The Old Ways, a Modern Tragedy: Albanian and American Values Collide in the Life and Fate of a Missing Local Woman
By Jeff Seidel, Free Press Staff Writer
Originally published in the Detroit Free-Press, June 24, 2001
"A woman is a sack, made to endure"—"The Code of Leke Dukagjini," which details Albanian laws and customs.
She tried to cover the scar with makeup, but she could always feel it, always remember it, the day her husband stabbed her in the forehead with a screwdriver. The day he beat her and whipped her with an electrical cord.
Rita Gjergjaj tried to do as she was told, as she was expected, but she could endure no more. She wanted a divorce, against the wishes of her family, against the traditions of Albanian culture.
Her family begged her to go back to him, for the sake of her children, for the sake of their name. She had moved into a condo in Birmingham. A single woman living on her own?
It was shameful. She had disgraced her ex-husband and their native culture. A culture that is changing, but slowly, painfully. A culture where women are second-class citizens.
She was vulnerable.
Three weeks later, she vanished.
THE ADVOCATE
"If a man beats his wife bloody, and she complains to her parents, the man must give an explanation."
Amy Levin's beeper went off: 9-1-1.
Levin, a victims' advocate at Common Ground Sanctuary, a crisis-intervention center in Bloomfield Hills, recognized the phone number attached to the 911 and called her friend Renee Simlak.
"I know somebody who is being abused," Simlak said. "You've got to help her."
"Have your friend call me and I'll see what I can do."
Five minutes later, Rita called Levin, crying hysterically. She said her ex-husband, Binak (Kola) Gjergjaj (pronounced Ger-JI), had threatened to kill her.
"Do you want to come here?"
"Yeah," she said. "I know where you are."
Levin waited in the lobby, anxious and nervous. It was Jan. 21, 2000.
A woman with blond hair and dark eyes walked through the door. A woman who looked familiar.
"Oh, my God!" Levin said, realizing she had met her a year earlier through Simlak. "Rita?"
Rita is a beautiful woman, athletic, exotic and stunning, 5-foot-4 and about 125 pounds.
They went to a small room and Rita told her story through tears, how Kola had abused her, physically and mentally, and how he continued to control her after the divorce.
Rita, 30, and Kola, 34, are Albanians, born in Kosovo, who met in Hamtramck about six months before their arranged marriage. She was 16 and had dropped out after eighth grade to get married. It was set up through a matchmaker, a friend of both families, as was the Albanian custom. Rita and Kola met only once before the wedding. She served him coffee as the men finalized the wedding plans, but she didn't speak to him.
The marriage lasted 11 years and they had two children, a boy and a girl. They divorced in 1999. She left with only the clothes on her back, moving home to her parents in Rochester Hills. She didn't go to court during the divorce hearing to fight for physical custody of the children because Kola threatened to kill her or her brothers if she did.
Rita showed Levin pictures, taken at William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak in 1998 after Kola beat her up when she asked for a divorce. Levin was horrified. The pictures were worse than some videos they use for training at Common Ground.
Rita said: "That night he told me, 'I'm going to make sure your family has to have a closed coffin.'"
After the first visit, according to Levin's records, she assessed the situation as "high lethality."
Levin had no experience with the Albanian culture. She tried to learn as much as possible to understand Rita's situation, searching the Internet and talking to co-workers, but nobody had counseled an Albanian. The more she learned, the more Levin understood why: Albanian woman rarely seek help from outsiders.
Over the next two months, Rita met with Levin 10 times.
Rita's main concern was her two children. She had seen them only a handful of times since the divorce and only when Kola allowed. He used them as pawns, to control Rita.
Levin gave Rita several options. She could file a personal protection order, but Rita didn't want anything like that.
"We can't file anything because he's threatening to kill me," Rita said.
She could go to court to try to get custody of the children and then get a new Social Security number and go underground in another state.
"If I did that and left, he would kill my brothers," she said.
Levin encouraged her to protect herself by getting a safety deposit box: "Put the photos in it with a letter saying, 'If anything happens to me, my ex-husband did it, and by the way, if anything happens to me, make sure my children go with my family.'"
Rita never did.
At the time Rita was working with Levin at Common Ground, she was living with her family—her mother, stepfather and three half-brothers—because it was improper for a single woman to live by herself.
