The Last Will

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. 

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