In the morning, before the dawn had properly arrived, we woke up terrified from the howling of Frida, the little dog we had as the sixth member of the family. We went out to the yard and froze at the sight. We had never seen her like this before. She was running around the yard howling like a frantic creature, foaming at the mouth and banging against the front door as if she wanted to break it down to get outside.

My mother crossed herself, held her head, and soon her wails covered Frida's howls. - They've eaten my child!... They've eaten him!...

By noon, we learned that indeed, they had executed them at 6:30 in the morning; truly, how did our dog sense this from so many kilometers away! The authorities did not give us the body or any other information. Some told us that they had been buried in the cemetery of Kokkinias, but no matter how much we searched there, we found nothing.

A month later, a respected prisoner brought us my brother's overcoat and told us to search it carefully. Inside the linings, in carefully folded pieces of paper, my brother had written a farewell note for us, his beloved, and his friends. I keep them along with his watch as sacred relics to this day.