by Greg Smith
Alex was overcome by the many shrines they passed. Windows, doorways, fences, other, seemingly random, areas. Adorned with candles, flags, flowers, photos of victims. Missing persons posters were plastered everywhere. The thing that made the greatest impression, however, even for the amnesiac Alex, was the sentiment that New York’s streets were just too devoid of human activity. They were unnaturally unpopulated.
As they got closer to Ground Zero, the temperature increased dramatically. The air became thicker, harder to breathe. They could discern the noise of heavy equipment being operated. Though they didn’t know its name, they could see the top of Big Red, the largest mobile crane in the U.S., long before they came to the recovery site. Rising above the barricades. Dwarfing other construction cranes at the site. Perched on the spot that had been the North Tower. Big Red showcased an American flag four hundred feet in the air atop its latticed boom. The flag of Texas stirring beside it.
They arrived at the back side of the block St. Paul’s Chapel, church grounds and cemetery took up. The disaster site festered on the opposite side of Church Street. Alex and Griggor could see the eastern edge of what had once been the World Trade Center. Could see the peak of the South Tower’s skeleton. All that remained standing of the 110-story skyscraper. They could get no closer. The sixteen-block section that was now referred to as Ground Zero had been cordoned off with chain link fencing. Checkpoints determined who went beyond that.
Firefighters, police and construction workers passed in and out of the checkpoints. Those coming out made their way to the Broadway entrance to the church, which had been closed to the public to serve as a relief center for recovery workers.
Out of view, in the pit of debris below, grapplers used their metal pinchers to grab steel girders, cables, chunks of concrete, dump their handfuls into waiting trucks. The dust stirred up by construction equipment, combined with smoke from still-smoldering fires rising from underground pockets, created a constant haze. Water, sprayed from pumper trucks to reduce the dust, control the fires, formed puddles of dusty soup.
In contrast to the mostly inanimate streets surrounding the area, Ground Zero was abuzz with activity. Trucks came and went like a never-ending line of army ants. Bucket brigades were removing debris…and human remains. The occasional sound of metal on metal pierced the air like the screech of some prehistoric creature. The noise was loud and continual.
Alex took it all in with astounded wonder. He squeezed his eyes shut, pictured the Trade Center as it had been. Teeming with life. Inhaling masses of commuters to deposit them inside any number of offices, stores, places of business. Exhaling people into the streets. He re-opened them to once again view the destruction. The oblivion. The ruin.
He remembered a school field trip to Gettysburg. How he’d been affected by the tremendous loss of lives there. Even more than a century after the battle had taken place. Remembered the eerie feeling he’d gotten from walking on the very same ground where all those lives had been lost. Ground Zero evoked that same sense of sanctity. As though the souls of the dead were still present. Suspended, possibly, between this life and the next.
He wondered if Binyak’s was among them.
He’d hoped to feel some sense of his brother’s spiritual presence. If Binyak had spent the last moments of his existence at this location, before passing on to whatever comes next, Alex believed he would feel something. That he didn’t, he reasoned, meant either Binyak was alive and well, or, more likely, that he simply no longer existed at all.
The tall stranger and the elderly Romanian man observed the destruction site in silence, each consumed by the weightiness of the experience. Both felt the hallowed sanctity of the battlefield that had been christened Ground Zero. Both sensed the cumulative presence of the souls of the victims.
Eventually, they their way over to the church grounds with the wrought iron fence that had been blanketed with items left by mourners. More candles. More flowers. More American flags. More photos of the dead and missing. More messages to lost loved ones. Along with stuffed animals, an assortment of personal articles. A sizeable crowd of sightseers, visitors and mourners loitered along the fence, viewing the impromptu memorial. Alex was struck by the noiselessness of so many people, mostly New Yorkers, he assumed, gathered in a single place. The somber silence a mute tribute to the innocent lives that had been taken in the cowardly act of terrorism.
The two men soon lost track of time as they perused the make-shift shrines. Spent much of the afternoon viewing photos, reading numerous descriptions of missing persons. Both searching for Alex’s image. After more than two hours, Alex was ready to leave. Griggor, however, was not yet ready to return to Nadia’s.
