

## THE LAST WILL

a novel

based on the Çamëria genocide

By

### Perparim Kapllani (P.I. Kapllani)

2013

### Table Of Content

ACKNOWLEDMENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 The Last Will by P.I. Kapllani

Published by: In Our Words Inc.

www.inourwords.ca

Editor: Brandon Pitts/

Cheryl Antao-Xavier

Cover design: Sokol Papathimiu/

Shirley Aguinaldo

Book design: Shirley Aguinaldo

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Kapllani, Perparim, 1966-, author The last will : a novel based on the Çameria genocide / by P.I (Përparim) Kapllani.

ISBN 978-1-926926-30-8 (pbk.)

1. Genocide--Çamëria (Albania and Greece)--History--20th century--Fiction. I. Title.

PS8621.A62L38 2013 C813'.6 C2013-903685-7

All Rights Reserved. Copyright ©P.I. Kapllani, 2013. The author retains all rights to the contents of this book. This novel is a work of fiction based on factual and fictional accounts of the massacre at Çamëria. Characters are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental.

PRINTED IN CANADA

###

###

###

### DEDICATION

This novel is dedicated to the Cham minority of Greece in their ongoing efforts for survival.

##

## ACKNOWLEDMENTS

Over seventy years ago, seven thousand ethnic Albanians, "Chams," were killed, and fifty thousand others were expelled from their homes in Chameria, modern day Epirus, in Northern Greece. Even though most of the exiled Chams have passed away, their descendants, which make up around two hundred and fifty thousand Chams, never gave up on their dreams to return home.

"The Last Will" is a work of fiction, but its story is based on real elements. Names of the characters or places are either coincidental or are used fictitiously.

I would never imagine that a previous short story would grow inside me and become such a huge piece of work. Time had passed and I saw myself going back and forth to my first inspiration, rewriting the story all over again.

I want to thank Mr Sali Bollati, one of the few Cham survivors, whose messages have been very inspiring during my work. He was a nine-year-old boy at that time, when his family members were killed in front of his eyes. He was able to visit his hometown Paramythia, recently, after he got an American passport.

I want to thank "In Our Words" and the publisher Cheryl Antao Xavier for publishing " A Fistful of dirt," which was the first draft of the novel, and was published in the 2010 short story collection, "Beyond the Edge." Some very helpful reviews on Zoetrope, virtual studio of Francis Ford Coppola strengthened the idea of rewriting it and developing most of the characters of the novel.

Special thanks go to American writer Victor Lana from New York, who gave a very supporting review at www.zoetrope.com and Albanian writer Faruk Myrtaj for his review in Albanian.

Without the help of Brandon Pitts, this novel would not go anywhere. Pitts, who is an editor, novelist and poet himself, was one of my very first readers, who edited my work and exchanged ideas. Brainstorming was the right way to go ahead and expand this story about one of the most forgotten ethnic cleansings that happened in the middle of Europe.

I want to thank Ilir Lena, the director of Albanian- Canadian TV, who was always there to promote my work to wider audience.

I want to thank The Albanian Canadian Association, especially Dr Ruki Kondaj, who organized the book launch on June 27th, the day of Genocide of the Albanian Chams.

 "Chameria" forum, one of the yahoo groups on internet, which was established by the Albanian Chams abroad, was the very first place, where the main character, Zylyftar Shahini's fate was sealed. He has a mission to accomplish, bringing the deeds of twenty Albanian Cham families in front of an International Court of Justice.

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## CHAPTER 1

June 27th, 1944.

It was right after midnight, when the first gunshots were heard in the little town of Paramythia. Abedin Shahini turned around in his matrimonial bed and opened his eyes, but didn't understand what was going on. He stretched his arm in the darkness and touched his wife, who was still sleeping, her body cradling their little son. Even though she was still asleep, she wrapped her arms around the little boy, as if she were trying to protect him from the unknown. Their son Muharrem wasn't even ten-years-old.

Abedin felt weak, as he placed both hands on the bed and got up. He lit a candle and looked outside, feeling eager to know what was going on. He could see the town's main square clearly. The clock tower was showing 1:00 AM.  He could hear gunshots in the distance. After a few minutes a strong explosion burst out, shaking the stone foundation of the three storey tower, which belonged to Shahini's family.

His wife jumped out of bed, frightened, as the ten-year-old boy screamed. Abedin grabbed both of them at once, and all three of them fell on the hard wood floor, holding their breath. They lay in each other's arms for several minutes, until the gunshots dispersed in the darkness.

Abedin stood up and looked out the window. It was as if the end of the world had just begun. He could see that all the Albanian homes were set ablaze. The Greek soldiers of the National Republican Leauge EDES, led by Napoleon Zervas were smashing the wooden doors with their kicks, breaking into all Albanian homes, one after another.

One of the soldiers came so close to the house, Abedin could see the Andarte's thick moustache curling down upon his cheeks. Abedin watched in horror as the Andarte pulled out a butcher's knife and stabbed a pregnant woman in her belly. He stuck his hand through the open wound and pulled the embryo out, holding it from its neck like a rabbit.  He threw the embryo away, and with his bloody hands, pulled the trigger, shooting an old man who intervened to protect the young woman.

This can't be true! I can't believe it, he thought. I must be in one of my bad dreams. Better the ground breaks apart under my feet and swallow us all, than ending up in the hands of these criminals. It must be true that Zervas' forces are hunting down the Albanians.

Abedin turned to his wife for an aswer, but Mynevere was getting their son dressed. He noticed that her lower lip was shivering from the nightmare. He came closer to the window and saw an old woman holding something round in her hands, screaming. A group of twenty Greek soldiers let her go, as the old woman was crying for help. She managed to run away, but after a few steps fell on the narrow street paved with cobblestones. Abedin saw that the round thing was the decapitated head of a child. The woman was looking for her son, in the mean time holding his head in her hands.

Abedin almost vomited and felt dizzy. He covered the window with his wide shoulders, making sure that his wife would not see what just happened.

"Go to the basement," he said to her, but she didn't move.

"I will not leave from here. I am going to die with you," Mynevere replied, and her eyes bursted into tears. Abedin felt driven by his own blood. He felt the blood pumping through his veins. He looked desparate.

The little boy's face was pale. Mynevere was shaking from head to toe. Abedin grabbed the little boy's hand and stepped down the wooden stairs to the basement. Mynevere grabbed a few bags quickly, struggling to get as many clothes as she could. It was going to be a very long trip to Albania.

In the basement, Abedin opened an old suitcase and took out a safebox. He put the key in the lock and turned it. He applied a code and rotated the four gears, one after another, clockwise. He opened it and set it on the table, then went back to the suitcase and took out a pile of documents. He placed them inside the safebox and locked it again. Muharrem was watching his father with wonder, trying to understand. He shut the box and gave the key to his son.

"Take this key wherever you go," he said to his son. "I'm going to place this safebox under the floor. When you grow up, you have to come back here and get these deeds to the land. Do you understand?" Abedin asked him.

Muharrem shook his head from left to right, like all the Albanians do, as his tears fell down on his cheeks.

"Dad, where are we going?" he asked his father, his voice shaking.

"We are going to Albania to visit some relatives," Abedin said.

"Are we coming back?" Muharrem asked.

"With God's will, yes!" Abedin lit another candle and walked around the basement. He stopped his feet in the northeast corner of the basement and started to hit the floor with sledge hammer. Muharrem closed both his ears with fingers, but kept watching his father. It was too much noise for him. After several times, the floor finally gave in.

Abedin wiped the sweat from his forehead and pointed his finger toward the safebox. "Do you see this? It's called a safe box, and you need a secret number to open it. I gave the code to my cousin Kristo, who lives in Arta. I'll not give it to you, since you are just a child and still don't understand what is going on," Abedin whispered to him. He placed the box into the hole and covered it with cement compound.

It was already dawn, when the first rooster was heard singing. There were no more gunshots, only a few screams of the Albanians dispersing in the air. All of the sudden someone knocked on the outside door. Abedin got up to go upstairs to the main floor, but Mynevere grabbed him by his arm.

"Please don't go," she begged him, but Abedin didn't listen. He looked at his son with despair and stepped up the stairs. He looked outside from the little window and saw that their house was surrounded on three sides, except the side against the hill.  A group of andartes kept banging on the door harder.  Abedin ran downstairs to the basement and hugged his son for the very last time. He kissed Mynevere on her forehead and opened the back door, motioning for them to leave. "Don't worry about me. I have to delay them, as much as I can so you can escape," he said to his wife.

Mynevere burst in tears.

Little Muharrem ran out the back door and climbed the old olive tree, hiding between the leaves. Holding his breath, he kept looking toward the house he left behind. His mother was standing right beside the tree, watching from all the directions for any sudden moves from the andartes, who would come closer at any moment. A group of andartes dragged Abedin from both arms and tied him to one of the three olive trees. Muharrem's heart was pounding harder against his chest. Unable to help, he didn't know what to do to stop them. They were six andartes who walked backward and formed a line in front of his father.  Someone said something in Greek, and in a few seconds they opened fire. Muharrem saw Abedin falling down, covered in blood.

Muharrem screamed in despair. His scream was heard from one of the andartes who looked in their direction. Still shocked by the nightmare, Muharrem didn't hear his mother shouting at him to get down from the tree. He felt her hand touching one of his legs and looked down.

"Hurry up, son! They will catch us, if we stay here," his mom begged him. Muharrem dropped down on the ground and ran after her.

The bullets flew from all directions. The side of the mountain was steep and it was very difficult to climb. Muharrem noticed other groups of Chams, who were running away, as they were trying to hide in between the wild bushes. Saint Bartolomeo's day of the Chams had just started. Old men were dragging their feet. Their faces were dried from thirst and hunger. Young mothers were holding the little kids in their arms, who kept crying. All of the sudden Mynevere couldn't get hold of herself and fell from a rock as she climbed, breaking her right leg. She tried to get up and leave, but felt so much pain deep in her cracked bone. Muharrem reached his mother and pulled her by her arm, but she didn't move. The thorns of the wild berry bush scratched her face, and her eyes were filled with tears. She was afraid and exhausted to death. He had never seen his mom so worried and frightened. His little skinny hands were shaking. As soon as he touched her hand with the tips of his fingers, he heard a lonely shot from behind. Muharrem looked back and noticed an andarte who was holding a German Mauser rifle toward his mother. He was shocked and didn't know what to do.

"Go, son, go! He will kill you," his mother screamed and her voice faded away. She closed her eyes slowly. The Greek Soldier pulled back the rifle and reloaded it again, but Muharrem didn't move from where he was at. His feet were not obeying his orders and his mother's last words were still sounding in his ears. He had so much desire to help, but he couldn't. He looked at the killer's face and thought that he saw that man somewhere. It was a typical unshaved and unhappy face of an ordinary villager, tanned by the sun. He looked pretty similar to the Greek villagers around the neighborhood, but showed so much hate. The andarte crossed his eyes with the little Albanian boy and stepped back. His dilemma didn't last too long. In a minute or so he lifted the gun once again and pointed at the boy.

Muharrem closed his eyes and waited for the moment he was going to open fire. A few seconds passed and nothing happened. He opened the left eye a little and noticed that the Greek soldier's hands were shaking as he was trying to pull the trigger. The Greek soldier was feeling weak. He couldn't kill the little boy.

If I have to run, I have to run now. He might change his mind and kill me at any moment. I have to do what my mom said. I have to leave.

The Greek soldier was still in a dilemma. Muharrem made up his mind and ran as fast as he could. He bent close to the ground and dispersed between the wild bushes. He heard the gunshots coming from behind, but didn't stop. He ran and ran until he fell helplessly on the ground without breath. He couldn't recount for how long he ran through the bushes and finally arrived deep into the woods. He noticed his socks were soaked in blood and his lips were cracked because of thirst. He really wanted to have just a drop of water, nothing else. His eyes were sleepy and his knees couldn't stand anymore. He sat under an olive tree and breathed with difficulties. It became dark and the sky was filled with very little stars. A warm wind was flowing from the Jonian Sea. The crowns of the olive trees were whispering a sweet song to his ears.

"Sleep little son, sleep!" Was it the wind, or the unforgettable voice of his mother? He felt his head heavy and within minutes he lost his consciousness. Muharrem had no idea how long he fell asleep beside the tree, when someone touched him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes with fear and noticed a twelve-year-old boy standing in front of him, as he was holding a black mule from the bridle. He got up quickly with fear and stepped away to leave, but the older boy relaxed him, speaking to him in Albanian.

"Mos ki frike- Don't be afraid." The older boy held him from his arm and patted him on his shoulder in a friendly manner.

"Come on!  Let's join the other Chams in the woods," he said and lifted him on top of the mule.

The trip lasted for days. More than three thousand Chams died because of hunger and disease, but the little boy Muharrem managed to live. A few weeks later, he ended up in an orphanage in Tirana, the capital of Albania.

##

## CHAPTER 2

Seventy years after, June 27th, 2013.

The Albanian Ombudsman, Gent Kryeziu, looked at the calendar and sighed deeply. Today marked the anniversary of the genocide of Chameria. His office was flooded with numerous phone calls made mostly by the members of the Cham community.

 His speech made at State TV several days ago, stating, "no one needed a permit to come to his office," was giving its first results. He put his eyeglasses on and looked at them carefully. The delegation of The Chams had just arrived. All ten of them were nicely dressed in black suits and republican hats. It was 9:00 AM, when Muharrem Shahini, with a delegation of Chams, entered the office of the Albanian Ombudsman. All of them were grizzled and hardly standing on their feet. Two of them were holding tight to their wooden canes. The uninvited guests saluted the senior Albanian official and sat on the chairs around the oval table.

He noticed that on the left side of their collars, the badge of Chameria Patriotic Association was embroidered. Some of them were holding their briefcases, which were filled with very old documents, whose papers were falling apart. Their fingers were shivering because of the heavy weight of their age. After his hesitation, which lasted a few seconds, Gent Kryeziu stood up and approached every one of them to shake hands. The old men got up one after another, presenting themselves to him. Three of them were from Tirana Capital; two arrived few days ago from United States, one from Canada. The rest were from southern cities in Albania.

Gent Kryeziu went back to his chair and listened to them with a smile on his face.

"Dear Ombudsman," the oldest Cham spoke to him. "My name is Muharrem Shahini. Even though I am able to come here today, I am waiting, day after day, for death to come and get me," he said with his shaky voice. "I'm very sick, but I need to put things right before I don't have any time left at all."

"Thank you very much for your visit and I hope you feel better," he said to him, as the old man breathed heavily, looking left and right, to get the approval of his colleagues.

Muharrem's eyes were vibrating unintentionally because of the tears. The other visitors agreed with him by shaking their heads, and kept looking toward the Ombudsman.

"This door is open for anyone who wants to come and meet me. I am here available to listen to all your concerns," he said. Even though he was willing to help, Gent Kryeziu had the impression that he had just made a promise that would be very hard to keep. The dimensions of the Cham issue were very wide and many factors would play significant role into a comprehensive solution.

"Mr. Gent Kryeziu! You are a lawyer of the people. That is why we came here today. We just heard news on TV about your meeting with your colleagues in the Western Balkans."

"Yes, it's true. I am going to meet with them for three days and we are going to discuss the situation of the minorities in our respective countries. In the mean time, I have to inform you that I just came from a meeting with our prime minister mister Bardhyl Gurakuqi, who gave his full support for your cause," Gent Kryeziu confirmed.

"We thank our prime minister for what he has done so far on our behalf. Our Chameria Association represents a strong community of more than three-hundred-thousand people in Albania and abroad," Muharrem said, while coughing. "We would like you to discuss with your Greek counterpart, the right of the Cham minority to return home. Most of us are not even allowed to visit our homeland like other tourists, for God's sake. We request our properties to be returned to us, and Greek citizenship. Even though we die every day and are hardly standing on our feet, it is unacceptable that we are not allowed to see our homes, with the pretext that we are a danger for the security of the Greek State."

"Our properties are worth 2.8 billion US dollars, sir," said Zenel Kosturi, one of the Chams.

"I am going to talk to The Greek Ombudsman and tell him personally about all your concerns, but I don't expect anything at all from this meeting. It's just a meeting for courtesy," Gent Kryeziu said. "In order to start claiming your homes and lands you need the property deeds," the Ombudsman said. "Is there any way that you can get them?"

"Some of our parents were careful enough to take them before they left. Some of us don't have them at all," said Zenel Kosturi.

 Gent Kryeziu took a deep breath.

 "Gentlemen, unless you have the deeds, I can't help you."

Muharrem's hand began to shake, holding his cane. "My father hid most of the deeds inside a safebox, which he buried under the cement floor of our basement. They might still be there, untouched. I remember when my father did that. He broke the cement floor and paved it over again. After he showed me what he had done, he said, 'Son, a time will come when you will return to this spot to take back our homes. The Greeks are driving out the Albanians, but we will never give up.' " As he said this, Muharrem's eyes were full of tears. "There were twenty deeds hidden by my father in that safety box. Most of us have the deeds in there."

"Twenty deeds?" Gent Kryeziu opened his eyes wider than usual. His voice sounded stronger and in a higher tone.

"Yes sir! Twenty original deeds right there. My father, Abedin Shahini, was a partisan with Ali Demi Battalion, part of the 15th Regiment of The Greek Liberation Army, ELLAS," Muharrem repeated firmly.

"I see," Gent Kryeziu gasped. He looked around to see if the rest of the Chams were just as surprised as he was. Three of them got up from their chairs and came closer to Muharrem, since they couldn't believe their ears. Zenel Kosturi smiled and patted Muharrem on his shoulder. Four other Chams just gasped, caught in surprise by Muharrem's testimony.

"I believe that, if you bring the deeds into my office, then your cases will be very sensitive and strong ones. I can present all your cases to the Albanian Government and convince our institutions to bring your cases in front of International Court of Justice. If your cases win, then we can proceed with the other cases individually, but without the deeds, I'm afraid you have no chance of winning," Gent Kryeziu said, and went back to his chair. "Someone has to go there and get them, but it can't be the Albanian Government. Retrieving those deeds is out of our jurisdiction."

"I'll ask my son, who lives in Canada, to go there and get them," Muharrem Shahini said.

"What if, God forbid, something bad happens to him? Instead of plucking your eyebrows, you are going to get your eyes gauged out," Zenel Kosturi warned. "There must be easier way to obtain the land deeds. Going to Greece might be a complicated trip for your son. Chams aren't exactly welcome in Northern Greece."

"I want him to see where his people come from. We have to show them that we never stop thinking of coming back. They have to see that we are really acting in this field. That is why I want my son to go there."

"What about checking at the Ottoman archives?" asked Zenel.

"Papers issued by the Turks are no longer recognized by the Greek government," said Mr. Gent Kryeziu. "Only the original deeds will do."

"Then there is no choice, my son must return to Chameria."

"The problem here is that the deeds are hidden under your basement floor, though they are more authenticable than the copies you might get from the Ottoman archives, the Greek authorities might not accept those documents either. We will have to prepare your cases individually. We are not going to stop and wait to hear what they are going to say on this matter," the Ombudsman said.

Muharrem Shahini listened to him with wonder, lifting his hand up after he finished. "I don't just have the land deeds in that safebox, but some pictures of my family which disappeared in flames, pieces of our history. My son will go to his homeland, where he belongs, for the first time ever during his entire life. We are a displaced people. We have to show the Greeks, that we are still alive. Some of us might die, but we have our kids who will follow our cause." Muharrem Shahini finished his speech and looked at his friends with triumph.

The rest of the Chams applauded and congratulated him.

The Albanian Ombudsman felt his enthusiasm going through his veins. He patted him on his shoulders. "Good. The original documents will affect our results significantly. If I have a Greek document, a land's deed, which has to be issued by the Greeks, I can take this case to the International Court of Justice." The Ombudsman's speech was interrupted several times by their frenetic applauds. They shook hands with the Ombudsman, continuously interrupting each other.

"We hope this is going to be God's will," one of the old men said, as he shook hands with Muharrem Shahini, who was almost crying.

"I have to finish this job, before I die. This is my last will for my son, Zylyftar. I will call him tonight," he said to the group of The Chams.

"Muharrem," Zenel Kosturi said, stepping back, letting him leave the office first, "I am urging you to think things over before you make any bad decisions."

 "This is our homeland's will. I've already made up my mind. And one more thing: I know my son very well. He is the only person who can do this," Muharrem replied.

##

## CHAPTER 3

Dead people don't answer the phone. If you call and there is no answer, that means I am dead.

His mother's voice sounded as if she were crying over the line. It sent a shiver down his spine and he felt anxiety bite at his heart. The old woman had worked hard her entire life. For several years she had been working in a construction company, where she had to wash ceramic tiles all day long. In the afternoon, after coming home, she had to prepare dinner for the whole family and take care of her little son. Zylyftar Shahini remembered her very well, when he was coming back from the elementary school, and saw his mom lying on her bed crying after a stressful day. It was the same routine all over again the next day. She had to wake up at 5:00 AM. Zylyftar felt his mom walking into his room, even when he was asleep, giving him a light kiss on his cheek. Sometimes he used to wake up and hug Mejreme and didn't want her to go to work. He felt sorry for his mom who aged faster than usual and kept on doing hard work for a loaf of bread. Her shaking voice brought a lot of memories into his mind.

"Where have you been, son? You totally forgot about your mother, didn't you?" Mejreme argued.

"What are you talking about? How I can forget my own mother? You are my soul, my sweetheart," he said to her, trying not to show that she was hurting his feelings.

"How is it possible that you never thought about your mom? Don't you give a damn about me, if I am alive or dead?"

"Mom, I don't have to tell you how much I love you. You are in my heart. You are in my soul."

She paused and spoke to Muharrem with a lower tone. His father was saying something to his mother.

 "Don't you worry," she said to Muharrem, "I know what I am talking about."

Zylyftar Shahini understood that his father was telling her not to be so harsh on their only son. He laughed to himself; they never changed. They always argued that way, even when he was there.

"Is your wife with you?" she asked all of the sudden.

"Yeah, she's here. She is listening."

"I want to talk to her!" she said firmly. "I want to hear her voice."

"Here she is. Go ahead," Zylyftar whispered and handed the receiver to his wife, who was standing right beside him.

Ervehe Shahini gave him a sweet smile and winked at him to finish the conversation with his mom first, but Zylyftar insisted that she should go ahead. Her skin became red. In Albanian tradition the bride calls her mother-in-law just, "mother" and the mother-in-law calls the wife of her son, "daughter".

"Finish with your mom first," Ervehe whispered at him gently. "I am here and I can wait."

Ervehe had only good memories about her mother in law. As a bride, as soon as she stepped out the door, one of Zylyftar's nieces, a four year old girl gave her a bouquet of colorful flowers which were grown in Zylyftar's garden. When she took her high heels off, the four-year-old niece found two brand new Albanian banknotes worth one-hundred leks each. She cried all night long since she had to behave that way, based on the Albanian tradition, but her mother in law tried to cheer her up by bringing her food to eat, cold drinks, introducing her to the whole army of cousins and taking her to her room, when she felt that the bride needed some time to rest alone.

Zylyftar lifted the receiver. "Mom, she wants me to say something to you."

"What is it? Are you going to break my heart again? So many years had passed and I didn't see her again, since that day you left for Canada." Mejreme sobbed on the other side of the world, but Zylyftar was becoming impatient. He thought it would do better if he was impolite, just a little.

"Mom, would you please listen to me, for God's sake?" he spoke louder into the receiver.

"Yes, I am listening," she answered with a low tone, trying to hold back her tears.

"We have good news to give you," said Zylyftar.

"The only good news is the day when you will arrive here," she stubbornly said.

"Mom, Ervehe is pregnant," he raised his voice.

 "She's what? Oh, my God, I can't believe it."

"Here! Talk to her,"

Ervehe took the receiver. "Hi, mom."

"Hi Ervehe, how are you?"

"I am fine! How are you mom? How is daddy doing?"

"Oh, I am good. He is still sick, lying on his bed. How old is the baby?"

 "The baby is six months old," Ervehe said with joy, looking at him.

"Oh my God, today we have to celebrate. Ervehe is pregnant," Mejreme spoke to Muharrem. Zylyftar heard his father coughing, congratulating Mejreme. "Why didn't you tell us before?"

"It was a surprise. We wanted to wait until that day that we would come and visit you," Ervehe explained.

"Day and night I think about you. How are you feeling? Did you check the baby yet? Did you choose any name for the baby?"

"I wanted a girl, but it's a boy. His name is going to be 'Abedin,' the name of Zylyftar's grandfather."

"Is that what you want?"

"If this makes Zylyftar happy, I am okay with it," Ervehe laughed.

"Oh My Lord, my words are not enough to say what I feel."

 She stopped talking to Ervehe, speaking to Muharrem instead. Ervehe heard his parents congratulating each other over the line. She heard Muharrem approving "ehe, ehe," imagining him still lying on his bed, as Mejreme repeated the big news to him. "Did you hear what I said? Ervehe is going to give birth to a baby boy and he is going to be named 'Abedin,' after your father. Isn't it amazing?" Ervehe imagined the big smile on her father-in-law's face as he was struggling to get up from his bed and grab the phone himself. "Now, there are no more excuses. You have to come and visit us as soon as possible. We want to see our little grandson!" she said.

"Yes, we will do that, but talk to Zylyftar first. Big kiss, ma!" Ervehe blew a kiss over the phone and handed the receiver back to him.  She was able to catch the sound of her mother-in-law's kissing over the phone.

"Mom, let me talk to daddy," Zylyftar Shahini said.

"Your father's not feeling well," said his mother. "I should go. I don't want to disturb him."

She was about to hang up when Muharrem Shahini turned his head toward his wife and grabbed the phone from her hand. "Congratulations son! I am so happy that you are going to name your baby after my father," said the old man.

"Sure dad, that's the way I feel. Ervehe, too, she loves that."

"Tell her I want to see her."  After a moment of silence, he said in a hoarse voice, "Death has forgotten about me, my son." Muharrem began gasping for breath and coughing violently. The phone fell from his hand on to the floor as he passed out.

"Dad!" Zylyftar knew something was gravely wrong with his father. The line had dropped, but his father's last words were still ringing in his ears and thudding against his heart. He had planned to visit them a long time ago, but kept postponing it for a better time. Now he realized his father might die and he would be thousands of miles away unable to help.

##

## CHAPTER 4

Heart of Danforth Bar and Grill was full with customers. A huge Greek flag was hung on the entrance of the bar. Zylyftar Shahini pointed to one of the tables at the front patio, followed by Dimitris Kaztixis, his Greek best friend.  One of the waitresses came to their table in a minute and brought two bottles of Heineken and two souflaki, their usual order.

Zylyftar sipped a little from his bottle and looked at the map of Greece, which was hung on the front wall of the store. He pointed toward the map and invited his Greek friend to have a look at it. Dimitris was too busy ordering a couple more bottles of Heineken and two more souflaki, pita wraps with taziki sauce, filled with chopped roasted pork and fried potatoes, tomatoes and white onions. He pushed the second bottle toward Zylyftar and instead smiled toward the waitress, a twenty-year-old girl, with blond hair and blue eyes. It was around 10 PM in the evening and both of them were spending some time together, after the long hours at the construction site. Dimitris swallowed a big bite from his souflaki and looked for a second in the same direction, where Zylyftar was pointing.

"Why are you looking at the map of Greece? Are you planning to go there for vacations, eh?"

Zylyftar Shahini laughed at him. "Did I ever tell you that my father was born in Northern Greece?" he asked him. "He was from the town of Paramythia, if you ever heard off it."

"Oh yeah? I never thought that there were ethnic Albanians there at all!"

"There were more than fifty thousand ethnic Albanians at that time, but you guys kicked them out over sixty years ago. I want to visit my father's home one day," Zylyftar whispered.

"Why don't you book a flight and just go?"

'It's not so easy. Your government might kick my ass."

"Why is that? I don't think it should be any problem. Tourists go there every year from all over the world."

"You think it is going to be that easy? Just get on the plane and go?"

"Why not? What you are going to do over there, except spend some money, and come back to Toronto."

"Not exactly that. I wish all Greeks could think that way." Zylyftar ordered two more Heineken.

"That might be a little complicated, but don't judge things, before happening. If you want to go, just go. Don't think too much," Dimitris advised him.

"I'll probably do that," Zylyftar said and clanked the bottle with his.

"Where did you say your father lived, in Paramythia?"

"Yes, in Paramythia. He lives in Albania now. I plan on visiting him in the near future."

"When do you plan to go?"

"Probably in two weeks, maybe earlier; it depends when I can find a cheap ticket." Zylyftar became sullen. "My dad might die at any moment. I should go soon."

Dimitris Kaztixis stared at him carefully. Zylyftar's mind wasn't there. His eyes were looking far behind, thousands of miles away and the evening was over, before they knew it. Zylyftar got up first, shook his hand with Dimitris and got on his Toyota Corolla to drive home.

