”, and “Away from Home.” She has also translated texts from Albanian and Romanian to English.
[The book ‘Disastrous September is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]