“We have someplace to go. It is surprise for you. Surprise for Griggor, maybe, as well.”
The old man had located an organization called “Vatra” headquartered in a small brick row house in the Bronx and staffed by volunteers. The group helped Albanian immigrants settle in NYC. They published a monthly newspaper in Albanian. Organized events and celebrations. Raised money for various causes. Provided Albanian-American students with scholarships.
A diminutive volunteer, standing behind a counter displaying a variety of Albanian literature, welcomed them, speaking Albanian.
“Pershendetje. Kenaqur t’ju tskoj. Emri in eshe Isni Pernaska. Si mund te ndihmoj?”
Griggor and Alex looked at the tiny man with faces that conveyed complete no comprehension. The man was so small, he had to stand on a box. He had a darkish complexion, a rakish mustache, wore a white, tassel-less fez – a traditional Albanian headpiece. Griggor smiled pleasantly at the volunteer, whose name tag identified him as Isni Pernaska.
“Ah. We do not speak Albanez. I am Romana, hey? I speak only Romana. Also some Roosha. Some smatter of Ukrainii.”
The small man seemed to weigh Griggor’s comments. As though deciding whether the old man was boasting. Or simply being honest.
“We say ‘shqip,’ not ‘Albanez,’” he corrected in perfect English. “The Albanian language is called shqip.”
“Scuzati-ma.”
Griggor bowed his head humbly in apology.
“My name is Isni Pernaska,” the tiny man continued. “How can I be of assistance?”
“Show him tattoo, Alex,” Griggor instructed.
Alex pushed his sleeve up, revealing the image on his forearm.
“Shqiponjat binjake,” the small Albanian man muttered, before translating. “Twin eagles.”
Bin-yock-uh. Alex and Griggor were both surprised to hear a word that sounded so much like the name of Alex’s twin brother.
“Bin-yock-uh,” Griggor repeated. “That is…?”
“Bin-yock-uh means twin,” Isni explained, enunciating carefully. “Two twins is bin-yock-uh. One twin is bin-yock.”
Alex suddenly remembered how much he and his twin brother had delighted in learning the Albanian word for twin. Hearing it that first time. Saying it again and again. They must have been no more than seven or eight. They’d loved the sound of it rolling off their tongues. Bin-yock.
“Hmm. Binyock. It is not Albanian name?” Griggor confirmed. “It is not given name? Like ‘Alex,’ as example, hey?”
“Jo (Yo). That’s shqip for ‘no,’ by the way,” Isni stated. “Binjak means twin. It’s not a name.”
Further discussion determined that Alex recognized a handful of shqip words, particularly vella (brother), nene (mother), baba (father). He was somewhat intrigue that he remembered his family not by their actual names, but by the Albanian words for their relationship to him. Though he had no memories of any Albanian customs or traditions, the rhythm and inflection of the shqip language awakened feelings of familiarity.
“Most likely, you’re third-generation Albanian,” Isni concluded. “Either your paternal or maternal grandparents are shqip. Your baba or nene, possibly both, may speak some shqip. They probably use some shqip words or phrases in everyday speech. Ju lutern – please. Faleminderit – Thank
you. S’ka perse – You’re welcome.”
The little man seemed pleased with his assessment. Satisfied that Isni Pernaska could provide no further useful information, Griggor bade the little man good-bye.
“Faleminderit, Isni,” he said, using the Albanian term of gratitude he’d just learned from the tiny man. “You have been most helpful.”
Their visit to Vatra substantiated that any Albanian link Alex had was probably insignificant. The news that he may have Albanian roots meant little to him. Vatra meant nothing. Hearing the Albanian language had sparked no significant memories. If there was any noteworthy meaning behind his tattoo other than it being a symbol of his Albanian ancestry, he was unaware of it. Griggor agreed with Isni Pernaska that Alex probably had an Albanian mother, father or grandparent from whom he’d picked up a few basic shqip words. The tattoo was merely a tribute to his heritage.
“Also, we learn twin brother’s name, it is not Binyak,” the old Romanian remarked during the cab ride back to Nadia’s.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. The tall man’s thoughts were on his family. Nene. Baba. His vella binjak. As he contemplated what his brother’s real name was, he prayed Binyak was alive.
