Translation by the Fall 2018 Students of Italian Literature in Context with Dr. Lidia Radi

Chapter One

Translated by Ellie Palazzolo

 

(p. 5)

 

She arrives one morning in September, during a scalding summer when the rains are late to come. She is dressed entirely in red. Like blood. Like a human sacrifice presented to the gods to bring the rain. Like a bride.

At the threshold they make her dismount from the horse. The women of the family do not manage to catch her, and stand there empty-handed. Suspended in the air, Saba sighs, her face like a broken mirror. Like the only photograph of this neverending day. The red veil conceals her watering eyes.

The mother-in-law places two loaves of bread under the girl’s arm, then shoves her into the house. The loaves are a symbol of prosperity. But the prosperity that the mother-in-law expects will not come from her.

Not even the husband looks at her. He is celebrating with friends. He will have time to see her for the rest of his life.

• “This plucked bird is my son’s fate,” the mother-in-law says.

It is Omer’s second marriage. The first sun was extinguished many years ago. The dead wife was Saba’s sister. She died in childbirth. The snow would not stop for days and they struggled to bury her: the earth did not want to open to accommodate her. Of her premature death, they remembered above all the struggle to dig the hole.

Omer didn’t remember anything anymore. Too many years, too much grappa. (p. 6) He had loved his wife Sultana in his own way. At night he would cover her with (tentative) kisses, concealed by the darkness. Sometimes even during the day. He would secretly follow her through the fields, he would follow her to the village fountain.

“A real man would never show affection towards a woman outside of the house.  You may slip under her bed clothes by night, but stop it with this circus” his mother said to her.

None of the women of the village had ever seen Sultana with bruises on her face. But that happiness didn’t last long.

Great suffering holds death at bay, according to proverbs in these parts. Not for Sultana, who had died in childbirth and been followed by her baby girl. Omer disappeared…took to drinking. When night falls he goes to the cemetery, sits across from her tomb and smokes his pipe in silence. Often he brings the grappa bottle, too, because then he is not alone. He recounts nothing to her. Nothing has happened since she left.

 

After ten years of this life, Omer no longer remembers what the motive is for his solitude.

One morning he gets up and does not find the bottle near the bed. So he goes outside, the sun hits his face. He forgets the grappa and turns his gaze to the inside: so many children are running around!

• Mother, who do all of these little brats belong to? – he asks,
• To your brothers, – she responds.
• I do not have children yet… – he says, not entirely convinced.
• No – replies the mother, – but that’s up to you.

The mother loses no time. First she starts to spread the word around, then she goes to knock on the doors of eligible girls.

• We do not have any daughters to marry off – the women of the village respond to her.
• May they go to hell and never return, – she curses them by night. – I will find her, a wife for Omer.

She goes to the other mother-in-law, the mother of Omer’s dead wife.

• Meliha, she says to her, – I must find a spouse for Omer. (p. 7)
• The time has come, – the other responds. – Fine, you don’t need to ask my permission.
• I am not asking you for your permission, I’m asking you for another daughter.

Meliha remains stone cold. She herself had married off all of her daughters.

• I have no daughters to marry. What I have I have given to you.
• Yes, but she is dead. Omer is not.
• When you took her she was not dead, says Meliha.
• To girls you give a husband, not their fate. Allah thinks of the fate, – the other replies.

They drink their coffee in silence. A slender girl enters and takes away the mugs. The mother of Omer follows her with her eyes. Once the girl leaves the room, the two women look at one another.

• I didn’t even think of her, she’s only a child, – says Meliha.
• She will grow.

 

Today Saba arrives with her bridely outfit. She cries underneath the veil. Nobody sees her. She is only fifteen, with narrow hips, high cheekbones, and a pale face. She has the air of absence, which slender women often do. They say that she is ugly; in reality, with regards to her beauty, she seems decades ahead of her time.

When Omer enters into their nuptial room Saba is waiting for him, standing, covered by the red veil that he would cut, as tradition demands. But Omer, inebriated as he is, did not register her presence. He was used to sleeping alone, with his bottle and his nightmares. He tosses his suit onto the bed and, after a bit, begins to snore.

Saba remains there, in one corner of the room, not daring to move herself. Hours pass and she stays there. He continues to sleep. Saba knows that she could never love him. Her sister had loved him, she had been his wife. She was only a remedy, but death accepts no remedy. And yet she wanted to lift him up all the same. If only to speak of this person dear to the both of them. The love that they experienced for her could unite them.

(p. 8) When her sister had gotten married, Saba was a young girl, but she remembered how she would take care of her, how she looked after her. How she caressed her and kissed her. The parents never had enough time to embrace their children.

From the window she sees the opaque light of the moon follow her footprints. With her childish mind she runs through unknown streets, certain that they would remain that way forever. Her feet inside the gilded shoes hurt her.

When Omer awakes, already the first roosters are crowing. As usual, he reaches out his hand towards the bottle of grappa, but does not find it. He pulls himself up to to look more closely and sees that he is not alone. At first, he does not understand what this red silhouette is doing in his room.  He thought of the ghosts and of his dead loved ones who often returned at night to find him while he was drunk.

“Damn it, it’s nearly dawn, what do I do now?” he asks.

His mother would soon return with the other women in the family to find the stained bedsheet and hang it out in the courtyard.

With a start, he jumps from the bed, moves towards Saba, raises the red veil with an abrupt movement.

“This imbecile stayed standing the entire night, she could have at least sat down,” he says.

Saba raises her eyes to look her destiny in the face, perhaps she expected a caress along her cheek or sweet words whispered in her ear. She did not even have the time to think, he drags her by the hand and brusquely throws her down on the bed.

Saba tries to push back but she takes a slap right in the face. The husband is really in a hurry. She struggles, scratches him.

• Do you understand or not that this is in both of our interests? – he says.

If there is no bedsheet, in this country they say that the wife is not as her mother made her or that the husband’s attributes don’t function properly. The gossip builds immediately: look at why he has remained single for so long, the sadness has drained everything from him!

(p. 9) Omer has no time to lose.

By morning the bedsheet was in the courtyard for all to see. With the red stain at the center like a wound.

 

Saba had not yet begun her cycle and would not bring a child into the world for four years. The mother-in-law looked down on her and with a look of dismay did not miss the occasion to called her “you headless chicken.”

 

Capitolo Two

Translated by Rose Ferraro

(p. 10)

Saba’s family belonged to a large clan that was well-known in the village. The family owned a lot of land and a lot of animals. They also had common sense, which is usually absent in people who have more things than others. Those things made the difference. But they did not feel at all different from the rest of the village. They worked alongside the day laborers in the fields during the harvest season. The large kitchen was open to anyone. “Bread, salt, and heart,” said the homeowner, Meliha, with a wide smile when someone graced their table. “The wheel turns and this time, we ended up on the right side.”

Meliha was the heart of this family. She knew neither how to read nor how to write, but she was able to follow everything with ease. She attended to the harvests and the trades, the children’s marriages, the harmony between the daughters-in-law and the marriage proposals for her own daughters alongside the aftermaths in the good and the bad fates.

Meliha had been lucky: her husband was a good man.

They had seen each other for the first time the evening of their marriage, and it had been literally love at first sight. Sometimes it happens; it had happened to them.

“I love you, here, in this life. We will spend the years that will come together. I will love you even in another place, in other lives,” he said at the start.

“It’s enough for me that you love me here, now,” she laughed. “In other lives, I leave you free.”

(p. 11)

With time, besides love, Meliha had also earned his trust. She had earned a lot of that land that at times burdened her.

She felt this burden in the moments in which she was at risk of losing herself, immersed in a thousand jobs and a thousand worries. Meliha had had a lot of occasions to savor all of the flavors of power. But at times her power seemed bitter.

In the meantime, her first son arrived.

“Now you have put a food inside this house, but don’t forget that the other is still outside,” her mother-in-law had told her.

Then the second, the third and the fourth boys. Between one son and the other, a girl arrived. This did not disturb anyone; it often went unnoticed. The son that came after erased the traces of those silent parts. He erased her by being born. The rifle shots, with which the proud homeowner informed the village of the birth of a son, also erased her.

* * * * * * * * * *

Meliha had given birth to four boys and five girls. But the last girl had arrived unexpectedly, had arrived when Meliha had already done her job.

“Now I am inside, from my head to my feet, with all the shoes, apparently,” she had said to her mother-in-law after a couple of years.

