Walking on Air by George The Greek

MY BEGINNING

Newark Federal Court, July 2, 1987. This Jury after a short deliberation gave their verdict: "Guilty". I turned my head instantly in the direction of my poor son and daughter. That moment's picture of both of them will never weaken in my mind. They were shocked and destroyed. My son's face was red and lost. His tears were running behind his eyeglasses, his mouth got tight and he stared at me with a silent message of his despair. He held both hands together tightly in front of him magnifying the stiffness of his body by this unexpected injustice. My daughter was, as always, calm and controlled staring with sweet sadness and mental support. The prosecutors were moving to positions of celebration shaking hands with each other and the FBI agents. The defense lawyers attacked with desperation for a last minute motion for bail, pending sentencing of their defendants along with emergency motions to correct the wrongs of the trial itself. Judge Lechner with a mean, red face denied all motions. Within seconds, the US Marshals chained us up and refused to allow me to even wave to my kids. I was ordered to turn around and face the wall while the chains were put on my wrists, belly and legs. My agony and passions steamed my brain and explosions of feelings and thoughts were bursting in my brain. I was lead away outside the courtroom to a holding bullpen and locked in a dirty cell for processing. I found myself alone when the Marshall locked the cell doors. I looked around the cell's bars, the exposed dirty toilet and the bare wooden bench, the graphite covered gray walls and I panicked. I suddenly realized that I was locked up like an animal by the system, my whole life was attacked and destroyed, my dependents and my loved ones were left alone in the jungle of society facing survivorship without the means to defend themselves, because of their sheltered life caused by my protective care.

Claustrophobia overwhelmed my anger. My entire powerful style weakened and crumpled. I sat on the end corner of the bench away from the door, I leaned my head back against the gray roach infested wall, closed my eyes and I let my mind to take me back, way back to where it all began:

It was sometime near 1940, 1 recall my first conscience of my existence. It is a memory very uncertain, fragile and painful every single time it came to my mind. A little masonry house some place in Athens, a beautiful woman standing in the room. She had long black hair and white skin. She is crying hysterically as she embraces a man dressed in an army uniform, he is very upset and he seemed helpless to calm her down. He looked down at her red face, because there was nothing to do other than let her cry from his eminent departure to the front lines of the War. This is the first memory of my life and from this moment my life begins.

The years that went by could not change, erase or clarify this scene. I was approximately three years old at that time, I was very upset and silent and after watching the young couple experiencing their last moments of their life together I sensed next to me my little sister, probably two years old, crying. I remember, I turned around, took her little hand and walked slowly toward the front door with tears in my eyes and a very painful feeling inside my chest and brain because I felt unable to help my beautiful young mother's feelings, my young father's despair and my baby sister's cries for attention, We walked outside the little house and crossed the front yard to the street. We must walked slowly together, holding hands, a couple hundred feet or more. I was upset about the family's tragedy and I was at the same time feeling a very powerful responsibility for my mother and little sister's protection of their world. It is so incredible how a little child at that age could feel so tall and mature even without ever having experienced a similar situation or had any kind of knowledge.

Suddenly, the sirens start ringing with a horrible loud noise. It was the first time in my memory ever to recall such noise. I got scared and shaken. I stopped, took my little sister and embraced her. I looked her in the eyes and I stayed idle leaning on the exterior fence wall of a neighbor's house. I slowly started walking with her back towards our little house, scared and wondering what was taking place. Just as we saw the front of the house, the skies got dark and thundering and right that moment the house exploded. I only remember an animal fear with no thoughts. We were thrown on the ground by the shock of the explosions from the bombing. My two young parents were killed, my mother's despair for eminent separation was answered and she stayed united with my soldier father eternally. The tears of fear there were repeated time after time to me but now tears of sadness of my fate's developments. A few moments of my life's beginning, left scars in my emotional world that will last until I die. What a tragedy, how different than an average individuals beginning.  I continued to recall these early events with fog in my eyes and mind, the scenes come stronger and stronger, the sadness and fear becomes apathy and helplessness. These memories continued, recalling my sister and I, physically unhurt.  After unknown time we slowly got up all dirty from the debris and dust and started dragging our little bodies away from our house. The sky was full of planes, debris and demonic voices. It was constant rain of burning wood and objects falling around us from the bombing and explosions. We walked for moments, hours or days to the unknown, searching for something silently, something like food, our house, our parents, something like love and our mother's care and embrace, something like a star where life does not begin like that. My little sister was very weak and she was constantly crying softly. She said nothing other than constant asking for our mother. We were stumbling on dead people blocking every step of our way, the streets were full of bodies torn in pieces bombed buildings and people running in panic. The streets looked like back alleys of big brick factory buildings with black walls and me and my little sister (I do not remember her name) we kept walking. We kept dragging our little feet and skimpy bodies between all these horrible obstructions. I can go on forever describing these memories of my beginning, but I will end it now because I cannot stand the pain in my heart and soul remembering this part of my life for even a few more pages. After an undisclosed time since the bombing and kill of our mother and father, the authorities of the city of Athens or some civilian found me laying on the streets half dead and unconscious with my little sister's body lifeless embraced with mine. She was not strong enough to stay away from our mother. She joined her and my young soldier father in the heavens or any place of the universe that our loved ones go when they die. I suffer a lot for the three of them and I suffer for every innocent human's pain and hurt feelings. I did not even remember her name or how her little face looked, but I will love them as stro