##

## CHAPTER 5

 "Death forgot about me, son!" A week passed and he was still thinking about the last words of his father. He grabbed the phone, but didn't dial the number, sitting in front of the TV instead, without seeing anything, waiting for Ervehe to come home from work. Ervehe worked as a machine operator at Pantheon, a medical company that specialized in the production of the medical drugs. She worked in rotating shifts and that week had to come home just before midnight. She usually found her husband lying on their bed in a deep sleep, but that night it was different. Zylyftar couldn't sleep at all. His face was yellow with two dark circles under his eyelids. When he saw his wife at the door, he waved at her for a second and looked again at the huge clock that hung on the wall.

Ervehe felt that something was wrong. "What happened, sweetheart? Did you speak to your father?"

"I am afraid he might die any moment," he said with faint voice.

Ervehe stood in front of him for few seconds without saying anything. Feeling exhausted, she went to the bathroom to take a shower. After a few minutes, with a huge towel wrapped around her body, she lay beside him. After he ignored her, she got up and put her clothes on, keeping an eye on him at all times in order to grab his attention, but his mind wasn't there. She kissed him on his cheek and fell asleep immediately in their matrimonial bed.

For Zylyftar Shahini things were different. The feeling of unease built up through the night and he couldn't sleep. At midnight he realized it would be 6 o'clock in the morning in Albania. That was the time his mother used to wake up and make Turkish coffee boiled in a pot on the stove for his father. He went to the living room and closed the door behind him. He dialed his parents' phone number again. This time his father answered the phone as if he were expecting his call. "Hello?"

"Hello, it's me," he answered, his voice trembling.

"Hello, my son. Did you not sleep as yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Isn't it midnight over there?" the old man asked him. His voice sounded like a whisper.

"Yeah, it's just past midnight, but I was worried about you." Zylyftar took a deep breath. "Do you want me to come? If you say, come, I will take the next plane."

"What about Ervehe?"

"We didn't talk about this yet. Dad, what's happening?"

"I am on the edge of life, but cannot go beyond," the old man said.

Zylyftar Shahini heard his mother's voice telling the old man not to say anything and the old man replied "Stop it; I know what I am doing." Straining to hear their voices, his eyes filled with tears as he bit his lip trying to stay in control. He felt their absence from his life so deeply.  He felt he was going to burst with longing. It was a big mistake to leave his ageing parents behind.

"You are not going anywhere, before I come. Did you hear me, dad?"

"I hear you, son! But death doesn't care. Time has come to reveal to you my last will."

Zylyftar Shahini was shivering, as he imagined his father dying in his bed, struggling to articulate the very last words. He felt his hair rising on his skin, because of the emotions. His voice was shaking, as he couldn't control himself anymore and started crying.

 "Yes, dad. I am listening."

 "You have to go to Chameria, straight to our home in Paramythia."

Zylyftar Shahini was surprised. He paused for a few seconds. "Ok, I'll go, if you say so."

"Seventy years ago my father hid twenty deeds to the land in a safebox under the basement floor in our home in Paramythia. All of our neighbour's deeds were in this box. You have to find them and bring them here to Albania."

"Do you think they might still be there?"

"Yes. If you find the deeds, than we might be able to get our homes back."

"You think Greece would allow us to come back?"

"We, the Chams, will force Greece to do that. We will take Greece in front of the Hague Tribunal. Our properties are worth 2.8 billion dollars. We will not let our homes and lands go just like that."

Zylyftar Shahini was silent. What was his father asking him to do? It was not easy. But how could he refuse him anything. He knew how much his father pined for his homeland.

"I cannot go to the grave with this on my shoulders. I know you do not feel good about it, but I have to speak the truth," his father's voice was even fainter and he had to strain to hear him. "This is all that I want from you. Your mother has not slept well for months, since the day I fell ill. She keeps a watch on me, and is scared that I am going to die any day. But death does not come. I have even laid out my burial clothes. We called all our relatives three times to come and say their last farewell, but this damned death will not take me." Muharrem Shahini seemed to be pleading with his son.

"Dad, you do not have to say it again. What you have asked for, consider it done. Inshallah, with God's will, I'll buy a ticket and leave right away. I think I must come there and see you first, and then afterwards, I can go to Greece and bring the deeds to the land for you. I don't want to waste anymore time. I am coming to you, Dad. We'll talk later when I get there. I will hug both of you and hold you close." The words tumbled from Zylyftar's lips. He was now eager to set off.

"'You need some more information, before you go to Chameria, but I can't give that information over the phone."

Muharrem coughed hard. Zylyftar heard his mother whispering. It was her turn to talk to him. She made kissing sounds first and was eager to just hear his voice.

"Come here first, son, and then we'll see. No one knows what is going to happen to you if you go to that country. As soon as you tell them that you're a Cham the Greek police might catch you and put you in jail." His mother's voice whispered her fears. "I have heard that some Chams who went back to the town of Paramythia were questioned by the police and told to leave immediately, otherwise they would be jailed."

"Mom, I am a Canadian citizen now. I have a Canadian passport. The Greek government may treat Albanians like that, but with Canadians, it's different. The Greeks cannot fool around with Canadians. If they stop me, I'll show them my Canadian passport, so they will not dare to touch even a single hair on my head. I'll be just one more Canadian tourist in that area, that's all. Don't worry. I'll go there for an hour or so, not more, long enough to do my father's bidding. I'll come home soon afterwards."

"All the Chams who went there to see their hometown were either American or Canadian citizens and all were humiliated by the Greek police. Albanian Chams cannot get past the border. If you really must go there, then I warn you to be careful." His mother sounded very worried.

"I won't stay long. Just long enough to dig up those deeds and bring them back. I have to go now. I have to make arrangements for this trip," he said to his mother.

"Come here first, son. I'll not sleep until you come here," his mother almost moaned with worry. "Then we'll see about Greece."

Zylyftar Shahini was in a dilemma. Should he listen to his father or his mother? His father was close to death. He might not live to see him. But his mother's fears were real too. What would happen if the Greek police caught him? He would not be able to grant his father's final wish nor perhaps be released in time to see him. Yet he had lived in Canada so long he felt more like a Canadian than an Albanian and certainly more than a Cham. It seemed impossible to him that a Canadian citizen would be arrested by the Greek police simply for visiting the village where his parents used to live.

After he had hung up, Zylyftar thought about the strange request made by his father in these last days of his life. It spoke of his desire to go home, where the remains of the ancestors were laid to rest. Zylyftar knew the history of his father's people well. The entire ethnic minority community was hounded out of Chameria. Greece did not recognize the rights of its minorities. The genocide against the Chams claimed the lives of over seven-thousand people. The ethnic cleansing organized by Greek militants led by Napoleon Zervas left thousands of people without homes. He heard the story first from his father.

Zylyftar Shahini was ten-years-old when Muharrem began telling him the story of his people, where he came from and why his family lived where they lived instead of their ancestral home. Muharrem showed him old pictures, treasured memories of a time when life was good for them, before they were chased from their homes. "The remains of the men, women and children who were killed in the genocide litter the mountains between Greece and Albania," his father had said many times.

"I was a ten-year-old boy, the same age that you are now," his father had said to him then, "when I escaped from that wonderful town, which was turned into a hell, haunted by the spirits of those who will never rest for the injustice done to them. My father, Abedin, was the leader of a group of five Albanian families, who were trying to escape from the Greek andartes. They shot my father under the olive trees in front of our house. We had no choice but to join the stream of Albanian villagers who were running for their lives down the mountain. The line of refugees was so long, no one was able to say where it ended. All of a sudden we heard gunfire coming from all directions. The Greek andartes had us under siege and most of us could not escape the ambush. I saw my mother fall on the ground lifeless." Here his father would pause, fighting for control, and then he would go on. "A stray bullet hit my mother in the chest. She didn't die right away. Even today I can't explain where my mother found the strength to scream at me, warning me to run as fast as I could and hide somewhere. The whole world seemed to be on fire. Our village was sunk in blood and clouds of smoke. My vision was dark and I didn't know where I was. I don't exactly remember how many hours had passed, when I found myself on top of a mule, which another boy my age was pulling with a rope. It took us three days to cross the border into Albania. I almost died from hunger," his father's voice would fade at the memory.

Zylyftar Shahini closed his eyes reliving his father's telling of the story. He knew what he must do. All of the sudden his wife woke up. She turned her back and fell asleep again. He missed her so much already.

##

## CHAPTER 6

Zylyftar Shahini tried to get rid of his dark thoughts and changed his position in bed. Ervehe, still sleepy, came closer to him so she could get warm. Her smell occupied him slowly. He hugged her and gave her a light kiss under her neck. He closed his eyes and tried to calm down and take a nap.  He had no idea how many hours had passed when he felt a soft hand touching him on the shoulder. He felt her lips on his cheek and woke up. He stared at the clock hung on the wall. It was 9:00 AM. Ervehe was watching TV, sitting on their double bed with her legs crossed.

"Hi, sweetheart, did you sleep well?" Ervehe asked him, looking toward the TV. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and felt dizzy.

He went to the bathroom to take a shower. The hot water and the shampoo's foam made him forget about what his father had said for the moment. He closed his eyes and gave up. The hot water was burning his skin and the bathroom was filled with steam in a matter of seconds. He always loved the first minutes in the morning.  He wiped the mirror and looked at himself. His face was showing that he was still anxious. Without getting dressed, he got out of the shower and wrapped his body with a towel. She hugged him and kept him tight in her arms.

"What do you want to do?" Ervehe asked him anxiously.

Zylyftar raised his arms, feeling lost. "I don't know."

"Why don't you wait a couple of days and try calling them again."

"It's not going to make any difference. I better go there and see my father."

Zylyftar sat in front of the computer and clicked on Google. He took a credit card from his wallet and put it on the table. A whole list of travel agencies filled the screen. He dialed a number and waited.

"Hello, Sultan Travel? I need to buy a ticket to Albania... When? As soon as possible. Yes, sir... When? Tomorrow, at 6:00 PM?  Is there any way I can get on the plane tonight? I don't mind to pay double. Yes, one way ticket, sir. Oh, thank you very much."

Her eyelids wiggled. "Did you say one way ticket?"

Zylyftar got up from his computer and grabbed her hands. "Yes, one way ticket."

"You're not coming back, are you?"

"Of course I'm coming back. I have to get those deeds from his old house. It will take time. I have to deliver it to him, and then return to Canada."

"You have to break into someone's house?"

"That's my father's house."

"Well, who ever is there, doesn't think so. Are you leaving tonight?"

"Tonight."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you're not!" Zylyftar was feeling nervous. Making decisions so quickly without her approval wasn't right. Ervehe hugged him, shivering from head to toe.

"I am not sure I am going to see you again," she said. He put his hand on her mouth, caressed her belly and kissed her.

 "You are pregnant. You're not going anywhere. You have to take care of the baby." He squeezed her hands and kissed her with ardor. Ervehe covered her face and burst into tears.

"This is not right. I want to come with you."

"Honey, it's dangerous for you. They might hurt the baby. I swear I'll be back soon. Relax; there is nothing to worry about."

Ervehe Shahini kept sobbing. Zylyftar looked through the window that was facing the main road. He took off his shirt and stood half naked in the middle of the room. Even though it was March, he was feeling hot.

"What I am going to do if you get killed? Eh? They don't like Chams in Greece. Do you ever think of the worst? You are going to let your little boy grow up without a father, before he is even born?" Ervehe was making her point.

Zylyftar imagined himself lying in a casket boarded in an Alitalia airliner. Then he saw the embryo growing in her belly with light speed. He saw his son standing in front of him, as he was throwing away all the diapers. His son started running and stopped in front of a grave covered with marble tiles. Zylyftar Shahini's picture was engraved on the gravestone. He shook his head. He didn't like the picture.

The streetlamp glared through the window bringing him back to the moment. A Toronto Star was sitting on the table. He picked it up and glanced through it. Pointing to a page, he read aloud, "One killed and three wounded in a night club in Etobicoke last night. Because we live here, it doesn't necessarily mean we're safe. Death follows us wherever we go. My mom says: 'If it is God's will, then it will happen,' " Zylyftar said to his wife.

She kept crying and sobbing. He remained quiet as she got up and wiped her tears.

"Something bad might happen to you. I am not going to let you go just like that. I'll come with you. Or you are not going there at all.

"Honey, you have to understand. This is my father's will!"

"That's fine. But you will be safer, if I come with you."

"What are you going to do? Protect me?"

"Oh yes. They will not dare to touch you if I stand right beside you."

"Ervehe, they won't dare touch me. You are pregnant. You have to stay here with the baby. Our baby."

"End of discussion, I am coming with you. Better find a ticket for me."

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Oh yes, honey." Ervehe approached him and put her arms around his neck. "You don't know; you have no idea how much I love you," she whispered.

Zylyftar felt her soft lips and shivered. He squeezed Ervehe in his arms and kissed her under her neck. "I promise you, I'll call you as soon as I arrive there. I can't risk everything just for some land deeds. The last Cham has to be alive and healthy. Can you do that for us Ervehe?"

Ervehe started to cry. "No, I can't. I have to go to Albania too. What if your father, God forbid, passes away? You are going to feel sorry for the rest of your life, knowing that I wasn't there."

Zylyftar began doubting his decision. He didn't speak for a while. He walked around the room, opened the window and let the fresh air come inside. The Humber River wasn't too far from their home. He would love to go with Ervehe to Albania and give a big hug to his papa and lift his mama in his arms. Why not? Five years straight he didn't see them at all – five years straight. He was burning from inside to take Ervehe to see his old house where he grew up in the outskirts of Tirana capital, above Sauk Hill, a few meters away from the artificial lake of the capital. He missed the olive trees, the fig tree, even his old dog Koraqi, who stood loyal to his parents all these years.

"You are right. Come with me. We worked so hard and we deserve to have a little vacation," Zylyftar said, hugging her.

Ervehe held him tight. "Now I feel good," she said. "I'm going to pack."

##

## CHAPTER 7

Koraqi jumped furiously, straight ahead, all the way through the front yard, scaring the hell out of a bunch of chickens, which had started to cluck and disperse in all directions. Koraqi was one of the oldest dogs in the whole area. He was hairy and chubby, but looked in a good shape, even though he was carrying many years on his shoulders. Muharrem Shahini had taken him when he was a three-month-old puppy from a summer hut in the village of Vishanj, which was located in the mountainous region of Tomorr. A shepherd gave Koraqi to him. Since then, the dog had become a permanent member of the family. Muharrem didn't need to keep an eye on the house, since the dog escorted all the uninvited, as well as welcomed guests, for as long as they were on the property.

When Koraqi barked with short and strong sounds, Muharrem understood that he did not know the visitor. If Koraqi was yelping with soft and caressed sounds, then the visitor was probably one of his relatives. This time the noise was something different; a mixture of both barks and it was hard for him to determine what the dog was trying to say.

Koraqi stopped barking, but kept yelping vaguely as Muharrem kept his eyes and ears open. He left the coffee cup on the saucer and spoke to Mejreme, who was not paying attention, but knitting a woolen blouse.

"Would you please have a look outside to see what's going on? I never heard Koraqi doing that," Muharrem said to her.

The old woman took her eyeglasses off, put her knitting needles away and came closer to the window. The ball of woolen yarn fell on the floor, as she screamed. "Can you get up and see? Our son just arrived home!" she said, running outside. The yarn followed her, caught on the button of her coat, like Arianne's string in the game of mirrors. Muharrem stepped up to the window. Outside, coming toward the gate was his son.

Zylyftar couldn't even put one foot inside the garden. As soon as he opened the gate, Koraqi placed both his paws on his chest and licked his face. Ervehe laughed at Zylyftar, who was wiping Koraqi's slobber off his cheeks with both hands. She noticed Mejreme coming toward her and her bags and suitcase fell from her hands unintentionally. She hugged her mother-in-law, as Koraqi placed his paws on the ground and shook his tail with joy.

Mejreme hugged both of them instantly, without letting them breathe or come inside. She kissed them on their foreheads. Tears were falling down her cheeks, but she didn't bother to wipe them.

They headed toward the house. Muharrem took the stick and moved away from the window towards the door to greet them. He was so weak, his right foot slid and he fell down on the floor.

Zylyftar saw his father on the ground and ran to give him a hand. He lifted his father slowly and hugged him, holding him tight against his chest, struggling with himself not to let his emotions get to him.

"Where have you been, son? You disappeared like salt in water," the old man said, sitting on his bed. His legs were shaking. His wrinkled hands were shivering. His voice muted. He couldn't speak at all. Mejreme came closer and hugged them both at once.

"Here I am, dad. I told you I'd be here soon," Zylyftar said. He pointed toward Ervehe, who was watching the moment between father and son. "Look who is here. My wife with your grandson inside her body," he shouted as the old man smiled for the first time after all those years of loneness.

Mejreme Shahini carried their luggage and put them in Zylyftar's old room, which was untouched since the second day of his marriage, the same day he left for Canada. Ervehe followed her inside Zylyftar's room where everything was still in order. The double bed was nice and clean, with the white sheets shining. The mirror on top of the cabinet was spotless, and there were so many clothes on the shelves, already washed, ironed, folded and placed in their own spot. Pictures of Zylyftar and Ervehe were everywhere: in the windows, on the walls, in the cabinets, on the shelves – filled with so many memories.

"Mejreme, hurry up, and bring that bottle of raki. We haven't celebrated yet," Muharrem yelped at her.

Mejreme opened one of the drawers and took out a big bottle of raki and handed it over to him. The old man shook it, as a line of bubbles circulated inside the bottle, very close to the cap. There was no doubt that this was one of the best homemade bottles of raki ever made.

"I have been saving this bottle for five years to drink it with you tonight," the old man said, filling both their glasses.

Ervehe asked for a glass of fresh yogurt, which was made a few hours ago by Mejreme herself. They had a cow in their backyard and Mejreme was milking her once a day, every morning.

The evening came fast. They kept talking to each other in the biggest room of the house, right beside the chimney where dried wood was on the fire. Long after midnight, Ervehe asked them to let her sleep and Mejreme accompanied her to her room. Father and son had a lot to talk about, without the presence of their loved ones.

Muharrem saw his wife falling asleep and came closer to his son. Zylyftar opened the suitcase and took out a map of Paramythia town.

"Look dad, I have been thinking, since the day that you told me I have to go and get the deeds," Zylyftar said to him in a low tone, like he was whispering in his ear, in order not to wake up his mother and Ervehe. "The town of Paramythia has a population of around three-thousand people. It's thirty-seven kilometers east of Igoumenitsa and it's nestled in the foothills of Mt. Korilas. It's the main town of the Souli area," said Zylyftar, reading aloud, pointing at the map that he had printed from his computer before he left Canada.

Muharrem smiled and affirmed everything his son said. "I am excited that you already started the research. It's good that you know where you came from."

"Actually I have more," Zylyftar said. "The town of Paramythia is built over the ancient Euroia, which was destroyed by the Goths in 551."

"Yes, I know. Our town has history, which is changed by the Greek occupiers. If you read the Greek authors, they say the Cham tragedy never happened. They talk about the killing of forty nine Greek villagers by some mixed Nazis squads, but they never mentioned what happened that one night in Paramythia...,"

"Stop right there," Zylyftar interrupted his father abruptly. "I want to know more about the forty nine Greek villagers. How old were you at that time?"

"I was ten-years-old!" Muharrem looked at his son with wonder. "You already know that."

"Let me finish," Zylyftar insisted. "So, you didn't kill them!"

"What the hell are you talking about? I was just a kid!" Muharrem laughed. "Are you playing dumb with me?"

"No, not at all! So, you didn't deserve to get kicked out from your home, since you didn't kill them. You were kicked out from your home without any reason. Period! Another question: How old was your father Abedin, when the Greek villagers got killed by the Nazis?"

"He was thirty-years-old, but he didn't fight the EDES forces. He was at his home at that time, with his family. He was a fighter for ELLAS, The Greek Liberation Army and fought for the Liberation of Greece. He never killed any Greek villager. The 'Ali Demi ' battalion had one thousand Cham fighters, who fought for the Liberation of Greece. More Chams fought for Greece, incorporated on the 7th, 9th, 11th, and 12th Greek divisions. If they compare the numbers, they will find out that the Cham Partisans were one hundred more in numbers than just a few Chams who joined the Nazis."

"So your father didn't kill those forty-nine Greek villagers...!"

"Hell no! Many Chams were imprisoned by EDES, but the Christian villagers were helping us with food, clothes and everything else. They knew we were innocent."

 "How old was your grandfather?"

"He was eighty-five-years-old. He was unarmed and got killed by EDES."

"So your grand father was a victim as well. What do you personally feel about those forty-nine Greek villagers?"

"I feel bad. They were innocent like us. The German Nazis killed them, as a reprisal for five German soldiers who got killed a few days before, when they were relaxing under the shadow of the olive trees."

"Were there any Chams in those death squads?"

"Maybe, but it has nothing to do with the local Albanian population. What happened is that the Right Wing Forces of EDES used that horrible event as an excuse to wipe out from Greece the whole Cham population. There is a letter written by Napoleon Zervas himself, sent to Janis Danis, in which Zervas praised EDES for getting rid of the Albanian Muslims, and keeping The Helenism clean."

"Was EDES against ELLAS?"

"Yes, ELLAS were the partisans, and EDES were the right wing forces who collaborated with Nazis themselves."

"How many Chams were killed in Paramythia alone?"

Muharrem sighed deeply. He grabbed a cup of water and drank it slowly. "More than six-hundred people, mostly women and children, were slaughtered by the Greek andartes."

"It's not that we were punished by the sins of our fathers. This is a collective punishment for a personal guilt," Zylyftar concluded. "Do we have any proof that my grandfather was a partisan and fought for the liberation of Greece?"

"His name, Abedin Shahini, is written in the Greek archives, and Albanian archives, as well. Look at these pictures!"

Muharrem's hands were shaking, as he bent over, in order to reach the suitcase, which was placed on top of a little cabinet beside his bed. The old man opened the closet and pulled out an album. He turned a few pages before he handed it over to his son. Most of the pictures were in black and white, and some of them looked so old, their original color turned yellow. Some of them were ripped up, but he still could recognize his family member in the photographs.

At the very first photograph, Zylyftar noticed a man in his thirties, who had almost the same features as him. The man was posing within a group of ten partisans, who were wearing military uniforms, smiling in front of the camera. The Albanians who were wearing Greek military uniforms didn't even have a clue what was going to happen next. A few weeks later the homeland that they were fighting for, was going to commit one of the bloodiest massacre in history against them, killing them all and kicking out of the country the whole Muslim Albanian population. The Christian Albanians were going to be assimilated in the years to come.

"I can't believe it that Greece killed your father, who was a partisan and almost gave his life for the Greek flag."

"You are going to see for yourself how our homes were burned and how they still stand on their foundations, even after all these years."

"How many years have passed, since June 27, 1944? Sixty-eight years?"

"I would have been ten-years-old at that time. I am seventy-eight-years-old now," the old man coughed and pulled the bottle closer to him.

"Dad, I want to take this picture with me."

"What for?"

"I want to show it to the Greeks."

"It's not going to help," Muharrem replied firmly.

"What do you mean?" Zylyftar insisted.

"I mean it's useless. The Greeks are blind and deaf, when they have to deal with the Chams.

"I am going to talk to them so loud and I am going to push them, so they can open their eyes and stop collectively blaming our minority any more."

"Greece doesn't give a rat's ass about the facts. The real story is their story, and that is it."

"Listen, dad. I come from Canada. I believe in the democratic institutions. Greece has a democratic society. I doubt I would have any problems if I speak to the Greek ombudsman myself."

"If you do that, you are going to blow your mission for good. All the Greek Police, the Greek Intelligence Service, even the whole damn Greek army is going to be after you."

"This is a joke!"

"No, it is not," Muharrem almost screamed at him. "Look where we are after so many damn years. We lost everything, not because of an accidental mistake. Greece decided for us not to exist. That's why we are here in Albania."

"Only God decides for us to exist, no one else on the face of the planet." Zylyftar lifted his finger toward the electrical lamp. It was the first time during all his life that he spoke back so loud to his father.

"What are you going to do, eh?"

"I just said that I am going to meet the Greek ombudsman."

"Then what? He is going to say "no."

"This "no' is going to be an official answer given by Greece."

'Then .., do you know how many times Greece made it clear that Chameria doesn't exist? She gave that answer officially."

"Then I'll be justified to exercise my right to exist, by sneaking around, breaking into our old house and bring those deeds back here?"

"You can exercise your right to exist right now. You don't have to ask them for permission to go into your own home. No one asks anyone for permission to go back to his home." Muharrem was feeling tired. "By the way, our ombudsman is going to talk to the Greek ombudsman about us."

 Zylyftar was tired as well. He was losing his appetite to argue with his father.  It was past 2:00 AM. After a ten-hour flight, straight to Milan, he had to change airlines and get on an Albanian Airline with a two-hour layover. His father could see that his head was falling on his chest. He was desperate to sleep but didn't want his father to stop talking. His eyes blinked a couple of times and Muharrem pushed some wood inside the fire and asked his son to get up and go to sleep.

"Dad, let's get going. We have to do this now. Show me, where exactly is the spot that your father got killed." Zylyftar handed him the map of Paramythia. He opened his notebook and took out some pictures taken from Google maps that he had printed from his computer in Canada. They were colorful pictures, with lots of details.

Muharrem lifted the map from the table and looked at it closer.

"Right here," he pointed.

Muharrem looked for the house, a small castle built in the Venetian style. He put the tips of his fingers on the little square, which was supposed to be his family home. Where was his house? Did it disappear in the woods? His fingers were shivering. They were not touching just a piece of paper; they were touching the stones, the mud, the ceramic tiles, the dirt itself, where voices of the past were coming to speak to him.

"You have to break the cement of the northeast corner of the basement. That's the spot where my father covered a safebox, which contains the property deeds for twenty families." Muharrem looked him in the eye. "We might be able to get our homes back. That's what the lawyer said."

"Dad, isn't it a better idea to get the copies of the deeds from Turkey? The archives of the Ottoman Empire are easier to check," Zylyftar suggested.

"No, the Greek authorities won't accept those. They want the originals. The lawyer suggested that the original deeds would make our cases stronger." Muharrem breathed in and seemed to wander off in his thoughts. "I was ten-years-old when my father buried the deeds. I remember that he also put some pictures in the same cache. He never thought that he wasn't coming back. Besides, I want you to see your house and show them, your Greek neighbors, where you belong and where you come from," Muharrem said.

"I hope the safebox is still there," Zylyftar doubted.

"The only way to find out is, if you are determined to go there. You need to open it by using a code. " Muharrem explained.

"What code?"

"My father used a secret code to unlock the safebox."

"And what was that?" Zylyftar asked him anxiously. He was desperately eager to hear everything, every single detail, that would help to open the box, but Muharrem was staying quiet, trying to go back in time, way far behind in that day of June 27, in 1944. Zylyftar had the impression that his father was not listening. He could see Muharrem's eyes covered by a layer of fog. Muharrem was not looking at him, but through him. "There is only one man, who knows the code," he said.

"Who is that?"

 "He is my father's first cousin in Arta," Muharrem said.

"We have a cousin in Arta?" Zylyftar moved his chair closer to his father.

"We have cousins all over Greece, but this man was like a brother to my father."

"How come he didn't get killed by the Greeks, or at least get kicked out of the country?"

"He is Christian Orthodox. Most of the Christian Chams still leave there, but they are scared to speak the Albanian language in public. They try hard not to show their true identity."

"What is his name? Is he still alive or dead? Did you ever have any contact with him at all?"

"His name is Christos Xhavellas. He lives right in the heart of Arta."

"I guess I have to meet him first when I go to Greece," Zylyftar suggested.

Muharrem struggled to get up from his armchair and stretched his arms in order to reach for the counter. He took the notebook and opened it page after page. His wrinkled and thick fingers were shaking, as he pointed at one of the pages. He sighed deeply and handed it over to his son, and sat back in his armchair.

"Here is the phone number you need to call, as soon as you arrive in Greece. You shouldn't write it anywhere. Memorize it instead, so you don't put him in trouble. During the communist system I was not able to get in touch with them. Even now, we still have to be careful. The Greeks will not like the fact that our Christian cousins are helping us to come back."

"Yes, dad! I'll do whatever you say!" Zylyftar had the feeling that he wanted to burst into tears.

Why so much conspiracy? What am I doing wrong here? Am I missing something? Probably my father still lives back in his memories, thinking that Greeks are as bad as they used to be. Well, I have to find out about that.

He repeated the phone number aloud and after three attempts, he felt totally satisfied.

 "What makes you that he is going to give me the code?" Zylyftar asked him, as he was burning inside out from anxiety.

Muharrem didn't speak. He got up once again from his armchair and reached another old suitcase, which was placed in the wardrobe. He searched for another old album filled with photographs. "I have seen these photos so many times, but never thought that one day I would have to go back in time."

