A man named Filip came to my grandfather…he’d used the words ‘in good faith’ or ‘në besë (besa),’ which is important to us Albanians,” says 58-year-old Naim Behluli.

We’re sitting in one of Prishtinë’s bustling cafes, and although Kosovo is a majority Muslim country, American Christmas classics play in the background. Outside, shoppers flood the pedestrian-friendly Nënë Tereza Boulevard.

Tall and affable, the espresso cup in Behluli’s hand seems especially diminutive as he continues, “This man Filip said to my grandfather: ‘Knowing you have besë, I know you have the possibility to take this on for me, and you will complete it to the end.”

My interpreter, Dritë Kozmaqi, sits across from Behluli and me. Her skills assure I’ll capture every nuance of the story Behluli has just begun. The story of how, in 1941, his grandfather, Ruzhde (Sadik), saved the life a twenty-year-old Jewish man hiding in Borča, Serbia. But, according to Behluli, his grandfather’s actions were nothing extraordinary. Rather—as I would hear consistently during my three-month Fulbright research period, based in Prishtinë—Sadik was simply carrying out the moral code of besë, a crucial element of the medieval Albanian Kanuni i Lekë Dukagjinit.

“Sacred promise” is a common translation for besë and, based upon many testimonies, provided the main motivation for ethnic Albanians to risk their own lives, and the lives of their families, to save Jews during World War II.

Nearly all (204) native Jews of Albania survived the Holocaust. Beyond this anomaly, between 1933 and 1945, thousands of Jewish refugees from other European countries were assisted and protected by Muslim, Catholic, and Orthodox ethnic Albanians in Kosovo and Albania as they transited (then) Yugoslavia. As a result, the number of Jews in post-war Albania increased tenfold its pre-war population, though almost all later emigrated to Israel.

During the war, Prishtinë was a major transit hub for Jewish rescues. Ahim Kohen, the man Behluli’s grandfather saved, traveled a different route, though, crossing the border from the Serbian village of Novosella at a check point called Guri i Pribovcit into (then) Bulgaria. With Sadik’s assistance Ahim went next to Desivojca, just one stop on a complicated journey whose details we’ll return to.

Naim Behluli’s words wash over me as I await Dritë’s English interpretation, but I needn’t understand Albanian to see the pride on his face. Behluli explains how “Filip, of Serbian nationality” approached his grandfather, Sadik, on his way to work in Vranje, Serbia. Filip asked Sadik to shelter his son-in-law, Ahim Kohen.

“My grandfather said, ‘Yes…I will take care of him and no one will know about him,’” Behluli continues.

One common element of the rescue entailed a name change from Ahim to Mehmet. In Novosella, no one aside from Naim Behluli’s great-grandmother, his grandparents, and other family members knew Mehmet’s given name nor that he was Jewish.

“My great-grandmother, Fatë, took care of the room Mehmet was staying in. When she noticed that for three weeks the man went to sleep wearing all of his clothing, she asked my grandfather why Mehmet was not undressing at night.” When Sadik relayed the question to Mehmet, he replied, “It’s just a habit of mine.”

In Naim Behluli’s telling, his grandfather insists it is fear rather than habit that prevents the young man from undressing. “My grandfather said, “If you are afraid that someone will come after you, let me tell you this, I would rather give away my own son than you.”

In this oral history, another detail is especially noted. As Behluli describes, “Mehmet takes off his jacket and my grandfather could see that Mehmet’s whole body was surrounded by gold [jewelry].”

After this discovery and assurances of his safety, “Mehmet lived comfortably for three months with my grandfather’s family,” Behluli continues. “All his needs were taken care of—food, clothing, hygiene—by my great-grandmother and other family members.”

When Mehmet asked Sadik to help him get to Albania, Sadik immediately enlisted others. “My grandfather contacted his sister’s father-in-law, Shefki Bunjaki, from Desivojca.” Now we return to that Serbian-Bulgarian border crossing.

Behluli smiles. “In order to accomplish this objective, my grandfather prepared by taking two actions: first he dressed Mehmet as a woman, and my great-grandmother cooked a chicken that my grandfather would use to bribe the border officers. They set off, and when reaching the border crossing, the Bulgarians stopped them and asked where they were going. My grandfather said ‘I am going to my wife’s family in Desivojca with my wife.’ At that moment, he gave them the chicken, trying to confuse them and they safely crossed the border.”

But Mehmet’s journey had only begun. “Together with Shefki, they went to Gjilan, in what was then Albania,” Behluli continues. “There, they went to a kind of state office where [they encountered] officers who worked for Gendarmerie [army]. They instructed Sadik and Shefki on the ways to take Mehmet to Gjakova (Kosovo).”

With assistance of additional protectors, Mehmet’s route continued to the Albanian port city of Vlorë. Though uncertain, Behluli believes Mehmet’s escape took him first to Turkey, then the United States, and finally Brazil.

One counterpoint to this story is Sadik’s later imprisonment. “He was part of Balli Kombëtar,” says Behluli. This Albanian unit was formed by liberal nationalists opposed to communism as a resistance movement. Sadik served nine years in prison, alongside his youngest brother—likely executed there. A second brother was severely tortured and eventually released.

But in 1956 Sadik was rewarded with a visit from Ahim Kohen and his Serbian wife Olga. Facilitated by Filip, “They spend the whole day visiting places that remind them of the past,” says Behluli. In 1981, the Kohens make a second visit, this time to Gjilan, where Sadik and his family lived. Over two days, the families share meals, in Gjilan and at Filip’s home in Vranje.

On 20 May, 1996, Sadik Behluli died at the age of 94, a man who exemplified besë.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)