Even after the divorce, the family urged her to return to Kola. "They would get mad at her and look down at her for going out to movies with her girlfriends," Levin said. "She was told: 'You have to go back to your husband.'"
Rita was trapped. She worried that nobody would want to date her because she was divorced and had children, and she worried about being seen dancing with another man.
While she loved her family, she needed some independence. "She didn't feel she could be herself there," Levin said. "She was hiding a lot of information. They were encouraging her to go back and that was hard for her."
After a couple of months, Levin thought Rita had improved. "She was doing really well. She was really feeling strong. She had stopped being a victim and had taken control of her life."
Levin asked Rita to speak at a ceremony during National Crime Victim's Rights Week. After some hesitation, she agreed.
Rita wore a black suit with a shawl. "She was beautiful as ever," Levin said. "She got up and belted it out. She got up there and told her story."
Rita talked about her abuse, about the culture and the beatings, and she talked about her dreams:
"Dare to dream that you attend your daughter's wedding, where there are no bruises or scars to hide;
"Dare to dream that the repeated beatings would one day stop;
"Dare to dream and then make it reality."
Oakland County Prosecutor David Gorcyca, the keynote speaker, was horrified. He could see the fear in her eyes.
"Did you ever do anything about your ex-husband?" he asked.
"No," she said. "I couldn't."
"I didn't think so. Here's my card, if there's anything I can ever do for you, call me."
She never did.
On Feb. 26, 13 months after Rita sought help at Common Ground, Levin received a frantic phone call from Simlak. Rita hadn't shown up for work.
Levin feared the worst and called Gorcyca, who notified the police.
"It's not very often that prior to a criminal event or potential criminal event, you actually meet your victim," Gorcyca said. "I was so moved and compelled when she spoke. She talked about the fear that she lived in, day in and day out. The beatings she took. It absolutely devastated and destroyed her life, right down to losing her kids. The whole situation is wrong; it's not right."
THE DISAPPEARANCE
"For two acts, a woman may be shot in the back … and she may be left: A) for adultery; B) for betrayal of hospitality. For these two acts of infidelity, the husband kills his wife, without requiring protection or a truce and without incurring a blood feud."
On Feb. 25, the day she disappeared, Rita spent the afternoon baby-sitting the son of her half-sister, Lena Palushaj.
"She left at about 6:15 and said she was going to meet Kola and the kids," Lena, 23, remembers. "What kills me is that we always kissed each other on the cheeks to say bye. I didn't kiss her that day. I was like, 'Go, go, go see your kids.'"
Rita drove off in her blue Escort.
The next morning, Rita's family learned that she didn't show up for work at Club Monaco clothing boutique in Troy, where she was the manager. "That's not like her," her half-brother George Palucaj said. "She prided herself on being meticulous. She hated to be late."
George called Kola and he denied meeting Rita.
Rita's mother, Pashke Palucaj, drove to Showcase Cinema in Auburn Hills, one of the places where Rita routinely met Kola to see her children, and she found the Escort in the parking lot. Rita's purse, cell phone and keys were inside. There was no sign of Rita.
THE OATH OF IGNORANCE
"Even if the person taking the oath has not stolen or killed, it may happen that he heard or knew that his brother, his cousin, or someone else committed theft or murder. When an oath is sworn, it must be said: Neither I myself nor anyone in my house is the culprit, and I do not know who stole or killed."
Detectives from the Auburn Hills Police Department have found few clues. They say people in the Albanian community are tight-lipped, unwilling or unable to provide any help. "We've hit many walls," Det. Scott Edwards says. "Every time we turn around."
A surveillance camera recorded Rita's Escort arriving at Showcase Cinema at 7:04 p.m. Feb. 25. A few seconds later, a second car stopped beside the Escort. Police cannot identify the second car from the videotape because it is poor quality and taken from such a long distance. It appears Rita got out of her car, walked past the headlights and got into the second car, which started to drive away, then stopped in the parking lot. After 35 minutes, the second car left and Rita hasn't been seen since.
On Feb. 27, police went to Kola's residence in Springfield Township, where he lived with his twin brother and sister-in-law, Gjon and Marta, and his and Rita's two children. They discovered Kola was missing, along with his passport and clothes. The children were left behind, but Gjon and Marta wouldn't let the police talk to them.