“Even if you had given birth only to girls, you would have always been inside,” her mother-in-law had smiled at her.

“And that story of the foot that remained outside?”

“Ah, yes, it’s true. They are women’s gossip, words that are passed on from generation to generation. My dear, you entered my heart from the first day.”

“My husband’s heart was enough for me,” Meliha had responded. “And that I got quickly.”

“With your husband’s heart alone you would not have gone anywhere. The men at home are nothing else but guests.”

(p. 12)

“It will be,” Meliha had concluded, not very convinced. She would understand the meaning of these words only years later, when she also became a mother-in-law.

Meliha had raised her daughters well, severe and affectionate at the right points. She often watched them with that melancholy affection. She understood that they were not hers and that soon they would be going to their homes to do what she has done in her house since she arrived. But there she had found also love. Who knows what destiny awaits her daughters?

* * * * * * * * * *

Saba was the baby of all the children.

“This is like the bran that always remains at the bottom of the bag,” the mother-in-law teased her, pointing at Saba. “You already made good flour in due course, but then you decided to shake the sack again…”

“This is the daughter of my old age,” Meliha responded, smiling.

Saba was so small that she seemed like a porcelain doll. She moved behind her mother with her thin arms, which seemed agitated by the wind. She followed her like a shadow, into the chicken coop, into the laundry room, to the fountain, and even when she went to find relatives and friends. She separated herself from her only to go to school.

Saba was the only one of the daughters to go to school. The boys had attended elementary schools in the village, but the girls had not.

“They must learn to do housework well. It is the only thing that is necessary for them. Knowing how to read and write can bring only trouble,” said the mother.

“One that has studied is always needed in the family. But only one; the others will certainly not get bored with all the land and animals that we have,” said Habib, the father.

The biggest son, Emin, after elementary school, had been sent to study in the city and then returned to the village as a teacher. It had been he who insisted that Saba go to school. Many years in the city had changed him, and now on that question, if women should go to school or not, he thought about it differently from his parents.

(p. 13)

He had to set an example. If he didn’t, how could he have knocked on the villagers’ doors to convince them to send their children to school?

Saba arrived at school at noon to bring lunch to her brother. The village had only two collective classes: in the morning the biggest kids did lessons, and in the afternoon the smaller kids like her did theirs.

Saba feared Emin a lot because she was not really able to see him as a brother. When she was born, he had already gone away to study. She saw him rarely, only during the summer months when he returned to the village. Ultimately, he was like one of the many much older cousins that came to spend vacations in the countryside. At his arrival, he gave her the little bag of red caramels that he brought from the city. This was all; this was the relationship between brother and sister. One time he had gifted her a doll: a real doll, with brushed blonde hair and a yellow lace dress, her white bag identical to her shoes and her lips painted in red. The older sisters remained with mouths agape opened mouths, regretting not being younger like her.

“But dolls,” said the grandmother, “in a little while you will have real dolls to attach to your breasts.”

“But it will not be fun,” they had chorused.

“And I know that, but your husband will entertain you,” the grandmother concluded maliciously.

* * * * * * * * * *

Everyone behaved differently with Emin. The father treated him with respect because he knew everything. But hadn’t the poor man’s head exploded, he wondered, after years and years of studying?

The mother was sorry because she could no longer chat with him like with the others. Since he had returned, often and voluntarily he preferred to eat by himself.

(p. 14)

Saba arrived with lunch inside a showy black bag embroidered with red poppies. Emin was staring at those flowers with contempt: stuff, he thought, that the peasants like. Who knows what pleasure they find in blinding themselves near the fire under the weak light of the oil lamp to embroider those horrendous red poppies.

Emin opened the bag in silence.

“What?” he yelled. “Corn bread again? You know that I hate it!” And he hit her in the head with all his strength.

Saba received the hit in silence, without ever rebelling. She thought that it was truly unjust; she had nothing to do with the corn, nor with the other foods that the mother sent to the brother.

“You know that there is only the durum wheat six months of the year; for the rest it’s corn,” she finds the courage to respond one day.

She instantly receives a slap in the face, so she bitterly regrets having responded. When she returns home she takes her only real doll, that with the yellow lace and the red mouth, undresses it and cuts her beautiful dress into pieces. Then she throws it into the stove fire. The smell of something burning gets the mother’s attention: the doll’s hair was ash by now, and the plastic body was melting slowly and releasing that unbearable smell.

Meliha removes the doll from the fire and throws it in a bucket of water. She says nothing.

Other times it would be worse for Saba. She was standing around, waiting, seeking to understand her brother’s reactions by looking at his facial expressions, when she felt the hot liquid of urine soak her thighs. Emin watched her, disgusted, and sent her to take the bucket behind the door to clean herself. She cleaned in silence, swallowing her humiliation. Then, wet, she waited, seated, for hours until the lessons ended.

 

(p. 15)

One day, before bringing him lunch, Saba peeks at the packet inside the bag. Although she should have expected to see it, the sight of the ocher-yellow cornbread is there to condemn her because it signifies her impending doom. She decides not to go to school. She throws the lunch in the river, and goes to sleep in the barn.

At nightfall, she awakens to the sound of the bells hanging from the neck of the sheep coming from the pastures. At home she pretends like nothing happened, but this does not last long. Emin enters the kitchen and looking at his mother says:

“You have decided to withhold my lunch, which is not a wise decision, since I am the only one in this family who works for the State and brings home real money.”

At first, his mother does not understand, but then she looks at Saba and begins to realize what really happened. She tells her son that it was her own mistake, and promises that it will not happen again. Then, as Emin continues to complain, she tells him:

“Do not cry like a man begging for a piece of bread; I told you that it will not happen again. Go now, the kitchen is not the place for men.”

However, Meliha wanted to teach Saba a lesson. This daughter, she thought, who has never been slapped, didn’t bring her brother his lunch today, and tomorrow, may refuse to cook for her husband: it always starts somewhere.

But it will be the first and last time she punishes her. Of course, this is if you do not count the marriage that she will impose on her a few years later.

She calls her.  Saba follows her into the yard with little steps. Taking the nettles from the garden and striking Saba’s bare legs like she did with her other daughters upsets her. Saba has thighs so thin and skin so white and delicate that Meliha does not feel that this is right. She looks at the big walnut tree and gets an idea. Meliha walks to the barn. She returns with a donkey’s rope in her hand. It’s only for a few minutes, she thinks, to scare her. After all, it is fear that saves the vineyards from thieves, as they say. She bends down and ties her ankles together, like the

 

(p. 16)

hens she brings to the market. She lifts her and hangs her upside down on the branch of a walnut tree. Saba lets herself go completely, her thin arms are open and they are mingling with the branches of the tree. She is like an upside down scarecrow.  

Saba does not cry or beg to her mother. Meliha’s heart is tight, but she wants to ensure that she gets her point across. It’s for her own good, she thinks, it’s just for her own good. This punishment will only last two minutes, to scare her…

Concealed in the dark of the yard, Meliha hears a call from the inside of the house. She does not completely understand what is said, so she approaches the door. She goes back inside to address the issue: someone always needs you in a family of this size. She forgets about Saba.

After two hours she frantically runs outside. Trembling, she approaches the walnut tree. She sees this daughter of hers there, swinging slowly in the wind. She touches her, unties her, and pulls her down. Saba lies still.

Her mother thinks that she’s dead. She screams desperately and presses her to her chest. In this moment Saba opens her eyes. She had fainted, perhaps from the cold or perhaps from the fear.

Meliha cries and laughs at the same time.

-What have I done to you, my daughter? What have I done? I almost killed you, may my hands dry up to the elbow…

Saba will always remember this night. Her mother kept her by her side until dawn. She kissed her hands, her feet, her face, and her light hair.

That night Saba thinks it would not hurt if her mother punished her a little more often. But it will never happen again.

 

Capitolo Three

 

(p. 17)

The village was hidden among high mountains. He who traveled through them seemed not to be in touch with anyone or anything, except for time. If your heart did not stop while passing through the gorge of those mountains, you were lucky, according to an old song. But this danger was not eminent, because it is rare that someone passes through Kaltra.

Kaltra: blue. Blue like the water that flows from the bowels of the earth to the center of the country. Kaltra was also the name of the river that descends down the mountain and runs towards the sea. It ran under the arched bridges made of white stones, it ran along the destiny of the proud mountaineers.

