I awoke with a start. Fearfully clinging to me—almost choking me—was my younger brother Panos.
“What’s happening?” he cried.
“I don’t know.”
Our tiny village of Kupaki had been reverberating all night with the merry din emanating from two parties—one at the Zakkas’s home, several houses down from us, and one at the Kumes’s home, which sat equidistant from our house in the opposite direction. Summer was drawing to a close, and on this mild September night in 1953, my siblings and I had drifted off to the sounds of music, laughter, and dancing, only to be woken minutes later by the menacing peal of gunshots.
Now voices could be heard shouting in the darkness. “George!” several partygoers hollered. “Is that you? Are you okay?”
“Help!” a man called back, his voice a distant echo in the tangle of narrow streets. “They are trying to kill us! They are trying to kill us!”
“Mama! Baba!” I asked, unable to calm my quavering voice. “What’s going on?”
Panos and I, too afraid to leave the safety of our old, dilapidated bed, were soon joined by our older brother Kostas, who had also been calling to our parents. Now we gathered in the darkness, waiting for a response.
My parents didn’t answer, although I could hear them hurriedly dressing in their room.
“The bastard has killed her,” Thanasis muttered angrily before rushing outside with Polyxeni.
This is an excerpt from the true crime story. Get your copy at Amazon.