• • • • •
CHAPTER 39
Aleks and Oak began their immersion into America the beautiful just a few hours out of Manhattan. After crossing the New York state border, they were soon coasting through the rolling hills of Pennsylvania. The small towns that dotted the landscape becoming fewer and farther between as they headed west. Then nothing but mile after mile of trees as they bisected the Keystone state. On to the docile farmland of northern Ohio and Indiana. Before stopping in the Windy City. They’d spent just under thirteen hours on the road.
Their stay in Chicago didn’t last long. Aleks felt the city was overrated. At best a kid brother to The Big Apple.
“It’s The Crabapple. Crabapple being a size reference. Not the cranky, crabby sense,” a stoned Aleks espoused. “It’s a polite crabapple. Not crabby at all. Midwestern courtesy at its best.”
He toked on a joint as he rambled.
“What’s a small apple called anyway?” he wondered aloud.
“An applette,” Oak offered.
Aleks couldn’t control his laughter.
“I like that. Chicago, I dub thee The Big Applette!”
After the Big Applette,, they were off to the farm. An eternal, six-hour trip to Fernald, Iowa. Story County. Eight miles northeast of Ames. Dead center in the middle of the Hawkeye State. The heart of America’s Corn Belt.
Oak drove down the long, tree-lined gravel driveway to the Kowalski homestead,
parked near the barn. Which was parked a hundred feet from the house.
An elderly man, dressed in bib overalls and sporting a baseball cap with the familiar Caterpillar CAT logo, was working on the engine of the tractor that was paired to a wagon filled with bales of hay. Two younger, taller versions of the elderly man were unloading the hay from the wagon into the barn. Oak’s family was ecstatic to see him. Aleks could tell by the way his two brothers and his father paused long enough to tip their hats, mumble “‘Lo, Oak,” before resuming their tasks.
A tallish, attractive, middle-aged woman emerged from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. She gave Oak a warm smile and a motherly hug.
“Ma, Alpo. Alpo, Ma.”
Oak’s mother grabbed him in a strong embrace.
“Despite what Oscar says, I’m sure your mother didn’t name you after dog food. What’s your name, son?”
“It’s Aleks.”
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Aleks. You can call me Brigette. Or Ma. Whichever you’re more comfortable with.”
They waited patiently beside the car for Oak’s father and brothers to join them. Everything the Kowalski men did was done slowly, methodically. Oak quickly made the introductions.
“Stan,” he said with a tip of his head toward his father. “Jan. Tomasz,” he indicated the brothers. “Dad, brohans, this is Alp–…uh…Aleks.”
The Kowalski’s were a textbook stereotype of a twentieth-century American farming family. Bib-overalls, long-sleeved cotton shirts, CAT caps and Carhartt work boots for the men. A cotton dress, apron and tennis shoes for Ma. The entire family was tall. The brother’s both well over six foot. Strapping lads. Though nowhere near Oak’s size. Oak’s mother was a six-footer herself. At five-ten, his father was the shortest of the clan.
The formalities complete, they headed inside the house, where Stan introduced Aleks to krupnik, a Polish vodka. They toasted Oak’s homecoming and even Brigette tossed back a shot. The men had a second shot. Then a second bottle as they sat at the kitchen table conversing. At some point, the conversation turned to Oak’s irresponsible lifestyle.
“Life’s been too easy for you, Oak,” Jan lectured. “All those smarts. It goes to your head.”
Oak caught Aleks’s eye.
“You see what I have to put up with here?” he said, before turning to his brother, sneering. “That doesn’t even make sense, Jan.”
“Some hard work would do you good,” Tomasz joined in. “You need to put your nose to the stone.”
Oak snorted with amused contempt.
“When did you join the Mennonites, Tomasz? You sound Amish. And it’s grindstone, you dumb Polack. Put your nose to the grindstone. Christ. A farmer should know what a grindstone is!”
Aleks worried he might have to break up a fight between the brothers Kowalski. Something he wasn’t entirely committed to doing given their combined brawn. It was obvious all members of the clan truly loved one another, however. And neither Jan nor Tomasz really wished to tangle with their much larger, much stronger, younger brother.