The mountains pierce the sky like sharp knives. As if they wanted to cut these existences out of the world. It is not like the world had offered them much, not even the things they really needed. Yet no one in Kaltra felt isolated. They felt as powerful as the stones of the tombs that enjoy eternity, unaware. The past was the only certainty and clinging to it ensured survival.

The people of Kaltra live on pastoralism and on those few lands that stretched at the foot of the dirt road like a narrow blanket on a large bed. Prosperous lands, but not prosperous enough for everyone.

No one ever knew exactly which district Kaltra belonged to. The poor mountain people, descended into the city for the usual affairs for which their grandparents (p. 18) and great-grandparents had always come down, had once been told that they were now part of another district. At the end of the day, Kaltra was simply a nuisance, for any district.

The white houses were hidden by trees and dense vegetation, but were near each other, contrary to what one may imagine of a scattered place.

At the center of the village, in the square, there is the bust of a great warrior. They call him great, because they had completely lost the traces of his identity. They no longer know what era and what war he belonged to. He must have fought in a war at some point, but only the oldest people remember him. On the other hand, his thick mustache had resisted time. He was known by everyone as “The Mustache,” and at night when it became dark, children would sit next to the bust and sing the polyphonic songs of the area.

The only café in the country was near “The Mustache.” It was only for men. They served the usual things, Turkish coffee and raki. Sometimes, to go with the raki, the owner prepared a plate of feta, two fresh onions, and the unavoidable fried sheep’s entrails that were available everywhere at that time. For parties they grilled goat on a skewer.

The bar did not have a name but everyone called it the name of the owner: Osman. And Osman made money. He was always open every hour of the day. Sometimes even in the late hours of the night, when some exiled sole collected and dispersed the remains of his sadness or his pain in the smoke of the raki.

Everything happened at Osman’s: marriages were arranged, beasts and lands were sold, the arrival of a male child was celebrated, and the people had fun.

 

This square is also where the collapse of the Buronja family began. The same old story of the wheel that turns, destinies that sink, and allow others to emerge.  Habib, Meliha’s husband, is involved in (p. 19) an absurd story that would change the lives of everyone, especially Saba, who was still a child at this time.

It is a tranquil autumn day and Habib is coming home after a chat with the men of the village at Osman’s. Near “The Mustache” he sees a group of young people screaming and making a lot of noise. Kids, he thinks, and smiles. But as he approaches, he notices that two of them are fighting in the dust that rises from the dry earth. A real fight, perhaps over a girl that they are both interested in courting. Then he sees that one of them is his son. He decides to continue to walk because the boy can handle the situation himself. He would make a bad impression by intervening, his son would appear to be a coward if he had to be saved by his father. He turns his head another time. His son’s eyes are wide, his face is turning purple while the other boy squeezes his neck and relentlessly screams – I’ll kill you, you understand, with these hands I’ll kill you! – Without his son uttering a word he understands his cry for help; it is like the cry of a wolf isolated in the snow that is surrounded by death. The other boy is beside himself, he can no longer control his anger.

Habib comes back, he throws himself on them and tries to rescue his son from the ferocious hold of his adversary. There is no way, it is impossible. But he must rip these hands from his son’s neck, hands tied by the trap of destiny that has already been decided. He finally rises to punch the boy, who tries to escape the blow by moving away, but does not have time. As he punches him, his grip opens, and the boy falls forward heavily. Habib grabs his son, who begins to breathe regularly.

At first, no one notices that the other boy is no longer moving. They think he is just exhausted by the trivial fight that started out as a game. Then they try to raise him, but he does not react. His eyes and mouth are wide open. Habib is worried. He shakes the boy and calls him by name, but it is useless. He tries in every way to revive him but there is nothing more to do.

 

(p. 20)

Dead, from a punch to his left ear.

        There are no words to describe Habib’s desperation. However, his feelings of great regret were of concern to nobody but him.

        He left to have a word with his friends, and watch. They bring him to me in a qefin, – cried the mother of the boy, 18 years old, wrapped in a plain white sheet. Curse the hand that killed him. May you never find peace, nor may your ancestors nor the next seven generations, and may the women gather and bury pieces of their children!

        Never has a curse become a reality so quickly.

        After the curses came the funeral rites, and the period of mourning that lasted 40 days, although for this mother it would last many years.

        The police of Ahmet Zogu went around asking for details. The future King Zog I, who was looking to modernize the country, never missed an opportunity to intervene and impede the accomplishments of the Kanun.

You should go peacefully, – said the relatives of the dead boy. This doesn’t concern you, it is a matter just for our family.

The poor Prime Minister did not know how to make this community understand that laws exist for governing the country. These people, rightly so, don’t want to understand. They have seen plenty of wars, governments, laws, but thanks to the Kanun the people could govern their own lives. Each area follows their own Kanun, in the north there is that of Lekë Dukagjini, and in the deep south the Kanun of Labëria.

In 1923, the government is in turmoil. The following year a priest, once exiled to America, would return to start the first democratic revolution in the country. However, it would not last long: he knows that he can’t hold power with only sermons of God. In this savage country, where it is easier to rise to power than to keep it, laws and punishments were needed.

 

(p. 21)

After 40 days of mourning, two men from Habib’s clan, together with an imam and two members of the Wisemans council of the village knocked on the door of the boy’s family. They want to avoid a vendetta. In a village this small, in which people create alliances through marriage, a vendetta would destroy many lives.

The family of the deceased is quite poor, but all in all they are dignified people.. The mother did not want to come into the large room of men to receive condolences, but her mournful wails penetrated the walls and gave everyone a chill. The words of the men were lost in the hoarse voice of the mother, in her grief stricken lament.

The imam did not dare speak of loss but only of the consequences of a vendetta against the family of Habib. He spoke of the debt, yes. The family of Habib incurred a great debt of blood, and the wise men are here for that; to establish the conditions, the rules, for paying the debt.

We have one die so young in our community, what would another serve? Gentlemen, let’s resolve to use the light of reason, and not go ahead with more deaths that will not bring anyone back to life.

While they were proclaiming these words, the door of the room opened and the mother entered. Dressed entirely in black she approached the imam, her face full of scratches not yet healed, and dragging behind her a long black veil that fell on the floral printed qilim. She did not even turn around to gather it. She stopped in the middle of the room and pointed towards Habib, staring in his eyes. “This man can go home and see his sons around the table every night. However, I must go down to the cemetery and hug a grave of black earth. Out of here, everyone out…” But she was unable to finish her words. Fainting in the middle of the men. The women entered the room and attempted to revive her.

 

(p. 22)

        One with the violet water, another with the bottle of raki. Near the body, the black veil covered the cheerful colors of the qilim, also forever covering the colors of his life.

        Meliha immediately understood that it would be impossible to talk about peace between the two families. She knew what she had to do.

        Fridays, better known as xhuma, the day in which the mother would go to the cemetery to visit and cry for her son. Going, accompanied by the other women of her family and others from the village. A procession of black veils fluttering in the air. The wind carried their words of sadness even before they left the house.

        The xhuma was part of their refusal to forgive; the procession concealed a woman who should not have been there at that moment. A black veil covering her from head to toe. Trembling, trembling for the vendetta hanging over the head of every male in her family. Trembling from the pain for this poor boy who had died so senselessly. And also, trembling for his mother. The contact with the cold ground on which they were sitting brought all of the women, even her, a powerful sadness, a dialog with the dead and above all with the death she wanted for herself.

        Why are you here under the black earth?

        Soon night will fall.

        In the cold earth, what are you doing here?

        Death o death, give him back to us.

        They immediately noticed the presence of Meliha. Not everyone is able to create rhymes like her.

        The other women immediately fell silent and anxious waiting for the reaction of the mother of the deceased.

        In that moment of silence, the voice of Meliha was heard again even stronger.

        When darkness descends,

        The mother’s heart will burst,

        Son o son, oh heart of mine,

        You have left me without a farewell.

(p. 23)

        Meliha dried her tears and did not give anyone time to intervene.

        Leave us alone, she said.

        The other women quickly left. The two mothers remaining, facing each other, in the middle of the tomb of earth covered with flowers. Meliha reached out and offered her a cigarette, and with a gesture to not show refusal, she got up and accepted it from Meliha. Here permission to smoke allowed to just two categories of women: those suffering from profound grief and those who are already old. Usually all of the older women who smoke are the ones who experienced profound grief when they were young.

        I came here to make peace between our families, she said.

        Half of our land is yours. This will not bring your son back to life, but neither will the death of one of my sons. This story stops here. I give you my condolences. I am sincerely sorry; I would give all my land and all possessions to not be in your position. . .