Muharrem took one photo from a page and showed it to Zylyftar. His own father Abedin was posing with another young man in his twenties. The man had thrown a woolen coat on his shoulder and had a white fez on his head. He was wearing a warrior kilt, part of Albanian national costume. His mustache was long and turned up. Muharrem turned the photo from the back and read aloud the handwriting on the back of the photo. It was written the name of Kristo Xhavella, with a clear calligraphy.

 "This is Kristo. As soon as you show him the photo, he will invite you into his home right away," Muharrem assured him.

"What if he is dead?" Zylyftar asked him anxiously.

"He is not dead. I called him a month ago."

Muharrem ripped a piece of paper from a notebook and started to draw the safebox. He made a rectangular square with four gears on it. Zylyftar was following his father with curiosity. He had never seen his father draw anything before. Muharrem used to work all his life as a bricklayer. Even his fingers were shaking. Muharrem finally drew a perfect square on the paper. On top of it he wrote, "Made in Switzerland".

 "The safebox belonged to my grandfather. It has a golden color and four combination dials with numbers around them. You will apply the code clockwise: let's say: number 27 for the first dial, number 06 for the second combination dial, number 19 for the third, and 44 for the last one, starting from left to right."

"Why didn't your father give you the code instead?"

"I was just a ten-year-old boy and everyone was in too much a hurry to leave. Everything was planned way ahead of the dirty game played by the Greek andartes. I was probably not old enough to remember a code for such a long time."

"After I use the code, what do I do next?"

"Well, the code is not enough to open the box. You need the key." Muharrem's lips started to shiver. An inner moaning was becoming stronger, making it hard for him to continue. Tears dropped on his dried cheeks. He closed his eyes and went deep into his memories. His breath sounded heavier. Zylyftar got up from his chair and held Muharrem in his arms.

"Dad, are you okay?"

Muharrem was not listening. His eyes were looking something else. He saw himself, a ten-year-old boy, standing in front of his father.

Gunshots were heard from all different directions. The flames of a burning house nearby were almost catching their own roof. Abedin Shahini paved the floor with cement compound and handed a small key to his son.

"I am going to put this key around your neck. You will take this key with you. When you grow up, you will use the same key to open this safebox," Abedin said to Muharrem." As he articulated his last will slowly, he put the key around Muharrem's neck and hugged his son for the very last time.

"Yes, I'll be okay," Muharrem whispered. He cleared his throat and unbuttoned his shirt. He stuck his hand under the shirt and took out the key, which was tied to a necklace. His hand was shaking, as he was handing it to Zylyftar. "Here is the key, son. I held this key in my suitcase for over half a century, wherever I went. Time has come to give it to you and open the safebox with it," he said firmly.

Zylyftar took the key and put its necklace around his neck, still looking straight to his father. He never saw his father with tears before, never in all his life.

Muharrem felt relieved.  He got up and walked slowly to his cabinet filled with books written in English, Greek, and Albanian. Zylyftar got up from the table and looked carefully at the small library that his father built all these years.

"Look son," said Muharrem and pointed to a row of books. He took one of them from the shelf and read to him out loud. "A Greek Encyclopedia was published in 1985, by Greek authors themselves like Krapsitis and Stavropulous. Other books were written about our tragedy Panajotidis, Zhangu in 1985 and Sharra. They were English authors as well like W. M. Leake, Holland and Edith Durham. All of them wrote about the Chams, but none of them knew where some of the deeds were hidden." He laughed ironically. "Not even our friends knew how strong our sense for survival is."

Muharrem pulled the map form the table and pointed at it. "Our home was this one close to Labovoja, the market. There were three olives trees behind it. They pulled my father right up to the three trees and shot him. Our house was set on fire. We barely escaped."

   Muharrem sat back on his chair and held his forehead with hands, supporting his elbows against the table, and keeping his eyes closed. Zylyftar didn't bother him. He knew his father was going back in time. Muharrem imagined walking on the pavement built with cobblestones. The olive trees lived for many years. They were the main witnesses of these nightmares. They were open books, with huge pages, on which the circles of life were written in blood.

Muharrem came closer to his son and looked at him straight in the eyes. "Watch out when you dig in the basement. Bringing the deeds here is a must. That is the only way we are going to take our homes back," Muharrem warned him.

Zylyftar patted his father on the shoulder and pulled the blanket to cover him. As soon as he closed the door behind him, Mejreme came out of her room and reached for her son. Zylyftar was surprised to see that his mother was awake all the time that he was talking to his father.

"Mom, go sleep! What is wrong with you?" he whispered.

"Don't go there, son! Don't listen to him. You are worth more than everything else in this world," she cried out. Zylyftar noticed that his mother had aged quickly during the last five years. She had more wrinkles on her forehead, more grizzles on her hair and her body looked shorter. He hugged her and looked through the window.

"I already promised him. I am leaving tomorrow," he said firmly.

"What about Ervehe? Is she coming with you?"

"Yes, mom! Don't worry. It is going to be just like another trip abroad," he tried to relax her.

He kissed her hands with ardor and headed toward his room where Ervehe was waiting in their bed.

##

## CHAPTER 8

Zylyftar Shahini was putting on his white shirt, when a group of Chams knocked on the front gate. Mejreme was helping Ervehe to get dressed in the other room. Muharrem was watching the guests from the window and yelled at her to come outside and invite the men in. Mejreme was surprised to hear such a big noise by that unusual crowd at nine in the morning. She went to Muharrem's room to ask him what was going on.

"Run to the door to welcome the guests right away," Muharrem said to her.

Mejreme didn't say a word, as she always did, never discussing Muharrem's actions. He was the man, he knew who to invite inside, and he knew when and where, so no talk about that. She went for the door, as a group of old men accompanied by little kids and old women walked in the front yard. She recognized some of them and felt embarrassed, since she thought it wasn't the right time to welcome the guests. Zenel Kosturi, the oldest of the men, stepped inside and shook her hand several times, making sure that Mejreme had nothing to worry about.

"We just came here to see your son, before he goes to Chameria," he said. Mejreme couldn't keep her tears. They were tears of joy mixed with fear. The women, exactly twenty of them, all seventy-years-old and up, kissed her on both cheeks, shivering from joy and horror, following their husbands. They all wanted to meet Zylyftar Shahini. The men were wearing white fezzes and huge wide slacks, some kind of popular costume, very well known back in their region. In a minute, the Shahini's front yard was too noisy, crowded by nephews and nieces who were holding flowers.

Zylyftar Shahini came outside with a suitcase in his hand. He dropped it on the ground and met with all of them, one after another. Mejreme rushed to make coffee for the old men, and Ervehe delivered sweets and cakes to all the kids who came by.

"Son, we all came here today to wish you a good trip and to come back soon. Our families are counting on you," Zenel Kosturi said, hugging him.

"I'll be back soon. A big day has come for all of us," Zylyftar said to him, feeling excited that so many people came to see him. He had never seen such a big crowd back in Canada. People in Toronto would only come together for weddings or funerals. He saluted every single one of them.

As he was shaking hands, he could sense how important it was for all those people to go back home to Chameria. These men and women were little kids when they were kicked out of their homeland, but they took with them all their memories. Greece had taken away their homeland, but in one way the homeland was still with them, inside, melted into their blood. It was in their breath. The old women were wiping their tears. The little kids, who never saw their fathers' land, were also curious. He could read the joy on their faces, in their eyes full of light and hope. A messiah had come for them. They were pushing each other to be the first to hug him. Their big day had come with him. That was all they needed for now, one right person to change the world.

"You've got be careful, son! Better not to go there," one of the women warned him. Zylyftar laughed at her and tried to cool her down.

"Nothing is going to happen. I am going to be a tourist spending money in Greece, that is all," he said.

"If they find out that you are a Cham, you might be in trouble," Zenel Kosturi opposed. Zylyftar smiled and approached him.

"One of my friends back in Canada is a Greek guy. His name is Dimitris.  He knows who I am and we always go to a bar and drink a beer with other friends. There is nothing wrong with being a Cham, an Albanian from Greece," Zylyftar said. "I am going to show them who I am, that's for sure. I am proud of who I am and I would not change that for any price."

Mejreme wiped her tears. The words her son had spoken sounded crazy to her.

"I don't want you to go," one of the old women said, as her hands were shivering. She was shaking from her head to toe. "My name is Sanije. I was ten-year-old girl, when the Greeks killed my brother. He was wearing this shirt." She took out a very old shirt from a plastic bag. "I have kept it wherever I have gone here in Albania. It was my best and the worst souvenir, which reminded me of the past as I face this unchanging future." Sanije's eyes were full with tears.

Zylyftar felt embarrassed. He knelt down and kissed her hands with ardor.

"I can promise to you all only one thing: No matter what, I will be back soon. That is it," Zylyftar said, with a very soft voice.

Zenel Kosturi applauded first, and after a few seconds of silence, every single one followed him. The guests wanted to talk to Zylyftar, to shake his rough hands and give him a quick goodbye, but Ervehe was already dressed, ready to go for the flight to Athens.

Zylyftar Shahini turned his head and noticed the silhouette of his father through the open window. He had a great desire to hug his dad once again, before he left. Friends and guests let him go through the crowd, making a narrow pathway; some of them patting him on his shoulders; a few kids chasing him, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He went straight to his father's room and saw him, as he was struggling to get up and look through the open window. He hugged his father one more time and kissed him on his forehead. The eyes of the old man became full of tears and his voice came out weak.

"My heart is broken; I shouldn't let you go, son!" the old man whispered, breathing with difficulties.

"Don't you worry, dad!" he assured his father and for the first time in his life he felt that perhaps he would not see his father again.

"Call me; I want to know about every single step you take there," Muharrem advised, "or, I'll call you every three hours. I don't want you to end up like the sheep goes to the butcher, if you know what I mean. Do not trust the Greeks, son! Don't even bother to meet the Greek Ombudsman," Muharrem almost yelled at him.

Zylyftar thought that his father worried way too much, but wasn't able to oppose him. In his voice he could notice that his dad was almost begging him desperately to follow his orders.

"Dad, we both decided that I have to go there. I am a free Canadian citizen and I believe that it shouldn't be any problem at all for me to visit Greece."

The old man shook his head in despair and darkened in his face. His son was a stone head and would not follow his advice. Time was ticking away. "As I just mentioned to you, you have to call us three times a day, for every single day that you are staying in Greece."

"I don't think that I am going to stay there too long, but it's okay with me. I'll call you three times a day, as you wish. Now would you please relax and lay on your bed. It was a long day for you today." Zylyftar helped his father get into bed.

"I wish you a good luck, son!" The old man's lips shivered. His wrinkled hand grabbed the cellphone on top of the cabinet and gave it to Zylyftar. He pointed at the home phone one more time.

"Take this cellphone with you. I am waiting for your phone call."

 Zylyftar grabbed the cellphone and stuck it into his pocket, feeling heartbroken.

As he was leaving the main door, Koraqi jumped from a corner where he was hidden and barked at Zylyftar. He hugged his dog and waived to all the Chams with joy. He was ready to leave. It was only going to be a one hour and thirty minute flight from Tirana to Athens.

##

## CHAPTER 9

The airplane OA 316 of the Olympic Air had just landed in Eleftherios Venizelos International Airport. It was Zylyftar's first time in Greece and he was full of emotions. The first idea that came into his mind was that this foreign country, which was so attractive to many visitors from around the world, was his forbidden homeland, since his ancestors were born and lived in a territory, today part of Greece.

Apart from experiencing nostalgia, Zylyftar was feeling some kind of sadness and uncertainty, which he justified with the special mission he was on, finding and bringing the deeds to the land back to Albania. Even the trip itself was very short, he felt his arms and legs almost paralyzed and his heart was full with anxiety.

Zylyftar knew that it was not going to be easy at all, and on top of that, was the uncomfortable fact, that Ervehe was pregnant. He held her hand and got off the steel stairs of the airplane, looking around the airfield with wonder. The stewardesses saluted the passengers one by one, keeping their standard smile on their faces. The first impression he had, was that it was going to be an ordinary day, with passengers travelling in all directions, pulling their luggage or heavy suitcases, squeezing each other in the narrow lines in front of custom services.

Zylyftar looked at his wife with love, and they both stood in front of the custom's window, as the immigration officer, who was a man in his thirties, looked at them suspiciously. He checked Zylyftar's passport twice, but didn't hand it back to him.

"I never knew that there are Albanians in Canada as well," he said and stared at Zylyftar, trying to decipher his angry eyes. Zylyftar cleared his throat, and for one moment, he didn't know what to say. The question sounded doubtful and stupid.

"I live in Toronto, sir," he answered quietly and held Ervehe's hand tight. She seemed a little worried.

I have my birthplace written in my passport, yes! I am and feel Albanian, yes! But I am a Canadian citizen; he should respect that. We recognize each other even without a passport. Most of the Albanians grew up in the communist system and didn't have enough to eat. We got killed by the hard work and the lack of nutrition. Most of us are very slim. I guess not having enough food, changed our appearance as well.

"When did you come to Canada?" the custom officer asked him, but didn't wait for an answer. He dialed a phone number to call his superior. Zylyftar thought that the custom officer was creating some unnecessary doubts about his Canadian passport, but kept quiet.

"I came to Canada at the end of two thousand, sir," he replied.

It might be a show of power, or in the worst scenario, this guy might be a little racist or something. I don't give a damn what it is really. I'll be patient with him.

The phone call was quite short. Zylyftar understood one word in Greek: "ne, ne," which meant, "yes, yes." The officer looked at Zylyftar once again, encouraging him to repeat the answer. Zylyftar was hardly keeping himself under control. He had the impression that the officer was totally unprofessional.

"I have lived in Toronto for more than thirteen years," Zylyftar said nervously, not having any desire to speak.

Several passengers behind his back squeezed each other on the line, feeling impatient that Zylyftar's interview was taking too long. Even though the trip was short, Zylyftar was already sick and tired of the questioning.

"Are there many Albanians in Toronto?" the Greek officer asked once again, this time grabbing Ervehe's passport and having a quick look at it.

"Based on different sources there might be around twenty thousand Albanians in Canada," Zylyftar said, but he really didn't have a clue what was the real intention of the Greek officer was during the interrogation. He noticed two police officers that came closer to the customs window, as the custom officer returned their passport back to the couple.

"What is the purpose of your trip to Greece, eh?"

"We have to meet the Greek Ombudsman," Zylyftar clarified and immediately put his hand in his little suitcase and pulled out an official letter written in English, signed and sealed by the Ombudsman's office.

"As you can see, I made an appointment with the Greek Ombudsman, in order to meet him in his office."

"I see," the custom officer sighed with wonder. "What is this meeting for?" His eyes were full of surprise and anger.

"My father was born in Greece and he wants to ask your government to give him his home back, since he is the legal owner." Zylyftar spoke slowly and very clear, weighing at every single word, one after another. "I believe in the Greek state and in Greek democracy. It's their obligation to return all my rights, since I am the rightful owner. I want to see it with my own eyes, how the Greek state will act, and then I'll decide what to do next."

The Greek officer looked at the official letter that Zylyftar presented to him, as his face darkened.

"Where are you going after the meeting?"

Zylyftar laughed. The customs officer put him in dilemma. His question sounded weird to him, kind of naïve and doubtful.

"I think my wife and I are going to do two things in one trip. I believe there are many beautiful places to visit in this country, which has to accept me as its own son, since my parents were born here. I believe that our common homeland is a place with thousands of years of history and culture, isn't it?" Zylyftar said to the Greek officer, who was listening to him with his eyes wide open.

 "Sure you do. You can't leave Greece, without seeing Acropolis. Propylaia is a work of the architect Mnesikles. It consists of a central building with two six-columned Doric porticoes."

"Yeah, my wife and I are going to spend some time in Athens. Definitely we are going to see some of the temples, the Temple of Athena Nike and the Parthenon."

"There are some theatres as well, like the Theater of Herod Atticus and the Theater of Dionysius. But before you do that, we have to check your luggage," the custom officer said.

Zylyftar Shahini was surprised that his luggage had to go under screen again, but didn't say anything, just followed the orders. One of the police officers winked at him and showed him the direction to another office. Zylyftar shrugged his shoulders and followed the police officer passively. Ervehe looked worried.

As soon as they arrived in the office, one of the police officers ordered him to open the suitcase. He checked it carefully, taking all the clothes out, one by one. In few minutes he let them go.

Ervehe felt relieved, as the sunlight almost made her blind. The sky was so shiny and promised a beautiful day. Athens was only thirty-five kilometers away from the airport and they had to take a taxi for forty Euros. The first contact with the Greek authorities stunned both of them.

"We didn't start our trip very good, but we pray to God that it will get better," said Zylyftar. He looked at the Greek metropolitan, which was appearing with all its greatness in front of them.

"What are we going to do next?" Ervehe asked him with anxiety.

Zylyftar made a forced smile, knowing the most difficult steps lay ahead. "Now, we are going straight to the Ombudsman's office. I need an official answer from him."

"How about if he says "no" and passes the information to The Greek Police? Remember what your dad said: The whole army and police will be right after you.

Zylyftar kissed her on her cheek, trying to calm her a little. He knew since the beginning that with her beside him, it was going to be more difficult to carry on with his mission.

"We are not doing anything illegal, simply knocking on the doors of the Greek institutions for something that we believe it is right to ask. His answer doesn't matter," he said to her as he repeated back to himself the phone number of the first cousin of his father.

##

## CHAPTER 10

##

Janis Dourou pulled the curtain slightly and looked through the window down to Hatziyianni-Mexis Street. A taxi had just left the Hilton Hotel and was parking in front of Dourou's office building. He cleared his throat impatiently and loosened his light blue tie, which had the same color as the national Greek flag.

Someone dialed his phone number with the prefix 210. He looked at the screen of the computer, where his mouse clicked at www.synigors.gr and lifted a booklet from the table, written in Albanian, Bulgarian, French, Romanian, Russian and Turkish. He was feeling nervous. Someone knocked on the door and opened it halfway. Katerina Papas, the blonde woman from The Public Relations Directory, stuck her head inside.

"Mr. Dourou. The Canadian couple has just arrived," she said, her face becoming slightly red.

"Let them in."

He got up from the table as a young couple entered his office. The man looked shy and was holding a file in his hand. The woman looked pregnant in her sixth month. The man introduced himself as "Zylyftar Shahini" and his wife "Ervehe."

Janis Dourou rushed to stand in front of them and shake their hands, inviting them to sit on the double couch.

"I am very happy to have you here today," Janis Dourou welcomed the two guests, feeling surprised from their visit.

"I am very pleased to meet you, sir," Zylyftar replied, without bothering to hide his emotions.

 Janis Dourou lifted a file from the table and opened it carefully. He stared at Zylyftar and knocked on the table with the knuckle of his middle finger. "Are you coming straight from Canada?" he asked Zylyftar.

"No, we went to Albania first. Our parents live in Tirana. That's where we came from. Actually we just got in, straight from the airport."

Jani Dourou frowned and got up from the table. "Both of you are Albanian, right?"

 "Albanian by origin, yes. As you can see, sir, but I have to clarify that I am a Canadian citizen." Zylyftar didn't wait for another question, but pulled out his Canadian passport and placed it on the table.

The Greek Ombudsman ignored it and sat back in his chair. "How can I help you, sir?"

"I came here today to ask for help, in order to get back the properties of my parents," Zylyftar spoke to him shortly and paused to see his reaction. Janis Dourou kept silent for a minute, as he wanted to concentrate on the answer that he had to give. He opened the file and made some short notes. "My grandfather was a partisan, who fought for the liberation of Greece. Despite that, he was killed in the end by the Zervas forces. I am asking for your help in getting my home back. Here is his picture with Greek uniform fighting the Nazis." Zylyftar took out the old photograph of his grandfather and gave it him.

Janis Dourou gritted his teeth, holding back his inner anger, keeping it under control. The meeting had just taken a sudden turn. "The Cham issue doesn't exist. That is the official answer by the Greek government. The Albanian Chams fought against Greece and sided with the Nazis," Janis Dourou said with sarcasm.

"Mr. Dourou, I believe it is a huge mistake to treat the Cham issue collectively. My grandfather was a partisan. It's not his fault if his Albanian neighbor from the same village fought for the Germans during the Second World War."

Janis Dourou looked at the photograph of the Albanian Partisans of the Ali Demi battalion with wonder. A group of Albanian partisans were smiling in front of the camera, making the signs of victory with two fingers up. They had rifles on their shoulders.  He held it in his hands with great disbelief on his face.

"Mr. Dourou, I am asking for your help. I need your support in order to get my father's properties and my citizenship back. Even in these days, as we are talking, our homes are permanently locked, but they still stand there, most of them untouched. Nevertheless the Chams are asking to come back home and get compensated." Zylyftar's voice had a strong tone.

Janis Dourou tried to void the bad impressions that Zylyftar Shahini was giving to him.

"Professor, I have seen your CV, and based on your skills and knowledge, I think, you can help. You lectured at the Department of Social and Educational Policy at the University of Peloponnese. You worked on the fields of immigrant integration and crime, youth cultures and violence, prison and justice systems, so I do believe you will address the Cham issue carefully."

Janis Dourou lifted his hand up, feeling a little embarrassed, since Zylyftar Shahini was mentioning the experience he had in the field.

I better think twice, before I give an answer. "How old are these Chams anyway?" he asked Zylyftar, looking him straight in the eyes.

"They are seventy-years-old or older. Most of them have died, but some of them still live. They were very little kids when their parents got killed, or kicked out from their homes, and just simply walked on their bare feet towards Albania."

Look, I don't want to hear their story all over again. "I hate to interrupt you, but those who are still alive are going to die soon. I think their case will die and be buried with them," Janis Dourou said.

"You forgot their children, Mr. Dourou! I am just one of them, who left Canada and came here to your office, in order to find the property deeds of my family. If you don't help us, then I have no choice but to bring the case in front of an International Court of Justice in the Hague, by using those deeds.

"Do you think that most of the Chams will do that?"

"I think so, yes. It is in Greece's interest not to bring the case in front of an international court, but to find a solution by talking directly to us."

"How much is the Cham's property worth?"

 "We are talking about 2.8 billion dollars in compensation that Greece has to give to the Chams."

"How much?"

"Two point eight billion dollars worth. Some other estimates show more than that."

"Greece is in a very difficult economic situation. I don't think it's the right time to ask for reparations. A political decision has to be made by the government, so the authorities here can treat these cases selectively."

"The political Party of the CHAMS, PDIU, had presented a resolution for the Chams in the Albanian Parliament. The Albanian Government will ask Greece to revoke the State of War that Greece has with Albania," Zylyftar said to him with one breath.

 "What's your name again?"

 "My name is Zylyftar Shahini. Here is my ID." He handed him the Canadian passport.

"I need a copy of that," Janis Dourou asked.

"Sure."

The ombudsman gave the passport to Katerina Papa who placed it in the tray of the copier.

"Do you have any proof that your grandfather owned a home in Greece?"

"Yes, the property deeds, but I have to find them. My grandfather hid them somewhere here in Greece."

"Where?"

"They were hidden in a safebox. I have to find it."

 "Safebox?"

"Yeah!"

"But you don't know where they hid them exactly?"

"No, I have to find out."

"Well, for me it doesn't matter if you find them or not, I can't help you. You have to trust me on that," Janis Dourou said and got up. Don't even think that I am going to help you guys. If I do that, it would be a PR nightmare for Greece. He shook Zylyftar's hand and could hardly wait for him to leave the building.

Janis Dourou took the phone in his hand and dialed the number to the Interior Minister. "Hello, Mr. Minister! Sorry to bother you. I have something very important to tell you. The Chams who were expelled from Greece in 1944 are looking for the original deeds to their properties. They expect to repatriate. One of them has come to my office. He has come to Greece to find the deeds that are hidden here."

"Did he file any request?" the voice on the other side of the line asked him.

"Yes, Mr. Minister! My answer was that I couldn't help him!"

"Who's this man?"

"His name is Zylyftar Shahini, a Canadian citizen."

"Pass all the information to my office. Do you think this is an isolated case?" the voice asked him.

"No, I think the Chams are planning to take Greece before the Hague Tribunal."

"Thanks for calling. We still have time to stop him and the others behind him," the voice said. "Any details? Do you know where is he going to?"

"The Canadian Albanian man is looking for something very specific, a safebox."

"A safebox?"

 "Yes, a safebox with the deeds inside it."

"Where is this safebox hidden?

"I guess our police have to find out!" The Greek Ombudsman laughed.

"Thank you very much," the minister said.

 "You don't have to thank me. I'm always ready for Patridha, for our homeland," Janis Dourou whispered. The Interior Minister had just congratulated him for the valuable information. His heart was beating against his chest like never before.

##

## CHAPTER 11

Even though it was the first time that they were in Athens, Zylyftar couldn't forget the bad impressions he had from the meeting with the Greek Ombudsman. Dark thoughts were blowing in his mind and his soul was filled with despair. He waved at one of the taxi drivers, who were standing right beside the Hilton Hotel, and within in a minute, they both saw themselves in the back seat of a taxi. He looked through the window and tried to decipher the name of the streets written in Greek letters.  He had no knowledge at all about the Greek language, but the giant city reminded him of something very personal.

This is supposed to be my country, but it's not. If that ethnic cleansing didn't take place, I would be a proud Greek citizen.

Zylyftar was able to read the name of the street they were driving through, Vasilis Sofias Avenue. The main square, Sintagma, in front of the Parliament Building, was filled with tourists from all over the world. The building was built by the German, Otto, when he became the prime minister of Greece in 1836.

The taxi went south on Kon/nou Ventiri and turned right on Michalakopoulou. When it turned left on Leof Vasileos Konstantinou, Ervehe squeezed Zylyftar's hand with love, struggling to get rid of his bad mood that had affected him after the meeting with the ombudsman.

"So, where are we going?" Zylyftar asked the taxi driver, pretending to be very serious and authoritative in his voice. The taxi drivers were known for over charging the passengers in Athens, especially when they find out that the passenger is a tourist.

"I guess, you are going straight to Acropolis, where everyone goes. If you don't visit Acropolis, that means you haven't been in Greece at all," the driver said and smiled, trying to be very friendly, keeping an eye on Zylyftar through the mirror.

The driver wiped his black moustache and looked at Ervehe for approval.

"I totally agree," Ervehe replied. "Since we are here anyway, why don't we change the plan and sightsee in Athens for a while?" she whispered to Zylyftar.

He approved right away, by shaking his head from left to right. The taxi entered Leof Vasilis Olgas and after half kilometer, turned to Leof Vasilis Amalias. Zylyftar was too busy, struggling to decipher the Greek names of the roads, reading them aloud and slowly, as Ervehe laughed at his accent.

 "Leof Andrea Sigrou. Chatzichristou. Rovertou Galli..."

The taxi driver joined the laugh as well. It was a beautiful sunny day. Zylyftar thought it would be nice if he spent at least two weeks in Athens, but his important mission to find and bring back the deeds to the land for twenty Cham families couldn't wait.

The taxi turned right on Propileon and there it was, with all its majesty, the Acropolis itself, which was built on the "sacred rock" in the fifth century BC. They got out and began to walk among the ancient columns.

Zylyftar was falling in love with the greatness and history of the city. When he was almost lost in the history of Athens, he noticed a man hiding quickly behind a marble pole. He had just arrived with Ervehe in the heart of Acropolis and was standing at the marble stairs of Propilyas. He pulled Ervehe slowly from her arm and looked at the heavy and silent stones of the historical site, as if he were asking the stones themselves for help.

"Don't look," he whispered to Ervehe, "but I am afraid someone is following us. We better go to the Plaka quarter. There are more people there, so we can loose this guy."

The name "Plaka" sounded very sweet to their ears. "Plaka" was an Albanian word, which meant "old woman." The Arvanites, or medieval Albanians, who gave Plaka its name, were from the island of Anafi, which is located in the Cyclades region.

The streets were full with people, and for Zylyftar, that was the best moment to disappear into the crowd. The coffee shops and stores were right beside each other.

They quickly ducked inside a coffee shop and sat down. Ervehe looked behind with fear, but didn't notice anything suspicious. The mysterious man was gone.

"He was probably just a vision." Ervehe tried to relax herself and sipped the Greek coffee with pleasure. The traffic and the high temperature were getting into her veins.

They left the coffee shop and looked around with wonder, until they stopped unintentionally in front of The Tower of The Winds. Zylyftar was excited to see the angels engraved in stones, which looked like they had opened their arms to fly. When he turned his back and was ready to leave, he noticed the same mysterious man, just a few meters away, trying to hide between the tourists.

A tour guide was telling the history of the Wind Tower to the random tourists. "It was erected about 100–50 BC by Andronicus for measuring time. This tower is an octagonal marble structure, which is forty-two feet high and twenty-six feet in diameter. Each of the building's eight sides faces a point of the compass. Below, on the sides facing the sun, are the lines of a sundial. The Horologium was surmounted by a weather vane in the form of a bronze Triton and contained a water clock, which we, the Greeks call Clepsydra... Our ancestors used to record the time when the sun was not shining." Her voice was fading away, as the mysterious man was coming closer toward them.