Gjon said he hadn't seen or talked to his brother since Feb. 26, but he has not filed a missing person report.
"They aren't alarmed enough to contact police or suspect foul play," Edwards said.
There have been sightings of Kola in Kosovo, where somebody can live for a month on $100. But there is no record that Kola left the country, according to Edwards. "He could theoretically be in the United States." Rita's family want police to go to Kosovo to arrest him, but nothing can be done since there are no charges. Police are considering asking for a warrant related to the domestic abuse, which would allow them to arrest him.
The FBI is involved in the investigation because kidnapping is a federal offense, but a spokesman would not comment.
Police have searched for Rita's body, twice using a helicopter along the route between Showcase Cinema and Kola's house, but couldn't find anything. "It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack," Edwards said.
The night Rita disappeared, there was a birthday party for Kola at his house, attended by 12-15 people. Edwards has spoken to most of them, and he says they have given conflicting statements about when Kola arrived, anywhere from 5:30 to 9 p.m.
The party lasted until about midnight.
Kola's family said they have no idea where he is or why he left. "I don't buy it for a second," Edwards said.
About two weeks into the investigation, police went to the home of Tom Duhanaj, who was reportedly at the birthday party. "We believe he's from Troy," Edwards said. "He has some dual names here. We went to his house on a Friday night. He was at work. He was due home at any time. We stayed there about 1 1/2 hours, talking to his other brother. He doesn't show up. I leave a card and say, 'Hey, call me. I just need to talk to him.'"
"On Monday morning, I get a call from his brother. He says, 'He went on vacation on Saturday.'"
He hasn't been heard from since and there are reports he is in Kosovo, Edwards said. "It certainly casts more suspicion on himself, after taking off."
Kola and Duhanaj are wanted for questioning about Rita's disappearance, but they haven't been charged.
"I don't think any of us are perplexed as to who did something to her," Edwards said. "What was done, obviously, we don't know, because we can't find the body and Kola hasn't made himself available. That makes it difficult."
And he's tired of sifting through lies. "It gets to be a pain. Everybody you talk to is lying to you."
The case has perplexed the entire department.
When an Auburn Hills detective was interviewing an Albanian Catholic priest, the priest tried to explain the culture by talking about a book, "The Code of Leke Dukagjini," which details Albanian laws and customs. "I've read most of it," Edwards said. "It covers everything from property to when you are allowed to kill a wife."
The detective asked the priest what happens when the book conflicts with the Bible. "Sometimes, you have to go by this book," the detective recalls him saying. "Sometimes, you have to go by that book."
The first English translation of "Leke Dukagjini" was published in 1989. On every left-hand page, the rules are written in Albanian. On the right, they are translated into English. "The importance of the Kanun (code) in the history of the Albanian people can scarcely be overestimated," it says on the book jacket, "and its precepts continue to exercise a very significant influence on Albanians living in Albania and Kosovo, as well as in other countries to which Albanians have emigrated."
Edwards read the book. The foreword describes traits it says are universal among Albanians: "a sense of honor, vengefulness, courage and decisiveness in critical situations, and a feeling of closeness within the family, the brotherhood and clan."
Edwards marked pages that applied to the investigation. He keeps a copy on his desk.
He doesn't fully understand the Albanian community. He was frustrated and wanted some advice. He called the Hamtramck Police Department, because there is a sizable community of Albanians living there. Someone at the front desk immediately transferred him to Det. Dennis Frederick.
Frederick is considered an expert in Albanian culture. Police agencies from around the country, including the FBI, have called him for advice.
"How they find me," Frederick said, "God only knows."
Frederick, a 24-year veteran, has been studying the Albanian community since 1986, when he was a youth officer in Hamtramck. "I had to figure out what I was dealing with," he said.
Somebody gave him "The Code of Leke Dukagjini" to better understand the customs and traditions.
He was also given a doctoral dissertation, written by an Albanian, which explores morals and values of Albanian society. "The man is the boss and the woman does what he says, whether you like it or not," Frederick said.
The Albanian community usually handles its problems internally. "It's an eye for an eye," Frederick said. "They resolve things. It's not as violent as it used to be, but when there are problems between families, a lot of times you see it resolved in that fashion, one way or another. It's not always another violent death. It may be resolved in a monetary payment or banishment."
