Kalavrita, 1945
Die Wachtam Rhein resounded over the dark small town that had been razed to the ground. Yet another remnant of 1943's utter destruction. A song turned into intimidation. A constant reminder to the survivors that the shadow of terror didn't leave the city. The gun was trained on the man who was down on his knees at the very spot where the guerrillas' German captives were once killed. Right on the railway lines. The man's hands, tied behind his back, were counting the seconds before the culminating moment. The thumb was nervously rubbing the wrist. His breath caught in the throat, although he didn't succumb to the fear imposed on him. He wasn't made of a coward's stuff. The German Luger pistol was pointed at him. There was no hesitation in the enemy's eyes, just as there was no fear in his own.
"This is your last chance to change your mind," the enemy warned him, his finger right on the trigger.
"Don't even think about it!" the kneeling man, a proud target, said courageously.
"Then, I'm sorry."
The trigger was pulled and the bullet flitted in his direction, like a familiar beautiful female figure desperately seeking his arms, before it disappeared through his forehead. The man leant over the railway lines, his blood staining the metal, and flaring up the night. The next day, the gunpowder on his clothes would remind people that he was sacrificed on the altar of freedom. He was a brave man.
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