"We should call my cousin," Zylyftar said, hiding behind a tent. He pulled Ervehe beside him and dialed the cellphone quickly. After a few seconds, a heavy and thick voice was heard over the line. The man spoke in Greek.

"Alo, zoti Kristo Xhavella. Djali i Muharremit jam. Sapo erdha nga Shqiperia," said Zylyftar in Albanian. "Hello, Mr. Kristo Xhavella? This is the son of Muharrem Shahini. I just came from Albania today."

All of the sudden the phone call was interrupted, as Zylyftar was still holding the cellphone in his hand. He felt his heartbeat growing stronger. He never thought that his cousin would hang up on him without any explanation. He was angry, but didn't give up.

He probably thought someone was making a prank call. I have to try a few more times, until he answers the phone. I don't have any other choice.

This time, the same was voice was heard over the phone, which answered in an old Albanian dialect.

"C'ish vete more? Chame je nga Shqiperia? Por kur ke ardhur mo?"  (How are you? Are you a Cham from Albania? When did you come here?)

Zylyftar got excited. The first cousin of his grandfather had just recognized him. Everything was becoming easier.

"I am here in Athens. I would like to talk to Mr. Kristo." As he said this, he heard another man on the line, taking a deep breath.

"My dad is sick in his bed. He has been like this for two weeks now. He is not talking, nor eating either. If you want to come for a visit our address is..."

Zylyftar wrote the address in his notebook. "To Arta," he said to the cab driver.

Time was ticking away.

##

## CHAPTER 12

Kristo Xhavella's home was built on top of a hill in the outskirts of Arta. It was made of stones and the first impression was that it looked like a little castle. The crowns of the olive trees were making a nice shade with their heavy branches. Zylyftar and Ervehe got out of the taxi and stood in front of the main entrance of the house. The design reminded him the typical homes in Southern Albania, with little windows and heavy wooden doors. There was a handle for knocking, which hung on the door and had the shape of a human's hand. Zylyftar knocked hard and looked around for the mysterious follower. There was nothing suspicious. In a while a tall man in his thirties opened the door, accompanied by a huge hairy dog. Surprisingly he saluted Zylyftar in Albanian. "Mirese erdhet! Mua me quajne Spiros, jam djali i Kristos," (Welcome! My name is Spiros, Kristos' son!)

Spiros didn't wait for Zylyftar to shake hands, but hugged him right away with both arms wide open. As soon as they entered inside, Spiros' wife Helena gave them a very warm welcome. She kissed Ervehe on both cheeks and invited the guests into the living room. Helena spoke in Albanian as well. Both of them were trying to make them feel comfortable, but Zylyftar and Ervehe were standing on pins and needles.

The Albanians will never perish.  Look at that, right in the middle of Greece they live. Time had come and here we are together again, brothers by the same family tree, Muslims and Christians. Why did Greece divide us? At least the Orthodox Chams didn't experience the same ethnic cleansing as we Muslims. The Greek State chose a smarter way to get rid of them, which was the slow assimilation as time passed. If you are an Orthodox, than that's good enough for them to call you a Greek. If the Orthodox Albanians didn't keep their mouth shut, they could end up like the rest of us, like the Jews lost in the desert sand.

Zylyftar looked at the pictures on the main wall of the living room and found many similarities with his family in Tirana. He came closer to one of the pictures and noticed his grandfather, Abedin, at a very young age, posing beside another young man, who had almost the same features as him. He saw Spiros smiling and pointing at it.

"My grandfather and your grandfather were cousins," Spiros whispered as his voice faded. Spiros was feeling very emotional, as he was hardly holding back his tears.

Zylyftar looked at the photograph, showing both of their grandparents wearing the military uniforms of the Greek Partisans. He reached into his pocket and took out a photograph of his father Muharrem, beside Kristo. He handed the photograph to Spiros, trying to avoid looking him directly in the eyes.

Spiros was shaking, struggling to wipe his tears. "Your grandfather was my grandfather's first cousin," said Spiros "I don't know how to explain how it happened that your family are Muslims now."

"Well, just trying to be different so we could resist the assimilation. You know, our Greek friends think that all the Muslims are Turks and all the Orthodox are Greek, which in the case of Albanians, is not true. Bulgarians and Serbs are orthodox as well, but no one dares to mistake them for Greeks. It's simple. It's a matter of land, you know," Zylyftar said, looking at the photograph. He wiped it, as he wanted to clean the dust of the years behind. "I want to show this photograph to uncle Kristo," Zylyftar said, as two little kids entered the room.

They were Spiros' kids. Cleopatra was twelve and Janis ten-years-old. Spiros introduced them to their special guests, who hugged them and brought them a few gifts from Albania, the marble statue of Scanderbeg and the head of Dea, whose original was found in the Illyrian city of Buthrotos. Both kids saluted them in Albanian, which made Zylyftar and Ervehe shiver from head to toe. Helena helped Ervehe place her luggage in one of the cabinets and showed her the bathroom to freshen up. She was surprised that the pregnancy didn't stop Ervehe from joining her husband in this special trip. As their guests were still accommodating, Helena rushed to invite them to sit around the table for lunch. Zylyftar could tell that the whole family was prepared for their arrival. The smell of the meal, beef and potatoes, filled the dining room, but his mind wasn't there. Even though he was hungry, Zylyftar could hardly wait to meet Kristo, but Kristo didn't come out from his room to welcome them. Spiros understood from Zylyftar's worried face that he didn't want to have lunch right away.

"I've got to see your dad," Zylyftar said.

Spiros laughed and got up from the table quickly and invited Zylyftar to another room. As the door opened, Zylyftar saw the old man lying on his bed. Kristo had his eyes half way open and his lips were dried. He looked as though he had a fever. He seemed very tired and had difficulty breathing.

Spiros pulled the chair closer to his father and looked at him painfully. "Dad, our cousins from Albania have just arrived," he whispered in his ear, but the old man was in a different world. His eyelids moved a little, as his glassy eyes seemed to be nailed somewhere in space.

"Two weeks in a row he hasn't eaten or spoken. I kept feeding him with soup, but he throws it up most of the time," Spiros said.

Zylyftar came closer to him and took his wrinkled hands in his. He felt a deep pain for that man who looked like his father. It was almost unbelievable for him to come all the way down there and not be able to talk to him. Without the code, the mission could be not completed. If the old man was not able to speak, Zylyftar would have to carry that big safebox with him, and that could jeopardize the whole trip, making it more difficult to bring the deeds back to Albania.

"Uncle Kristo. It's me Zylyftar Shahini, son of Muharrem," he said to him, but the old man looked like he was not listening at all. Spiros smiled at him and got out of the room, promising the he was going to be back soon.

Zylyftar was scared that Kristo could die at any moment, thinking that his sudden death would be a bad sign from God. He was all of the sudden becoming very superstitious.

Spiros pushed the door and entered the room, holding a big tray filled with cold drinks and fruits. Just as Zylyftar thought he was wasting his time, the old man squeezed his hand. His soul was struggling to speak to Zylyftar beyond the subconscious.

"How is Muharrem?" the old man asked him, his voice faint.

"He is very sick. He is afraid of dying before completing his father's last will. That's why I came here today," Zylyftar said.

The old man looked him straight in the eyes and coughed violently. He was fighting between life and death because of an old cold he caught in his early childhood. Zylyftar brought the photograph closer to his face and waited for his response. The old man lifted his tired arm and touched the photograph. He felt the energy emitted by the old picture, discolored from the years.

"We were too young at that time. He had hopes..." His voices dispersed in the air. Kristos hardly breathed, trying to articulate the words, which didn't want to come out. "The code has for numbers. You have to apply them to the safebox, each one of them to the four gears, clockwise," the old man said and closed his eyes.

Zylyftar noticed that Kristo was forcing himself to stay conscious. So, the code has four numbers. There are four gears and I have to rotate them clockwise. I've got to get this code A.S.A.P!

"What is the code, uncle?" Zylyftar asked him, feeling impatient.

The old man opened his eyelids and stretched his arm toward the little cabinet beside his bed, trying to reach a notebook. Spiros grabbed it for him, as the old man reached for the pencil.

"The code is...24, 33, 11, and 15," Kristo said and breathed heavily.

Spiros wrote it quickly on the note pad, ripped the paper, and handed it to Zylyftar.

"That is the code. Memorize it and destroy the paper," the old man said.

Zylyftar repeated the code back to him a few times and ripped the paper in small little pieces. He kissed Kristo on his forehead and left for the dining room, where the rest of the family was waiting for lunch.

During lunch, Spiros never stopped asking the couple questions about their lost cousins in Albania, who had immigrated to Canada, and managed to become Canadian citizens. As the kids went to sleep, Spiros and Helena spoke to them until long after midnight. Before they fell asleep, they took a short walk in the back yard, where the orange and olive trees made the night more magical with their crowns. Athens looked shiny and beautiful from their vantage point, like it was standing on Zylyftar's hand.

"I can hardly wait to visit Paramythia," Zylyftar said.

"That's not a problem at all. I'll give you guys a ride first thing in the morning," Spiros suggested.

"I don't want you to risk anything. I better take a taxi. Uncle Kristo is very sick and he needs your full attention," Zylyftar opposed him politely.

The next day, as Zylyftar and Ervehe were ready to leave, Helena insisted that they have some hot tea and some toasted bread, brushed with homemade butter. The feta cheese was home made as well, and Zylyftar felt his feet didn't want to move from that lovely place.

Spiros grabbed Zylyftar by his arm."Stay here today. Have some fun and go north the next morning," Spiros begged him.

"I am afraid I can't wait." Zylyftar spoke to him with a low voice and watched the area carefully. "I think that someone is following me."

'"Who is following you?" said Spiros, shocked.

"I believe The Greek Secret Service is after me," Zylyftar said. Spiros kept silent. His face darkened, as he opened the outside door for him to leave.

 "That is one more reason to help you, and not to leave you just like that in their hands," Spiros suggested.

"I can't risk my cousins's lives," Zylyftar said, and hugged him with mixed feelings in his heart.

As soon as they got out of the house, Zylyftar noticed a black car parked close to Kristos' home.  He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw two men in black suits getting out of the car. They started to walk in the opposite direction. He felt his body shivering, but didn't say anything to Ervehe, who hadn't noticed anything at all. He lifted his hand for a taxi, and within seconds, they were sitting in the back seat, heading for Paramythia, their ancestoral home.

As they drove, Zylyftar saw a statue of a man, pointing his finger towards Albania.

"Who is that statue?" he asked the cab driver.

"The hero of Arta, Napoleon Zervas," he said.

"Pull over!" Zylyftar had to see the statue of the man behind the Cham genocide.

The monument of Napoleon Zervas was erected in the city of Arta, with his hand directed toward Albania. Zylyftar had heard about the monument. Zervas, the founder of National Greek Forces EDES, who managed to become the Interior Minister of Greece. He died in 1957, when he was over sixty-six years old. Zylyftar never thought there would come a time when he would be standing a few steps away, face to face with that monster in stones.

Napoleon Zervas was born in the city of Arta, but his parents were from Zervos, a village from the region of Souli, mostly inhabited by Albanian speakers of the Orthodox faith.

Did Napoleon Zervas know Albanian? But even if he spoke it, what did it matter? In all the official documents, Zervas himself, never doubted his Greek nationality.

"Let's go," Ervehe asked him, but Zylyftar didn't move. He didn't want to go to Paramythia first, until he saw this statue. He wanted to see for himself, with his own eyes, how a criminal for one side, is treated like a hero for the other.

Criminals are heroes and heroes become criminals! That's what it is. The conquerors write the history, but the victims cannot forget. Their wounds are so deep, as they start to rewrite the history on their own.

The documents, which surfaced on Internet, were showing a different Zervas from the official one, drawn by the Greek State. Zervas, the head of the right wing forces EDES, asked the Chams to join him in their fight against the Greek communists of EAM-ELLAS. The Chams refused, since their sons and daughters were already fighting the NAZIS, side by side with the Greek partisans.  After their refusal, the andartes started killing all the Muslim Albanians.

"I don't want to believe that Zervas himself was an Albanian orthodox," Zylyftar said and looked back, where the taxi was waiting beside the road. He kept watching that mass in stone. It seemed to him that the rocky face of Napoleon Zervas was saying something in gibberish. "Go back to Albania! I will not let you come here!" It was just the bad impression that the statue was creating. Nothing else, not even the wind was saying anything.

"Look at this. You might find the answer," Ervehe suggested and handed him a file in English that they were carrying with them. It was the British Report on Greece for the war during 1943-1944, written by John Stephens. Zylyftar had read it several times how the 28th Regiment of EDES wiped out all the Albanian Muslims from Chameria, which were called Turco Albanians, while the Albanian Christians were called just Greeks. Megaliidhea, or the Great Idea of Greece, was at work, full speed, dividing the Albanians by their religions, and not seeing them as one: Albanians.

Zylyftar gave the file back to Ervehe and spoke Albanian to Zervas. "Po shkoj ne Paramithi. A me ndjek dot? – I am going to Paramythia. Can you chase me?" he spoke to the monument, but the stone Zervas did not answer.

All of the sudden the cellphone rang. He grabbed it, realizing that he hadn't kept his promise to call his father. He had been almost two days in Greece and all that time, Muharrem must have been worried.

"Son," he heard his father's voice filled with anxiety.

"Dad, I got the code. Now I am on my way to Paramythia. How are you? Are you feeling well?" he asked Muharrem in a low tone, and turned his head to look through the back window. He saw the same black car following the taxi at a very short distance. He tried to keep his cool and not to show any sign of panic. His father's voice sounded like it was transmitting his weak heartbeat.

"I am okay. How was Kristo?"

"Very sick, but he did his job," Zylyftar answered, and looked back to the statue of Zervas. "I'll call you later, since I am on the road," Zylyftar said and hung up.

##

## CHAPTER 13

The taxi entered Paramythia and Zylyftar watched keenly through the window with tear filled eyes. He was seeing it through his father's eyes. Ervehe didn't want to miss anything. She kept watching his face, trying to read deep into his memories. Zylyftar kept looking through the window. The town of Paramythia was built on the side of the mount Korilas.

Even though it was the first time he was visiting it, he felt a strange affinity for the place. The crowns of the olive trees dotted the surrounding hills, birds were chirping in the otherwise silence hovering over the town.

Ervehe felt thirsty and pointed at the nearest coffee shop. It was called Saint Donatos, which was located right beside the main road. Zylyftar stepped on the ground, feeling a stream of emotions filling him.

"It would be nice to relax a few minutes and get some information from the villagers," Ervehe said.

"I totally agree," Zylyftar replied, glancing around.

One of the villagers looked at him with surprise as he was inhaling a Karelia cigarette. Zylyftar said "Hi' to him in English, as the villager murmured a Greek word "Alvanos," which in English meant "Albanian," pronouncing it with a bad connotation. Zylyftar was impressed that the villager recognized his nationality right away. He wanted to make fun of him, and felt proud of who he was.

"Do I have my ethnicity written on my forehead? If you want to know, yes, I am Albanian," he said to the villager, but he looked at Zylyftar, obviously not understanding English at all.

The villager didn't answer, but looked angry. Not even a single muscle was moving and his eyes were filled with anger. Zylyftar gave him his hand to shake, but the villager turned his back toward him and started to talk to his friends who erupted into a big laugh.

Zylyftar was disappointed. Perhaps rushing to be so polite wasn't part of the culture in this place. He entered the coffee shop, pulling Ervehe by her arm. There were twelve round tables, with four chairs each, and four stools right beside the bar. All the tables were filled with villagers, who mostly drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. Zylyftar smiled, thinking of Canada, where smoking had been banned in public places for several years.

He watched them out of the corner of his eye. The villagers did the same thing, pretending they didn't care about the newcomer at all. They looked at him out of the corner of their eyes and kept talking to each other, sitting around their small and narrow tables.

They were supporting their elbows on the tables, which were covered with plastic sheets, as their voices were growing in reaction to his presence. Zylyftar noticed that most of them were drinking Turkish coffee with their cups, which were made of porcelain. A few were drinking "Uzo," using their little glasses, which were occationally filled by the barman.

Ervehe was a little embarrassed, so she kept her stare straight to the bar where the barman was standing behind it. An icon of Virgin Mary hung on the front wall, holding the baby Jesus. Beside the cash register she saw a booklet for the tourists in both English and Greek. The meaning of "Paramythia" was "calming down," or "restraint" in English.  Ervehe looked through the window, down to the little river of Kokkinos

The river was created by the tears of dead relatives, taken by Caron on his boat to Hades, Empire of Death, was written on the booklet.

"I don't see even a single word for the other half of the population, which used to live here. Nothing," Ervehe whispered, but Zylyftar was paying attention to the barman.

"Jasu," he said to the barman –which meant "Hi." The barman came along the bar and saluted both of them.

"Jasu, how can I help you?" the barman asked them, studying them carefully. He was a man in his fifties, with long hair and huge shoulders.

Zylyftar turned to his wife and asked her in Albanian what she wanted to have for a drink.

"Cfare do te pish?"

"I' m going to have a big cup of fresh yogurt. I heard you guys have homemade yogurt, the best thing you can find around here," she said to the barman in English.

"And for myself I want a Turkish coffee," Zylyftar said to him. The barman darkened, as the rest of the villagers turned their heads toward the couple, as soon as they heard the word "Turkish coffee".

"You mean Greek coffee, right?" the barman asked him with anger.

 "What ever you call it. Just bring it," Zylyftar replied.

The barman made the coffee and brought to him, looking at him with curiosity.

"Are you a Turk?" he asked him all of the sudden and placed the elbows against the bar.

"No, I am Albanian, actually Albanian Cham. I am from here. Albanian from this town," Zylyftar replied and kept a smiling face as he sat on the stool. A waitress brought a cup with yogurt for Ervehe. The yogurt was ice cold and hard to stick the spoon in. Ervehe was amazed at its taste. She licked her lips and invited Zylyftar to try it, but he was listening to the barman.

"What do you mean from here? Did you come as an immigrant from Albania?" the barman asked him, playing dumb.

"No, no! My father was born here. Do you recognize this house? It belonged to my father," Zylyftar showed him a picture and waited for his response.

Ervehe punched him with her elbow, but Zylyftar didn't bother. "Do you know how I can get there?" he asked, but the barman stepped away, pretending he was deaf. The barman approached one of the tables, where four villagers were sitting around it, and all five of them got up and came closer to Zylyftar.

"You shouldn't come here," one of the villagers said in Greek, as the barman translated for him in English.

"Why not? You guys don't want tourists anymore?"

More villagers came closer to the group as Zylyftar put his hand in his pocket and took out his wallet. He left a ten Euro bill, saluted them all and left the coffee shop.

The taxi driver was still sitting in front of the car. They got in and headed toward the village. The driver knew where he was going, but still stopped in front of every single door in that old row of houses.

The Albanian homes were of one or two-stories, solidly built with stone. Some of the homes were flattened to the ground. Some had been bolted and abandoned since the day when their Albanian inhabitants had been expelled from there.

Zylyftar felt dizzy as they drove past all the homes. It was as if he could see the history of bloodshed held within the buildings. The houses became a blur.

The taxi driver pointed to the row of houses nestled against a backdrop of dark olive trees and surrounding hills, now a part of Greece. Zylyftar could feel the emotions rolling into his throat. Ervehe took a mirror out from her purse and looked at herself.

The old houses that had survived the raids years ago, looked stubbornly resilient against that test of time. He could almost hear the echoes of a past life when Albanian families inhabited those homes. Zylyftar shook his head, trying to get rid of the memories of a past that was no more.

"Are you okay?" Ervehe asked as Zylyftar took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

All of the sudden he heard something in the sky rumbling. A heavy wind came from the mount of Korilas. It became dark, totally dark. He couldn't hear what Ervehe was telling him to do. The taxi driver grabbed him by his shoulder, but Zylyftar didn't move. He stepped forward and saw himself inside a three-story house. Eight family members were having diner, in a living room. It was around 9:00 PM. They were a ten-year-old boy, a seven-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl between them. A man around forty-five got up from the table and came closer to the window. He heard people shouting and screaming. Clouds of smoke and tongues of fire were reaching the building. The woman, in her forties, held the little girl in her arms. Her eyes were wide open. Her lips were shivering. An old man, in his eighties, coughed hard and grabbed a gun that was hung on the wall. The old woman, in her seventies, pulled the two little boys behind her. One bullet broke the glass and scratched the old man on his forehead. He didn't bother to wipe the blood, but put the muzzle in the window and loaded the gun slowly. The younger man ran through the wooden stairs to the back door. He grabbed another gun, but didn't shoot. He looked at his kids who were crying. The younger woman had tears in her eyes. She hugged her husband for the last time, refusing to leave, but her husband yelled at her to take their kids, his parents and go. The explosions were heard closer. The tongues of fire erupted in the middle of the house. The whole world was on fire. The ten-year-old boy escaped from his mother's hand and went back into the house. He saw more than one hundred soldiers speaking Greek and shooting in the air. They surrounded his father and grandfather. They tied them to the olive trees and shot them in the head. He saw his father falling, blood running down his forehead.

"Are you okay?" Ervehe asked Zylyftar, who was still having visions of the past.

"Yeah, I guess so," he said.

She hugged him, feeling her tears rolling down her face. She heard his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. "I know what you are going through," she whispered in his ear. She closed her eyes and tried to live with him every single moment of the past. Her parents had the same story as his, another Cham family who left behind the dead. Those who survived hid in the mountains, waiting to cross the border into Albania. Some of the houses had been taken over by Greeks or Vllachs who lived there. This news had filtered through to the Cham refugees who had escaped to settle in Albania like Zylyftar's father. They longed for news of their hometown.

At last, they came to the home that had belonged to the Shahini family. It was a triplex building with the walls all blackened when it was partially burned half a century ago. Wild grass was growing on top of the roof, and the walls were cracked in different spots. Right beside it, only twenty meters away, a beautiful villa was built. Zylyftar noticed an old woman on the top floor, staring at them from her window. She stepped back to hide behind the blinds.

"I guess she is the boss now," Zylyftar said to Ervehe, as he kept looking in the same direction.

There were no gates or fences, so they just went to the back yard. Zylyftar looked around for the three olive trees where his grandfather had been killed, but he couldn't find them. A few meters away a basketball court was built. Zylyftar was disappointed. There were no olive trees, no graveyards, not even a single gravestone to show that six hundred Albanians were buried there. He went on his knees and wiped the pavement with his hand. The tragedy was paved over. The history had been changed close to perfection. His grandfather's bones were covered up so no one could find any trace of evidence.

Zylyftar fell to his knees with Ervehe looking around above him. He looked up, hearing someone coming. A twelve-year-old boy was playing with his basketball, unbothered by the visitors. The boy ran through the court and threw the ball several times through the net. He sounded happy and it seemed that he didn't have a clue that he was stepping on top of six hundred dead people. Zylyftar was terrified to see how the past and present had crossed, creating such a weird combination.

He looked at the boy with cold eyes, standing in silence, like an abandoned tree. His feet felt the pavement waiving a little. He was sure he felt it. He stepped a away from the spot where he was standing to make sure that he was not slipping from reality, but in vain. His vision went blurry again.

He heard them screaming from underground. The ghosts of dead Chams dug through the pavement, grabbing his legs. He stepped away again, wiping his eyes, making sure the phenomenon was not really happening. He chose to look at the boy, at the basketball in the air, but still recognized the shadows of hands surrounding the trees. One step, two steps, three steps, and his feet were pounding the pavement like iron hammers. He heard them screaming from the pain. They were pushing each other from under the asphalt. Their assassins were not able to get rid of their bones.

"They are here," Zylyftar said, coming out of his haze. "I heard them."

Ervehe kissed him on the lips. He felt her softness and freshness.

It was midday and the heat of the sun added to the heat of his apprehension. They went to the front yard, as the boy kept playing in the basketball court. He bent over and picked up a rock that had chipped out of the pavement and put it in his pocket, just another souvenir for his ailing father.

Go inside the house, the chorus of the dead sang. Finish your mission!

He shivered. The house looked like a castle. Huge stones on top of each other that didn't want to give up. He touched the stones with the tips of his fingers. They were marble stones. He heard that his grandfather got them from the Mountain of Tomorr in Albania. They carried the stones with their mules and brought them into their village, piece by piece on daily basis. His grandfather was a rich man, who used to own half of the area. The old house looked like a big skull, with missing eyes. This was where his father used to live.

Zylyftar and Ervehe walked up to the door and it was locked. He pushed on it with his shoulder and it burst open. They entered the house. Spiderwebs blocked their path. Zylyftar pushed them aside, motioning for Ervehe to follow.

He slowly mounted the wooden stairs that cracked under his feet. There was nothing left there. The walls were burned. The roof was almost collapsing.

Zylyftar went downstairs into the basement. He looked around with wonder. Ervehe was following him two steps behind, breathing heavily from anxiety and fear. His father's words returned into his mind. He looked around in all four corners of the basement. He lit a lighter and looked about the room.

He opened the suitcase and took out a hammer.

"My father told me to dig a hole at the North East corner of the basement floor," he said to Ervehe.

"Yes, I know. We better hurry, before someone finds us," she warned him.

Zylyftar kissed her lips, and then hit the floor once, twice, three times. The whole house was shaking. A piece of plywood broke off the house and fell in the backyard. He heard the noise, but didn't stop. After a few minutes pounding the floor with the hammer, the cement broke. He grabbed the small little pieces of cement and squeezed them, until he felt his hands hurting.

He opened his suitcase, and from a bottom compartment, took out a little trowel. He stuck the trowel in the dirt. The trowel was sharp. He felt its blade cutting the flesh. He heard the shadows screaming out in pain.

Don't use the trowel, he heard the chorus of the dead cry to him.

"What?" he panicked.

Don't ever use the trowel, the chorus of the dead repeated.

Zylyftar was terrified. He put his ear to the ground to hear their voices, but they faded away as the wind blew his hair.

"Alright," he said to himself.

"What did you say?" Ervehe asked him and put her hand on his forehead to check his temperature.  "Are you okay?"

"They want me to use my hands," he said.

She looked at him worried but allowed him to proceed. He bent on his knees. He kissed the dirt then caressed it like a baby. He stuck his fingers slowly into the soil, very slowly, like he was combing the hair of his dead grandfather.

"This handful of dirt is more valuable than gold," Zylyftar said.

He pulled more dirt out of the hole with his hands, and there it was, the safebox. He pulled it out slowly and lifted it, as if it were the most admirable treasure in the world and showed it to Ervehe, who was already crying.

She was dead curious to look at the box, but came closer to the window instead. She looked through the window carefully, as Zylyftar touched the combination dials with a burning desire.

Number 24 is for the first dial on the left, 33 for the second dial, 11 for the third and 15 for the last one.

As he was pulling the key from the necklace, he felt Ervehe's breath behind his shoulder. Zylyftar opened it carefully. There they were: the deeds to the land, covered with a handkerchief, twenty folded papers written in Greek letters, discolored with age, issued by the city of Igoumenitsa in 1943.

He pulled them from the box, handing them to Ervehe who placed them in her purse. At the bottom of the safebox there were some pictures. He stopped and looked at the picture that sat on the top of the small stack. His grandfather was sitting on top of a rock and his grandma was washing clothes in the Chamis River. His hands were shivering, as he handed her the pictures.

"Oh my God, they look awesome!" she said.

"What's happening now is the most beautiful thing in my life. I am so happy that we made it," Zylyftar said.

"Well, not yet," Ervehe warned him, pointing at the window.

Zylyftar locked the safebox with the key and put the necklace around his neck. He didn't know what to do with the safe box. He turned it upside down and read "Made in Switzerland."  The box was a good souvenir itself.

If I leave it here, it is going to be a strong proof that we found something in it. But if we carry it with us, it is a little bit heavy, over one kilogram and it might look suspicious for other people on the road if they see it.

Shaking in dilemma, he left the box on the floor and stepped outside.  Ervehe looked up. The Greek woman was still at her window, trying to understand what was going on.

"We better hurry! Let's get out of here," she begged him. But Zylyftar kept looking around the house. He heard the voices of the past again.

You have to repair this house and live here, he heard his grandfather speaking from the walls.

"It would be impossible," he spoke to the walls.

Nothing is impossible. You have to show everyone who you are and where you come from. You have to show them that you belong here, his grandfather said.

Ervehe pulled him by the arm, but he kept turning his head to look back.

"I belong here," Zylyftar repeated to the wind, which was coming through the shattered window.

As he was preparing to walk to the cab, he saw a shadow moving behind the curtains of the front window, across the street. He pretended he hadn't seen anyone, but heard some footsteps approaching him. As he turned around, he saw the same Greek woman running across the street to meet them. She was looking angry and scared at the same time.

"Kalla ise?" she asked him in Greek.

"Kalla," he answered her. "And you?" he asked in English. "I'm sorry I don't speak Greek at all, my parents lived here over fifty years ago."