He describes it as a complex culture, based on pride and honor.
"I've found that the majority of Albanians are very good, law-abiding citizens," Frederick said. "They want to do the right thing; they normally do the right thing."
But they don't talk to the police.
"It's the code of silence. As an investigator you have to know you aren't going to crack it. It's quite difficult. In their own way, they provide to you leads and information. They may provide it in a roundabout, indirect way. It takes time to develop it. You have to understand what they are telling you."
THE CHURCH
"The priest has the right to teach and reprimand the parish, and to carry out all the spiritual work required in matters of faith, and no one in the parish has the authority to interfere in the duties of the priest."
The shoes are lined against the wall, by the door, an Albanian custom that shows honor and respect. Father Anton Kcira sits at a desk in the rectory of St. Paul Albanian Catholic Church on Twelve Mile in Warren.
As the priest of the largest Albanian Catholic church in the state, presiding over a congregation of 1,200 families, he is one of the most powerful leaders of the Albanian community. He said there is a strong consensus in the community about what happened to Rita, although there is no proof.
Though Kola is presumed innocent in the American court system until proven guilty, Albanians assume he did it.
"He killed her and nobody knows what happened to her," the priest says. "It's the worst thing in the world."
Two men enter the room: Kanto Dushaj, the church secretary, and Martin Camaj, a member of the parish.
Kcira can speak English, but he is more comfortable talking in Albanian. After he speaks, the other men translate.
"Since he (Kola) left, if he didn't have anything to do with it, as Father says, he would have remained here and helped the family to find out what happened," Camaj says. "Instead, he takes off. Right away, that tells you something, he had to do something."
Church leaders believe no one will support Kola because of the dishonorable way they believe he left the country. "If he killed her and he would have said to her family, 'I killed her, for this and this reason,' whatever it might have been, it would have been so much easier," Camaj says.
"Besides killing her, it's an embarrassment to her family. It's more of a burden to her family."
The ways of the old country are disappearing, slowly, painfully, generation by generation. The church has tried to preserve the culture, to keep it pure, but the influence and traditions of the past are slipping.
"It's vanishing," Dushaj says.
Some younger Albanians who have grown up in America have left the church, become isolated from the Albanian community and do not respect the old ways.
In traditional Albanian culture, if there is a problem in a marriage or between families, the dispute is handled by a pleq.
A pleq is typically an older man, with a reputation for being wise and from a noble, traditional family. They work as volunteers.
"Now, with the younger generation, it's harder for the pleq to work with them," Camaj says. "They are seeing outside the world. It's easier to follow the worldly ways. It's easier to renounce and move away from the proper ways. For those who are 40 and over, it's easier to work with them, for the pleq."
Kola is Catholic, according to church officials, but was not an active church member. "If he would have been closer to the church, then Father would have had some influence, one side or the other, and then something might have been resolved," Camaj says.
Church leaders believe the problem between Rita and Kola started with their divorce. In Albanian culture, marriage is sacred and divorce is worse than death.
Historically, even if a husband beat a wife, the church would try to salvage the marriage. Marriages were held together when the pleq or church leaders reminded couples that a divorce dishonored their family and their family name.
"Thousands of marriages were saved because of that," Camaj says. "A woman could have been under the worst husband; we know cases still exist today, and yet, not to embarrass her children and her family, she took it; she lived in hell—her whole life in this world—and she never went through a divorce. Not one woman, many, because she didn't want to embarrass her father and her family. She took it. She took whatever came. Marriage was so sacred."
Kcira walks out of the room and comes back with a copy of "The Code of Leke Dukagjini."
He says this book explains the traditions of the Albanian people. It originated as law in the 15th Century.
"These are the rules," Dushaj says.
Some still apply, others don't. Trying to find where they start and where they end is like grasping at shadows.
"It's not very Christian," Camaj says. But he stresses that some use a version of the rules in a Christian way, blending parts of the tradition with their faith.
Others use only the traditions.
"Unfortunately, sometimes we live more for tradition," Dushaj says. "If you were not educated religiously, you went and followed tradition."
