May 1941. The corn is high. There are two goatherds keeping watch over all the goats in Zostiko. A Greek and a Bulgarian. The Bulgarian is a big guy, enormous.

One day, some goat thieves come and grab two of the goats—but the Bulgarian sees them. So they run over and start pounding him with their clubs, grab him, drag him to the dere, to the gorge, over by the Black Cliffs. At Dalakas’s fir tree.

And they butcher him with pruning shears.

As soon as word gets out, the Bulgarians grab the Greek goatherd and bring him down to the kafeneio. They beat him, stretch him out on a white board, and carry him to the station for interrogation. Then an Armenian goes and tells them it was Greek antartes from the Resistance who killed the Bulgarian.

Antartes? Yes, antartes.

So the Bulgarian prefecture decides to kill all the Greek men in the village. And the male children. The young women, too.

The Bulgarian Army streams out, into the yards and streets and houses. They round everyone up, hitting and kicking. Some people they shoot right there on the spot. They come to our house, too. Three soldiers stand guard outside, with pistols. The others come in and grab my mother, my father, and my little brother.

When my mother starts to say something about the kid, they slap her across the face.

They tie my father up, because he was the village deputy.

Then they march them all down to the square.