        She  will remember these words years later when finding herself in the other woman’s place, she will survive nevertheless.

        While leaving, she turned and said:

        I had forgotten. . . after you have finished mourning, your son Omer will marry my daughter Sultana. We will become one family and the peace between us will be a serious thing. I don’t want to leave any possibility of a vendetta for the following generations.

        Wise woman, Meliha. Land cannot seal the peace, only a marriage can create an indestructible alliance between families.

        Habib came to know that his wife had put things in place. He said nothing, what could he say? Since that fatal day, he has been at a loss for words.

        So they found him, without words,  and without life, in the middle of his lands a few days later.

        He died of a broken heart they say in the village. Poor him, poor everyone. A boy who died by his hand, the vendetta that loomed over the heads of their sons, and even (p. 24) to lose the land that their ancestors gave him after so many sacrifices. . . The heart could not bear it.

        His death signaled the decline of the family. Land divided in half, harvests gone bad, wars, taxes, marriages and daughters dowries, are things that when they find you in decline give you a forceful shove to quickly end up at the bottom.

 

Chapter Four

Translated by Wendy Berrios

(p. 25)

        Sultana and Omer’s marriage is celebrated one year after the mourning. It is a marriage announced without a drum roll. Everything has the flavor of a commemoration. This wedding opens the wounds of both families again, those wounds that do not even heal after a hundred years.

        On the evening of the wedding, the new moon shines. What a fortune, someone comments; the newlyweds can ask the new moon for anything. But what could two like them ever ask for? They can only wait for another moon to return, as that old one is worn out. The way that they imagine long, winter nights worn out without love. But they are wrong. Their short, married life turns out to be everything but a worn out, half moon.

        They encounter each other by chance before the festivities finish. She goes to the bridal room to rest for a few minutes before the dinner: she will have to bear hours of chatting in the room set up for women. She leans on the bed that has been redone with care, full of embroidered pillows and notched covers, and takes off the red veil that squeezes her head.

        For the same reason, he escapes from the garden under the vine where the men’s banquet is set up. He does not know where to go, all of the rooms in the house are occupied. Guests who have been staying here for days. Women of the country who have been cooking for weeks. The bridal room comes to his mind. Just a few minutes… a few minutes and then he will return to his wedding’s long and sad night. Dawn brought (p. 26) up amongst men who after some glasses of raki say jokes about the new husband’s duties.

        He slowly opens the door. She does not move at first, she thinks that some woman of the family has come to ask her how she is. He sees her curled up; her arms crossed and her knees against her chest. She shows an infinite tenderness, she shows love. He feels the water of the Kaltra river, which breaks the dry bed at the beginning of rainfalls. The love is also born like this: an image that softens you. Omer’s love is born at the end of a day in which his marriage is sadly celebrated.

        The house is still in confusion the morning after. The marriage was not like the rest, but the execution of the matter is the same. The only thing that is missing is joy. Early in the morning, Sultana goes down wearing a green dress that matches her eyes. A pair of yellow gold, dangle earrings with red stones. The shadow of the stones stretches on her neck and dances every time that she moves. Remembering this day after her death, everyone will say: “How beautiful she was, it was the nur of the death that made her so beautiful.”

        She offers the women coffee accompanied with a glass of rose syrup. She starts with the most elderly, she bows down as a sign of respect and they take the cup and the glass as they give the usual wishes for the son. The qilim that completely covers the big room’s floor does not facilitate the task. At times, it has strange folds: after all the confusion from the evening and all coming and going from the morning nobody had the time to pull the sides of the qilim. Sultana stumbles, falls to her knees, and a glass falls to pieces. The thing that should not happen in any marriage already happened. The thick wool blanket was not able to save the glass or the fate of the bride.

       

(p. 27)

The elderly cover their eyes with their hands. The misfortunes for these two families never end. Broken glass in a marriage: the fear of all brides and of all ladies of marriageable age.

        -This marriage will go wrong,- an old woman with only one tooth that sticks out from the upper arch dares to say.

        -It’s not for sure,- says another one who is younger- There is always an antidote to every prediction.

        Two women of the family run into the kitchen. They get three other glasses that are the same as the one that broke and try to ward off the fate. They brusquely throw them on the ground one at a time. The sound of the glass shattering is heard three times. At the end, silence falls.

        The voluntary breakage of the three glasses will not save Sultana from death. With her, also goes her daughter who did not have time to get to know this cruel world with her parents. In return, she will have all of the time to get to know the mother:  they bury the daughter in her arms.

        The debt is settled forever, even if the marriages between the two families are not yet finished.

Chapter Five

(p. 28)

        Omer is once again married. After the marriage, he hoped to be able to return to his usual things, to his dearest habits. But there are those damned rituals that take you around with the wife. Family visits, lunches and dinners, the third, the fifteenth, the fortieth… The mountain people, as if they did not have enough burdens to carry, continue to respect these centuries-old traditions. On the positive side, in this second marriage of his, there is the fact that everyone already knows each other. No new in-laws nor new hundred-year-old aunts. The wife changes but the family is always the same.

        The visit of the ‘third’ is the visit that the new bride makes to her relatives on the third day just after becoming a lady. Filled with gifts and accompanied by her husband, she goes back to her mother to make her see how happy she is with her new life. It’s truly a celebration for everyone.

        Instead, the feared visit is that one of the first day, the so-called ‘Monday morning’: the worst thing that can happen to a bride. After that visit, she never turns back. ‘The bride was not how her mother had made her. Keep her associated with the disgrace that will cover you and all your relatives’. It usually finishes like this, but other times it is experienced with blood.

        Saba returns on the third day. It was almost obvious; nobody doubted her. She follows Omer in silence. An awkward person dressed in bright clothes with her chest decorated in heavy gold jewelry. A tiny, colorful creature who walks with small steps, lost in the shadow of her husband.

(p. 29)

        Omer calmly smokes his pipe thinking of everything else. He lived the exact same scene ten years ago, but it had been different. Omer held his beautiful Sultana by the arm and felt the sun’s rays catch on their heads. That sun that illuminated the smile of both of them.

        But is it still the same sun? Omer would really like to ask the sun if it had maintained the portrait of happiness with Sultana. He would like to close his eyes and remain asleep under this new, deceptive sun. He walks under the same rays but cursed; everything is different: both his wife and himself are different. Above all, what had changed compared to the other time was what he expected from the future after the visit of the third. We are not the ones who change, we simply do not adapt to our changing expectations. Now, he is indifferent to everything:  third, fourth, seventh, a hundred years, what importance do they have? At this point, the future is only a pond full of mud for him, a sunset to contemplate in solitude. But what solitude? The raki will keep him company until the last days of his existence.

        Omer understands all of this well, he understands it effortlessly. He is curious to know what that stupid hen that follows him more loaded than a mule without ever complaining can possibly expect after the third. Contrary to what Omer thinks, Saba does not have high expectations except that perhaps he is worthy to give her a hand by carrying the weight on his shoulders. But she does not dare to ask for anything, as she will never ask him for anything for the rest of her life, even when all of her fears will be over.

        Knowing that it was just a remedy for him, Saba will try to make this miserable destiny as light as possible in her own way. If she cannot have Omer’s love, she thinks that she can attempt to not attract his hate. But she is only a child and no one has told her that this is the worst thing to do. In this way, Omer will not detest her anymore but will instead detest himself because Saba will always make him feel like a worthless (p. 30) man. He would prefer that she behave like a child in the sense that she would complain, cry, and desperately search for his protection.

        But the request for help would never arrive and after a while, Omer will get used to it.

 

*Translated by Madison London*

 

The house of Saba’s parents is made of white stone like all the houses in the country. The only difference being the roof. Her mother, Meliha, wanted red. During these hard times one of the biggest things that were still regarded as very important is the color of roofs. But she had wanted it red, red like the color of the brides. Who knows where she saw a roof like this, probably in the city. But her husband does not care to know why: his beloved wife wants a red roof? Red it will be!

Under this red roof, Meliha married off all the kids. She preferred to have the women close. So she could at least see them when she wanted and possibly give them a helping hand. She chose good families, at least no one in them can say anything. The kinds of people? She would not know whether they were good or not, they are all men, the thing that counts is family.

She felt sorry for the smallest woman, but in the end she will be well. They will have kids and she will not have time to count the years separated from her husband. What will never be? Surely, she will get old first, but deep down is it not the flesh that grows old? A husband is not like a steer to slaughter: what good does it do to be young…he will be more mature…

But here her reasoning ceases, Meliha is not very convinced of this. Ah, the women already born with a bit of a predicament. One could be built and advanced, but five? At least now she is free.  