Church leaders have stressed that if Kola killed his wife, he was following the traditions of the past, not of the church or the present. "If the man did it, he did it in that sense that my wife did this to me, she embarrassed me and that was his way of getting to her, which is not the way to do it, especially in this time and age," Camaj says. "You use those good things in there, to salvage something, but you don't take it to the extreme, to destroy something."
And they believe he has embarrassed the Albanian community.
"In our culture, this is really rare for this to happen," Camaj says. "There were killings before. He did it; he felt it was for good cause and he didn't hide it. In this way, very few. This is an embarrassment; mainly because he didn't acknowledge that he did it and the way he did it. Accidents can happen. It can happen to anybody—brother can kill brother, or husband wife, or wife husband—in that temperament, in that moment. But it seems like it was planned to do this. That is not an Albanian tradition, especially Catholic Albanian tradition."
Kcira estimates there are 60,000 to 100,000 Albanians in the Detroit area, despite the 1990 census number of 4,651. "Census numbers underestimate the population," says Kurt R. Metzger, research director for the Center for Urban Studies at Wayne State University. "Local sources overestimate the population. Somewhere between the two extremes lies the true count."
The Albanians came to Detroit starting in the 1960s, because they could find work in the auto factories. They later bought small businesses and restaurants.
"In every department store, every restaurant, you see an Albanian," Dushaj says. "There isn't a place you don't see an Albanian."
Both the community and the church continue to grow.
In front of the church, a for-sale sign is stuck in the ground.
The congregation is preparing to move into a new $9-million church on Rochester Road in Rochester Hills. The church will seat 1,400, 400 more than the current one. Construction started last year and will be completed in November or December.
As the Albanian community grows and changes, the new church is more important than ever, to preserve the traditions and ways. During mass, Kcira speaks first in English for the children and then says the homily in Albanian.
"In America, we have different cultures and it's hard to put it together," Camaj says. "Over there, where we came from, they grew together for centuries. Those same families went on and on and on. They held that bond together. They had that law that worked together. Here, everybody is isolated."
A LIVING HELL
"Mourning for the dead in a family must last one year."
Since Rita disappeared, her mother has worn nothing but black.
"My mom wears black because it's sorrow," Lena says. "It's in our culture. We wear black for a year; some mothers, if their husband dies, they will wear the black till their son gets married."
But Lena refuses to wear black.
"Why should I show people that I'm mourning?" she asks. "I could wear all white and deep inside I'm dying."
It is a subtle defiance, subject to change.
"God forbid, if my sister is dead, I will wear black for 45 days."
For the family, the hard part is the uncertainty. They don't know what happened to Rita. They don't know if she is dead or alive, or if they will ever find her body.
"In Albanian culture, if you take our blood, we take yours," Lena says. "But that's not what Rita would want."
"We will leave it to God," says her mother, Pashke. "She was like an angel, not just for me but for everybody. She had a good, good heart. I think I have a good heart, too, but her? More than me. She passed me, you know? She was very, very sweetheart."
Rita's mother does not believe she is alive—"my heart says no"—but she will not hold a funeral until the body is found. She plans to have an open casket, in defiance of Kola. "I will keep it open, for everybody," she says, "to let them know how she died."
A week after Rita disappeared, her family moved her things back home from the condo. They set up her bedroom. Made the bed. Hung her clothes in the closet and put out two pairs of shoes by the bed. "Sometimes, I smell her things and it smells like my daughter," she says, taking a deep breath. She starts to sob. "My daughter. I hope whoever did this to her, God will punish them. I leave to God."
Scattered around the room are Christmas presents that Rita bought. Kola refused to let her give them to the children.
On the bed, there are framed pictures of Rita, poems written by relatives and a locket that George bought her for Mother's Day.
Downstairs in the family room, there is another memorial on the mantel. A candle has burned constantly since she disappeared. It lasts about a week and when it burns out, the family gathers to light another one. After saying their prayers—Rita's mother speaking softly in Albanian, the others in English—they open their eyes and kiss the candle before placing it on the mantel.
"I will do until my daughter is found," Rita's mother says, tears in her eyes, after lighting another candle.
On the mantel there is a photo of Rita in a frame of angels—she loves angels—and they draped her necklace over it.
"This is a cross her son bought her," Lena says, lifting jewelry off one of the pictures. "This is a lucky horn her son found her. Ever since she has been missing, when we go to court (for custody of Rita's children), we all kiss it and take it with us. I carry it with me, by my heart."