The woman came closer to him.

"I saw you entering into my house," she accused him.

"Yes, but this house is not yours. You have it for use. You don't own it. All the homes in this town belonged to Albanians."

"Are you a Cham?"

 "Yes."

"Get the hell out of here! Otherwise I am going to call the police," the woman said, suddenly aggressive.

"I came here today to get the deed to this property that belongs to my father. Now I have got what I came for, I am leaving." With that Zylyftar turned to leave, but his feet would not move. The land seemed to be holding him there.

"Come on, let's go," Ervehe said to him, grabbing his arm, and pulling him towards the cab.

"I can't leave now. This land is still occupied," he said to her. "Until I reclaim this land, my father's will is not fulfilled."

"Yeah, that's why you got the deeds. Now let's get the hell out of here," she begged him.

They went back towards the cab. A white Toyota Corolla police car with blue stripes appeared, driving up the street.

"I don't like this," said Ervehe. "I have a bad feeling. We should take the safebox with us. It's a strong proof that we are the only ones who left that box behind. They will find our fingerprints on it."

"Okay, let's do that. We'll get the box back. It's a good souvenir on its own, anyway. My father will love it," Zylyftar whispered with a weak voice and kept looking at the approaching police car. He took out a bundle of Euro banknotes and stuck them into the cab driver's hand. He tried to be cool and not to give any impression to the driver, what was really happening.

"We changed our minds. We will hang around here for a while," Zylyftar said and waived him off. The cab driver turned on the engine and looked back at him doubtfully.  The cab moved ahead, leaving behind a tiny cloud of smoke. Zylyftar pulled Ervehe by her hand, and turned back toward the house.

As soon as they got inside, Zylyftar looked through the window. The police car had already arrived in front of the gate. Two tall policemen stepped out, still talking on the radio.

Zylyftar took the safebox in his hands, as he kept watching the policemen, who were coming toward the house, pointing the HK MP-5 and HK 9mm class pistols toward the main entrance. He walked to the opposite window and looked outside. He realized that, the window wasn't more than two meters above the ground. Wild grass, bushes and blueberries covered the backyard, giving him the impression, that if he jumped, it would not hurt him at all. He noticed that the woods were very dense a few meters away from the house.

If we reach the woods quickly, it would be very hard for police to catch us.We have to leave now, otherwise...

Ervehe pulled him from his arm, in order to stop him from jumping outside, but Zylyftar gave her a big smile with his begging eyes.

"It's too high. I am afraid that you might break your legs," she said.

"I am not going to do that! My father was mentioning a back door at the basement, facing the hill."

"Oh, yes!"

They both went down the stairs, holding each other's hand in the dark. Rust and a huge spider web covered the small exit door. Zylyftar searched with both hands and finally found the handle. He rotated it and pushed the door slowly, as a scratching noise filled the empty room.

 This is the same door, from which my father escaped to the woods. I feel like I am going back in time and reliving my father's story.

The sun light was too strong and almost made him blind.The heavy bushes and the wild blueberries scratched his face. He stepped outside and looked around for the two policemen. Ervehe was still standing behind him with the safebox on her hand. Zylyftar waved at her, encouraging her to act as fast as she could.

"Come. There is no time to waste," he said.

As she turned around, quick and heavy steps were heard on the main floor. The safebox fell from her hand right inside the house. Zylyftar heard heavy steps coming toward their direction and people screaming angrily in Greek. Ervehe was feeling dizzy and was scared to death that running into the woods, it could complicate her pregnancy. Zylyftar stretched his arm and pulled her back. He felt the softness of her body covering him. He hugged her and held her really tight.

"Don't worry; you can do this," he whispered into her ear.

The woods were only few meters away. They heard a policeman whistling. He was standing at the windowsill. Another policeman appeared beside him, holding the safebox on his right hand and screaming one word in Greek: "Astynomia,– Police."

"They have the safebox!"

"That's okay. Nothing we can do about it. Now let's go!"

Zylyftar pulled her hand and both of them ran toward the woods.

##

## CHAPTER 14

Captain Alexandros Lalaunis had never seen such an antique safebox before, let alone, hold one in his hands. It was brought to him by two officers from the Special Forces of the Greek Police.

He rotated it carefully from all sides and looked at it with wonder. He lifted it up with both hands, shook it and brought it close to his ear, hoping he would catch a noise from inside. Hearing nothing, he placed it back on the table. He touched the combination dials with the tips of his fingers and put a random code to try and open the safebox. He tried another random number, and with the corner of his eyes, caught one of the policemen laughing at him. He left the box on the table and caressed the three stars embroidered on his captain's jacket.

"I still can't believe it that you guys let the Albanian couple escape to the woods," he said, banging the oval table with his fist. The two policemen kept quiet, as Lalaunis sighed desperately. They were stunned to see the captain act like that.

Hristos Venizelos stepped closer to the table and tried to articulate something, to justify himself, but stepped back again when confronted by the captain's angry eyes. Both of them had more than five years experience in force and were trained in the Greek Army's Ranger School.

"What happened, you guys couldn't follow them?"

"Well, we needed more instructions. It would take much longer to chase them in the woods," Venizelos replied.

Lalaunis grabbed the safebox with both hands and weighed it with wonder. "How can I open this damned thing?"

"Without the code, you can't. We don't even know if there is anything inside there at all," Venizelos suggested.

"How long were the Chams in the house? What did the witness say?" Lalaunis asked him.

"More than half an hour," Venizelos said. "The old woman didn't say much. She had argued with them, especially the man, who spoke about the deeds."

"And what did the Albanian say about the deeds?"

"Here is the full report. He said to her, 'I got what I was looking for. I got the deeds.' " Venizelos handed over a file to the captain, who opened it carefully.

"Do we have any description of the two Albanians? What do they look like?"

"They are well dressed. No one would take them for Albanian peasants. The woman is blond and had blue eyes. The man looked fairly tall, in his thirties, and had curly black hair. The man was dressed in grey clothes. He even had a tie around his neck. The woman had a small black purse with her," Venizelos described them with one breath, pointing once again to the file, which was in captain's hand already.

"They might merge easily with the other tourists in the area. It's not going to be easy to catch them, unless they make another stupid mistake," Lalaunis said. He knocked the safebox with his fingers, in a kind of rhythm, as if he were playing a drum. "They had enough time to take everything from this box."

The captain sounded furious as Venizelos lost his desire to go on with his description.

"Now describe for me in detail, how they escaped from you guys?" the captain yelled at him.

"I just told you, that they went through a small door at the basement."

"Yeah, you didn't realize that there was an exit door at the basement," the captain became sarcastic. "Do you remember anything unusual, something which could impress you?"

 "Something sounded weird. The second witness said..."

"Do we have a second witness?" Lalaunis interrupted him with surprise.

"Yes, the cab driver. He said that the Albanian woman was pregnant."

 "Pregnant?" Lalaunis sighed with relief. "The fact that the woman is pregnant makes me think that they will not be able to stay too long in the woods. They will eventually head for the road. We have to set up road blocks."

"Sounds like a good idea, captain!'

"Of course it is a good idea, unless they become butterflies and fly to Albania." Lalaunis felt comfortable for the very first time. He drew all the arrows heading to the center of the woods and sighed. "This is crazy. It must be something very important that was hidden in that box."

Lalaunis opened a map and put it on the table. The woods around the house were very dense and were covering a huge area in and around Paramythia town. "Yes, they got what they wanted and left this behind to fool us."

"What could the code be? A birthday? A random number?" Venizelos asked. Lalaunis banged the table again.

"I don't need the code now. I know for sure that there is nothing there. We have to find them, before they leave for Albania. That is what we have to do."

He took a pencil and made a huge circle on the map.

"You see this area? We have to search all this area as soon as possible. I'll call the Intelligence Department for help as well. We need to inform the local police and send a helicopter to survey the whole town from the air. Now get back to work," Lalaunis said firmly.

The two policemen saluted the captain and left the office.

##

## CHAPTER 15

They were taking a break under the shadow of the oak trees. The birds were chirping, inviting them to forget what they had already went through. Zylyftar Shahini pulled Ervehe by her hand and kissed her on her lips. She was scared that they went too deep into the forest. They could still hear the police sirens. She was anxious and worried that they could end up getting caught by police at any moment. Zylyftar sounded more relaxed, as he pointed to a well, from which tiny ice cold water was dropping. He ran and put his lips on the well and drank until he felt pain in his teeth. She followed him, breathing heavily.

"What happened, sweetheart? Are you feeling well?"

"I am feeling dizzy," she said and went on her knees to the wet ground. They had walked more than an hour and she was feeling exhausted.

"Perhaps it would be better, if we stayed in a hotel. We could take a shower; spend the night and leave, first thing in the morning."

"Sounds like a good plan," she said.

Zylyftar opened the Paramythia map and realized that they were just in the outskirts of the village. The main highway was very close by. He pointed, showing Ervehe where the nearest hotel was located. In less than half hour they were able to find the Egnatia Hotel, a beautiful two storey building, with red roof tiles.

When they say the hotel, Zylyftar laughed and sped up to reach there first. He looked around carefully to see if they were being followed. There was nobody except a woman in her fifties, who opened the door for them.

"Kalimera! Good evening," the woman said in Greek and English, looking at him with wonder. "My name is Viktoria and welcome to my hotel."

Zylyftar winked at Ervehe and smiled. He looked around the hall and noticed that the building was a little bit old, but clean and in a very good shape. The walls were built with stones and painted with lime. The garden was planted with colorful roses. It was giving him the impression of a private house, or a bed and breakfast.

Viktoria's office consisted of a small simple room, with a wooden table in the middle, and a couple of chairs. Zylyftar noticed that a picture of the Kulla Tower of Paramythia hung on the wall. He laughed at the name that the Greeks wouldn't change; even though they got rid of the Albanian minority a half century ago. "Kulla" was the Albanian word for "tower."

The hotel looked clean and everything was in order.

"We need a room just for the night," Zylyftar said.

"Oh, it's my pleasure." Viktoria took out a guest registry and set it on her desk.  "All our rooms are designed to ensure a comfortable and pleasant stay. Where are you coming from?"

"We are Canadians," Ervehe said, looking at Zylyftar, warning him not to give too many details about their origin.

"Oh, very nice. I have a niece in Canada. She lives on the Danforth, in Toronto. And you, where do you live?"

"We live in Toronto, as well, in Etobicoke," Ervehe said. "How are the rooms?"

"Oh, they are the best you can find. They are equipped with private bathrooms, television, air conditioning, TV, kitchenette and refrigerator for self-service. I will need to see your identification." she said, all of a sudden.

"Yes, we have our Canadian passports." Zylyftar handed her both passports.

Viktoria turned the pages over one by one and wrote their names in the registry. She took a key from the shelf and gave it to Zylyftar, giving them a big smile, leading them toward one of the five rooms in the bed and breakfast.

"Food is included in the price. If you are hungry, I can bring you diner right away," Viktoria said, opening the door for them.

"We are not hungry yet. Thank you very much; maybe later on." Ervehe waved at Viktoria and closed the door gently, not bothering to hide her satisfaction.

Two single beds were placed in the middle of the room and were covered with white sheets. The only window, facing the main road, was covered with curtains. Ervehe sighed happily, sat on one of the beds, and closed her eyes for few seconds. Zylyftar sat beside her, kissing her on the cheek.

"We can finally take a break. I am exhausted." Ervehe got up and went to the bathroom to take shower. Zylyftar stepped out onto the balcony and looked toward the hill, covered with old olive trees. He felt so much love in his heart.

I wish there would come a time when I can come back here again, without being bothered by police, without being worried that someone is spying on me, he thought. Why does the whole Albanian minority have to be punished by Greece for the guilt of a few Nazi collaborators during World War Two? Why don't I have the right to return home, when I was not even born at that time? Even my father was only a nine-year-old boy when he escaped from the flames. His father was a peaceful man, who kept working on his land all his life and took care of his own family.

As these questions came into his mind, Ervehe got out of the shower with a towel tied on her head. Zylyftar closed the balcony door and entered the room. He forced himself not to show any emotion.

"Take a shower. I feel so relaxed," Ervehe said. Zylyftar touched her soft hair. The dark thoughts dispersed into the air. Her presence made him happy. He went to the bathroom and already felt the hot steam on his skin.

***

Viktoria Karagouni lifted the receiver, keeping her eyes on the registry, fixing her eyeglasses, and clearing her throat.

"Hello is this police?" she asked the person on the phone in a low voice, looking at the office door to see if any of the tenants would appear at the corridor all of the sudden. The voice of the police operator made her shiver from head to toe. "I heard the news that the police are looking for an Albanian couple from Canada. Well, sir, they are here, in Egnatia Hotel... When did they come? Oh, few hours ago and are spending the night here. Efkaristo Poli. Thank you very much. For Patridha, our homeland; every one has to do something."

Viktoria was filled with pride. She hung up in triumph and checked the corridor once again; making sure that the two Albanians were not hearing what she was saying to the police operator.

##

## CHAPTER 16

The foam of the shampoo made him feel excited and relieved. Zylyftar had the impression that the foam was getting rid of the tiredness, and it was like a magic touch to his body. Spending several hours in the woods had exhausted him to his limits. Taking a shower was the best thing he could do at that moment. He dived into the bath tub and tried to forget everything, but the warm water made him clarify his thoughts, and he became more suspicious about the outcome of the whole mission. Still keeping his eyes closed, he let the drops of the hot water go through his throat and nostrils. Zylyftar was analyzing all the details of his short trip to Greece. He felt that judging his past actions while taking a shower, always seemed to give him genious second thoughts.

Archimedes devised his most famous principle while sitting in his bathtub, thought Zylyftar. He let the water wash through his hair, when he realized, there is no time to relax. Now it's a fact that the Greek police are following us closely. It's just a matter of time before we get caught. If we stay together any longer, we are going to be spotted by the police for sure. The main thing here is to bring those deeds back home, no matter what is going to happen to us. If these deeds end up in the police's hands, then this is the end of the story. Ervehe must hide them somewhere, and in the mean time, I stay here in the hotel. Even if I get caught, the police will not find anything suspicious.

He got out of the shower and wiped his body with the towel. Without even drying his hair, he opened the door and stood in the middle of the room almost naked. Ervehe was taking her time combing her hair, looking in the mirror. With drops of water still on his skin, Zylyftar stepped closer to his wife and kissed her on the neck. She didn't move, as he pulled the towel that was wrapped around her body. He kept kissing her with excitement on her white and round shoulders. She couldn't resist and turned back to him, putting her arms around his waist, standing there, both naked. She kissed him lightly on the lips and crossed her eyes with his. His eyes were foggy, looking somewhere beyond, outside the room. Something was wrong.

"Honey, what's happening?" she asked him with wonder and gave him few more light kisses on both cheeks. Zylyftar held her slightly from her arm and pulled her on top of the bed.

"Ervehe, it's just a matter of time until we get caught by the police. We have to act now," he said with a weak voice. "They are probably here, watching us!"

Ervehe's face darkened and she put her clothes on. She looked at the balcony and didn't see anything suspicious. It was quiet, just random cars passing by on the main road, which was not too far from the hotel.

"What do you think we should do?" she asked.

"We have to hide the deeds and split up for a few hours," he said. "You go and hide them and I'll wait here for you."

"Where do you think we can hide them?"

"In a place that is easy to remember."

 "How about the Oracle of Dodona?"

"Perfect!"

"What if you get caught?"

"If I get caught, they will let me go soon. They can't do anything without proof that I've commited a crime, wich I haven't. The most important thing here is the deeds. We've got no time to lose," Zylyftar said.

"I made it clear, that I am not going to split from you," she opposed softly.

Zylyftar grabbed her hands and held her tight. He was feeling heart breaking.  She was pregnant, and that made him feel guilty for taking her on such a dangerous trip.

"Would you please do this for me? If we get caught, and they find the deeds, then we'll both end in jail, then they will find the proof."

Deep in her soul, she knew her husband was right. If they managed to hide the deeds somewhere, the Greek police were not going to be able to acusse them of anything, except for trespassing. Zylyftar was right on one thing: their mission could not fail.

"All right, we'll do that," she agreed and sighed with despair. Zylyftar smiled and hugged her gratefully. He grabbed a phone book from the table and opened it, so he could find a phone number to a cab.

***

Oracle of Dodona was located twenty-two kilometers south of Joannina city. The cab driver took a left and within an hour they were right in the outskirts of Mount Tomorr. Ervehe put her hand in the purse, making sure that the deeds were all there. She paid the driver and let him go, walking down the pathway, which took her right to the Oracle. She checked the area with a quick look to see if someone was following her. She stepped up the stairs of the theatre that was made of big pieces of stone.

They were still there: the Stadium, the Bouleuterion, the Temple of Aphrodite, the Acropolis, the Temple of Zeus Naios, the Temple of Dion, the Temple of Heracles, and the House of Phylax.

It was so quiet. She closed her eyes and tried to listen to the language that the oak leaves were speaking. The legend said that in that place, the old Pelasgians used to listen to the leaves of the oak trees. She remembered the legend mentioning two black pigeons, which flew straight from Egypt and hid in the leaves of an oak tree.

She walked between the old temples, looking for a place to hide the deeds.

The best place would probably be the Temple of Aphrodite, she thought, making a connection to her soul. Aphrodite in the Albanian language has the meaning of two words: "Afer" and "Dite," which means "Near" and "Day".

I could enjoy this beautiful place way more, if I had Zylyftar with me, she thought. This Temple has a meaning in my language. The Day is near. The day will come that these deeds will be back with their legitimate owners.

She watched the area carefully. There was nobody there. She lifted a stone and hid the deeds, wiping her hands as she walked toward the gate. Still worried, she tried to calm down, telling herself that it was going to be just a short period of time until she was back there to get them. The main concern for her was Zylyftar. Ervehe couldn't imagine going back to Albania without her husband.

I've got to go back to the hotel, Ervehe thought. She went right beside the main highway and waited for a taxi.

##

## CHAPTER 17

Zylyftar Shahini heard someone knocking on the door. He pulled the curtain and saw a police car parked out in front of the hotel. He came closer to the door, hesitating to open it.

It's the police. I guess Viktoria told them that we are here, he thought. He got up from the bed, hurrying to put his clothes on.

"Astynomia! Police! Open the door!"

Zylyftar opened the door and saw two police officers standing at the doorstep. One of the officers laughed at Zylyftar sarcastically. "Well, well, well. Look who's here. Is that you I just saw a few hours ago escaping from that house in Paramythia?"

Zylyftar preferred to keep silent. He recognized the police officer who was standing right beside the window, when he entered his father's home. The officer said the word "Karta." Zylyftar understood that he had to show the policeman his identification papers. He showed him his passport.

The policeman spoke to him, this time in English. "Sir, you have to come with us to the police station."

"What is the problem? Have I done something wrong?"

"We have a report that you entered a house in Paramythia. You are charged with trespassing."

"Trespassing? No sir. I was not trespassing. That is my home; a long time ago it was forcefully taken from my father's family. It is still legally mine."

"Do you live there?"

"No, sir. I live in Canada."

"Then you were trespassing," the policeman insisted. There was silence for a moment. "Are you a Canadian citizen?" He looked doubtfully at Zylyftar's passport.

"Yes, sir, I am Canadian. My grandparents lived in that house. Your government kicked them out and killed those who weren't able to escape." Zylyftar spoke boldly.

The policeman looked him straight in the eyes and took out his gun, raising it until the muzzle touched Zylyftar's forehead. The cold metal of the barrel made him shiver. "Your name sounds like a Muslim name. Are you an Albanian?"

"Yes, I am of Albanian descent. I am Cham."

"Oh, Cham? Ah, so you came here to join Chameria region with Albania, right?"

"No sir, I came here to see my father's home."

Anger and hatred seemed to flare in the eyes of the policeman. "All you guys should be killed for good. You are traitors. You guys collaborated with the Germans during the Nazi occupation of Greece, so you have no right to come back and call this home."

"Not me, my friend! I was not even born then. My father was only a ten-year-old boy when some Greek gangs of Napoleon Zervas' forces, killed his father for no reason at all." Zylyftar replied.

"You are a descendant of a member of the "Schumannschaft" battalion created by the Germans from minorities, to fight local people all over Europe. You are a traitor." The policeman almost spat, still holding the gun to Zylyftar's head.

"You don't know your history, my friend," said Zylyftar defiantly. "There were groups made up of Albanian Chams who fought for the liberation of Greece, as well. There were more Cham patriots fighting for their country than the very few Chams who collaborated with the Nazis. Since you like to talk about history, have you ever heard of the Ali Demi battalion who fought for the liberation of Greece? Have you?" Zylyftar Shahini could not stop. Even if it got him into trouble he had to say what was right.

"The ethnic cleansing of a whole minority cannot be justified by this stupid ignorant twisting of facts. You are pointing a gun at me, a Canadian citizen who is visiting this country. I am going to call the Embassy and tell them that the Greek police are threatening me."

The policeman's hand wavered, but kept the muzzle of his gun against Zylyftar's forehead. "Come with me to the police station."

"What did I do?"

"You are accused of trespassing. Before I take you to the police station, tell me, where is your wife?" the other policeman asked him. Zylyftar was surprised that the Greek police knew about Ervehe.

"My wife? I don't have my wife with me!"

"We'll find out about that," the policeman replied back and turned to his friend. "Why don't you wait for her over here, and in the mean time I'll take this guy to the police station," he proposed.  The other policeman agreed and entered the room.

Zylyftar pushed the policeman back. The policeman couldn't keep his balance and almost tripped, as his hat fell off his head. The hat rolled in front of the house, it passed the main road and stopped right beside a garbage bin. He ran after the hat to catch it. When he arrived at the garbage bin, he was already sweating. He slapped the hat against his body and put it back on his head, still holding the gun with his right hand. This time his eyes were filled with anger. He was breathing heavily, pointing the gun toward Zylyftar, and approaching him slowly. He grabbed him by his arm and pulled him toward the police car with all his strength.

"Come with us now," the policeman yelled at him.

"Let me pay the hotel first," Zylyftar said. He took out his wallet pulled out a few Euros and tossed it toward Viktoria, who grabbed at it. He bowed to get into the police car and the first policeman hit him hard on the back of his head with the butt end of his revolver. Everything became dark and he was unconscious.

***

Ervehe waived her arms to flag a taxi, and within seconds, got into the back seat of a cab.

"Where do you want to go, madam?" the taxi driver asked her.

"Back to my hotel," she gave the address to the taxi driver.

The taxi driver knitted his eyebrows. He pressed the gas pedal, then sped up and emerged into the local traffic. After few minutes drive, the taxi driver parked on the side of the road, several meters away from the main entrance of the hotel. He shut off the engine and waited for Ervehe to leave the car. She didn't get up, still shocked, seeing a policeman standing at the door. She didn't know what to do. Her knees were shaking and for a moment, she felt totally exhausted. She held her head with both hands. Where am I gonna go? How can I get him out of jail? Before we left Canada, I promised him that I was going to be right beside him at all times. I have to keep this promise, no matter what. What if something very bad happens to him? If they kill him, then that is it for me as well.

She paid the cab driver and got out of the taxi. The policeman saw her and walked towards her.

"Madam, you are under arrest! Come with me," he spoke to her in English as he handcuffed her.

The policeman sighed deeply, and for a moment, took his walkie-talkie and spoke to someone in Greek. Ervehe got into the police car with anxiety, trying to read beyond the ice-cold expression on his darkened face.

##

## CHAPTER 18

Zylyftar Shahini was deep in his dreams when he realized that something strange was happening around him. His vision was foggy and a heavy smoke seemed to be rising from the ground. He heard voices coming from the walls of his jail cell. He looked about, terrified. A pair of disembodied hands crawled out of the floor, feeling their way around as though looking for something, then retraced their steps and disappeared back into the floor again.

"Who are you?" he asked tremulously.

"I am your grandfather!" said a voice.

"What is your name?" Zylyftar asked him in mistrust, checking the whole room with a quick look. A heavy white fog filled the atmosphere, so thick; he was not able to see even a couple steps away.

"My name is Abedin Bej Shahini. I am the father of Muharrem Shahini," the voice said, becoming stronger. Zylyftar opened his eyes to find out who was talking, but didn't see him. The voice sounded as if it was coming from all the directions, changing its altitude.

The wind was whistling downhill and the lightning erupted right over his head. He was shaking, seeing himself surrounded by this new reality.

"Zylyftar, how are you, my grandson?" the voice articulated the words.

"I don't know exactly," Zylyftar said. "Where am I?"

"You are up here with us. You just passed the border."

"What do you mean up here? What border?"

"You are unconscious."

"What about Ervehe? Where is she?

"She is very close by. She is with the police. They are bringing her to you."

Then there appeared before Zylyftar a very old man, with a long white beard and thick eyebrows. The wrinkles drew the map of the world on his face. Both holes, where his eyes used to be, were landing tongues of fire on his chest. He was a very tall man, like a hundred-year-old willow tree. His age was unreadable.

"How old are you?" he asked the old man.

'One-hundred-years-old," he said. He wasn't Santa Claus, for sure; but he was holding a bag on his shoulder, a huge bag, that which was pure white like the snow on the Mountain of Tomorr. It was cleaned with the mountain dew of Southern Albania.

Abedin Bej Shahini approached his grandson slowly, holding the bag on his shoulders tight. Zylyftar felt his hair shiver.

"What do you have in that bag, grandpa?" he asked him with wonder. The spirit was like a fog in the shape of a human's body, almost wiping his face.

"I have all the property certificates of the Chams in here, my grandson. In this bag I have their fences, their backyards; I have their one, two and three storey homes, which were left behind. I have their vineyards, planted with grapes, the very black and big grains of the grape and I have their hills planted with olive trees."

"How was Greece able to occupy the Chameria region?" Zylyftar asked.

"Turkey and Greece signed the Lausanne Treaty in 1924, an agreement to exchange the population between the two of them. After the Greeks had killed many Chams, most of the Muslim Albanians decided to go to Albania.

"Is there anyway we can go back to Chameria, grandpa?"

"Every single human has the right to return home," his grandfather said. Then the fog dispersed. Zylyftar stretched his hands to reach for him, but there was nothing. Several voices sounded out from the walls.

"I am your great grandfather!" a voice said.

"I am the voice of your ancestors!" a deeper second voice whispered.

Zylyftar closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he realized he was in a jail cell with about thirty other people standing or sitting around, which he suspected were Albanians like himself. His vision was blurring again, and he wiped his eyes and realized there was blood on his face. He tried to get up from the floor that was covered with plastic sheets, but could barely rise up as he felt pain all over his body. A young woman was standing right beside him. Her curly hair was touching his forehead. He recognized her smell.

"Honey, how are you?"

"Ervehe, how did you get in here?"

"Shush! Don't move. I'll tell you later, when you feel a little bit better."

"The deeds, what happened to the deeds?" Zylyftar asked her impatiently.

"Don't worry, honey. I hid them," Ervehe whispered in his ear and looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to her. "We'll get them after we get out of here," she said, kissing him on his forehead with ardor.

 "They beat you up badly," she said. "They kicked you, stepped on you with their shoes and smashed your head against the wall – even spit on your face. They ripped up your passport."

She handed him his Canadian passport that she had quietly snatched off the ground where they had thrown it. Zylyftar Shahini tried to get to his feet again, but his knees were weak. A young man was screaming through the only window of the cell, begging in Albanian for water. The word "uje" was repeated several times by most of the prisoners. Zylyftar was thirsty too. More than six hours had passed in the cell and his throat was dried out. Another hour passed before a policeman attacked the prisoners with a fire hose. The men fell on top of each other from the pressure of the water.

In frustration, Zylyftar hit the wall very hard with his fist, bruising it severely. There was chaos in the cell and everyone seemed to be shouting. He was beginning to lose hope when a policeman appeared at the window and ordered the prisoners to calm down and they would be released one at a time.

Finally, Zylyftar and Ervehe were led to the office of Captain Lalaunis, the director of the police station. Before they entered, a policeman ordered Ervehe to wait outside, until Zylyftar's interrogation was over. Ervehe didn't agree, but with a stretched arm, the policeman stopped her from taking another step towards the room.

 "Your turn will come soon, madam," the policeman said, trying to be polite, as he pointed to a stool on the side of the long corridor. Ervehe was very tired and sat down. Her heart was pounding harder because of the anxiety and fear.

##

## CHAPTER 19

Captain Lalaunis raised Zylyftar's suitcase and placed it on top of the table, opening it and pointed at it. "We thought you hid drugs in there. Take it," he shouted and threw the suitcase at him. Zylyftar was unable to grab it before it fell to the floor.

"This detention is illegal," Zylyftar said, speaking boldly. "You have no right to do this."

The first policeman hit him on the side of his head with a wooden baton. He felt a searing pain shoot through him and blood spouted from a gash on his cheekbone.

"You go back to Paramythia and you'll see what will happen to you, asshole," Captain Lalaunis yelled at him, laughing hysterically.