 

Meliha hugs her daughter that passes through the wooden door. Her hand directs her son-in-law, pointing through the large room of guests. (p. 31) There her sons, blessed by God, wait seated on minder chairs against the wall. Her husband Habib, poor thing he is, quickly closes his eyes to escape the crowded house.

Saba goes into the room of women, including sisters, sister-in-laws, and baby girls. The mother only dines with the men. The third is like a real marriage, the third is the mark of marriage. She is gone, they think, the bride was in place. Of course, the groom is always in order. The groom, they say, bathes with a pitcher of water and returns clean, for the bride all the rivers in the world would not suffice.

– What do you think about the wedding? Did you like it?- Saba’s sister Bedena asks her.

All the others watch the bride and burst out laughing. She blushes.

-Wait, wait, it’s only the beginning,-Esma, another sister, says-the honey comes after…the more you move along the sweeter it will get…

Afrodita, one of Saba’s sisters, is missing, but her absence from the family reunion is forgiven. At this point, she is different from all of them. Afrodita was transferred some time ago to the capital and these occasions do not have meaning anymore.

The dinner goes cheerfully, like always when the women are all together.

 

This evening the bride sleeps with her mother. She will share the bed with her husband in her house for the rest of her life. Under the parent’s roof, one can do without hugs from the groom. If only it was for her, Saba could do without it forever.

The mother enters the room and finds a seat on the side of the bed. This seat is small as well as her daughter. She sits beside her mother in silence. What can she ask that she does not already know?

Saba slowly places the painted clothes and leans everything on the chest at the foot of the bed.

(p. 32)

Seven days after Sultana’s death, Omer’s family returned the dowry. Everything was closed in this chest. The gowns that Sultana would have brought to parties, from births of kids to funerals of the old. All in a chest: aspects and colors that life contains are closed in there.

Meliha gets up and moves the clothes. Then slowly opens the chest. The smell of the quince permeates the air for an incredibly long time, until the next season. The time to support old fruit with the new. The time that never ends to support dreams.

Meliha lowers herself to find something. When she gets up, she is grasping a shining pair of earrings in her hand. Two red stones wedged between yellow gold in the watermark. Long and brilliant, they hang like the shadow hanging on Sultana’s life cut in half.  

-Get them, daughter, they were here favorites.

-Why do you give them to me? We are four sisters,- says Saba.

-Because you are the one who takes her place, your destiny is her destiny,- says the mother.

-There does not exist the same destiny for two sisters,- Saba responds to her. -No God would write the same page twice. I only take the remains of her destiny.

Then Saba lies gently on Meliha’s lap. The mother wraps her arm around her daughter’s shoulder and pulls Saba in for a hug. Watch the pale face, the small bosom, the hands like a baby of which the two reexamine the henna remaining from the wedding.

Her baby here is nothing like a baby, she is a woman that will take on the world of kids, will get up at dawn to water the white roses in her garden, will uproot the weeds in the green grass, will host strangers that lost their way…Then she will die one day, we are all rooted to the seed of death.

(p. 33)

Before dying she will think about her mother with another view. The perspective of which she will look at is the precise life, weaved into thousands of other lives. She will understand that this was destiny. But she will want more time for it. Now she can only hug her and hug her again. She has time until the morning, then everyone will return like before, will remain rocking in the lost tenderness from the darkness of this night.

-Sleep, my baby, sleep.

No woman in the world would want the remains of the life of another.  Above all,

he who remains has the face of a desperate husband. This is the last thought Meliha has before switching off the light and waiting for the light of sunrise.

 

Chapter Six

(p. 34)

After four years the headless chicken finally gets pregnant and gives birth to a daughter. She resembles Saba, and like the mother-in-law says: ‘she seems like a stupid chick in the rain, just like her mother’. Why did this blondish, thin girl like ‘toilet brushes in the bathroom’ have to end up suitable for her son? This is a conviction.

The troubles for Omer never end: one can find them in the three dumb daughters, who take after their mother. The daughters follow their mother everywhere, like shadows. It seems like the mother brings them from her earlier life, that they are always belonging to her, only to her. Outside the house, the father confuses the daughters’ faces easily, and cannot even remember their names.

The declaration of their birth was not an easy thing. They found offices in the city where they want to go one day and return the next. At times it was not even worth the pain of doing it immediately. Often the baby does not reach the first year of life, and then they would have to declare the child’s death. One could wait a year before going into the city, so thus, there became a lot of dead babies and one trip solely for all of them.

When Omer went into the city to register his three daughters, he was accompanied by his first cousin. His cousin’s wife prepared a dinner for the men. The raki bottle is in the center of the table without any counted glasses.  

(p. 35)

You see, thinks Omer, that his cousin is a real man: his woman does not dare to take away the bottle until it is completely empty. It is only to substitute it with another full one. But he instead at home has to fight for every glass and finishes and goes to the basement to drink directly from the bottle.  

After dinner they accompanied him into the matrimonial room: nothing should ever be lacking to the guest, he cannot by any means be put to sleep in the kitchen or with the children. While his cousin’s wife took the covers to prepare a place in the kitchen for her husband, Omer heard her say to the girl:  

-This is the only thing I was missing, to leave my own bed to a drunkard.

Omer’s last thought before falling asleep is that words of this kind would never come out of Saba’s mouth.

The morning after the cousin accompanied him to the office. When Omer said the name of the village, the employee let out a laugh:

To you mountain-people everything arrives late, including the notice that you are no longer a part of this district. By now it has been two years.

This experience, already lived by other, older people from the same area, repeats itself.

Omer returns to Kaltra while the dark covers everything. He does not say anything to the mother or the wife. He is tired, eating dinner in silence and then going straight to bed. <<I am responsible for doing another trip, here is what it means to be a father>>, he thinks for a moment before slipping into dreams.

The second time goes better. He arrives in the other city that is very calm and overflowing with raki. An employee fills out the forms: many memorized dates, and then Omer tries to guess possible numbers. And the names? Who remembers the names of these stupid women that one finds in their house? He never learned how to call them. If he wants something, usually, he says: ‘Hey, you, bring me some water’.

(p. 36)

Now to explain to this man with the pen that he waits eagerly for you to write.

 

*Translated by Ellie Palazzolo*

Not at all shocked, even accustomed to this scene, the employee suggests some names to help him. At first, Omer says no, then, convinced, affirms: -Yes, of course, yes, I remember, that is her name, thank you-. Once he was correct by pure chance, the other times unfortunately he was not. Two of his daughters, when they went to school, discovered that they had different names. To their delight. The worker, in fact, was a refined person and had written down beautiful names. In primary school, the “lucky” daughters, had names unusual for country people – Sofija and Lola -, in silence, they thanked this employee who had saved them from the names chosen by their parents.

-But what differences does it make? – Omer defended himself before his mother and his wife. – Ultimately it is just a name, one stupid name that is only used to be called by others.

He did not really succeed at understanding why people became so angry about something that one does not see, does not touch, and does not feel. Something that does not bring either wealth or luck. And so how is it that in his family they give such importance to something so foolish? Maybe because his house was inhabited by to many women: he knows who it is who pays attention to foolishness.

 

Years pass between the births of these stupid women and the harvests: hard grain, wheat, Turkish grain…but never enough.

Then there is the other harvest, the great harvest: that of the grappas of good grapes to distill the transparent liquid that lightens Omer’s life. A grape harvest always insufficient for a truly happy life.

During these years, between one part and the other, between one harvest and the other, sometimes Saba has bruises on her face. She never says a thing about it.

One day, about a year after the wedding, the mother-in-law takes her aside and says to her:

• Your husband beats you, your husband honors you. Pay no attention to the women of the village (p. 37): if you leave here, do you think someone will open their door for you to take you into their home?

Saba understands the message.

 

After three daughters, when they had almost lost hope, finally the son arrived. Destiny decided this, Saba must take her revenge. On her mother-in-law and all her sister-in-laws. Her son Luan is blond with blue eyes, like the three little chicks brought into the world before him. To Kaltra blondes were not viewed well. But her mother-in-law had never made any comments, either on the color of the hair or that of the eyes. This time it was a son, even if he was blonde. Seven nights and seven days of celebration for Luan, and Saba finally ceased to be the stupid blond who trotted along the courtyard. This boy changed her rank. The shotgun in Omer’s house no longer hung on the wall.

