An excerpt from "The Wild Boars" - a novel

By P.I.Kapllani

The truck stopped right in front of the ruins of the Bllaca home, from which a cloud of smoke was still spewing out. Blago Stojkovic, the head of the “Jackals,” jumped down from the cabin and covered his nose with the palm of his hand. The whole area stank with the stench of burned bodies. He coughed and vomited sideways, as he noticed a handful of Roma people who were taking the dead out of the ruins, surrounded by a cordon of policemen. It was three o’clock in the morning and the whole operation for hiding the dead bodies was being achieved under torchlight. Blago Stojkovic looked up at the sky to see if there was a NATO plane flying overhead. The torchlights were used very sparingly and were too faint to be noticed by the NATO planes. His fear eased, and he began to feel more comfortable. As he walked to the back of the truck to open the doors, his cellphone rang.

“Hello, Captain? Yes, yes! We’ll collect every single bone! As you say, sir! We will check the attics, the basements, the backyards, everywhere. We are not going to leave even a single hole without checking it. We are ready for everything that Serbia will ask us to do! Thank you, Captain!”

Blago Stojkovic shut off the cellphone and frowned. The other paramilitary members around him didn’t dare to ask him what the captain said, and stepped back a little frightened instead. Blago had the nickname “Shumadija,” but “the Jackals” simply called him “boss” most of the time. They all wore gold uniforms, to resemble golden jackals. Their death squad was one of the most well known in Yugoslavia and were part of the 177^th division of the Yugoslav army. Their headquarters was located in Peja city (“Pec” in Serbian), but they had come to Gjakova city to join the military campaign against the Albanian civilians. 

The Jackals stepped back a little, waiting around the truck until Roma undertakers were done removing the remains of the dead. There were ten Jackals altogether. Three of them were smoking. Two, who were drinking Slivovica, stopped for a second and covered their noses with handkerchiefs. The oldest of the jackals, a forty-five-year-old man of average height, grabbed another can of beer from the case and handed it over to the commander. He limped on the left side, as he was trying to manage his wooden leg. He’d lost his left foot stepping on a mine in the Bosnian war. He breathed heavily and sounded like he was totally drunk. His name was Nemanja Djuric. He licked his lips and blew his nose sideways. His nickname was “the handicap.”

“What’s new, Shumadija?” he asked the commander, standing awkwardly.

Blago liked it this time, when he called him “Shumadija.” The militants were calling him “Daddy” as well, since he was the oldest. “Daddy” was a name he got from the war in Bosnia. All of them were called “The Golden Jackals,” a name he chose himself for his own group. The jackal, this proud animal, was mentioned fourteen times in the Bible. Fourteen times. Feeling proud and exerting his authority, Blago grabbed the can from the hand of the youngest of the Sakali group and threw it away. Some discipline was needed to show on the spot who they were, for God’s sake. They were not just a bunch of big heavy drinkers; they were soldiers as well.

“I just got a phone call from the captain,” said Blago, his voice shivering with anxiety and impatience. Trying to gain their full attention, he whistled, putting two fingers into his mouth. The Jackals who were drinking set their drinks aside and stood up. The smokers threw their cigarette butts away and rushed to stand in front of the commander. The volunteers who were taking a break joined their friends, waiting in silence.

“As I said, I just spoke to Captain Spasic on the phone. He reminded me of our job once again: we have to collect all the dead bodies around here. Nothing has to escape our eyes. The captain gave us an order that the whole operational area has to be under surveillance. We have to make them disappear. No bodies, no witnesses to testify against us. I’ll drive the truck straight to Serbia,” he said, glancing at the dead that were being loaded on to the truck.

“There are a lot of them. We might need two more trucks,” Nemanja Djuric said.

“I know! Let’s fill this up first,” Blago said. He paused and gazed at them as if they were kids or something; kids who knew nothing about the tactics of ethnic cleansing. His tall, heavy body matched his imperious gaze and commanded the respect and authority of the death volunteers. “There are hundreds of them locked in their homes, in the basements, even under the roofs,” Blago said, eyes sparking like lightning.

Unconvinced that his drunken fighters heard his whole speech, Blago grabbed the youngest volunteer by his shoulders and squeezed him tight, like he was waking him up from a lethargic sleep.

“Do you really know what you have to do?” he yelled at him.

“Yes, sir! One thousand per cent!” the volunteer yelled back at him with joy.

 “You are the best men I have! Let’s start without losing a minute!”

“A question for you, sir,” said another volunteer, a man around forty. He looked a little bit frightened, and most of all, he was sober.

“Sure, go ahead!” Blago encouraged him.

“What should we do if an Albanian man appears in front of us holding a gun?”

He stepped toward him, patted him on the shoulder and looked triumphantly at the rest of the fighters. He had to disperse the clouds of doubt and build self-confidence in these death squads. The whole group of Sakali was waiting for his answer. 

“The short answer is: we kick his ass! We shoot him and cut his skull into one thousand little pieces! Did all of you guys get that?” he shouted at them fiercely.

         “Sir, yes, sir!” the chorus of fighters shouted enthusiastically. Their screams filled the empty space above their heads. In a matter of seconds, there was much noise as bullets hailed overhead in response to the speech of Blago Stojkovic.

 

Bio

Përparim Kapllani  (P.I.Kapllani) was born in the city of Elbasan, Albania. He came to Canada in November 2000 along with his wife Raimonda and five- year- old son Klajd, bringing with him many untold stories. Left without his dad who committed suicide at the age of 43 years old, 10 years old Perparim thought to leave his family (the stepfather, mom, and siblings), in order to join a military high school, which he did at the age of 14. He graduated as Anti- Aircraft Gun Artillery Officer 8 years after and earned another University degree from the University of Tirana, in Literature and Albanian Language. As an alien from another country, he struggled to find a job, working in different pizza places and became so good at it, as he opened his own shop "Albany Gourmet Pizza''. He works there seven days a week, open to close, for ten years straight, without giving up on his first love: creative writing. He says that he might be eligible for a Guinness record.  English is not his first language, but this obstacle didn't stop him from realizing his dream: becoming an English author in Canada.


His most recent book in English is "The Wild Boars"-2016. "Genti" -the king of the Ardians- is a play in Albanian Language and it was published this year. "The Last Will", a novel based on Çamëria genocide was published by IOWI in 2013. "Beyond the Edge" is a collection of short stories published in December 2010 by IOWI. An English version of his play "Queen Teuta of Illyria" was published by "In Our Words" in 2008. An Albanian version was published in 2014.

His short stories appear in three anthologies: "Canadian Voices", Bookland Press, "The Literary Connection", and "Courtney Park Connection", IOWI. His novella "The Hunter" was shortlisted by Quattro Books for The Ken Klonsky novella contest in 2015.

He is the author of five books in Albanian language and had worked as a journalist for "Ushtria", the Albanian Army Newspaper and "Shekulli', a daily newspaper. Some publications appeared in "Spekter" magazine and other local papers in Albania.