Zylyftar clutched the suitcase holding it against his body.

"I wasn't tresspassing. I was visiting my own land. Your country stole my property back in 1944," Zylyftar said.

"Why did you come here? Do you want to create Greater Albania?" the policeman asked him angrily.

"I'm just visiting."

"It doesn't seem quite simple to me," the policeman doubted. "Anyway, I am done with you, but you still have to speak to one of our National Intelligence Officers," the policeman said, as he was holding the radio in his hand.

Zylyftar was surprised to hear that he was going to be interrogated by a Greek spy. He saw the policeman speaking with someone on the radio, saying several times "yes, sir," and other policemen standing outside the detention room ready for intervention.

"Are they out of their minds? Why do I have to be interrogated by a Government spy? What the hell did I do? Just because I wanted to see my old home; is that the real reason these guys are interrogating me? What a joke!" He wanted to make fun of them, but his lips couldn't move, since they were dried.

In few minutes agent Stephanos Dimas, appeared at the door, wearing a nice suit. He was holding a briefcase and had a red tie around his thick neck. His big belly was hanging over the belt, and his eye glasses were dark blue. Zylyftar wanted to read his eyes, but the glasses made it impossible. Stephanos Dimas was around 6'5 and weighed more than three-hundred pounds. The policeman saluted him and left the room, as he sat on the chair in front of Zylyftar.

Zylyfter wondered why Stephanos Dimas didn't take his glasses off. He smiled and opened his briefcase on the table. Zylyftar saw the logo of the Greek Intelligence Service and the words in Greek: "λόγων απορρήτων εκφοράν μη ποιού" (translated roughly as "do not discuss private affairs"), a quote from the Ancient Greek philosopher Periandros.

"Hi, I guess we can communicate in English," Stephanos Dimas said. "As the policeman mentioned before, I am a civilian working for EYP, our National Intelligence Service, which is a public service under the authority of the Minister of Interior." He introduced himself without giving any specific name.

Zylyftar was shocked to hear him saying that he was an agent working for the Greek Government. His hands were shaking unintentionally and his voice was trembling. A very short visit to his homeland was taking a downturn that he would never have expected. Stephanos Dimas was talking in general about "preventing and dealing with activities of terrorist organizations and activities constituting threats against the democratic regime, the territorial integrity and the national security of the Greek State." After he finished his short speech, the agent sighed and marked something on a sheet of paper, which he took out from the file.

"What is your name?" Stephanos Dimas asked him, looking at him from behind the glasses.

"Zylyftar Shahini," he answered, "but I don't know why I have to be questioned by you, sir?"

 Stephanos Dimas pointed his finger at him. "I ask the questions and you answer them," the agent said sternly.

It was silent for a moment. His voice was calm and soft, contrary to his body, which looked huge and heavy. Stephanos Dimas took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was already sweating, since there was no air conditioning in the detention room.

"How long have you been in Greece?" he continued with his interrogation.

"Since last night," Zylyftar said.

"Where did you go?"

"I went to Paramythia to see my grandfather's birthplace."

"Are you a Cham?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Are you a member of Chameria Liberation Army?"

"I don't know what that is, sir."

"You entered a house in Paramythia. I have the address here: 179 Geronimus Place."

"Yes, sir! That's where my father used to live," Zylyftar replied, feeling nervous. His face was all red and his eyes were boiling with anger.

"What did you do there?"

"I spoke to the ghosts, sir!"

"You, what?" Stephanos Dimas took his glasses off for the first time during the interrogation. His eyes were blue and filled with surprise.

"I spoke to the ghosts, sir! You heard me!" Zylyftar was decisive in what he was saying.

He got up and stood very close, only an inch away from Zylyftar's face.

"What did you do inside the house?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean "nothing"?

"I mean "nothing."

"The floor of the basement was cracked. There was a huge hole, which had been opened recently. What did you find there?"

"I don't know what you are talking about?"

"We found your fingerprints there. What were you looking for?"

Zylyftar understood that it was waste of time to fool around with the agent. His face became red and his hands were shivering. There was no way he could tell him about the deed to the land. That would be suicide.

"I was looking for some pictures of my family," he whispered.

"Next to the hole, an old safe box was found. What was in there?"

Zylyftar felt scared. That was a mistake to have left the safe box.

"What was in there?" Stephanos Dimas repeated, staying calm.

"There were some old pictures of my family. If you allow me sir, I'll put my hand into my pocket and show them to you."

"Sure, go ahead," Stephanos Dimas agreed. Zylyftar got up and took out a couple old black and white pictures and handed them to the agent. His hands were shivering. To Zylyftar, even those pictures had equal worth to the land deeds. The agent kept silent. He looked at the pictures with curiosity. An old man was sitting on top of a cliff and a woman behind him who was washing clothes in the Chamis River.

"Were they your grandparents? Stephanos Dimas asked him.

"Yes, sir!" Zylyftar was silent for more than a minute. He heard the agent breathing heavily.

"Did you find any gold in there?" Stephanos Dimas joked, feeling relieved.

Zylyftar smiled for the first time during the interrogation. "That was the only gold I got. Now I don't think I am not going to answer any more of your questions. I am a Canadian citizen and I want my lawyer here."

"You are going to have your lawyer here? I am afraid this is the end of my session then," Stephanos Dimas said. He closed the file, put it in his suitcase and pulled the door behind him. The agent called the police chief himself, Captain Alexandros Lalaunis, who was standing right beside the door. He opened the file once again and pointed to a page filled with his handwriting.

"Glad to see you chief!" he saluted the captain.

"Glad to see you too. What is going on?" Captain Lalaunis asked him.

  "The Albanian man admitted that he was in the house, and that he broke the floor. He showed me some pictures that he found hidden in the safebox, according to him, by his grandfather. These Albanians have a crazy tradition that they hide very valued things underground. He probably found some gold or something worth more than gold," the agent said.

Captain Lalaunis was surprised to hear the agent's speech. He lifted his shoulders to show him that he knew nothing about the Albanian tradition of hiding valued things underground.

"It wasn't gold, for sure. These houses have been searched for gold for years and the expedition teams never found anything. I think it's stupid and idiotic to think that he came just for some old pictures. It must be something worth more than pictures. You have to help me. Can you do that?" Stephanos Dimas asked Captain Alexandros Lalaunis.

The captain lifted his shoulders up again to show his ignorance and then in a second he saluted Dimas and totally agreed.

"Yes, sir! I know what you mean. I'll make him talk," the captain promised.

Stephanos Dimas smiled and patted his shoulder.

"That's my boy!" he thanked him and went outside.

##

## CHAPTER 20

 Zylyftar got up from his chair and watched the spy leave the detention room. They are probably going to beat me up now, since I didn't tell him what I found, he guessed.

As he was still trying to figure out why the agent left so sudden, Captain Alexandros Lalaunis entered the detention room with a wooden baton in his hand and approached slowly. He whistled and winked at the policeman, then touched Zylyftar's shoulder with the wooden baton. The captain hit him with baton until he fell onto the floor. He approached him slowly and stood almost above him.

"Now you tell me, boy, what else was in that safebox?" the captain asked him.

"Nothing else, I told you," Zylyftar replied and looked at him with fear.

The captain walked around him, counting his steps. He walked around him three times, without saying anything. At the beginning of the fourth circle, captain Alexandros Lalaunis came closer to him and looked straight into his eyes.

"What do you have in your pockets?" he asked Zylyftar.

"Some pictures, that is all."

"Empty them!" he ordered him with a weird voice.

Zylyftar pulled his pockets from the inside out. The policeman checked them in disbelief. He went around another circle, keeping Zylyftar in the center, stopping in front of him.

"Take off your shoes."

Zylyftar took his shoes off and held them in his hands, handing them to the policeman. He took them one by one, banged them on the floor, put his fingers inside the shoes, trying to find anything suspicious and threw them back to Zylyftar.

"Now, take your clothes off," he ordered.

Zylyftar opposed the idea immediately."No way," he almost screamed.

"Where did you hide it?"

"Where did I hide what?"

"The thing that you found in the safebox," Captain Lalaunis yelled back at him.

"I told you, I only found those pictures. My grandparents were not such idiots to leave any gold behind."

"You are probably right," Captain Lalaunis said. He spoke to someone on the radio and in a matter of minutes, officer Venizelos appeared in front of him, holding the safebox with both hands. Zylyftar almost had a heart attack. Captain Lalaunis took the safebox in his hands and placed it slowly on the table.

"Very interesting box you found out there," Lalaunis spoke to him. "I see here it was made in Switzerland. I guess your parents were damn rich."

"The Albanians were the real landlords and the Greeks were their workers," Zylyftar replied to him with pride.

Lalaunis came closer, with his eyes full with anger. "Well, the situation on the ground has changed. Now you better tell me what is the code to open this box."

"I don't know," he said firmly.

If I tell him what the code is, he will open the safebox and will find out that there is nothing there. I better make him believe that there is something in there, so in that way, I can gain some time for Ervehe. They will be all over me and will forget about questioning her about the deeds.

"What do you mean you don't know? Boy, you just said that you found some pictures in there. What is the code?"

"I don't remember!"

"I'll make you sober, so after that, you will remember everything," Lalaunis laughed at him sarcastically. He hit him while winking at the policeman, who started to hit Zylyftar with the wooden baton on his head, until he fell unconscious. Another policeman entered the room and threw a bucket with cold water on his face, but Zylyftar didn't wake up.

##

## CHAPTER 21

Captain Alexandros Lalaunis had ordered his colleagues to drag the body toward the isolation cell. A tiny line of blood was drawn down the hallway.

When he woke up, Zylyftar saw himself in a pool of blood. He tried to get up on his feet, but his knees were very weak and he fell on the floor. After a couple of hours two policemen came in and pulled him outside the cell. He was semi-conscious and they threw him back to the detention room, where the rest of the Albanian prisoners were. One of the policemen locked the door behind him without saying anything.

Ervehe got up from the corner where she was sitting and looked around carefully. She pushed away the onlookers and came to her knees right in front of her husband's body.

"Zylyftar! It's me, Ervehe," she screamed. "I am afraid they killed him!" She placed her fingers under Zylyftar's neck, but didn't feel any pulse. She panicked and started to unbutton Zylyftar's shirt, putting her hand over his chest.

"God forbid. My husband is dead," she screamed. A man in his thirties shoved the others out of the way and came close to the body. The man slapped Zylyftar on the face, but he remained unconscious.

A woman around twenty-five-years-old tried to get through the crowd, pushing with her elbows. "Let me get through. I have been a nurse in Albania. I know CPR," she said and sat on her knees right beside Zylyftar 's head. She didn't wait for the crowds' approval, but opened the lifeless mouth of Zylyftar and pumped his lungs with air, giving him breath with all her strength. Her lips tightened around his lips, but his face didn't show any sign of life. Ervehe kept pressing with both hands on Zylyftar's chest. The crowd around them froze, showing disbelief, certain he was already dead.

"It's useless," Ervehe sighed. "He is gone. The policemen killed him in front of my eyes."

"Oh, my God, what should we do?" the former nurse asked her. Their voices kept rising. The policemen came closer to the cell door.

"What happened?" one of them asked.

"Your friends tortured him until he died. My husband is dead," Ervehe yelled at him.

"Good. Now he is a good Albanian," the policeman replied and laughed at her hysterically.

Ervehe couldn't believe what she just heard the policeman saying. It wasn't the first time in her life she had heard that. It was the same thing the Serbs were saying about the Albanians in Kosovo. "The Dead Albanian is the only good Albanian." The Macedonians were saying the same thing about the Albanians in Macedonia. Since 1913, when the Albanian lands were given to their neighboring countries, based on the decision of the London Treaty, all the neighbors in the Balkans were fighting each other, but all of them together had one thing in common: they all hated the Albanians.

"You will feel sorry for what you just said," Ervehe replied.

Within minutes a siren was heard and a platoon of policemen appeared with their rubber sticks in their hands, each wearing a helmet. They opened the door and stormed into the detaining room, hitting everyone left and right. The detainees tried to escape, but they didn't have any other place to go. Ervehe didn't move from her spot, standing on her knees right beside Zylyftar. One of the policemen pointed his rubber stick towards her face.

"When did he die?" he asked her.

"I don't know if he is dead or alive," she whispered. She felt weak, still looking at Zylyftar's face.

"We are going to call a doctor and check," the policeman said, and winked at his colleagues, ordering them to leave.

In few minutes two emergency doctors appeared in front of the main door of the detention room. One of them took his stethoscope from the suitcase and checked Zylyftar's heart. Both of them put Zylyftar on a stretcher and lifted it, leaving the prisoners behind them, speechless. One of the guards shut the door, as a few weak voices were heard crying in the detention room.

"They killed him in front of our eyes. This is horrible. Let us out of here, you assholes," one of the captives screamed.

All the prisoners began to shout:

"Killers!"

"Set us free!"

"Take us back home to Albania!"

"We want justice"

"Shut up! We took him to hospital," one of the guards yelled back.

The chorus of captives became stronger. A policeman put a hose through the window and sprayed the immigrants with pressured water as they fell to the floor. The policeman turned off the water after he saw there was no resistance. He pulled the hose back in place and left.

Ervehe wiped her eyes and sneezed. She looked around to find Zylyftar's passport. She found it, looking at it carefully.

"I will not let you go," she said thoughtfully. Her eyes became foggy, caused by a light layer of tears. "I promise you, darling, I'll do that," she said solemnly.

"We are not going to let it go just like that! If he is dead, they just gave us a hero," one of the detainees said.

"Where is the Albanian Ambassador? Where is the Albanian Government to protect us?"

"Did the Lord abandon us? If there is any God out there, we need to know! Where is he?" an old man cried out. His voice reverberated off the walls of the detention room. The old man wiped his white beard and approached Ervehe, who was sobbing. He tried to talk to her several times, but when he saw her shoulders shivering, he paused.

She wiped her tears and turned to him. "I am Canadian citizen. I should call the Canadian Embassy in Athens and tell them what happened here."

The old man shook his head left to right in approval. At first she thought he was disagreeing, but she remembered that the Albanian approves when he shakes his head from left to right and disapproves, when he shakes his head from up to down, quite different from the rest of the world.

"It might be a good idea, but how you are going to do that? The Greek Police don't care for anybody," the old man suggested. "But we can try." He put his hands around his mouth and screamed as much as he could. "We have to talk to Canadian Ambassador!"

Some detainees agreed with him immediately. In few minutes a policeman appeared in front of the gate, holding a megaphone in his hand. Several other policemen were standing behind him, holding their guns ready to fire.

"Who wants to talk to Canadian ambassador?" the policeman asked and threw a vague look toward them. The old man pushed the crowd with his elbows and stepped forward. He pointed at Ervehe who had covered her face and was sobbing.

"She is Canadian citizen and wants to contact her embassy," the old man said.

The policeman wrinkled his eyebrows and lifted his shoulders. He looked at her in disbelief. She looked very skinny, almost like a ghost coming from hell.

"Are you the wife of the Albanian Cham?" he asked her all of the sudden.

"Yes, I am. And I want to know where my husband is now," she replied.

"He is in the hospital," the policeman said.

"I want to see him," she said firmly. "Is he dead or alive?"

"You are going to see him in Albania. All of you are going to be deported in a couple of hours. Be patient until then," he said and almost smashed the door in front of her face. Ervehe turned her head to them, trying to read their minds. She was separated from her husband again at the moment when he needed her. She was pregnant and in a foreign country's jail. How she could arrive to his home in Tirana without any problem? When was she going to see her husband again? If he were in very bad shape, his mission would be impossible. What if he were really dead? How she could face this new reality?

"The policeman said that he is in the hospital. But if we get deported, what is going to happen to him?" she asked the old man.

"I hope you find your husband," the old man whispered and sighed deeply. "We are not going to leave you alone. You are coming with us to Albania. The only way to see your husband again is to go straight to his parents' home."

"I can't trust them. What if he's dead, who is going to bring his body home?" Ervehe moaned. She sobbed, but tried to hold back her tears.

"Let's hope for the best. Hopefully God is going to be with him this time," said the old man, trying to cool her down.

Ervehe never thought the she would ask God for help. Raised during the Communist system, when all the churches and mosques were closed, she never thought that she was going to believe in God again. But there the time had come that she had to pray, with her hands up in the sky, like the old Illyrians used to do, praying in so called "good places," and calling "God" the sun itself, the trees, even every single bird flying by. She went down on her knees, lifted her hands in the air, and prayed. Her parents were Cham Muslims, but she had never been to a mosque in her life, so she decided to pray in natural way, the way it came to her, unintentionally.

"Since God is one, may God listen to me, and save my husband," she said slowly. The rest of the detainees were shocked by what they were seeing at that moment.

"May God save your husband," several of them repeated after her. She opened her eyes and saw that all those men and women who looked at her with love and respect surrounded her.

"May God help him fulfill his father's will," she cited louder.

"May God help him fulfill his father's will," they repeated after her.

"Amen!" she screamed.

"Amen!" they yelled.

For a moment she felt her baby shivering in her belly. She sighed, like she wanted to pour her heart out. She closed her eyes and waited for few seconds. She saw her father, when he hugged her for the last time, when she left for Canada. Her father could hardly hold back his tears, as his lower lip was shivering. Her mother, Fatime, was tearing her hair out and scratching her cheeks with her nails. That was the Albanian style of expressing their grief.

Ervehe gasped in fear, but still kept her eyes closed. Zylyftar's face became brighter. She saw him coming home from work late at night, working seven days a week, but he never complained about it.

"Amen," she replied right after them.

##

## CHAPTER 22

The police chief of Joannina District got out of the car and hurried toward the main entrance of the General Hospital. Two other policemen got out from another van and followed the boss. The police cars honking their horns, electrified the atmosphere. They parked in the middle of the parking lot right in front of the main entrance to the hospital. Alexandros Lalaunis stood in front of the main elevator, as several policemen appeared wearing their visors and holding semi-automatic rifles in their hands. Some of the ordinary patients looked at them with surprise and wonder, without daring to ask what was happening. The medical doctors and the nurses kept following their daily routine, like nothing happened. The Police chief arrived at the Emergency and immediately called the head of the department. The doctor was a man in his fifties. He was wearing his white uniform and he still had the stethoscope in his ears. He came closer to the police chief and introduced himself.

"Do you have an Albanian patient here?" Alexandros Lalaunis asked him and showed him a copy of Zylyftar's passport. The doctor put his eyeglasses on and looked at the piece of paper carefully.

He called one of the nurses and looked around the hall, which was already filled with several policemen. A nurse approached the policemen, holding a medical file in her hands. She was tall and skinny, with brown hair and blue eyes. She looked a little worried since all those men were looking at her.

"We have an Albanian, who is seriously injured. He is in room number thirteen," the nurse said.

"I need to see him," Alexandros Lalaunis asked her anxiously.

"He is still unconscious, sir," the nurse specified.

The chief police tightened his teeth in order not to scream at her. He grabbed the medical file from her hands and read the report with one breath. Zylyftar Shahini had an infarct of myocardium, but still survived. The head of The Emergency Department pointed toward the hallway, which was leading to room number thirteen. Seeing the police chief in such a bad mood made him nervous.

"Sorry, we were just planning to call police and let you know that the patient might die any moment," he said.

"I don't want to hear your explanations," said Captain Lalaunis, angry. "We have to get him back to the police station for questioning. He is a serious threat to our National Security."

Captain Lalaunis stepped forward in the same direction that the doctor was pointing at. The head of the Emergency Department was shivering from head to toe. He winked at the nurse and both of them followed the Captain. Most of the policemen left the main hall, rushing to room number thirteen, leaving two policemen to guard the main elevator. The doctor couldn't understand how an unconscious patient could be such a threat to Greece's national security. Based on his principles, he shouldn't let the police come so close to one of his patients.

"Captain, I am afraid you are in too much of a hurry. I think the best idea is to treat our patient first," he suggested, but Captain Lalaunis wasn't listening to him.

He squeezed the handle and opened the door slowly. Zylyftar was lying on his bed, breathing through a respirator. His eyes were half open. The computer right above his head was showing a diagram, which looked fairly normal for a patient in his situation. Captain Lalaunis shut the door and unplugged the life support immediately. The doctor was shocked, but didn't dare say anything.

Captain Lalaunis put a gun to his forehead. "Don't ever tell me how to behave. This bastard wanted to get some land ownership certificates from Paramythia and bring them to Albania. Do you understand what is going on? It's all political. These cowards want to create a Greater Albania. They want to separate the north of Greece and join it with Albania. So don't play stupid with me. Now keep your mouth shut and help me pronounce this guy dead and throw him on the road," Captain Lalaunis said to him, still holding the gun to his forehead.

Dr. Dimitris Karaxhaferis never had any problem with police before. In his middle age, life was always smooth, like butter. Having a wonderful family, married to a woman twenty years younger than him, and having two lovely little daughters, he never thought that whatever he accomplished in his life could come to so fast an end.

"Dear Captain, I don't care about politics. Cutting his life support is unprofessional and amoral," he tried to oppose, but Lalaunis put his hand over his mouth.

"Don't you dare tell me what you think! This is a matter of national security. We have to take him for questioning," said Captain Lalaunis, still holding the gun to his head, but this time, squeezing the trigger a little.

"If you kill the patient, someone will find out and you will go to jail," Dimitris Karaxhaferis warned him. Even the coldness of the pistol on his forehead made him shake from head to toe.

Lalaunis put the pistol back in its place. "All right then! We are not going to kill him. We are going to kick him out of the hospital, that's all." Lalaunis was trying to justify his actions. All of the sudden the doctor's cell phone rang. Captain Lalaunis winked at him, meaning that he was letting him grab the phone. One of the nurses from the Emergency Department was informing him that three new patients had just arrived at the hospital in very bad condition.

"Sorry chief, I have to go! If you say this is a matter of national security, I don't have any good reason to oppose it, but the patient needs our medical treatment," he said, voice trembling, showing clearly that he wanted a way out.

Captain Lalaunis let the gun down and slapped him lightly on his face in a friendly gesture. "Get the hell out of here. We will inform you of his health."

The doctor grabbed the handle and opened the door slowly. He couldn't believe that the call could save his life. He made one step backward, then two, then three, until he went back into the hallway. One of the policemen laughed at him with sarcasm.

Captain Lalaunis looked at Zylyftar's face with triumph. He finally got his prey.

"Listen, we are going outside for a short walk. Nothing is going to happen. You are going to have a little bit of fresh air," Captain Lalaunis laughed at him.

He checked his watch and called the guards, who were still standing right beside the door. The two policemen entered the room and started to push the bed outside.

In less than twenty-five minutes, the body of Zylyftar was dumped outside the hospital, not far from the main highway that was headed north toward Albania.

As the policemen were sliding his body to the ground, Captain Alexandros Lalaunis heard his cellphone ringing. "Yes, Mr. Dimas. We are outside right now," he answered with joy.

"Discard his body and leave immediately," the voice said. Captain Alexandros Lalaunis couldn't believe what he just heard.

"Yes, Mr. Dimas. I did that already. Everything went as planned."

"Very good, captain. All of Greece is looking at you right now. I'll call the director to give you a promotion," the voice said and hung up.

Captain Lalaunis looked at the man lying on the ground. He opened the white sheet a little and noticed that on his biggest toe was tied a toe tag. The toe tag had the number thirteen, the same number as his room number. The suspicious type, Captain Lalaunis didn't feel safe when he saw the same number. He grabbed the toe tag and pulled it, in order to get rid of it, but he couldn't. Something moved under the white sheet. He opened the corner of the sheet and looked at the man. Zylyftar's face was white as snow. His dried lips tried to articulate something.

Captain Lalaunis shivered and got on his car, driving off.

##

## CHAPTER 23

Stavros Baltiotis had been driving on the main highway for hours. Long trips were common with his job. He started driving trucks when he was twenty- years-old. He turned the volume to the radio up, listening with joy, ignoring the cab driver, who was blowing the horn passing him on the left side. He was eating his hot souflaki with his left hand, and holding the right hand on the wheel, keeping his eyes straight forward to the oncoming traffic. The cab driver passed him in a second and flipped him the middle finger, swearing at him, "Gamoto! Fuck You!"

Stavros Baltiotis didn't care. He kept the speed constant at one-hundred kilometers per hour, with a soft feeling in his heart. He had a day off two days ago and was still living in those memories, when he visited the archeological sites in Plaka region, in Athens.

He was a kid the last time he was there, walking after his papa. He couldn't get rid of the image of the Tower of the Wind, said to be the grave of Filip, the King of Macedon. Sultan Fatih built the old mosque in the middle of Athens more than five hundred years ago, but now it was used for storage. Acropolis itself, and different kind of ouzos at Angelo's liquor store, left him breathless.

He shook his head and tried to get back to reality.

He was had been struggling to stay awake and thought he was dreaming when he saw a man, wrapped in a white sheet, lying by the side of the road. The truck driver blew the horn and pushed on the brakes. The smell of burning rubber, mixed with the sound of screeching tires, engulphed the cap as he struggled to get the truck under control. He held the wheel tight and closed his eyes, hoping that he wasn't going to hit the man.

Stavros was still looking at the man lying on the side of the road. He pushed the brakes hard, as the wheels slid on the pavement, slick and wet because of the night dew. He turned off the engine and walked toward him, looking carefully at the surrounding area. The man was covered with a white sheet, giving him the impression that he was left there on purpose. He felt his heart pounding against his chest, as he sped up and held his breath, approaching the unconscious man. He lifted the corner of the sheet.

From the damp sheet and the dew collecting on his face, Stavros estimated that he had been lying there for at least a couple of hours. The man had thick black eyebrows and his nose had the curve of an eagle's. He seemed to be in his thirties, and a Rolex was still ticking on his wrist, indicating that this man was not a victim of robbery. He was dressed in a dark blue suit and some purple marks shown on his face, probably caused by a severe beating. His lips were dried from thirst and a line of dried blood was was caked onto his left cheek.

Stavros Baltiotis put the tips of his fingers on the man's neck in order to check his pulse. His body was still warm. He smiled, sensing a very light beat. This mysterious man was still alive!

"Wake up!" he whispered to him in panic, shaking the man from his shoulders. Without even wiping his fingers, which were dirty with the oil and the grease of the truck, Stavros tried to open the man's eyelids.

I better take him to the hospital, before it's too late, Stavros thought and tried to lift him from the ground.  He stuck both his hands under the man's shoulders and pulled him carefully toward the truck. He sighed, feeling weak, and looked around for help from both sides of the road but no one was in sight. He took a deep breath and pulled the man toward the truck. One inch here, one inch there, gasping and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He opened the side door of the truck and lifted the man's body from the ground, pushing his shoulder right under his belly, fighting to keep the balance. After several minutes of struggling, Stavros finally was able to push the man into the back seat, where he used to sleep, whenever he was on the road, far away from home. The back seat was wide, similar to a portable bed. He secured the man with the seat belt, feeling relieved as he got back behind the wheel.

The closest general hospital was located in the outskirts of Joannina city. He turned the engine on, signaling as he merged into the coming traffic, watching carefully in all three mirrors. The pale face of the unknown man was not showing any signs of life, as if he were already dead.

Who knows, what this poor man went through, since he was mistreated like that, Stavros thought. He looked at his watch and realized that he spent more than half an hour pulling this man and lifting him into the truck. I guess, they had beaten him and threw him on the road like a piece of rag. Why on earth did this happen? If they wanted to rob him, they should've stolen his "Rolex." Based on the fact that he is wearing a nice suit, he must be a high ranked official, who works in Athens. But, what kind of business he was involved in that he ended up around here?

As he was trying to find out the reasons why the mysterious man was thrown without mercy on the side of the road, he pressed the gas pedal and increased the speed. He had been over thirty years driving different trucks all over Greece, but it was the very first time that he found a man unconscious on the road. Stavros was a father of three children and divorced from his wife. On the road all the time, he was spending fewer hours in his home in the "Plaka" quarter of Athens.

He might be the same age as my son, Harillas, he thought, shivering from head to toe. How would he react if this had happened to his son? That bad thought made him emotional, hardly holding both hands on the wheel. He blew the horn and put the emergency lights on. He kept speeding up, as the cars yielded the right of way on both sides of the highway. His truck started to shake back and forth, hardly keeping the balance. It was the first time that he was driving with such speed on the highway, rushing to the General Hospital in Joannina. When he arrived at the front yard of the hospital, he thought a whole damn day had passed. A microbus entered the main entrance of the hospital a few seconds before him. Four nurses took out a stretcher and carried one of the patients to the emergency department.

Stavros lowered the side window and whistled as loud as he could. "Hey, I have an unconscious man here. Bring a stretcher."

Two nurses rushed toward the truck. He shut off the engine and pointed at the patient, who was still lying unconscious on the back seat.

"What happened?" one of the nurses asked him.

Stavros didn't know what to say. "To be honest with you, I have no idea what happened. Believe it or not, I found him by the side of the highway when I was driving this morning," he said.