 

Chapter Eight

 

In those years Saba lived in a very big house with two of Omer’s brothers, the wives and children, and the almighty mother-in-law. The house had three wings, one for each family, a courtyard where there was the oven, the water well, a bathroom for everyone, and where the three sisters-in-law, under the command of the mother-in-law, did the everyday things.

With the passage of time, a spirit of such solidarity was created between the three sisters-in-law such that each one of them considered the other’s children their own. If one was unwell, the others covered up in front of the mother-in-law, doing also her work. If the mother-in-law denied one the permission to leave and find their own mother, the others found an excuse to make her leave the house.

With the power they acquire becoming mother-in-laws, sometimes the women spent time waiting with happiness to grow old.

 

It is winter, and one day Saba decides to ask the mother-in-law to go and say hello to her family. She knew that the battalion of her partisan brothers was in the area and maybe they would pass the house. Saba is still a new mother, her only male child was born recently.

-My Nuora,-responds the mother-in-law,-do you think it the case to move yourself? With the Germans who could arrive at any moment? The fright would not be good for you, the milk could leave you, and then who thinks of Luan?

Saba does not reply. In the end, the mother-in-law was right. But the desire to see her brothers again or even to know how they were was great.

They said terrible things about the Germans. Other than the Turkish and the Greeks, [per non parlare poi di quegli allegroni dei peppini]. The other day at the village fountain she heard a gruesome story. The sister of one of her neighbors that lives in Bushat found herself alone at home, the husband and everyone else went to the funeral of a relative. That morning the Germans passed in front of the house of the poor woman and the dog barked, attracting their attention. They suddenly turned around. They saw that mangy dog that ate his bowl. From his helmet, for accuracy, because the dog at the place of his bowl had a German helmet. Two of them had turned their faces, then they came closer. The woman hearing the sounds was running for the stairs with her son in her arms. She wanted to reach the cellar: hide there, she would have waited for her family. The two Germans saw a shadow and began to shoot. Then they ran to reach their companions who had not interrupted their march.

That night, when re-entering the house, the family found the young woman sitting on the stairs. With her head resting on her chest and with the bundle attached to her breast. The baby continued to drink milk from the mother, who looked like she was sleeping. She had only a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. Her lips by now had become blue.

Thinking about these stories, Saba worked with the others and meanwhile she cries in silence.

-Saba, -proposed her sisters-in-law,- we can cover up for you. We will take care of Luan, and also everything else. But return before dark.

Saba took the shortest street, extremely steep. The house of her husband is on top of the country and she had to be quick. It was snowing and everything is white, a whiteness so dazzling that it made it difficult to distinguish things. Walking down she saw the whole valley: everything was calm, everything was flat. There was not a living thing on the street. It was the time of the wolves.

When she arrived in front of her family’s house, she sat and breathed with difficulty. She ran like a rolling pin. She knocked slowly, but there was no response. Not even a murmor came from inside, not even the sound of a baby. She knocked again.

-Mamma, it is Saba. Rubie, Rubie, -she tried to call her sister-in-law.

A white curtain moved in the window, then on the steps. The door opened halfway and her mother stuck her head out.

-What are you doing here at this time?- Meliha scolded her.- Your mother-in-law gave you permission to go out with this snow?- Saba entered without responding.

Inside the room with the fire she recognized the shapes of her brothers. They were in three. Her nephews were huddled around their fathers, the sisters-in-law were sitting on the qilim and no one was speaking. Saba ran to hug her brothers and she cried murmuring;

-I knew that I would see you, I felt it. I knew it….

One of her brothers was missing; the youngest of them all, Myrto. They said he was on a mission in another area. Saba sighed in relief. Thank god, they were all okay, all okay…

-Wait for the dark to leave, -they said. -We have to meet our companions.

Her sister-in-law Behije rested coffee close and sat herself next to her husband. Behije waited, she was in the last month. Her husband Isan passed to find her about nine months ago… He did not even know that he was about to become a father. He was crazy with happiness.

Saba sipped the coffee, but she had not yet finished it that she heard a shot in the courtyard and then kicks at the door.

-Open, you are surrounded! Open up!

They brought them all to the courtyard. The official highest in rank told the men that if they spoke they could save their lives.

-Lost time, -responded Emin.

-The women, the women have nothing to do with this, -said Isan.- Let them return inside.

-I decide this, -responded the official. -But we will see which is your wife…

-If you touch her, you will regret it.

-What, you will kill me? We will see, which is your wife?

-Those civilians that were with them indicated towards the woman with the stomach.

-I see that she did not lose time while you were away. Don’t tell me that you are happy for the birth of a bastard.

The official came close to Behije to touch her stomach but Isan made his body a shield.

-Damn, take it up with me if you have balls.

Insults flew from one side to the other passing through the interpreter. But strangely the responses arrived before the interpreter had done his work: the language of violence does not need to be translated.

The German official pointed his gun towards Isan’s forehead.

-I have had enough of you all. Speak or I will blow your brains out. We will see if you decide to speak first.

-He took away the gun and got a rifle. He opened the bayonet resting on Behije’s stomach.

-You speak or no? Maybe I will do you a favor: I will free you from a bastard which you must give your name.

A spit arrived in his face before he had finished the phrase. Without even cleaning his face, the German forced his hand on her stomach. Behije did not have time to see. She fell on the floor with her guts out, rather with the baby out. She put her hands above herself to protect herself. It was the last movement she made. [Una scarica di mitra la prende in pieno sulla fronte, sul corpo e sul bambino.] The same shower of bullets arrived also at the three brothers.

The other women, the official saved.

Saba, the mother and the sisters-in-law carried the corpse of Behije and cut the ombellical cord. They cleaned the baby and covered him in the clean blanket that the mother had ready for him. Then they sewed the stomach opened by the bayonet. With a needle and thread. Combed and dressed in her best clothes, Behije. This is how they buried them, together, one next to the other.

The only thing that Saba wanted to know was who had informed the soldiers. She found out years later, when she understood that knowing it would not change anything. She did not feel hatred nor desire for revenge. The spy was a member of the national Front, the party alternative to the Communist party, that saw the Germans as passing allies. He would be the one to tell everything to Saba before she died, sure of not her forgiveness but of her silence. Her family would still pay highly for this confession. But Saba would not tell it to anyone.

-It does not have any more importance, -she said. -It was the war’s faul. It made everyone beasts.

That day, when Saba was late, the sisters-in-law warned the mother-in-law. They heard the gunshots but no one had noticed. Then, seeing the darkness, the women went down to find her.

When they were by now close they understood hearing all the heartbreaking screams that came from the courtyard. They saw the red snow that sometimes changes color underneath the dusk. Saba, her mother and the two sisters-in-law screamed throwing one corpse from another. They had faces bleeding from scratches. The three dead brothers still laid on the snow. The night brought a wind not much colder.

From that moment Saba always wore black clothing. Even the handkerchief on her head was black. She did not allow anyone to sing at a wedding in the family. Except at that son’s wedding.

But then life was new again, she busied herself with her little daily things and with the cries of her children. Saba knew her destiny well. Sometimes turning between the stones of the tomb of her dear family she spoke to herself. [Diceva che la morte ha tante strade sconosciute e questo e un suo diritto, come e un nostro dovere cercare di dare ai morti il silenzio e la pace.] But in this silence she had found until hers, of death, to follow every day the street that was brought by them. She had all the time she wanted to prepare.

She began her life after the war. She rebuilt destroyed houses and she provided marble headstones for the dead. This time it was different from other wars. Saba realized that she had remained on the right side. The neighbors that maybe did not want to mix themselves, because “the wars come and go, it is better to do your business”, they were considered enemies. On this point Saba harbored some doubts, but what enemies? She knew them since she was born….Then she thought and rethought, and one thing came out to understand: this time the after war period would last forever.

The war comes, she thought, and you find yourself in the middle without wanting it. After, there are those who remain on one side and others on the other side. Maybe because of casually made choices. Or because of reasons that had worth only in that moment. But you are not able to explain anything about things past, it does not have importance that you were thrown from one part to follow your oldest brother or favorite cousin.

Saba had never read Il Capitale and she did not even know what communism was. But she was the same communist. No one cared about the word.

“Communists” were those who fought or lost their beloveds in the war against fascism, they had explained to her. Period.

Then, even if she did not understand, slowly slowly she began to like this thing for other simpler reasons.

