One year after the annexation of Albania, troops were sent over the Adriatic Sea.
Il Duce had plans. Big plans.
He gave command for the 9th Italian Army to be stationed in Northern Albania, dangerously close to the Yugoslav border.
أنت's platoon — or plotone, as the Italians said — was specifically posted near a highland village, close to a few other towns. The sparse houses gave it an eerie atmosphere, as if it was abandoned. Its stone houses also didn't help, all the grey was jarring in contrast to the greenery of the hills. However, every night men and women gathered in the town center to discuss the current state of affairs and the village suddenly seemed as lively as any other.
Soldiers from أنت's platoon gave in to their curiosity and often left to sightsee. While some came back with chickens, meat and cheese, others held high women's bras as if they were flags.
Word around camp said they were soon going to move down South, some said their beloved Il Ducetto wanted to cross the border into Serbian territory next year. But at a shot of rakija all these rumors devolved into laughter and more mocking jokes addressed to their leader, cozy at Rome.
Roan took notice of this. Like everyone else, she wary of these men.
As much as she hated the sound of spoken Italian, curiosity nagged her and begrudgingly she became more active around their camp, often bringing them food or just walking around. She noticed their rifles "Mine looks a bit older..." and their uniforms as well looked foreign compared to all the ethnic garbs she was familiar with; xhokas, qeleshes, tirq, fotas... Even the Italian phenotype looked funny.
One night, the village people had gathered around a campfire in the Town center. Men and women alike, even some Italian soldiers, sat around it. To one corner, the women chattered about their daily lives and nursed their children, whereas closer to the fire men debated about politics with the Italians at a flask of rakija.
Among the burly, tall, broad and chubby frames of the men, one stood out. It was Roan, comically shorter than everyone else, scowling at the swaying flames. A man with a long grey beard, but a sturdy built despite his age, threw a few branches over the fire and engulfed by it, they crackled.
Her eyes skittered around curiously until they found the lit end of a cigarette. Privileged by the status of a honorary man, as she put it, she approached the lone soldier — أنت. Roan nudged him with her elbow, took a cigarette out of her overall's pocket and gestured to it, as if saying 'Got a light?'
A