The nurses lifted the unknown man on the stretcher and went inside the hospital, as Stavros looked at the truck, making sure, there wouldn't be a problem with parking. He sped up, looking at the unknown man, who remained unconscious. He had to go through the narrow corridors and many sections, until he arrived at the Emergency Department. As soon as they got into a room, one of the nurses put him under life support and called for one of the doctors.

Stavros thought that his job was done, but he was feeling curious as to what was going to be next for the man he had found who was still struggling for his life.  He was eager to know where the guy was from and where he was going.

Dimitris Karaxhaferis entered the room, where the new patient was brought in. His eyes were shining with inner joy. He turned to Stavros Baltiotis and patted his shoulders in a friendly manner.

"My friend, you don't know what a good thing you have done for this man. He's lucky that you brought him back here," the doctor said, as Stavros looked at him with eyes wide open.

"What do you mean, doctor?  Do you know this patient?" he asked him anxiously.

"I know him. He is an Albanian from Canada. Some policemen took him from here and threw him onto the road, even though they knew he still needed his life support," the doctor whispered.

"Why did they have to do that?"

"That is what I don't understand and still don't believe. One of the policemen said to me that his case was a matter of National Security. I don't know what it's all about, but as a doctor, I know this young man still needs medical treatment. He might die at any moment and I don't want to be responsible for his death. "

Stavros began to think: Wow! He is Albanian. I look at his face, but I can't tell the difference between a pure Greek and an Albanian. Our physiognomy is pretty much the same. I have things to do. I've got to go to my destination. Probably they are waiting for my delivery at the warehouse and my dairy products won't last too long on the road.

He sat on a stool right beside the patient and waited. The doctor called one of the nurses, who gave the man an injection.

"What do you think, doctor? Is there any chance for him to survive?" Stavros asked him, looking at his watch. He was still in dilemma and was fighting with himself either to stay or to go. He wanted a quick and simple answer from the doctor.

"I don't know yet. His situation might get worse. As soon as he wakes up, someone has to take him to Albania," the doctor suggested. "But you don't have any reason to do this. Best to mind your own business," the doctor added, looking straight into his eyes.

Yeah, I better mind my own business, though this doctor is meaning quite an opposite thing. He wants me to help him, but this guy has problems with police and this makes him dangerous. But what goes around, comes around. My father was a soldier with the Greek army in Albania during the Second World War. He got wounded by the Italian fascists and was left for dead, behind enemy lines. If those Albanian peasants of Boboshtica village in the outskirts of Korca city didn't take care of him, my dad would have died. I can even remember the last name of that Albanian family that helped my father, the Bregu family. My father stayed in their house for three months, until he healed and went back to Greece. Oh boy, I really don't know what to do.

"I have a very old debt to pay to these people. My father was a soldier in Albania and the Albanians saved his life after he was shot several times and almost died. I am afraid it's a payback time," Stavros Baltiotis said.

"Your father was a soldier in Albania?"

"Yes!"

"That's quite interesting. You see, in the end my friend, we are all humans. We all need one another. I am glad that you are going to stick around to help," the doctor replied. "Will you take him to Albania?"

"I am still thinking about it."

"If you do, then you need some basic information, before you take any further steps," the doctor suggested.

He called a nurse, who brought the patient's medical card and showed it to him. Stavros was able to read the patient's name.

"Zylyftar Shahini!" At least I know his name, but I don't see any address, where he used to live. The doctor said he lives in Canada. Probably he has relatives in Albania, someone waiting for him. Everyone has a mother or a father. I don't have to bother to take him straight to his parents though. It would be good enough just to take him to the border and hand him over to the Albanian authorities. They would take him to their hospital for medical treatment and, then their own police may contact his relatives, if he has any.

"The trip would take several hours, but without an address it's almost impossible to get the guy on the truck. And another stupid question: Where exactly should I go?" Stavros asked them. "Does anyone know if he came to Greece alone, or with someone else? If he becomes conscious in a few hours, then I am willing to help, totally."

"No one knows. Wait for a while. He should be conscious soon," the doctor said.

Stavros Baltiotis looked through the window and saw his truck still in the parking lot. He was fighting with himself not to get involved any deeper in this story. He didn't recognize himself anymore. Why should he help an Albanian? He wasn't the only Greek who was helping an Albanian. More than half million Albanians were living in Greece for years and no one was thinking to return to their homeland. Hundreds of ordinary Greek families opened their doors and gave shelter to the immigrants from the North, after the collapse of the Communist regime in 1990s. Stavros Baltiotis had only good memories about Albanians. When he built his house in Athens, he hired them for very low salary and they did a tremendous job. Once his truck stalled right in the middle of the highway and two Albanian immigrants took him to their car and invited him to their own home where they drank all night long until the truck was fixed.

My father's story is good enough to make me face this challenge, but I might have problems with the police. What does this guy have to do with our National Security? I'll do what the doctor says; hang around for a while. If he doesn't wake up, then I'll mind my own business.

One of the nurses entered the room and smiled at him. She was in her twenties and had blue eyes and a pair of black braids. Whenever she smiled, two little dimples were formed on her cheeks. She lifted the sheet, as Stavros' eyes looked to the left hand of the patient. He was surprised not to remember that the patient was wearing a wedding ring.

"How come I didn't pay attention to that detail? Do you know if he was accompanied by his wife or a girlfriend?" Stavros asked her. "She might be around here and it would be nice if we inform her where he is," Stavros suggested.

 "I don't know, to be honest with you," she said.

"Probably someone knows. Which police station he was detained?" Stavros replied thoughtfully.

"Oh, I just remember, they came from the closest one to here, a few kilometers away from the hospital," the nurse replied.

"If we are able to contact his wife, everything is going to be easy," Stavros said. The nurse smiled and patted him on his shoulder.

"It sounds like a good idea to me if you go to the police station. They probably detained the woman with the same last name. If you find her, our enigma is solved," she said.

 "What's his last name again? Shahini?" I guess, I have to ask for a woman with the same last name," said Stavros, smiling.

As soon as the nurse left the room, Stavros went back to his truck. There was no more time to waste.

##

## CHAPTER 24

Two weeks had passed since the last time they spoke to their son, and both of them were very worried. Muharrem dialed Zylyftar's number several times, but Zylyftar and Ervehe, would not answer.

Muharrem was driving himself crazy. He didn't sleep much and his health was deteriorating further. Mejreme made him coffee first thing in the morning and handed it to him with anger, as he was sitting on his bed.

"I wish I gave you poison, inshallah!" the old woman yelled at her husband.

Muharrem didn't speak. He still had an inner feeling that his son was still alive. It was impossible for him that his only son could die without fulfilling his mission, without coming home. It was his turn to die, and not the other way around. When his eyes were filled with tears, when his heart was almost at the point of ceasing to beat, an angel with white arms would stand above his head, whispering to him the good news that his son was coming home. Bringing those deeds wasn't important anymore.

Feeling guilty, Muharrem was biting his upper lip with his teeth, not saying anything, just hoping that the nightmare he was experiencing soon would come to an end. His wife's grief was understandable, but he couldn't give up so fast on his son. He started to watch TV day and night with the remote control in his hand. Every day he was telling Mejreme to buy all the Albanian daily newspapers for a word from Greece. So far the Greek police hadn't killed any Albanians in the last two weeks.

"Get up from your bed and let's go to the Foreign Ministry and ask them for our son," Mejreme screamed at him. "If he dies, I don't care if you die too," she added with anger.

Muharrem knew her very well. His wife stood right beside him all those years. A living saint, that's what she was. His knees were so weak and old, but he had to get up and go the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to report his lost son.

"Bring me my trousers, my shirt, jacket, and my shoes," Muharrem said to her.

The old woman brought his clothes, and within half an hour they were in a taxi, driving right down the middle of the Boulevard Deshmoret e Kombit. The taxi turned to the Unaza Road and headed north to The Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The old couple came to the main entrance and asked the security personnel for help.

It was a hot day for March. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was located in a four-storey building along Lana River, right at the end of a crowded neighborhood. Muharrem looked at the building with wonder not feeling comfortable. He was hardly walking, and felt scared that at that time of day, no one would care to leave their nice office and speak to him about his son. A Mercedes Benz parked right in the front of the Ministry. The Minister himself came out from the car accompanied by two bodyguards. Muharrem felt that he could run and meet him, to ask him directly for help, but when he saw that the Minister's face was ice cold, he changed his mind and decided to speak to the soldier first.

"Our son left Canada two weeks ago and went to Greece. Since then, we haven't heard from him. Is there any way that the ministry can contact the Greek authorities and find out what happened to him?" Muharrem said to the man in uniform.

The man gave him a form to fill out and pointed to the crowd, which was waiting in the back of the Ministry. An old woman was wiping her tears as a fifteen-year-old boy was filling out the application for her. Muharrem came closer to the old woman and tried to compare both forms from a distance. He didn't know how to fill out his form and his fingers were hardly holding the pencil. His mind was going around and around. He put a hand on Mejreme's shoulder and sat on the sidewalk.

"What's the good news that brought you here?" Muharrem asked the old woman.

She turned her head toward him with her eyes full of tears. "None of us came here for good. A Greek man killed my son in 1999. It was New Year Eve when he went to his boss, along with two other Albanian workers, to ask for his payment. The employer killed all three of them and cut my son with a handsaw to cover up his fingerprints. Now, I am trying to bring his remains home, but it's taking more than a month, and nothing is happening. There is too much bureaucracy in these offices," the old woman said.

"I feel so sorry to hear that. Which Greek city did this happen?" Muharrem asked her.

"In Joannina! It's so close, but the Greek Authorities said there were problems with his identification. Why is it so hard to identify him, when I am here and alive? They can take my DNA, or whatever, pictures that I have of him. I am afraid that it's not just bureaucracy; it's a cover up. The Greek Police hide their crimes, getting rid of the evidence. When there is no body, no one can get convicted with first or second-degree murder. And you, what good news brought you here? " the old woman asked him.

Muharrem was still in shock. He looked at Mejreme for help. "My son went to Greece with his wife two weeks ago. We are so worried. We're afraid we'll never hear from them again," Muharrem said and turned his head to the other side, so the old woman couldn't see his tears. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it in a friendly manner. More than fifty people were in line waiting for an official answer from the Ministry. Their turn didn't come that day. The rest of the line was made of twenty people, and Muharrem and Mejreme were the very last ones.

A man announced that the office was closed for the day, and it was going to open on Monday at 9 00 AM. He was wearing a nice suite and had eyeglasses on, holding a coffee in his hand. The crowd started to talk in chorus immediately to the Ministry official.

"Excuse me, sir! You can't do this to me. It's the third time I've come here and you are telling me to come on Monday? What kind of government is this? My twenty-year-old son was killed back in November 1999. Now it is March and I've yet to get an answer."

"I'm sorry madam, in which Greek city was your son murdered?"

"In the island of Navpliu, but the killer only spent a few months in jail. What is happening in that country, do you know? After the Greek killed him, he burned his body to cover his fingerprints!"

"Madam, I remember your case! I feel so sorry for your son, but for today we are closed. I promise you that I am going to send your passport for a visa to the Greek embassy myself. You need some extra documents though. You need to translate your son's birth certificate and your family certificate in both languages, Greek and English, and they have to be notarized by a Legal Notary."

"Oh, God! I already submitted these documents. I paid so much money to translate and notarize them. Where I am going to find that kind of money to start the documents all over again, son, where?" the woman yelled, but the official told her to come back on Monday and disappeared between the corridors of the Ministry.

"You see? What kind of Government is that? They just finish their shift and go home," the woman said and lifted her arms toward the ceiling, as if she were looking for help from God himself.

Mejreme pulled her husband by the sleeve of his jacket and walked outside the territory of the Ministry. They sat on the sidewalk again and waited for a taxi to pass by.

"We probably have to contact Canadian Embassy, since Zylyftar is a Canadian citizen," Mejreme advised.

"But their embassy is in Athens. They won't let us pass the border, as soon as they see that we were born in Greece," Muharrem said. "Let's go home. We'll try again on Monday at the Foreign Ministry. Since then, we can call the PDIU to see what the Cham politicians are going to say about this."

"Don't expect anything from them. We will be very lucky if they answer us," said Mejreme.

"You are probably right," Muharrem said and waived to a taxi driving by. Heartbroken, sick and tired, they still hoped that they would hear something from their son. Minutes were becoming hours, hours becoming days, but there was no news from beyond the border.

Muharrem was stuck on his deathbed again, this time, feeling guilty about his only son. He couldn't resist the cold eyes of Mejreme who was treating him like he was the worst person on the planet. She locked herself in the other room of the house and kept crying all day. He could hear her screaming to God for help. Muharrem didn't know what to do next. He tried the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, worrying that the bad impression that he had of them could affect his approach to other institutions in the country. There was only one hope, one last hope. He knew one of the members of the Chams Political Party PDIU.

Mr. Dashnor Hoxha was nephew of Myzafer Hoxha, one of his childhood friends. He would probably return his phone call. Muharrem opened the drawer and took out a phone book. He dialed the number of the senior political leader and all of the sudden a female voice answered the call.

"Hello?... Mr. Hoxha is not here. He is coming back from Brussels on Friday. Would you like to leave a message?"

Muharrem shivered. His hopes were fading away. He looked through the window and saw spring coming. Lunchtime came fast, but his wife Mejreme didn't bother to serve him food, keeping to her room. He didn't feel hungry anyway. He just wanted to die but he couldn't. He stopped breathing to push himself to go to the other world, but it didn't work. His lungs involentarily filled with air.

"Don't breathe, idiot, don't breathe!" Muharrem spoke to himself.

An inner voice was whispering in his ear that he shouldn't give up so fast on the Albanian institutions, the Albanian government, or even the Albanian media. The people's Attorney at law could do something for his case. He coughed and got up, put his jacket on, and holding tight to his stick, he went to Mejreme's room and knocked on the door.

"I don't want to see your face again," Mejreme screamed at him, still sobbing.

Muharrem didn't wait this time for her answer.

"We better go and meet the People's Attorney," Muharrem said to her.

Mejreme laughed hysterically through the door. He thought that his wife was out of her mind. Her laugh filled the old house. During his entire life, he never felt more down than that moment.

Muharrem decided to go back to his bed and wait for death to come in his own room. His wife wasn't his wife anymore, but just a wild beast coming from the woods, which was ready to cut into little pieces, all those who appeared in front of her. She was blaming him for the loss of their son. She was driving herself crazy.

If I go back to my deathbed, I'll never see my son again and she is going to a mental hospital for sure. The best bet is to get the hell out of here and go somewhere outside; he thought and turned back to her room. This time he didn't knock on the door. He just kicked it as much as he could. The door cracked wide open. Mejreme got up and looked at him. He tried to read her eyes, but her eyes were fully red, filled with anger.

"Let's get out of here!"

"I am not going anywhere! I am waiting for his body to come home," she moaned.

"There is no body. He is coming home on his feet. If we get the hell out from these rooms and do something out there, at least we can breathe the fresh air," Muharrem said.

"I don't want fresh air."

"We are going to ask for a meeting with the prime minister himself!"

"Now you are joking!"

"Come with me. I feel it that our son is alive. If you don't trust the prime minister, we can go to a newspaper and meet a journalist out there. Our voice has to be heard. We can't stay like this!"

Mejreme looked at the picture of her son on the wall. His vivid eyes looked like they were following her, wherever she went. He looked just fine.

"Maybe he is just sleeping. Yes, I saw in a dream that he fell into a deep sleep. You are right, Muharrem. He is sleeping. We have to wait until he wakes up," Mejreme moaned and fell into his arms.

Muharrem hugged his wife and looked through the window. The birds were chirping. The wind was singing on top of the roof. He pulled her slowly, as the door stayed open behind them.

##

## CHAPTER 25

Canadian Ambassador in Athens Antony Mcyntire dialed the number and waited for a few seconds. The Interior Minister of Greece, Akis Trendafilopoulos, appeared on the phone after several failed attempts to contact him since early that morning. Mr. Mcyntire was aware of the fact that Greek Police had detained a Canadian couple, keeping them in jail. Canadian Zylyftar Shahini was brutally beaten by police and ended up in coma, and for that reason, he was transferred to the hospital in Joannina. Even though he needed a special treatment and was fighting for his life, the authorities threw him out of the hospital and he was left for dead beside the main highway. A truck driver found him. Shortly after, the Greek media arrived at the scene and made the fact public. Seems a journalist in Albania alerted them, after Zylyftar's parents gave him their story.  The Greek media verified the phone call made by Ervehe the same day. It was that evening that Mr. Antony Mcyntire decided to help the Canadian couple.

"Dear minister?" Mr. Antony Mcyntire asked him, as he heard the heavy breath of the Greek Interior Minister on the other edge of the line.

"Oh, Mr. Ambassador! What can I do for you?"

"First of all, thank you very much for returning my last call."

"I am terribly sorry, Mr. Ambassador! We have been so busy and I finally found some time to respond to your concern," Akis Trendafilopoulos regretted.

"I want the Canadian couple to be released from jail immediately," the Canadian ambassador said firmly. His voice was loud on the phone and Akis Trendafilopoulos didn't expect that kind of tone in the diplomatic field.

"I don't know what you are talking about," Akis Trendafilopoulos said. Playing dumb at that moment was the smartest way to end the call.

"Canadian couple with the last name "Shahini" has been mistreated by your police, and the husband has been left for dead, without further medical treatment. The woman, I have her passport faxed to my office, is still in the detention room in Joannina." The Canadian ambassador was feeling embarrassed. He didn't expect that the Greek Minister would claim that he didn't know, and had nothing to say about the case. He took the remote control with the other hand and found the channel where their story was still the top news of the day.

"I guess you have a television in your office," the ambassador spoke to him with irony.

"Yes, I have!"

"Then go to Sky news and see for yourself," the ambassador warned him.

Antony Mcyntire had known Akis Trendafilopoulos for long time. Both of them had met several times in the occasional meetings in Athens. He was invited twice to the Canadian Embassy and they drank once together in a nightclub, where the famous bouzoukis were playing.

"Okay, Mr. Mcyntire I see that. They are not talking about the Canadians though. They are Albanians by origin. The man is a dangerous politician, who is a threat to our National Security. He is accused of trespassing on private property in a northern town," the Minister Akis Trendafilopoulos said.

"Excuse me Minister! Torturing someone to death is not justifiable. The Albanians – husband and wife – are Canadian citizens, so for that simple reason, I ask for your help to release her immediately and the man has to go back to the hospital," the ambassador asked him.

The Interior Minister Trendafilopoulos didn't like his tone.

"This is an internal affair of our Government. I don't think Mr. Ambassador, that you have to interfere on behalf of your government," Akis Trendafilopoulos said.

The Ambassador's hands were shaking. He banged the table with his fist. "Mr. Minister! I have to inform you that Canada protects its citizens abroad. Torture is not legal. If they have problems with your legal system, than I guess, they are entitled to have a lawyer.

"They can have a lawyer, if they ask. Since they have dual citizenship, their case is more complicated. They were detained as Albanians and not as Canadians, Mr. Ambassador!"

"Your policemen cut the Canadian passport into small little pieces, not the Albanian one. I want to let you know sir, that the Canadian passport is property of Canadian Government," the ambassador responded furiously.

Akis Trendafilopoulos didn't know what to say. He was trying really hard to find an excuse.

"Are you still there?" the Ambassador asked him again.

"Yes, I am here. Look, I'll verify the case myself tonight. I promise you personally, if it's true, then the woman will be released and the husband will get the proper medical treatment. If their Canadian passports were destroyed, let me express my personal regret, Mr. Ambassador. The policeman who is responsible for such behavior, will be punished," the Interior Minister said with a vague tone.

The Canadian Ambassador smiled a little. He hadn't hoped that the Greek minister would promise his involvement on this matter. "That's what I like to hear, Mr. Minister," he said, "but that's not enough. Is there any way you can help me to get in touch with them? It has been a very hard time for them and for that reason I want to show them that our government cares for its own citizens," the ambassador asked him.

"Why not? As soon as I get some information, I'll call you," the Greek minister said.

"That would be great," the ambassador replied, and thanked him once again. He hung up and wiped his eyes. A light layer of fog was climbing onto his retina that didn't allow him to see clearly. He had never been so emotional during his entire career as a Canadian diplomat. But he wasn't so naive to believe that everything would be solved with one click, just talking on the phone.

It's probably best idea to go and see them where they are, the ambassador thought. "The sooner, the better," he said aloud to the walls, as he looked at himself in the mirror. "The clock is ticking away."

##

## CHAPTER 26

Ervehe was totally exhausted and didn't argue about why she had to be in line with the other Albanians, despite being a Canadian citizen. She remembered from childhood when her mother used to wake up at four in the morning and stand in line down the street in front of The Meat and Milk shop, in order to buy some milk for her little daughter. During the communist system, there was a shortage of food and supplies. Ordinary people were struggling for survival. Her parents were standing in line for milk, for meat, for gas, and for oil. The most terrible thing was when her parents were standing in line an hour just for a single loaf of bread, and when their turn had come, the seller would say that there was no more bread to sell and slammed the door in their faces.

As the memories of her early childhood were flowing into her mind, one of the policemen came out of the cordon and pointed his rubber stick at her.

"Excuse me madam," he addressed her with perfect English. "We have an order to release you immediately. You are not going to be deported to Albania, by order of Interior Minister of Greece.  But before you leave, someone has come to see you," he said and pointed at Stavros Baltiotis, who was standing right beside the door. Ervehe looked at him doubtfully, without showing any emotions. Her face was icy cold and her eyes looked sad. She felt like crying and her knees were no longer supporting her. She struggled not to break into tears. Ervehe stepped toward him and stood a few inches away.

"Do I know you, sir?" she asked him with fear.

"No, madam, but I know where your husband is," Stavros replied.

Ervehe closed her eyes for a second in disbelief. The man was totally strange to her. She had never seen his face in her life. She thought it would be another dirty joke by the police who never gave up on harassing the ordinary Albanians.

"How do you know who I am and what do you know about my husband?" she asked him.

Stavros Baltiotis came closer to her, looking from all the directions to see if any policemen were looking at them. He took out a piece of paper and showed it to her.

"Look at this. That's a copy of your husband's medical record. I took it from the hospital. I was there. I found him on the road. He is still in coma at the hospital," Stavros whispered at her and looked around, making sure nobody was listening to what he was saying.

Ervehe was still standing there like a piece of rock. She had seen a lot of terrible things happening in front of her eyes the last few days. What the man was saying to her was too good to be true. She really wanted to know where her husband was. This man appeared in front of her, when she was totally hopeless.

"Madam, my father almost died in Albania. He was a soldier there during the Second World War. He was in Korca city. The Albanians saved his life. I want to pay you guys back on behalf of my father," Stavros almost begged her.

"Well, my husband and I have nothing to do with that," she opposed him.

"I know that, but you see, I feel like my father is talking to me all the time, advising me from up there, in order to take this decision and help," Stavros insisted.

Ervehe paused, looking straight into his eyes. "When did your father pass away?" she asked him all of the sudden.

"Long time ago, but I still communicate with him. I have my own way on how to get in touch with him up there," Stavros whispered.

 Ervehe thought that the old man was a lunatic, or an idiot, but against her judgement, she felt safe for the first time, after all those nightmares. She read the name of her husband on the folded paper. It was there, black on white.

"Okay then. I am coming with you," she said and followed Stavros out to his truck. He smiled at her and got in the truck.

As they drove toward the highway, many questions came into her mind. She was feeling confused. Ervehe wanted to thank him so much for finding her husband, but on the other hand she was feeling suspicious, for some kind of dirty trick well planned by Greek Secret Service. She already had enough of the police and was eager to do only one thing: see her husband.

"Where did you find him?" she asked, as the truck driver kept his eyes on the road. He sighed deeply and pointed at the right side of the highway. While holding his left hand on the wheel, he pointed towards a few trees, slowed down and pulled over.

"Right here, madam," Stavros Baltiotis said.

Ervehe wondered who on Earth had the guts to do such a thing to a patient.

The trip to the hospital didn't last more than half an hour. Ervehe felt her heart pounding inside her chest, as she kept watching every move the truck driver made out the corner of her eye. She was surprised to hear a Greek man saying that he was willing to help. So far she had only seen bad Greeks, who were behaving badly when they had to deal with the Albanians.

If he knew I am a Cham and that I know where the deeds to the Cham's property are hidden, then he would behave like the rest of his compatriots, she thought.

The truck entered the parking lot of the General Hospital. Stavros shut off the engine. He jumped on the ground and went on the other side of the truck, in order to open the door for her. Ervehe got out of the truck slowly, as Stavros held her hand gently.

They entered the Emergency Department, and in few minutes, they were in the room where Zylyftar was being treated. Stavros Baltiotis saluted the doctor who was right beside him, checking his blood pressure. He smiled and shook hands with Ervehe, who hesitated to introduce herself.

"You must be his wife," Dimitris Karaxhaferis said.

Ervehe didn't say anything, but just kept sobbing in silence. She ran toward Zylyftar, who had his eyes closed and his head wrapped in a bandage. She took his hand in her's and squeezed it with love.

"Oh honey, I missed you so much! Oh my God, look, what they have done to you?" she cried out.

She kissed his forehead and moaned in silence. After a few seconds she looked at the doctor, still holding Zylyftar's hand.

"Tell me, doctor, is there any chance that he will live?" she asked him, as the tears rolled over her cheeks.

Dimitris Karaxhaferis wiped his eyeglasses and smiled, looking at Zylyftar who was still unconscious. "It depends on you. We did our best. Now it's your turn to take him out of here, straight to his home to Albania. Is his father waiting for him?" he asked her with wonder.

"Yes, sir. My husband has to be there now. His father is on his deathbed and can die at any moment," Ervehe said.

"Then go. Don't waste time. I will give you some medical supplies. He still needs life support during the trip. I wish you could stay here until his health improved, but the police might find out that he is here at any moment. The million dollar question is who is going to take you guys to the border?" Dimitris Karaxhaferis asked her and looked toward Stavros.

Ervehe's eyes followed him, looking in the same direction.

"I'll take them straight to their home. I don't mind," Stavros said.

Dimitris Karaxhaferis came closer to him and whispered.

"I am proud for you, my friend. Now let's get him into the truck."

The doctor called the nurses, and three of them put Zylyftar on a stretcher. In less than half hour he was in the truck, still sleeping. Ervehe held his head in her hands, shaking because of her deep emotions. Her eyes were full of tears. Stavros Baltiotis turned on the engine and waved to the nurses who made the cross on their chests.

Holding Zylyftar Shahini's head on her lap, her eyes were curious, as she kept looking to the left side of the road. He was still in deep sleep and couldn't feel anything.

As they entered the main highway, Ervehe touched him on the shoulder.

"Is there any problem?" Stavros asked her, looking at her through the front mirror. Ervehe paused. She felt worried that she was ready to tell him about the most important secret of her life. Stavros proved himself so far, that he had no other intention, rather than helping them.

Well, he saw Zylyftar on the side of the road, then took him to hospital without even knowing him, what so ever. Even now he is taking us to the border at his expense. I know his father was a soldier in Albania, but he was an occupier. The Greek Army, with the pretext of fighting the Italian Fascism, occupied Southern Albania and wanted to annex us to Greece. Their plan to liberate "Vorioepirus" failed after the Germans drove them out and pushed them back into Greece. If it was some kind of goodness shown by our local population at that time; that doesn't necessary make this man obligated to help us.

  She tried to read his hidden thoughts beyond that face covered by the wrinkles and tanned by the sun.

"I have hidden some documents close by. I have to get them back before I go to Albania," she said to him with a weak voice. Stavros kept looking at her through the front mirror, holding both hands on the wheel.

"What kind of papers?" he asked her with wonder.

Her hands were shivering. "They are deeds to land. Twenty Albanian families are waiting for them. If we don't bring them, his father might die in shame with pain in his heart."

Stavros was confused. Twenty deeds to the land were hidden, and they had to bring them to Albania. What for? It's none of my business anyway. Why do I have to care so much? I just help them to pass the border and that is it.

Ervehe sat up. She was not feeling comfortable on her seat anymore.

Stavros Baltiotis pulled the truck over to the side of the road and came to a full stop. "I've got to know where I am going first," he said to her in a soft voice.

"We have to go to The Oracle of Dodona! That is the place, where I hid the papers," she said.

"I know where it is," he replied. "It's on the opposite direction and it takes less than forty-five minutes to get there. Let's go then. No time to lose!"

Stavros Baltiotis turned the engine on and looked in the opposite direction of the traffic.

##

## CHAPTER 27

Ervehe Shahini looked around with wonder and compared the surrounding buildings with the details of the map she had opened on her lap. She noticed a small lake on the outskirts of mount Tomaros and pointed her finger back at the map. Stavros Baltiotis followed all her movements from his front mirror. He pushed the brakes slowly and brought the truck to a full stop.

"This is the Pambotis Lake," Stavros said and waited for her response.