Lena feels guilty that she didn't do enough to protect her sister. She was the only one who knew the extent of the abuse.
"About a month before she disappeared, Rita told Kola that she couldn't take it anymore, that she wanted to see the children more," Lena says. "Then he said to her, 'Do you want this to become a tragedy?'"
When Rita told Lena about the threat, she seemed stronger, ready to fight: "I'm ready to die for my kids. If he kills me for my kids, I'm ready."
"What mother isn't ready to die for their kids?" Lena said at the time.
Now those words haunt her. "I wish I wouldn't have said that," Lena says. "I wish I told her, leave the kids alone."
In February, when Rita disappeared, it was cold and Lena worried: "She is cold, she is shivering. I would think, her last tear is frozen."
A BROTHER'S DREAM
"Those men who have a reputation for wisdom and who are experienced in trials and judgments are all called the Elders. These men may also be chosen to act in private matters and special cases, and their judgment is recognized by law, as long as they judge according to the Kanun."
Rita's family says the Albanian community has turned against them for taking the case to the police and for talking publicly. Several area Albanians have told Rita's brothers to let it go. After all, she was a woman, made to endure. Even worse, she was their half-sister, without a father in this country. The blood ties were weak. She was vulnerable.
"I can still hear it: 'Let it go.' It breaks my heart to hear people say this to me," George says. "She was a woman. She was my sister. She basically raised me."
George, 25, was born in Detroit and owns Olympia Coney Island on McNichols, near Sinai-Grace Hospital. He can speak Albanian—the language used almost exclusively by his parents—but he doesn't understand the ways of the old country, the talk of the Council of Elders, the American term for the respected Albanian men in Detroit who usually handle matters like this, in secret. The Council of Elders can act as law, lawyer and judge, hearing serious problems between families and deciding retribution.
George doesn't understand any of it.
He's a first-generation Detroiter, a Red Wings fan with a Detroit Lions helmet hanging proudly in his kitchen, wanting nothing less, he says, than the American dream—owning a business and taking care of his family. But the old country keeps pulling him back, like he's shackled to another time.
"How can I let this go?" he asks. "She was a saint."
George has been told that according to Albanian customs, after Rita disappeared, somebody from Kola's family should have contacted the men in Rita's family. "Two or three of them should have come to our house after a day or two, to say, 'We don't know anything, we had nothing to do with this.' But nobody appeared on our front door."
When Duhanaj disappeared and there was a news report that he was wanted for questioning, his family contacted George through one of his uncles.
They wanted to set up a meeting, to let them know that they didn't know anything.
George refused to talk to them.
"There is nothing really to say," he says. "They should have been men and come forward first. But they never came forward."
George stands behind the counter of the coney island he runs with his brothers, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. It's lunchtime, 5 hours into his 12-hour shift.
Plastic flowers hang from the ceiling above the seven booths.
A doctor from Sinai Hospital stands at the register, wearing blue scrubs.
"Hey, doc," George says. He seems to know everybody who comes in. Most are regulars.
"How is your mom doing?" the doctor asks.
"She's hanging in there. That's all we got."
When George was young, his mother worked full time, so Rita helped raise the four children. "She cooked for us, cleaned up after us, washed our clothes, then she taught us how to clean."
George started working at Kola's coney island in Detroit when he was 11. "I was tired of sharing clothes with my brother," George says. "We only had two pairs of pants. I would wear one on one day and he would wear one the other day."
It was Rita's idea for her brothers to stop working for others and to buy a business. "She would say, 'What are you doing? Working for other people. You are busting your butts for other people.' We were. We would keep other people's restaurants cleaner than they kept it themselves.
"She was our inspiration. She would say: 'Even though you guys dropped out of school, don't fail. You guys are going to make it.'"
When George tried to buy Olympia Coney Island in 1997 from another Albanian, he faced a difficult situation. Should he buy the business following the traditions of the Albanians or the Americans?
"Most of the time, when restaurants are sold between Albanians, it's done with older gentlemen," George said. "They would sit down and say, 'This is how much I'm selling the restaurant for and this is how much you will pay me per month. If you miss one payment, I'll come to take the restaurant back.' Those guys are the witnesses of what was said during the conversation."
