The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici
The club was crowded with mostly young people. Mary and Kreshnik sat at a table. The orchestra played South American tunes. Couples danced to the music.
Mary was impressed with the building’s inner architecture with its various columns joined together at the top with arches, the dome with relief, and the colorful windows with large shutters. The club had been tastefully built many years ago.
“I have heard this is one of the oldest clubs on the beaches of San Diego,” said Kreshnik. “It preserves the features of ancient Mexican architecture.”
“That seems to be the case,” said Mary, looking around in amazement.
Just then, a waiter approached their table.
“What would you like to drink?” Kreshnik asked Mary.
“Beer,” she said.
“Bring me a tequila.”
The waiter bent his head slightly and left.
“I tried tequila once, but it was very strong. I’m surprised that we Americans, as well as the Mexicans, like that kind of drink.”
“Mainly people who prefer alcohol drink it.”
“I don’t think you’re one of those people,” laughed Mary.
“What should I say, I tend to drink alcoholic beverages a lot. I used to smoke a lot. Now I rarely smoke. But I rarely stay away from that pestilence.”
In a matter of minutes, the waiter brought a mug of beer and a glass of tequila.
“Cheers, Mary,” said Kreshnik, raising his glass.
“Cheers, Nik.”
While they sipped their drinks, Mary and Kreshnik watched the dancers, aroused by the sounds of the orchestra and by a dark-skinned female singer. The people at nearby tables laughed, and their fiery glances followed the singer’s every move.
Kreshnik was about to ask Mary to dance when suddenly, she asked, “You said your father died when you were little. What about your mother?”
“My mother died right after she gave birth to me,” said Kreshnik, caught off guard by her question. “She had a difficult birth. My aunt raised me. It was hard.”
“Why did you and your father come to America?”
Kreshnik swallowed as if he found it difficult to continue his story. Mary thought she had made a mistake by asking him that question. But he continued:
“It happened one night at the end of 1985. Our dictator, Enver Hoxha, had just died. Have you heard of him?”
Mary shook her head.
“He was cruel like Stalin, Hitler, and Saddam Hussein. Why did we come to America?”
He repeated Mary’s question as if he were looking for the thread of the story. His eyes shone slightly.
“We lived in a village near the Greek border in terrible conditions. It got to the point that the villager who produced the grain did not have bread for his hungry children. So he was forced to buy it secretly in the city. That was forbidden. Is there anything worse than that? In such conditions, my father, Loni, decided to escape with me to Greece.”
Mary anxiously listened to Kreshnik’s story which sounded like a suspense novel.
“As I said, it happened on a cold night near the end of 1985. The razor-sharp wind cut our faces. I was only five then. We walked and walked. When my father saw I was getting tired, he picked me up and put me on his back. He told me to cross my arms on his chest and I did. I remember we walked along a hill with bushes. Behind us, the border guards shouted, `Stop or we’ll shoot!` They had seen us and were following us. But my father did not stop. I was afraid and started to cry. He put his hand on my mouth, and I understood that I mustn’t make a sound. We hid behind a bush.”
The more Kreshnik spoke, the more Mary shuddered.
“In the dark, I saw armed soldiers spread out all over the hillside. They searched behind every bush. My father, still carrying me on his back, slid down the hill. After much difficulty, he arrived at a cave under which a pine tree grew. Its branches reached all the way up to the cave and partially covered us.
“Soon after we had arrived at the cave, I saw the outline of a soldier who walked around with a machine gun. My father again put his trembling hand on my mouth so I wouldn’t cry. Terrified, we waited, crouched in the cave under the pine branches.
“The soldier came toward us, looked around the cave with an electric light, and saw us under the pine tree. `Don’t move,` he said, his voice oddly quiet, as he pointed his machine gun at us.
“I burst into tears. This time, my father did not put his hand on my mouth. Hot tears rolled down my cold cheeks. The soldier also cried, but he did so in silence. He cried for our sad fate. Although I was little, I had heard that people who were caught trying to sneak across the border were considered traitors. They spent long, hard years in prison.”
Kreshnik paused briefly as if he were reliving those awful moments.
“But strangely enough,” he began again, “the border guard remained frozen in place. He put his finger to his lips signifying that I should not do anything. He stood there for a few minutes. In the darkness, his features seemed to soften. Then he raised his machine gun, fired an ear-piercing shot, and shouted, `Comrades, there are no signs of any escapees here!` Soon another hailstorm of machine gun fire erupted and a voice said sharply, `Go to the other side!` We were shocked. Then the border guard lowered his weapon. He motioned for us to come out of the cave and follow him, and we did. Neither my father nor I understood what was happening. We walked in silence for awhile. Then the border guard turned to my father and whispered, `The border is down there. Go there on your hands and knees and cross over. Hurry!` We did what he told us to do.”
Mary fixed her eyes on Kreshnik as he told his harrowing story. Behind his rough features, she saw a poor five-year-old crouched next to his father. She felt as if she, too, had gone back in time. She was a little girl and the tears that streamed down Kreshnik’s face wet her face, too.
“Even now as I tell you how we escaped, I vaguely remember that border guard’s face. He could have pointed his machine gun at our backs and could have taken us to the border post. My father would have ended up in prison, and I would have been the son of an enemy of the people. But instead, he let us cross the border.”
Kreshnik paused for a moment and drank his tequila in one gulp. He ordered another, and the waiter brought it immediately.
“We crossed the border with great difficulty,” Kreshnik continued. “We were afraid the guards would catch us. Greek border guards looked after us and handed us over to the International Red Cross which helped us come to America. We settled in San Diego.”
Mary waited for Kreshnik to tell her how his father died, but when he remained silent and lowered his head, as if he had finished his story, Mary felt it would be too much to ask him any more questions.
“Forgive me, Nik,” Mary said, “but I almost forgot, I have to call Wilma and ask her what happened to that elderly woman.”
She took her cell phone out of her bag and dialed Wilma’s number.
“Wilma, how is that elderly woman feeling?”
She listened to Wilma’s answer.
“Wilma is telling me that fortunately, the woman did not break anything,” she said to Kreshnik afterwards, “but she will be late. She will come as soon as the orthopedist has examined the patient.”
“If you have to go, tell me,” said Kreshnik, a little timidly. In fact, he did not want Mary to leave. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me. You told me about a terrifying experience,” Mary replied, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
“At any rate, we could go outside if this club is too noisy for you.”
“No, it’s fine. But since Wilma is probably going to be delayed another hour, a walk would be nice.”
Kreshnik’s eyes sparkled, and once again, he downed his second glass of tequila in one gulp. (Continues)
Click here for Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6,
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About the Authors
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.
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.
[The book ‘Disastrous September is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]