Saba found herself more than 30 years old in the fifties. They gave her husband a job maintaining the Commune. Even if, as always, he was in company of the grappa, the paycheck came home intact.

“Tomorrow I will go to have two chats with the secretary of the party”, said Saba. And her husband became like a little lamb. Today she would say the she was blackmailing him. But because of this the women in her country blackmailed him for his whole life.

In those years Saba found a job outside of the home as a dressmaker of the cooperative, also she began to bring a paycheck home. It was never seen in those parts that a woman would touch the money with her own hands. Saba, with her friends, touched money and even spent it. In the country they had opened many businesses. It was no longer necessary that the mother-in-law went into the city to buy things for the daughters and sons-in-law. And no one was able to any more send a woman back to her father without her children because she did not obey her husband: it was the husband who risked ending badly if he tried to drive her away.

“Patriarchal, -the women yelled at their husbands, -a man filled with residue of the past, unworthy of creating a new society.”

In the end it did not matter much what the ‘husband-masters’ were called, the point was that the children were from the women and no one felt more threatened.

Saba went to evening school with her friends. Sometimes she even brought the children, who fell asleep around her while she read alone on the board:

“The woman: the force of a revolution”.

Between one slogan and another she finished middle school, but for her by now they were much less than slogans.

After the birth of her fifth child, at 36 years old, Saba stopped sleeping with her husband. She went to sleep with her children. Two of them were by now married, her last pregnancy coincided with the the first of her firstborn.

Saba was living the best years of her life. Her childhood was spent in a big family filled with many women. [Non si faceva in tempo a darne una in sposa che l’altra era gia in eta da marito.] You know, the sooner they go the better. The girls are like glass, if you break it it is not useful to try to glue the pieces back together. Like this, before they shatter, shattering most of all the honor of the family, they found themselves a husband young enough. Then, for some of them it went well and for some of them it went badly. Most of the time it was a question of luck. For the rest, [non e cosi anche nei matrimoni d’amore]?

Now for Saba, after many labors, a point had arrived in which things simply were what they seemed to be. She worked, she sent her children to school, she had a house without a huge tribe of her husband’s family. She had many friends that came and went from her dress shop with clothes newly stitched by her. You can say in five words that she was finally living: she was the master of her own life.

 

Chapter Nine

 

One day, in a meeting of the cooperative, the secretary of the party spoke about the opening of a big “Magazzino Popolare” in the village center. Everyone together had to choose a shop assistant. After different discarded hypotheses, Saba raised her hand and said:

-Lisa, I propose Lisa, she studied and knows how to do the bills, she is educated and nice…

The secretary of the party looked at Saba very perplexed. Was she drunk in the brain? An interned foreigner to be re-educated, to sell at the “Ma-Po”? And if she steals? And if she tells propaganda to the farmers during work?

-If she tries, to steal, we will fire her immediately, -said Saba.- Where do you want her to escape from this mountain? And regarding the story of propaganda, poor girl, she was screwed by love, according to me she does not even understand our affairs.

The secretary of the party convinced himself and at the end Lisa had the position of secretary.

Lisa is Italian and her husband Wilfred is Austrian. They brought them from the capital on an afternoon in the spring. Everyone in the center had helped at their arrival. These things were not a new thing for anyone. They were arranged in abandoned ruins, close to the house of Saba.

The first of the neighbors to go to find them was her, Saba. She made a dessert, a revania (an Albanian lemon cake), and one afternoon she knocked on their door with the baking tin in hand.

-I came to visit, I know that you do not know anyone yet…

They remained with open mouths. Then they let her enter. When Saba got up to return home it was already dark.

Lisa arrived in Albania with her first husband, an Italian engineer, in 1930. Then he died in a traffic accident: and to think that he came to build the road. Lisa, once a widow, decided to remain anyways in Albania with two small children. It was already the golden times which are praised: “Hurrah Vittorio Emanuele King of Italy and Albania!”. During the war she was hopelessly in love with Wilfred, an Austrian who arrived in Albania right after the invasion of Poland in September of 1939. Maybe it was the leak of the Reich, who in order to vacate the frontier had to conceal their political motivation, with the consequence of making themselves suspect to some counterparts. They were married and they survived the war.

In 1945, before the Iron Curtain, the government had offered Lisa an opportunity to leave Albania to return to Italy. She wanted to, but only with her new husband. No, they said, she was able to go to Italy with her children, but he was not allowed to leave Albania. Lisa had gone around all of the offices of the Foreign Minister and then the Central Committee of the party, but they were not helpful: Wilfred had to remain in Albania. Who knows why. It was said by everyone: that he had been a spy for the Anglo-Americans, that he was a spy for the advanced Germans in Albania to find Jews! But the truth was never known. Like this in the end Lisa did not want to leave Albania without her beloved Wilfred. But not being completely unprepared, she contacted her family and she sent her children to Italy. She thought: you never know and what if this country remained closed forever? Even if she did not believe in total closure; in the end, she decided, soon they will give a visa also to Wilfred and we will go together. How can they close a country? It is not like a business. Dear Lisa, sweet Lisa, sad Lisa did not know that even a country could remain closed like a business. Just like when the children of the landlord, after his death, not yet knowing what to do with themselves, for the moment they pulled down the portcullis. Then they were not able to reach an agreement and the portcullis stayed down forever. Forever or almost. Ruining like this the things that were the most dear to their late father. After, the thing that remained was the smell of mold mixed with that bitterness of memories inhabited only by some rats trapped inside. Forever.

Wilfred got the visa to leave Albania in 1992, with Lisa. But they were two visas with different destinations: him for Austria and her for Italy. Lisa wanted to see her children again after a good 47 years, and Wilfred did not want to face another migration. He only wanted to die in his homeland.

Lisa and Wilfred will remain until this time in Saba’s country. Inside that half destroyed house that has the name ‘house of the enemy.’

A house destined to house to other families coming from the capital, composed of a mother with two children. Beautiful. Interned for prostitution. Prostitution meant many things, the girls found the way to have quite a lot of fun even in this village filled with stones. And with men.

The other family instead was huge. Grandfather, grandmother, father with wife and two children. All from the capital. The elder was a member of the partity, from the government, but then, how Saba said, “he fell from the fig tree”. He had done something big on top, and they had sent him to the socialist village to re-educate himself. They had to till the soil, while the children went to school. In conclusion, the thing that Saba and the other inhabitants of the country did even without being interned. But the difference was that Saba was born in this condition, those from the capital were not.

 

The friendship between Lisa and Saba lasted more than 40 years. They shared recipes, they made rugs into the frame and sometimes Saba brought her two sisters because they read the coffee grounds.

“Look, look well, -she said to her sister Esma.- Is there some opening to the outside world? This poor woman was screwed by a man, she has not her children in years…”

When someone made note to Saba that the opening that she looked for in the coffee grounds was against the principle of the party, she responded: “I do not understand anything about politics, but this does not cause any harm to anyone. How could Lisa be the enemy of anyone, Lisa who is not able to even kill a hen? She wants to go to her children, that is all.”

Saba realized that people like Lisa were paying unjustly. In the end she thought that every system had its weaknesses. Lisa was proof of this but, how they said in the country, the dry grass burns as well as the green grass. The green grass burned for Lisa the best years of her life far from her children and from her rich family selling shoddy fabrics and poisons for the parasites to the farmers.

 

Chapter Ten

Saba with her gaze lost in the village center folded dry laundry in the courtyard. Like how her endless days fold themselves, lost in the clouds of the near forest. And also in the forever things.

Her sisters arrived today. Dear habit, this: she could not wait.

These sweet afternoons drunk on the words that came from infancy and shook the hearts of everyone.

They sat themselves around the fire, on the qilim, and they opened their sessions.

 

When the four sisters had their meetings, seeing them all together was a laugh. One was crazier than the other. It affected their extravagance and, to say everything, their eccentricity. Afrodita came with the coach that stopped in the central square of Kaltra. All of the country watched. Between the hairstyles and clothes refined by Afrodita and the bizarre umbrellas with which Esma split the air, how could they pass by unnoticed?

Bedena instead went to the meeting hoping to be noticed as little as possible. She did not die of the desire to be there but she could not miss it. At least in the eyes of the country: that is to say in her own eyes.

Bedena took everything seriously: she remembered the bites that Saba gave her when she was getting her first teeth and rivendica ancora qualche stoffa in piu che la povera esma ha avuto come corredo.

-Friends you choose, parents no. What can you do?- Saba says to her friends.