At the entrance of the Oracle of Dodona Ervehe noticed two civilians wearing nice suits who were watching all the tourists carefully. She put her eyeglasses on and walked toward the amphitheater. A group of tourists were visiting the Oracle, walking slowly on their bare feet. The myth mentioned that the priests used to walk around the oracle without shoes and used to fall asleep right on the ground. That way they could feel Zeus talking to them.

Perhaps I should follow them and act the same as them, if I don't want to get caught.

She took off her shoes and joined the tourists. She walked slowly, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. The tourists, which sounded like Germans, stood in front an old oak tree and listened to the wind. The legend mentioned two black pigeons that stood in its branches and spoke to the priests with a human voice. The silence was magic, but Ervehe didn't have time to lose. She walked a little bit further, leaving the tourists far behind. She looked around the whole area and tried to find the two strange civilians who were wearing nice suits, but couldn't see them. Few steps further she recognized the Statue of Aphrodite, a half-naked woman who was showing her breasts to visitors from all around the world. She looked for the stone, the one under which she hid the deeds to the land. There it was, standing between the ruins. She looked around again, putting her hands under, trying to remove the stone. The deeds to the land were there, untouched. She put them in her purse and walked toward the exit.

Stavros Baltiotis felt relieved. He turned on the engine and waited for Ervehe to get into the truck.

##

## CHAPTER 28

Stephanos Dimas sat in front of the laptop, feeling extremely anxious. The whole investigation of Zylyftar Shahini's case hadn't given any real results and he was still wondering what to do next. He clicked on the folder named "Chameria" and then opened the file, "the Cham." There were 12 files named, "Cham 1," "Cham 2," up to "Cham 12." He moved the mouse around his oval table. He had many questions in his mind, which were never answered.

It must be something extremely important that pushed Zylyftar Shahini to leave Canada and come to Greece to break into the same house that his family used to own, he thought and opened all the files one after another.

He accesed all files from the last five years, referencing all Albanian Cham attempts to return to Greek soil. In a dozen cases, the Chams visited the northern towns of Paramythia, Para, Igoumenitsa and Joannina, and all of them visited their previous homes, now owned by Greek citizens.

Stephanos Dimas took a copy of a newspaper in his hand, and the translation of the article from Albanian to Greek, where two paragraphs that were underlined with a red marker. There was a meeting that was held a week ago by all the representatives of the Cham community in Albania with their Ombudsman. The newspaper cited that The Chams were preparing to take Greece to the Hague Tribunal, using their deeds as proof for their ownership of the properties left behind. Another article published in the Albanian Daily "Tribuna Shqiptare" mentioned that an alleged Greek businessman was going door to door in the southern Albanian town of Saranda and asking the Chams to sell their land deeds to him. Six months earlier, that same year, a Cham had hired a Greek lawyer, asking him to make a written request to the Municipality of Igoumentizta for a property certificate. His father was a partisan who fought for the liberation of Greece, side by side with Greek fighters against the Nazis during the Second World War.

Stephanos Dimas tried to connect all the separate actions with one logical line. Greek police caught Zylyftar Shahini after he had broken into a house and damaged the basement floor, where according to his statement; he found pictures of his family hidden by his grandfather.

All of the sudden his cellphone rang. "Hello Mr. Dimas?" he heard Captain Lalaunis' voice over the line.

"Yes, captain, it's me."  Dimas waited for the captain do the talking.

"Any news about the Chams?"

"I heard the Cham saying something about the deeds, when I left him on the side of the road. He used that word in plural," Captain Lalaunis replied.

"You what? You heard him mentioning the deeds?" Stephanos Dimas repeated, totally in shock.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you call me right away? That info could change the whole plan."

"What do you mean?"

"We could take him back to hospital, let him improve and interrogate him all over again. They came to find the deeds and they hid them somewhere. The Albanians hide valued things under the floor. That document would show how big their land was, who were their neighbors, how much it was worth it the time."

"We don't know anything for sure."

"Was he accompanied by someone else during his trip?" Dimas said.

"His wife was with him."

"I would not be surprised if his wife had the deeds with her all this time that we were interrogating him. Did you guys check her?"

"Yes. We found nothing."

"Maybe she hid them? Where is she now?"

"She was released few hours ago. One of my guys saw her talking to a truck driver."

"Did you get the license plate number?"

"Yes. We had an order to keep an eye on them until they leave Greece."

'We have to find them and check the woman. Their documents must be destroyed before they reach the border."

"Well, then. I'll send a police patrol to intercept them."

"I'll be there in few minutes," Stephanos Dimas yelled at him.

He sat back in his armchair. He was exhausted. He didn't sleep last night and had to review the case all over again. He picked up his car keys and rushed out of his office. He drove fast, finishing the distance to the police station in minutes.

Captain Lalaunis was waiting outside, in front of his car, a few meters away from the main entrance of the police station. He was smoking a Cuban cigar. Four police cars were loaded with policemen, ready to go on their mission. Stephanos Dimas shook hands with Lalaunis and tried to cheer him up, even the captain's face looked sad and dark. He had his sunglasses on, which were reflecting Dimas's image back to him. The Captain came closer and pointed his finger at him, poking his chest. "I shouldn't have kicked that guy out of the hospital and abandoned him on the street. This idea of yours will cost me," the captain said, inhaling his Cuban cigar.

"Don't be such an idiot. Forget about that and don't blame me. We have things to do," Dimas said, getting into his car. The captain sat beside him in the back seat, as another policeman started the car. They engaged the sirens as they left the police station, heading toward the main highway. Stephanos Dimas was pale and his hands were damp with sweat. He didn't have any more time to lose. As soon as they arrived at the hospital, the police cars went around the hospital parking lot, looking for a fully loaded truck with an Athens license plate.

Ten policemen entered the Emergency Department, looking for Zylyftar Shahini. There was no truck, not even an Albanian patient in the hospital. Captain Lalaunis left the car and entered the Emergency Department himself. Stephanos Dimas followed him, looking around with wonder. In few minutes, after checking the whole area, a parking attendant approached.

"I gave the truck driver a ticket. He parked there for many hours. I guess he left for the border," the parking attendant suggested.

Captain Lalaunis spoke on the radio to the other cops and soon they headed to the main highway. Stephanos Dimas closed his cellphone and spoke to Lalaunis.

"I just informed the policemen at the border crossing and gave them the license plate number. They will be very lucky if they follow an alternate road," Dimas said.

"Don't you think they've had enough already?" the captain replied. "Enough should be enough. I don't really care if they have the deeds to the land with them or not. If they have them, what difference is going to make?" the captain asked him surprisingly.

"Based on my information, they will use them to bring Greece to an international court of justice. We can't allow that," Dimas said firmly.

"Do you really think we can catch them? They are probably very close to the border. It would take them only a few minutes to get back to Albania," captain Lalaunis replied.

Stephanos Dimas was thinking the same thing. He pointed his finger to Captain Lalaunis and smiled. "You know what? You are making a good point. You and I don't have the means or the capacity to stop them from leaving Greece, before we confiscate and destroy the deeds. I should call the Army in," Dimas suggested.

"No, you don't. You're over reacting," the captain opposed.

"There is only one solution left. I am calling help from the Army and at the same time, we keep looking for them from our direction," Dimas said.

The captain watched him angrily, but didn't say anything. Dimas spoke to someone on his cellphone, asking for immediate help.

It didn't take too long for them to find out where the truck with that specific license plate number from Athens was going. In less than twenty minutes, they were right behind the truck that was driven by Stavros Baltiotis.

The traffic police gave orders to Baltiotis to stop the truck and pull over. Stephanos Dimas thought that time had come to act faster and harder. He took the gun out of his belt and shot several times toward the back wheels of the truck. The truck moved faster and came out of the main highway, entering a second hand pathway. The truck disappeared from their eyes, as the police cars were trying to come closer. A huge noise started to shake the whole area. Captain Lalaunis wondered what a heck was going on, as he rolled the window down. The noise was coming from the sky. It was a helicopter flying right above their heads.

##

## CHAPTER 29

A spray of bullets penetrated the truck all the way through. Stavros Baltiotis tried to hold both hands on the wheel, checking the front mirror to see if the police cars were chasing him. The sirens became louder. The truck got off the main highway and entered a second road, in the middle of the field, in order to avoid confrontation with the police.

Ervehe was holding Zylyftar's head on her lap. She was shaking from head to toe and didn't realize that Zylyftar had already woken up from the deep coma and was watching her. His skin was so pale, as if he were waking up from death. He looked around and tried to get up, by supporting his left elbow on the seat, but Ervehe pushed him back gently.

"Where am I?" he asked her in a faint voice as his lips shivered.

"Honey, we are going home," Ervehe said, caressing his forehead gently.

Her eyes filled with light, seeing her husband coming back to life. Zylyftar pointed to the window cautiously.

"I hear the police cars following us," he said.

The sirens were heard louder, mixed with sounds of the sporadic gunshots.

"The Greek Police are chasing us," Ervehe said to him briefly. She thought it would be better if she didn't tell him anything. She didn't want to say something that would worry him.

"Where are the deeds to the land?" he asked her, speaking in delirium.

"I have them here," she whispered, opening her handbag, showing him a bunch of papers, which looked pale and old. Their yellow color was reflecting on his face. Zylyftar stretched his hand and touched them with the tips of his fingers. All his body was revived immediately. His eyes were filled with flames and an inner fire was growing inside him. His heart was pounding faster. At that moment, he felt that he was reborn again, like the phoenix from the ashes.

"I can't believe that we were able to take them with us," Zylyftar said.

"Touch them, so you can feel it for yourself," she replied and handed one of the deeds to him. "Look at that, it's so old, but it's perfectly preserved. This one was issued in the city of Igoumentizta and it's dated on September 13th in 1935." Her voice shivered.

Stavros didn't understand what was going on.

"Hide them in my body. Don't let them check me, if they catch us," Zylyftar said to her. He closed his eyes for a second, feeling very weak. His heartbeat was becoming fainter. He let his right arm fall. Ervehe held him tight with both hands, making sure his body didn't slide away from the back seat. She looked back on the road through the tiny window of the cabin, in order to find out if any police cars were getting closer. Several of them were coming behind the truck, competing with each other, which one could get there first, putting the truck in the middle. A huge noise was coming from the sky. Ervehe was terrified, but still curious to find out what was happening. She gulped in fear and looked at the truck driver. The Army helicopter was flying around the area, in order to land in the middle of the road, apparently trying to block them.

Stavros Baltiotis sped up, keeping a fair distance from the helicopter.

"We are not done. We aren't going to give up just like that," Stavros said.

The two police cars on each side of the road were struggling to come closer. Ervehe heard the policemen shouting outside through bullhorns, but didn't move. She was worried about Zylyftar. She heard one of them speaking to her in English. She put her fingers under Zylyftar's neck, in order to check his pulse.

God, what is happening to us? Please don't let him die. I can't feel his pulse. Perhaps I am not able myself, since my hands are shaking and my mind is blowing. I better put my ear on his chest, if I want to hear his heartbeat. I have to take his shirt off and check him, making sure about what is really going on. Why is he so pale anyway? Why is he keeping his mouth half open, like he is already dead?

She was fighting with herself, as she was unbuttoning his shirt. His body was getting colder. She moaned and tried to keep her hands under control, since they were shivering.

"Zylyftar!" she yelled at him, but he was not listening. He had already passed out. She felt tears falling on her cheeks.

"Wake up! You can't die now!" she begged him. She heard a policeman repeating something in English. She was not going to give up. She looked out the window. She noticed the hat of the policeman. He was so close, ready to jump on the truck. She opened her handbag and grabbed the deeds to the lands with both hands and tried to hide them under Zylyftar's clothes. She felt the low temperature of his body with the tips of her fingers. As she moved his arm to one side, her fingers were painted with blood. One of the bullets touched his arm and she didn't even notice that he was slightly wounded. She breathed deeply, in order to calm herself.

"He is wounded. If he loses too much blood, he might die in my arms," she cried.

A policeman opened the side door of the truck and pointed the gun to her forehead.

"Put your hands up and get out of the truck slowly," he ordered her.

Ervehe didn't know what to do. Her husband was lying on the back seat unconscious. The policeman pulled the trigger one millimeter at a time. Ervehe closed her eyes, imagining the bullets going through her forehead.

 If I get out of the truck now, I still have a chance to stay alive. If I give up now, I'll do my best to make sure, that Zylyftar gets medical treatment. He is wounded and there is no hospital around here.

Stavros Baltiotis pushed the brakes really hard. The truck slid, and after twenty meters, came to a full stop. He saw the policeman flying away like a piece of cloth. Stavros Baltiotis noticed that the woods were not too far from the road. He gunned the engine, going forward, full speed, feeling triumphant.

The sirens faded and the helicopter disappeared as the truck entered the woods. Stavros slowed down a little and smiled at Ervehe. The road was becoming too narrow. The danger of getting caught by police was disolving. Stavros noticed a fountain a few meters away on the right side of the road. He stopped the truck and grabbed a plastic bucket in order to fill it with the cold water coming out from the fountain. The birds chirping all over the trees relaxed him, and he no longer felt tired and stressed out.

He filled the bucket with cold water and dropped water over his head. He shivered with joy. As he combed his wet hair, he noticed Ervehe getting out of the truck. Her husband was lying unconscious in the back seat.

Perhaps she wants to do the same thing, grab a bucket with cold water and pour it onto his face, so he can come back to life. This fountain is blessed. The water tastes like it comes out from the heart of the planet. But what did they do? Why are the police chasing them? I can't believe that this ordinary couple might be a problem for our national security. This sounds funny.

He filled the bucket with water again and went straight to Ervehe, who was standing on her knees in front of the truck. He handed the bucket to the young woman and smiled.

"I got it from that fountain over there. It has a magic touch. Throw it on his face and he will get up," Stavros said to her.

Ervehe felt relieved. Her lips were totally dried from that long trip.  She drank from the bucket, feeling an immediate headache. The water was so cold; it could cause a migraine. She thanked the driver and got into the truck, holding the bucket carefully. She filled a fistful of water and threw it onto Zylyftar's face. She looked at him with hope to see if he moved any eyebrow or a single muscle on his face. She was feeling impatient. She poured the whole bucket on his head and in few seconds noticed his eyelids moving.

"You see? I told you he will be okay," Stavros assured her, sitting at the wheel.

He took out a road map and looked at it carefully, pointing his finger very close to the Greek Albanian border and laughed.

"We are only two hundred meters away from the border. This location here is Carshova Village on the other side of the border."

He showed the map to her. Ervehe couldn't believe what he said. It was like a dream coming true. It couldn't be better than that. Zylyftar was still alive, the deeds to the land were with them, and the border was right there in front of their nose.

"Oh, Gosh, I can hardly wait to get back to Tirana. May God bless you, man!  May your dreams come true, as well."

Stavros was moved to tears to hear such a wish coming from an Albanian woman. He kept silent and looked forward, eyes on the road, which was becoming more difficult to manage in that mountainous terrain.

All of the sudden he saw a huge ditch cutting the road on one side. He turned the wheel to avoid sliding into it. He slowed down and listened carefully to all kind of noises coming out of the woods. He couldn't hear the police cars blowing the horns, the army helicopter either. There was nothing suspicious, except the cicadas, which sounded tired, because of the heat.

After all those dreamscapes and nightmares many questions came into his tired brain. He was still wondering why it was so important for the Greek Government to catch them.

"I am sorry, I just want to ask you a question, if that's okay with you," he started to ask Ervehe, but his voice faded away. He felt that he was interfering too much in their business. An inner voice was speaking to him, giving him the right to ask the people, who they were, before even helping them.  He couldn't go and pass the border without having the basic information about them.

I am wondering how their parents are going to react when they see a Greek man at their door? Perhaps they are going to look at me with disgust. You know what? I don't care what they are going to think about it. I'll do something good for these people. If they don't appreciate it, then God will. "Do something good and throw it into the sea," that's what old people used to say. She mentioned the deeds to the land when we went to the hospital. What did she mean, when she mentioned the Albanian families waiting for the deeds on the other side of the border?

He was struggling with himself to solve the enigma that the Albanian couple brought with them, when he noticed that they were only few meters away from Tri Urat, the bridge that was connecting the two countries. They were almost touching Albanian territory.

"What was your question again?" Ervehe asked him, making his life easier.

"Well, I don't understand why our police after you. I mean, you guys are not doing any drugs or anything. You look quite normal to me," Stavros said, as his face became red. His question sounded dumb. He doubted that Ervehe would even bother answering. He was burning from inside out, like tinder when it was rubbed against the stone.

At least I'll learn that I am not dealing with terrorists, or contrabandists who trade guns. Hello, what the hell I am saying? Where are the guns, if they are doing exactly that? I know, it's stupid to think about it, but in this world anything can happen. I am just asking a very simple question, that's all. And I don't mean to offend them.

"We are Chams. Our ancestors were born in Northern Greece, in Chameria. That is the only fault we have done. During the Second World War the andartes, or the local militias, you name it, set our villages on fire and roasted many of our kids and women. Most of our relatives, grandparents and parents died, as they were trying to escape from that state organized ethnic cleansing. We left our lands behind us and went to Albania, because we didn't have any other choice. These deeds are legal deeds and the Greek Government issued them to our parents, who are the legal owners. With these deeds we are going to take Greece to an international court so we can get our homes back," Ervehe said to him with one breath and waited for his reaction.

Stavros Baltiotis held his hands on the wheel and came into a full stop. They just arrived at the Albanian border. His mission was almost complete.

"What do you think about us, the Chams," she asked him all of the sudden.

Stavros Baltiotis was feeling embarrassed from the straightforward question. He thought he could avoid it, just for respect, but there it was. She was asking him for an honest opinion. In the meantime, he was thinking to use the opportunity and go to Albania, and meet the Albanian family, who saved the life of his father. A new country, a different world was appearing in front of his eyes with all its majesty.

 "I have heard many bad things about your community. My government says that your ancestors cooperated with the Germans and committed crimes against the Greeks," Stavros said.

 "Your government is lying. They were much more, like ten times more Albanian Chams who fought for the liberation of Greece, than Chams who fought for the Nazis. Have you ever heard about the "Ali Demi" battalion, who fought side by side with the Greek partisans? Most of the members of the battalion were Chams from the local area. By the way, that is not an excuse to criminalize the whole community for some individual, who committed crimes against humanity. The criminalization of a whole community cannot justify the ethnic cleansing that Greece did against the Cham population. If there is any guilt, it is an individual, not a collective one," Ervehe opposed.

Stavros shook his head in approval and showed Ervehe the other side of the border.

"Now it's my turn to ask you a question."

"Ok, go ahead!"

"Are you sure that you want to take us straight to our home?  The border is right here. You can leave us here, if you want. You don't have to do this."

"After I take you guys there, I want to go to Korca and visit the Albanian family who took care of my father. That is his last will," Stavros replied back.

##

## CHAPTER 30

Mejreme Shahini was shaking from her toes to the roots of her hair. A huge truck braked rapidly in front of the house, as Koraqi jumped furiously toward the main entrance to the front yard, barking as much as he could. Muharrem got up half way from his bed and looked through the window in order to see whom the uninvited guests were. Mejreme ran out of the house and noticed Zylyftar, as he was getting out of the truck, Ervehe helping him by holding him by his arm.

"Oh, God, my son is here," she screamed and hugged him with both arms. She was so tired from waiting for him and so exhausted. The trip lasted too long. She thought that she lost him and would never see him again. She kissed him as her heart almost stopped beating from joy. It had been more than two weeks since Zylyftar left for Greece, along with Ervehe. All that time had been a struggle of nerves and thoughts, but finally the nightmare was over. Mejreme noticed a few black marks on his face and her voice was shaking.

"What happened to you son? Did they beat you?" she asked him, but Zylyftar preferred not to talk about it.

"Oh, mom, it's nothing. I fell from a tree, right into a small river, while trying to escape from the police.

Stavros Baltiotis kept quiet during their conversation. Deep in his heart an inner voice was telling him that that Cham woman didn't have any difference at all from the Greek women he left behind in Greece.

Mejreme repeatedly kissed her son, then jumped to Ervehe and covered her with kisses, not even noticing the foreigner, who was standing there, waiting for the warm welcome to end.

All of them entered the front yard and Stavros Baltiotis followed them unintentionally, stepping back a little, only when Koraqi jumped on Zylyftar's chest and started licking his face with his long tongue. Zylyftar lifted the dog in his arms and almost ran toward the sleeping room, where Muharrem was still waiting in his deathbed.

Muharrem forgot for a moment about death. He forgot that he was sick. He got up from his deathbed and waited for Zylyftar to set the dog free. He let the dog go and hugged his father. Ervehe couldn't keep her tears, as she was taking out the deeds to the land from her purse. All that bunch of papers were yellow and so old, but very valuable, more valuable than gold, and she knew that.

"Look, dad, we just brought the deeds to you. Look here. They are on the table!" she yelled at him with joy.

Muharrem hugged both of them and cried like a little child. He was not ashamed of his tears anymore.

"Oh, son, I thought I lost you," Muharrem cried and kissed his son on the forehead. All of the sudden his eyes stared at Stavros Baltiotis, who stepped back right away and didn't know what to say.

 "What about this Greek man, what does he want here?" Muharrem asked Zylyftar.

"He is not like those Greeks that you knew. Stavros brought us all the way here from Greece with his truck. His father was a soldier during the Second World War and fought against the Italian fascists in Korca. His father was paralyzed and wanted to commit suicide, but an Albanian family took care of him and didn't let him die. They kept him in their home, until his health improved. When the war ended he returned to Greece, but never forgot about that Albanian family," Zylyftar explained to his father. He paused, waiting for his father's approval for the uninvited guest.

Muharrem was still thinking and finally came closer to Stavros and looked at him. His special guest looked shy and lost

"Welcome to our home, my friend," the old man said, as Mejreme rushed to invite everyone for diner.

##

## EPILOGUE

Muharrem Shahini was dead. The old man changed his way of life on Friday morning, after he called all the relatives to give them his farewell. His view darkened slowly and his breath was becoming heavier. His wrinkled and dried hands were shaking so much, as he was trying to hang on for survival.

"I am leaving," the man had whispered and tightened his lips. "I have to go somewhere!"

He had coughed one more time violently and looked at his wife Mejreme, whose eyes were full of tears. She had become just a fistful of flesh and bones because of what had happened to Zylyftar, and Muharrem was feeling guilty for the very last time. There were too many "I'm sorry's" that he felt for her; whenever he yelled at her for no reason, whenever he decided something without asking her opinion first, and now..., there was no more time left.

Mejreme was standing there beside him like a cold piece of rock, like a second shadow, putting wet rags on his forehead, moving the pillow under his head, changing the sheets. Again, there was no more time left, but still just a little time to squeeze her hand with love and ardour. He felt her life penetrating his body through the tips of his fingers, but that was not enough. It was just a touch, that's all. He stretched the right hand and grabbed Zylyftar from his arm, without being able to say anything. White foam came out of his mouth and his body started to shake rapidly, as his soul was vaporizing in the air.

First his legs were ice cold. Death was climbing up to his arms and his heart stopped beating. His brain was the last organ to give up on life.  In a fog, he heard Mejreme calling his name, trying to bring him back, and then nothing.

***

Zylyftar was holding the casket of his father, along with five other men. Muharrem's body was as heavy, as a hundred year old oak tree. One of the six men who were carrying the casket, was Gent Kryeziu, the Albanian Ombudsman himself. The majority of the guests were Chams, who were told about Muharrem's departure a day before. They let the casket go down, holding tight the ropes from both sides, as two undertakers were waiting to put their shovels to work.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

All of the sudden Ervehe took a bottle out of her purse and poured some dirt from it onto his casket. It was taken from the backyard of their home in Paramythia. It was a surprise she revealed to Zylyftar just few hours ago, when they were arranging the mortal ceremony. It was a wonderful secret she kept hidden from everyone, including her husband.

Zylyftar couldn't love her more then at that moment. He looked at her with ardour and deep pain in his heart. There had been very bad days for Ervehe, those they just left behind. Her pregnancy was becoming more complicated and she could hardly move. A baby was becoming the newest member of the Shahini's family.

It was a beautiful and shiny day in the Sharra graveyard, one of the biggest in Tirana capital. The Sharra graveyard was so huge, as it looked like a small town on its own.

The majority of the dead had very attractive graves, which were covered with marble. Some of the graves even had colorful roofs built on top of them.

Zenel Kosturi, who was the oldest of the Chams, stepped in front of the crowd and started to read his farewell. He was almost at the same age as Muharrem and was hardly able to come to the funeral since he was not feeling very well.

His own relatives didn't want him to come to the burial ceremony, but he insisted. He really wanted to speak in honour of his old dead friend. He put his eyeglasses on and waited for a while, until he got the full attention from the attendants. The women in the front line kept crying in loud voices, as the old men made a line behind each other, waiting to throw a fistful of dirt on his grave.

"Dear family and friends of Muharrem Shahini, we are here here today to say "goodbye" to one of the most distinguished sons of heroic Chameria, who passed away on Friday morning. Muharrem is survived by his wife Mejreme and his son Zylyftar, who is going to be a father any day now. Muharrem's soul will come back again, when the new baby will be born. Sons and daughters of Chameria are born, grown up, getting old and dying and are born again the next day, with their eyes looking toward Chameria, their homeland. I thank so much from my heart Mr. Gent Kryeziu, our Albanian Ombudsman, who came here today to share his sorrow with us. May the dirt be light on you, Muharrem! I've got very big news for you. The Albanian Government just got the deeds to our land yesterday, the day you gave your last breath. Your last will is not yet fulfilled, but we are on the right track. Your son, your unborn grandson, and the rest of us, will never give up on your dream. Time will come and all of us, with God's will, will come back home one day. This is our destiny. This is why we live. This is why we are here today. The road to Chameria will not be easy. We, The Chams, will go to the International Court in Strasbourg, if it's necessary. Greece might try to ignore us, but with your help, Zylyftar's help, and others, we will prevail. Now we have learned how to knock on the doors of our best friends in the West. May God make your trip to paradise easy! Amen!"

Zenel Kosturi saluted the guests and wiped the tears from his eyes. His hands were shaking. A light wind was blowing from the west. Zylyftar felt the invisible fingers of the wind patting him on the right shoulder.  A lock of hair blew onto the left side and fell on his forehead. He looked around, surprised. He remembered, when he was a little child, his father used to take him to elementary school every morning. Before they would say "goodbye" for the day, Muharrem used to pat him on the left shoulder and play with the lock of his son's hair.

It might be his soul, which has not yet relaxed, he thought, kneeling down to kiss his father's gravestone.

The End

##

## ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Perparim Kapllani was born in the city of Elbasan, Albania in 1966.

He graduated as an Anti Aircraft Gun Officer in 1990, University "Scanderbeg,"

Tirana, Albania. Years later he graduated as a high school teacher for Literature and

Albanian Language, University of Tirana, Faculty of History and Philology, in 1998.

His most recent book in English is "Beyond the Edge," a collection of short stories published in Canada in December 2010 by "In Our Words Inc." An English version of his play "Queen Teuta of Illyria" was published by "In Our Words" in 2008.

His story "Bridge on Bloor" was published in Canadian Voices, Vol 1, by Bookland Press.

He is author of four books in the Albanian language and has worked as a journalist for

"Ushtria", the Albanian Army Newspaper, and "Shekulli," a daily newspaper. Some publications appear in "Spekter" magazine and other local papers in Albania.

His first book, I Do Not Give My Heart to the Devil (poems), was published by the

Publishing House of the Army, in January 1995. The Albanian Publishing House, Glob,

published The Coin of horror (short stories) in May 1995. His drama Queen Teuta of

Illyria was selected as one of the fifteen best plays in a worldwide competition organized by the Ministry of Culture of Albania, December 2002. His recent books in Albanian, "Father's Urn", short stories and "Visitors in Hades," a novel, were published in September 2005 by the publishing house, Albin.

##

## THE "LAST WILL OF P.I. KAPLLANI

Review by Faruk Myrtaj, Albanian Canadian writer.

In this historical and literal work, the subject is not dealing with material things or hidden treasures in caves, or even legends that the people create about their ancestors at the end of their lives. Even if it sounds like the story is dealing with the deeds to the land which belonged to some families, who were cleansed out violently from their birth places, the fable is simply the human ideal: the man is born somewhere, somewhere on a land, and gets stuck with it forever as a child of that cradle.

Përparim Kapllani is a citizen of his motherland, even after he immigrated to Canada for a more inspiring life. He deals with this blessing/damnation and tries to share the sorrow of his people with the rest of the world. Books and literature cannot solve the problems of humanity. The writers will transform into humorous Don Quixote, if they decided to ride the horses of their imaginations, but more dangerous would be the other way around, closing one eye and one ear in front of these human problems.

The Chameria of P.I.Kapllani is the mission that he proposes to those who believe that the human kind is becoming more human.

### Other books from this author:

####  Beyond The Edge

#### Queen Teuta Of Illyria

#### Babai Ne Shishe