After two days, Oak had heard enough questions and comments about Wilma and the baby. His lifestyle. The Kowalskis hadn’t approved of his marriage. Then they didn’t condone his divorce. They’d never accepted their son moving to New York. Sin City of the East, they called it. They seemed indifferent about Oak’s personal safety in the Big Apple, were more fearful for his soul.
If they knew even half the truth about their son’s over-indulgent lifestyle…, Aleks found himself thinking.
His large friend’s parents seemed most concerned, however, that they would never see their grandson until he was old enough to drive.
Oak’s tolerance having overflowed, the two travelers said their good-byes to the Kowalski clan, bade farewell to Iowa, bid a greeting to the Cornhusker State.
“Husker country,” Oak noted. “Behind enemy lines. But, preferable to another day with ma and pa and the brohans.”
They made the monotonous, nine-hour trek from Omaha to Denver in just under eight mind-numbing segments of sixty minutes. Some 28,800 tiresome ticks of the clock.
After the tedium that was America’s Corn Belt, Aleks fell madly in love with the Rocky Mountains. He thought Denver was magnificent. The Mount Evans Scenic Byway between Denver and Grand Junction was the most beautiful scenery he’d ever encountered. They drove through central Utah, side-tracking to take in Arches National Park and Moab, then side-tracking again to visit Zion National Park.
From there, they headed through Arizona to the Grand Canyon. Driving through Phoenix, Aleks remembered Nikki’s invitation, wondered what had become of the girl he’d last seen driving away with her family in a pick-up truck a decade ago. The girl he and Step had spent so much of another lifetime with.
While Aleks was blown away by the splendor and grandness of the Great Outdoors, Oak couldn’t understand anyone’s desire to sleep under the stars, sit around a campfire, jump naked into a pristine pool of water or dance, unclothed, in the moonlight. Though he saw some appeal to the last two activities. He preferred to indulge his hedonistic, rather than naturalistic, urges. Coddle his craving for overindulgence. Exercise his exuberance for excess. Capitulate to his desire for decadence. What better place to conduct immoral business than his ultim
ate destination? Las Vegas.
As much as Oak relished Vegas, Aleks loathed it. He felt the time he’d spent appreciating America’s natural beauty had helped cleanse his soul. The further west they’d traveled, the more he’d felt some spiritual release from the anguish of Jill’s and his parents’ deaths. Las Vegas felt dirty in comparison. While Oak swaddled himself in consumptionism at its extreme, Aleks had had enough decadence and immoral excess. He couldn’t wait to move on. But his large friend had tolerated his cleansing process. Aleks felt obligated to endure Oak’s debauchery. He stayed out late with his large friend. Drank with him. Pretended to enjoy gambling. The days and nights blurred together, but their stay in Vegas lasted less than five days. For Aleks, it was five too many.
From Vegas, they made a run through several California parks. Death Valley. Sequoia. Kings Canyon. Yosemite. More splendor and majestic grandeur. Aleks believed he could spend the rest of his life moving from one natural wonder to the next. His large friend couldn’t pledge that same commitment.
A few months into their sabbatical, Oak called it quits, declared he wasn’t spending the winter north of Sacramento. He gave Aleks the Land Cruiser, asked to be dropped off at John Wayne Airport, never looked back as he shouldered his duffle bag, walked into the terminal. His flip flops signaling his good-bye for him.
Aleks found life on the road without his large friend intolerable. Despite Oak’s inclination toward the indecent, he’d been an amenable travel companion. Spending hours cooped up in a car with someone can be a challenging undertaking. The two had found plenty of common conversational ground to explore in addition to the local landscapes. Though they’d engaged in some heated discussions, they hadn’t had a single argument, or even a minor disagreement, the entire trip.
Alone to navigate America’s picturesque west at his leisure, Aleks mapped out an ambitious route that would take him north on California’s infamous Route 1. To explore the Pacific Coast up to Vancouver. He then planned to head east, travel from state to state, park to park, take in as much of scenic America as he could. Yellowstone was a must see. As was the Little Bighorn Battlefield.