I Am Still Standing

"I am who I am, because --"

* * *

I still wonder about that early morning of November 4, 1941.

I had worked so hard that long day at the store in Pyrgos. At sixteen, I ran the store. The two brothers, who were the owners, were gone somewhere all the time.

The baking of pastries had to be started every day before the sun rose; as well as the yogurt being made and packaged in packets for the street vendors when they came in. The buying of the raw materials, running the store from dawn to ten at night, money to be put in the safe, and then the accounts to be done before closing, at age sixteen, yeah, I had responsibilities.

When I closed up it was midnight. It smelled like rain. I hurried the city streets for about a kilometer to my bosses’ home where I stayed. I really needed sleep.

The single, ceiling bulb lit up the nothing bedroom, which consisted of one chair, a night stand with a round-faced-alarm clock, a small dresser that came up to my chest, no closet, no bathroom, but the bed after this day really looked good.

My tired body ached. I stripped down to my underwear, tossed the few clothes onto the straight-backed-canned chair, slid out of my shoes without even untying them, and pushed them under the bed. The clock read 12:30 as I stumbled toward the door to turn out the light, and finally, stop for the day.

The darkness teaches once more to stop, and begin to see in the dark. Counting, feeling my eyes changing, just as Nicholas had taught us, I waited. The cold creeps in. There’s a little light coming in from the window at the head of the bed. Sleep will be good.

It was four o’clock in the morning when life as I knew it ended.

* * *

What’s that battering? Where’s it coming from? Why doesn’t someone answer the door? The door. Yikes! Was that the door breaking? This blanket is all snarled up. Who’s that! Whose words? I don’t know any of the words. My God, what time is it? It’s pitch-dark out. Am I dreaming or what?

The blanket! It feels like an oven. The door blasts open. Shadows rush the bed. I am jerked standing to my feet. The light blinds. Words are flying all over. The Greek ones I know. I freeze stiff and still. My clothes hit me in the face, and then slide to the floor. Greek words tell me to put them on.

‘Aaaah!’ I scream. The grips of the soldiers tighten, I scream only louder, ‘Aaaah!’

Other soldiers, four of them, began ripping up the floorboards with crowbars. I stick my toe in my shirt crumpled at my feet. The officer with the medium-blue uniform (the other uniforms shine olive green), almost knee-high, black, high-polished boots that blouse out his pants, walks to me, and shouts some gibberish. He stands taller than me; his reddened cheeks dent in. The soldiers squeezing me let go, and snap to attention, and then a man dressed in civilian clothes, tanned skin, taller than me, certainly wider yells Greek words for me to, " --put your clothes on. Keep your mouth shut. You are under arrest for being a spy."