The harmless dog [...] During the Occupation, they endured the turmoil of their suffering, as they were extremely poor. Like everyone else, they were out searching for a piece of bread. The neighborhoods groaned, people were dying in the streets.

The son, still a child in his early teens, struggled with some other kids from the neighborhood to sneak onto a German or Bulgarian truck and steal some bread or other food. They succeeded as well and as often as the old man, who went begging the grocers and black marketers for some carob pods and raisins. Usually, he returned empty-handed.

Whatever jewelry his wife had was long gone. They had sold it off to the moneylenders and to all those vermin that swarm out of their holes whenever times are tough to bleed others dry.

Desperate, he ultimately made need a virtue: one day he got up and went to the village with a gas cylinder. It had been a long time since he had seen nature and relatives. They greeted him coldly and numbly. They had sensed the reason for his visit.