There are no legal documents—everything is based on their word.
George refused. He wanted it in writing.
"He agreed after a week or two," George said. "We wrote out the papers. Two months from now, it will be under our name."
They bought the restaurant for $250,000. To raise the down payment, his parents remortgaged their house and they raised the rest from friends. After taking over, George installed new wood paneling, tiles and neon lights. The coney island is open 24 hours a day and the three brothers take turns working 12-hour shifts. Of seven employees, only two aren't related.
A message is painted on the door to the kitchen: Palucaj Empire, On the Rise.
"We were at that corner where you turn that corner and start to get somewhere in life," George says. "We were in a position where we were going to sell our restaurant and maybe get into the construction business. Then our sister was going to come work for us and be our office manager. Anything she touched, it turned to gold. She knew about everything. She was such a motivator. She would push you to do anything. That's why we are where we are today. We have a million-dollar business. We built it from scratch. Right now, we are all dreaming. What's our next step . . ."
He pauses.
Despite the sadness, a kindness shines through.
Four or five times a day, he gives food or a couple of dollars to homeless people who wander in. "My brothers get upset," George says. "They say, 'Why are you so nice? That's why we can't make any money.'
"I don't look at it as feeding them for free," George says. He believes it is his duty. "My mother and father always told me, the people who give, they will always be somewhere in life."
The regular customers walk in and get hugs from George. They've seen a major change in the brothers since Rita disappeared.
"They are just hanging on," one customer says. "George is really depressed but I think the work helps him."
THE MEMORIAL
"The rights of the Husband over his Wife. The husband has the right: A) To counsel and correct his wife; B) To beat and bind his wife when she scorns his words and orders."
Up the narrow staircase in the Sky Club in Royal Oak, a box is placed on a table with a note: "Donations for Rita's children." It is May 1, and Rita's friends have put together a memorial service.
Gorcyca stands in the back of the room. He feels a connection to this case after meeting Rita, but he admits they need a break to find the body or any more clues.
"We are going to have to get lucky."
At dusk, sunlight shines through the window.
Rita's mother sits in a shadow.
Lena is the last speaker. She stands at the front of the room, holding a microphone. "What hurts me is that he still mentally abused her for the 2 years he was divorced. He used his children as bait, to have that hold on her, to have that control he needed. Finally, Rita couldn't take it anymore. She told him that she would fight for the children. Rita's children were her No. 1 priority. She wanted them to grow up and be good honest people and to fulfill their dreams. Rita was always proud of her children. She always talked about what they accomplished in school and in physical activities. She got tired of not being in her lives. It just killed her."
As she speaks, her mother cries, her head cradled in her hands. Her brothers wipe away tears.
"Damn our culture for teaching our children to put up and shut up. God, Rita, I'm sorry for not being there, when his fists would be in the air—to catch them before it landed on your face. I'm sorry for not doing much to help you, when you went to the haven. Damn us for not stopping you on Feb. 25 when you went to meet him and your kids, knowing when the tragedy already happened. Why didn't I speak before?"
"Why get abused because of your culture's beliefs?"
Lena puts down the microphone, walks across the room and collapses into the arms of her friends.
THE CUSTODY BATTLE
"If an infant in the cradle is left without a father and without a mother, without brother and sister, his closest relatives have the duty to raise him."
On May 4, 68 days after Rita disappeared, the families were in Oakland County Circuit Court, fighting over the children, 12 and 9.
On one side of the courtroom, Kola's twin brother and his wife sat with their attorney.
On the other side, Rita's family sat in the second row, nine family members, shoulder to shoulder, fighting for children they haven't seen since the divorce because Kola refused to let them. "We want them, so we can teach them what morals are, the way my sister wanted her kids to grow up, as being good honest people," Lena said.
The first witness was Dr. Alyson Brooks, who treated Rita at Beaumont on April 15, 1998, after she had been beaten by Kola. Rita didn't want the abuse to be reported, but Brooks testified that she called the Hamtramck Police Department: "When I wanted to see if perhaps we could press charges without the consent of Rita, they stated that that would cause more problems and that it was probably best to allow the Council of Elders to deal with that."
Ronald Tuski, a detective for the Auburn Hills Police Department, said Kola's family had hindered the investigation of her disappearance by not allowing them to talk to the children.
