Memoirs of a Worker

Man at the Gate

This story is a very fond memory of mine. I hope you enjoy reading about The Man at the Gate.

_________________

With the fall of communism in the late eighties and early nineties, six of us were chosen to go to Albania, and repair the old embassy building that had been vacated by the United States since 1940. The building was not abandoned, but rather leased to the Italian government when the US had no diplomatic relations with the Albanians. Our job was to revamp the building and make it operational so the State Department people could set up business and open up a United States embassy.

Albania had been the most hard core communist regime in all of Europe and the state of the country was in shambles. The people there had next to nothing and it was so sad. One of the main modes of transportation in 1992 was horse drawn cart. It’s hard to imagine conditions like that in Europe at the close of the twentieth century, nevertheless, it was so.

The communist leader, Hoxha, was a terrible man. Like most communist leaders he was greedy and ruthless. If people opposed him in anything, the secret police would show up and that person, or persons would disappear . . . forever. He seized all church properties from all denominations of Christians, Jews and Muslim, executed the clerics and turned the churches, synagogues and mosques, into warehouses and youth center gymnasiums. In May, 1967 after the religious purge was complete, Hoxha bragged that he had “created the first totally atheist nation in the world.”

He also built great monuments to himself. In Tirana, the capital, he built a modernistic Hoxha museum. Some of the things on display were; the first pencil he used in the first grade, his first grade desk, some of the attempts at art in grade school, and other useless things. His attempts at art were framed and long articles were attached at the bottom or sides of the “masterpieces,” explaining what made them so unique and wonderful. I was informed that it was a requirement for all school kids to go to the museum at least once a year, just to “bask in his greatness.”

To make the people equal, all of the homes were the same size and everyone had the exact same furniture, same color, same fabric, no one could be different. In doing this, the majority of the people, more or less, lost their individuality.

Hoxha died in 1985 and was replaced by Ramiz Alia who was also a hardline communist, although he did implement a little reform. When the Berlin Wall came down and other communist regimes started falling, Ramiz Alia dug in his heels and became more treacherous than ever.  

One of the laws he enacted was “no listening to popular music from the western world.” (That’s a pretty tough law and one that most young people, and myself, would have a hard time keeping.) Albania is directly east of Italy, across the Adriatic Sea. They are so close, in fact, that Italian TV and radio stations can be picked up in Albania very easily. One father found his son listening to an Italian rock station and turned his son in to the authorities. The father did not do this to harm his son, but to show him that he had to obey the rules set down by the communist dictator.

Ramiz Alia decided to make an example of the eighteen year old boy and he was publicly executed. His crime, listening to western rock music! My heart went out to his poor father and family. They were so distraught with grief.

While in Tirana we employed three young Albanian men as laborers to help us in our work. One of the young men, Tony, spoke great English; he learned it by listening to classic rock music from his favorite radio station in Italy. The eighteen year old who was executed, was Tony’s best friend. Tony told me the story of his friend and said that this was one of the main reasons the people revolted against Ramiz Alia.

To show solidarity and demonstrate against the government for the execution, people dressed in white, and thousands flocked into the town squares. In Skanderbeg Square in Tirana, tens of thousands of people chanted against the government. Ropes were thrown around the statue of Hoxha, and the demonstrators pulled it over. Soon people in other cities and towns did the same thing. Not long afterwards, elections were called and Alia was out and freedoms started coming to the people.

One day while I was working on the embassy building, a man stopped by the front gate and rang the bell. He was an older gentleman, approximately eighty years of age. He stood about five feet eight inches tall and was dressed in gray trousers, a white shirt with a string bowtie and a long dark waistcoat. His hair was gray and had a slight wave to it, and most striking was his kind face.

Chris, the team leader was working on the gate and answered the call. The story this man told was amazing. In perfect American English he said, “I am an American citizen and I would like to tell you my story.” He opened the inside of his waistcoat and removed his US passport which was issued in 1939.

“I was born and raised in New York City. In 1939 and 40, I was doing aid work in a village here in Albania, which is far away, up in the mountains. When war broke out, the United States Embassy was given one day to close and evacuate its people. Any American who was left behind would be executed.”

“In all the confusion of trying to get everything put together so people could leave without being executed, I was forgotten about until late in the evening. The only way to notify me was by radio. By the time they got the message to me, it was too late. I tried all night to get to Tirana but nothing worked out. With transportation the way it was, I was trapped and had no way of getting there at the scheduled leave time.”

“What did you do?” Chris asked.

“I did the only thing I could do. I went back to the village I had been working in and told them my situation, and asked if they would allow me to stay. They liked me. They held a council and decided that I could stay. They put their lives on the line for me, knowing very well that if I was ever found, they could also be executed for harboring me, but they accepted the risk. For over fifty years, these people have sheltered me, have hidden me from the government officials, and have been my friends.”

Chris spoke up, “We need to help you and we will do everything possible to get you back home.”

The man smiled and shook his head. “Home? You know, I’ve dreamed of home for fifty years. But what would I go home to? Everyone I know at home is dead. All my friends, and all my family, they are all dead or gone. America moved ahead and I am sure I would not recognize much of anything, if I were to go back. The only people that I know are the people here in Albania who have been my family and friends, and have sheltered me these fifty years. When I heard that Ramiz Alia had given up the government and that the American embassy was going to reopen, I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to talk to some real Americans. I wanted to know how things were back home.”

Then a touching thing happened. He put his passport back in his pocket and said, “I just wanted someone to know . . . that I have been true, that I never gave up or gave in, and that I am proud to be an American. I also know that I am an old man and my days are numbered. I will go back to serving the people here that I love and those who have loved me, these more than fifty years.”

To hear him, and to see him stand and tell his story in quiet dignity, brought lumps in our throats. When he finished telling his story, he thanked us for listening, and then turned and walked away. Several times in the evenings while we were there, we reflected on this conversation, and we counted our blessing for having met such a man. He was the perfect example of someone who gave his life in selfless service. This man, who stood about five feet eight inches tall, was a giant among men.

______________

Feel free to share with family, friends and whoever. I like to read your comments so let me know what you think about this chapter. Thanks for reading and remember to click on the star.