-You see,- says Bedena instead to her little friends that sometimes go to get coffee with her,- dogs and pigs enter into the house of my sister, but to me never an invitation.

When they refer to Saba with the words of Bedena, she smiles:

-Who wants to come to find me. My house is open to everyone. But I do not act like a servant for anyone. Once, a long time ago, when I was another Saba, I spent my days being a servant to my mother in law, to my brothers in law and to my husband. That time then is finished, that Saba there is dead-. And like this she ends the discussion.

 

Esma and Afrodita arrived from one piece. But today they did not still see Bedena. When the other two ask about her, Saba raises her shoulders: -Apparently, the peace in this family is only a dream.

No one replies anything. However everyone knows the oddities of Bedena.

But after a little Bedena arrives. Like a deceiving rain that beats against the windows of the heart in July. She opens the door and before saying hello to her sisters sitting around the qilim she looks at Saba and says:

-Good, my sister, good. It is time that they also know you for what you are.

-This- she continues the uprising to Esma and Afrodita- she placed Lisa at the Ma-Po in Kaltra, Lisa the Peppina. Poor girl, she was not able to work in the fields together with the others…Lisa with her delicate skin is not like us who were born farmers. Now she has saved herself, thanks to my sister. What can you do, in this life some are from the mother and some are from the stepmother. I, my sister, am from the stepmother! The milk that we drank together became haram for you!

The two other sisters did not understand much. Afrodita did not want to understand more for years and Esma, like the airhead she is, did not even listen to Bedena’s words.

-Come on,-Saba said mildly without considering those heavy curses,- do not get angry, at least let me make a proposal to you. You are my sister, what show could we have done in front of the others? And then you did not even go to school…

-At least you can be quiet, understood? You must be quiet. Why did you think of Lisa? No normal person would think of the Peppina to sell in our business. Which of our friends is more educated than me? Everyone took the same evening courses, except the Peppina…. And you, naturally. But let us forget your studies, in the end you went more than others to bring lunch to our poor brother, if not who would have sent you to school….

Esma carefully fixes her lipstick watching in the silver mirror who had pulled out of the black leather bag. It was always like this. She arrived before the others with her summer or winter umbrella, depending on the season. Once she sat she opened her little bag and took her silver mirror and her lipstick holders, identical to the mirror. Then it was time for coffee, and Esma, who read the grounds better than everyone, had to work hard on the fate of her sisters. One look at the side of the little mug and she told everything to you, but really everything: the future is written there and there is nothing that escapes from her bright eyes. Weddings, pregnancies, deaths, every joy and every sorrow, she was able to see with perfect precision the moment in which they would happen. And she was able to read the future of everyone except herself. But non it is not still the time for coffee. Esma puts her lipstick in her bag and asks Bedena:

-What, did I miss something? What are you doing standing? You won’t participate in our meeting today?

-Here is another one. Did my mother give birth to all of the idiots in the world? You,- said Bedena to Esma, -instead of turning around with that red mouth in front of the whole country, it would be good for you to help your mother-in-law and your sisters-in-law…

-Now it’s my turn,- challenged Afrodita. -I see that you have put everyone in their place, missing only me, right?

-With you I won’t even waste my time. What do you know of our affairs? But I am done, I am going, I am going. Have fun, dear sisters, have fun without me. What you do to your relatives you should not do even to your enemy.

Bedena left like she came. Today the meeting would be without her.

After a little while Esama, Afrodita and Saba got lost in chatter, forgetting about Bedena and the grits that are able to plant themselves everywhere and with everyone.

-My Saba, how you have grown. The children give so much joy, yes, but it is also true that they send you to the Creator before you are due, -always began Afrodita. Already, like always: because she was the oldest sister, and she did not have children.

She joked around with her future, Saba thought, and now she found herself alone like an abandoned tombstone.

 

Afrodita was married early and she left life in the village early. She married a military doctor that had studied in Italy. Then he found a job at the military hospital in the capital. Afrodita followed him and suddenly became urban. Suddenly she had forgotten her childhood in the fields of maize and of the goats that she had to milk every night with her sisters. She had escaped that smell forever, like she has escaped the appearance of a farmer. She cut her long braids to have her hair in carre like was in fashion, she burned her last bridge with the country girl.

-The woman distinguishes herself from the man with her long hair, -Saba said when she saw her with short hair.

Saba went to find her in the city only one time. That was enough for her: Afrodita left her behind the door for hours. She waited for the dark to open it. Like this the neighbors would not be able to see that farmer in black clothing and with a handkerchief on her head was her sister.

Afrodita was a costume designer at the opera theater. She was always dressed fashionably. They came from the same stomach, her and Saba, but with different destinies. Saba however never was jealous.

“It is her life,- she said with a smile, -in the end you live with neighbors, and sometimes also for neighbors”.

The only thing that Saba did not forgive was the question of children.

Afrodita maintained that in the first years of her marriage that her husband did not want children. He wanted her all for himself.

“Afrodita, there is time for children, we must enjoy life a little”, said her husband.

For Saba, this strange brother-in-law was in the French way, because if he was Turkish style he would have had children right away. If not, for what was he getting married? You take a woman home to fill her stomach. For her the Turkish way was to say how she wants the tradition, how it is always done. Instead the French way was all new things. Types of life different from hers, thus incomprehensible. But not condemnable. She did not understand, everyone here.

“What happiness can a woman find from her husband if not children?”

It had been like this for her and for many in her country. “A woman without offspring is like a dry trunk without branches”, she concluded.

That brother-in-law doctor had given his wife French medicine, never seen before, to not have children. Mysterious concoctions so that she would not become pregnant. It happened like this for years: her husband would go on top of her when and how he wanted, and her stomach never grew.

Then, after some years, Afrodita was tired of the love stunts: the house was silent, the only sound was the grounds of her husband, but those would not fill the emptiness always. Did they not have enough fun? She wanted a stomach, like all of her sisters, like her friends. And more she could not take any more questions from her neighbors or her acquaintances that disapprovingly asked: still nothing?

Like this he stopped with those damn concoctions, but at that point the success was already irreparable. Her husband continued to go on top of her but her stomach did not want to grow. They had the doctor visits and the remedies, but nothing. Saba always said that those things had “burned your eggs” inside your stomach, but really all of them! Like this that killer of a husband was able to continue to have fun without thinking. After all the cross of not having children was carried more by Saba than Afrodita.

And then, looking at her well, Afrodita did not have that particular aura that is known of a mother. And it is not a question of having children, many women have it without giving birth, but her no, she did not have it. Afrodita was happy, in the end maybe she was not upset at all, who knows that it was not the life she always wanted.

“It is the only life we have, my Afrodita, we have a right to live as we please”, said Saba.

She shocked everyone, Saba, when she spoke like this. She had sacrificed her existence to do what others expected of her. But in the end maybe the life that she lived was what she wanted to live, and for issues of probability her chose life coincided with with conformism and tradition. Maybe it was only luck, and Saba was saved not wanting her existence to be damned.

According to Saba, her life had traveled and continued to run across exactly the street that Allah had chosen for her. Tirava spesso Allah in ballo, Saba, but more out of habit than out of faith. She had her theories, sometimes based on some historical truth and sometimes heard here and there and then reshuffled and served on the same plate. A plate of strange flavors, that continuously asks you they have put inside, but you eat it without asking for other explanations.

Saba said that on the third day after a birth Allah wrote our destiny on the back of our necks: what we will do, what we will become and most importantly what we will never become.

“It was written like this”: with this routine she sometimes closed their discussions. But unfortunately she was able to read only what He had written.

“If I have to read only Him, then why write” Afrodita asked just for clarification.

“To not confuse our destinies, -responded Saba. -To understand exactly the time of departure for everyone for the big journey, the one without return”.

“But if she changes her mind, the writing cannot be undone, and Allah remains trapped in his words. In conclusion, it makes you leave because there is no way to change your ticket. Also Allah understands only that the system invented by him has holes”, Afrodita continued to tease.

“I told you that he uses different writings, yours maybe has only the date, then at first he will decide the year of departure. But if you continue to break like this, it will not be hard for you to find the first free post”, Saba concluded annoyed.

 

-My Saba, how you have grown. The children give so much joy, yes, but it is also true that they send you to the Creator before you are due, -Afrodita said after Bedena had left slamming the door.

-It is the only life we have, my Afrodita, we have the right to live as we please, -responded Saba. And soon after she added: – It was written like this.