Lena took the witness stand, wearing Rita's necklace for good luck. "He threatened her," Lena said. " 'If you fight with the courts, I will kill you and I'll kill your family.'"
In closing arguments, the prosecutor summed up her case: "We've got a man who brutalized his (ex-wife) … We also have a neglectful, cruel, depraved environment that existed between mother and father that those kids were part of."
Judge John McDonald decided to leave the children in foster care and to let Rita's mother and Lena visit the children, to establish some relationships.
The attorney for Kola's brother argued that his client should be able to visit the children. But McDonald denied the request: "I can't ignore testimony that they didn't cooperate too much."
The two families left the courtroom without incident, although they made sure to avoid each other.
Leslie Kutinsky, the attorney representing Kola's family, disputed the claim that they didn't cooperate with police: "They were just trying to protect the children."
Rita's family went outside, walking in the bright sunshine. "We gotta keep fighting for those kids," Rita's mother said.
ANOTHER TRAGEDY
"Dominion of the house belongs to the first-born son upon the death of his father."
Rita's stepfather, Pal, had a stroke May 7. He was paralyzed on his right side and couldn't speak or eat. The family took turns at his bedside at Beaumont Hospital.
"He's really starving, getting real weak," George says.
George is convinced that the stress of Rita's disappearance contributed to the stroke.
He feels a tremendous weight, like he must be responsible for his brothers and sister, and he is starting to question what God is doing to his family.
"God gives you what you can handle," George says. "Sometimes, I wonder, does he really love us? But I think this is something he just wants us to go through. Hopefully, it will make us stronger in life. It's a thin line between sanity and insanity. With all that's going on, you could go crazy."
Pal, 68, died May 31.
He was buried June 4. The next day, the family is back in court for another custody hearing. They all wear black.
After a short hearing, McDonald decides to increase visitation rights for Rita's family. They will be allowed unsupervised day visits and occasional sleepovers with the approval of a counselor. Kola's family is denied visitation.
"Thank God, something finally went our way," George says, in the hallway. "The last four months have been the hardest four months of our lives."
BREAKING THE CHAINS
"The rights of the young woman. The young woman, even if her parents are not alive, does not have the right to concern herself about her own marriage; this right is held by her brothers and other relatives. The young woman does not have the right: A) To choose her own husband; she must go to the man to whom she has been betrothed; B) To interfere in the selection of a matchmaker or in the engagement arrangements."
Like her sister, Lena entered into an arranged marriage as a teenager.
She celebrated her five-year anniversary June 15.
"It was pretty arranged," Lena says. "I had the right to say yes or no. In a week, I had to give my answer. My family liked him; people talked good about him. My cousin knew him. She said he was a nice guy. My mom and brothers like him. I was, whatever you guys want."
"Knock on wood, it's good."
Lena said the culture is changing, but not fast enough.
"There aren't arranged marriages going on now. The girls are meeting the guys now."
They talk on the phone, get to know each other. "There's not too much dating, unless you are sneaking," she said.
"Right now, the culture is: Girls are getting strong and not putting up with the smacks."
She looks down at her 7-month-old daughter, Isabella, playing on the carpet.
Isabella is thin but strong, with dark eyes and a soft nature, just like her Aunt Rita.
Lena vows it will be different for Isabella. She will let her date. She will let her go out to the movies. She will teach her to be strong, to live her own life, free from the traditions of the past.
"Why can my son go to college and do something with his life, but my daughter can't because she will be married and be in someone else's house. Why? Why? Why shouldn't my daughter go out and have fun?"
On the mantel the candle burns, barely casting a shadow. Rita has been missing for 119 days.
The family is praying for some type of closure. They feel tremendous guilt, for not seeing the abuse, for encouraging her to stay with him, for following the customs of the past.
"Damn our culture," Lena says.
The emotions are raw, right on the surface, complex and contradictory.
In one breath, she curses the culture. In the next, the emotion builds and she can't help it. She wants revenge.
"My sister's blood will always be boiling. Who ever did this to her, I hope to God that boiling blood drops on their hands. Whoever touched her, let it drop on them."
To get help If you are a victim of domestic violence, you can call:
National Domestic Violence Hotline, 800-799-7233 anytime.
Common Ground Sanctuary, 800-231-1127 anytime.
