By Adela Kolea
Memorie.al / Bari, Italy 1992. I had just arrived, at 18 years old, from Albania to this Italian seaside city. In fact, it wasn’t my absolute first time setting foot in this city, which not only felt familiar as if I had known it for a lifetime but, from a distance, since Albania is just across the sea, considering that in Bari live all the Italian relatives of my father-his aunts, cousins, and the whole family-whom we had contacted when we lived in Albania. Additionally, I had visited for the first time with my grandmother as a tourist, and I had stayed for a month in 1989. I had also gone again alone in ’91, always staying with our Italian relatives. Therefore, I had come to know and explore the city and several provinces well.
Upon my arrival this time, no longer as a tourist but as a family of Italian origin repatriated from Albania, we rented a house right in the city center.
The house was furnished, so I started thinking about completing it, and I was at the stage where I needed everything, such as curtains, covers, sheets, towels, etc.
In Bari, it was customary for neighbors, as warm and approachable people, to come close to you as a new resident and accompany you around the city to find stores or to get to know every corner of the city, for markets, and for any needs you had.
Then, when the elderly neighbor from Bari learned about the covers and towels I needed, she told me:
“I recommend a good shop that sells home supplies and items; it is very well-stocked. It is just a few steps away from our building. But one more reason why I recommend you go shopping there is that rumors circulate that the owner of that shop is Albanian!”
That was all I needed to hear.
As a sidebar, journalism was part of my essence before I arrived in ’92 in Bari, as I not only wrote out of passion but, since ’90, I had been present at the newspaper “Tirana,” doing translations.
I laughed in this regard, let’s say, “premature” in those activities, as I had worked at the newspaper under the famous company of the time, “Iliria Holding,” as a translator and at the Palace of Pioneers, as a foreign language teacher, since I was 16 years old in Tirana.
But I was very curious, and investigative journalism particularly attracted me…!
So I didn’t waste time, and the next day I left the house with enthusiasm and a strong dose of curiosity to head to the shop owned by an elderly Albanian!
It was 1992, the waves of Albanian immigration had just begun, democracy in Albania was fragile, just having taken hold, so in my mind, an “identikit” of the Albanian shop owner in Bari immediately formed.
He had to undoubtedly be someone who had escaped from the time of the communist regime!
I quickly found the shop.
It was the only one of its kind, “Biancheria per la casa e Merceria” (“Household Textiles and Sewing Notions”) on our street.
In fact, our street was very long.
I went inside and began searching among the endless shelves and displays overflowing with goods up to the ceiling for the owner.
For my curiosity—combined with my internal investigative sense—more than curtains, covers, or towels, I was interested in getting to know the Albanian owner and his emigration story from Albania!
The shelves were full, overflowing with goods, and the building of the shop was one of those antique types, characterized by very high ceilings, at least 3 meters tall.
Thus, the shop, at first impact, seemed very mysterious to me. The door was open, but no one was visible inside. It was somewhat dark, and a certain dampness was felt in the air.
“Is anyone here?” I asked in Italian.
“Buongiorno, in cosa posso esserle utile?” (“Good day, how can I help you?”) came a voice from… the ceiling!
It was an elderly man, frail, gradually descending the stairs he had climbed to arrange goods on the upper shelves.
“Ah, buongiorno!” I replied.
And I understood that he was the owner, indeed! However, for certainty, I asked if he was the owner of the shop. Of course, he said “yes!”
“Mi servono delle tende per la casa, lenzuola, tovaglie ed asciugamani e mi hanno consigliato il suo negozio!”
(I need curtains, sheets, tablecloths, and towels, and your shop was recommended to me!)
The owner was pleased to encounter a new customer and appreciated the good reputation of his shop in that part of the city. He smiled lightly to himself at this satisfaction, as an old, passionate merchant about his business.
He brought several items to the counter.
But soon, I “took off the mask,” as they say—I was eagerly waiting for that moment—of speaking Italian, a language I learned as a child in Albania from my Italian grandmother, and I addressed him in Albanian:
“I like these covers, these towels, but I don’t like these over here, in terms of colors, not so much…!”
The elderly owner was stunned!
He froze in place when he heard me speak in Albanian!
I continued: “You understand me well in Albanian, I believe. You are Albanian; I know…?!”
A moment of silence followed, almost frightening.
Since he was not reacting anymore and was not speaking to me, neither in Albanian nor in Italian!
On one hand, I somewhat regretted my intrusion.
But on the other hand—perhaps due to my youth and typical carelessness—I thought, after all, what was the harm? There had been Albanian immigrants, nostalgic for their homeland, who could hardly wait for someone to speak to them in Albanian around the world, right…?!
That gentleman was around seventy years old.
Weak and frail, dressed rather carelessly, which made me think he lived alone and did not take care of his appearance.
After a few minutes to process the situation and gather himself from the emotional surprise, he answered me in Albanian:
“Of course I understand you well in our language! I am Albanian! Yes, I am a bit surprised that not everyone in this neighborhood knows I am Albanian. Where did you get this information…”?!
That was all I needed.
I achieved my goal of getting him to speak in Albanian, because the elderly neighbor from Bari, who directed me to him, had warned me that he was a very helpful person. He did not open up to just anyone and had no friends.
I asked him: “Are you an escapee or not?”
— “Yes!” he told me.
— “I escaped in 1949.
I was friends with a dissident and was part of the so-called ‘Group X…’!
If I hadn’t escaped, I would have met his end…”!
He also told me his first and last name. He spoke Albanian with a Korça accent.
He spoke with interruptions, filled with anxiety and fear.
I told him: “Everything is over; democracy has come to Albania…”!
To let him understand that he had no reason to be afraid anymore.
But fear had seeped into his bones.
He trembled even when speaking in Albanian.
In fact, I realized he regretted deeply speaking to me in Albanian and sharing these things.
I bought a few items from him and left the shop.
A few days later, as I passed by his shop—because my path led me there to return home—I entered just to greet him. After all, his life intrigued me, and I also felt sympathy for how he had reacted during his recounting the day before.
As soon as he saw me, it was as if he had seen some kind of ghost.
He greeted me in Italian.
Surprisingly, he had forgotten Albanian…! /Memorie.al
