ey azadi, the whole story

1:30 after midnight.
I am standing where I am least possibly supposed to be found, in front of my childhood house! The light is still on, daddy is up. Has he been waiting for me? Is he expecting me, every time I escape?
I am hungry, cold, dirty, wet. It is raining cats and dogs. I close my eyes, ringing with a vague smile on my face. The interval of long silence terrifies me. Then even worse, the light goes off. My heart's supersonic attempt in my chest makes me take a pill. A window opens. Torchlight poses on me, behind whose blinding light I happen to recognize daddy's silhouette. It feels like suddenly waking up from a nightmare as daddy hastily opens the door, drags me inside, checks the street out and closes the door. Although I sense his rage and although he refuses to take a direct look at my face, I already feel incredibly safer.
"Take out your cloths before stepping in." he states.
I start undoing my buttons. He comes out of my room bringing me my sleepers and my towel. It is with the greatest pleasure in the world that I jump into the bathroom. Coming out, I am welcomed with the rising perfume of my father's coffee. He is pouring coffee in my own glass on the table as I step in the kitchen. We sit to drink. He looks suddenly much older than I remember. It’s not that he has gained some extra kilos or some extra wrinkles, he looks tired out. He does not breathe so lightly and cheerfully as I remember him do. His eyebrows have lost the charming curve, his lips send fear and regret alarms over his face every now and then and he blink more often, a lot more often!
"They told me you were smoking" he starts. It is not hard to mention how the idea has been getting on his nerves all the time.
"Is that no good reason for me to try to get out?" I answer, "I'm against it, you know."
- And when they put you in again?
- Not this time, dad.
- What? You wanna cross the borders or what?
- Only temporarily. Figure it as if spending my days in exile, huh?
- That's different.
- I can't leave you for long dad, you know it.
- That should be the best reason for you spending your life in jail then I assume.
- That's different.
- Don't come up with the war thing again…
- It's worse, dad. They want to cross out our existence. I don't recon you're so much interested in a new nationality after all these years.
- Military response does not work any more, it can't last for long. But you, a bunch of fresh idiots, are too young to see it.
- Your suggestion would be? Greeting them smiling?
- Like spending your youth in prison helps the people who need you here.
- I did not choose it on my own!
- Who are you trying to fool? Your old man? Like you don't enjoy being the hero, untouchable, inaccessible, but cool enough to escape.
- Now you're just being…
- No, young man, you think being in jail's tough? Hanging out among gloomy people, trying to keep them on their feet is tough; convincing them we're not over yet is tough; this slow burn of their lives, their souls is tough. Hoppin' into prison and after a breath-taking adventure getting yourself killed is only cool. Leaving an unsupported family behind in this OCCUPIED land is only dreadful. Letting people who need you in despair is traitory.

He breaks into coughing. I start preparing my comebacks, but it just doesn't work out. He seems to be aware because he looks at me, shakes his big head and sighs. "Go to bed" he says, "You look pretty much like dead warmed up."
I get up. For the first time tonight he looks directly into my eyes as he used to. I look back. I feel unbelievably jolly to be his sonny boy again.
It is not supposed to be an easy night and daddy's speech makes it much scarier than the very fact that they are looking after me. What if it's all just a dead loss? What if we have just drawn a blank? Maybe dad has got a real point there after all.


I am up early although I am not recharged yet. Breakfast! I need breakfast! It comes to me as an instinct. I am suddenly in the kitchen praising the coffee machine. Then I take all what glitters to my eyes out of the refrigerator.
I see him in the doorway. He has mentioned my breakfast mood, because he pours the coffee and sits at the table. To my pleasure, he closes his eyes and smells the kitchen air. I smile widely in relief. "Back to breakfast" he points, "already, huh?"
- Yeah, kinda missed it.
- I bet.
He slightly laughs. Nothing serves a missed father and son relationship like a quiet early morning breakfast. So we sit like for an hour, listening to Bach, eating breakfast. Then looking at each other we drink coffee, bitter coffee, lacking sugar, lacking milk.
Taking a better glance at his aged face, I turn Bach off. It just makes me want to cry for daddy.
"I need out for a couple of hours." He says suddenly.
The fact that he is somehow shortening his sentences makes me feel incredibly guilty. He has always been used to adding as many particles as possible to his speech, even at the price of making it grammatically wrong, enjoying to demonstrate how many independent words he could relate together yet holding on to his conversation.
I watch him as he changes to get out, feeling about 20 years back: he, leaving, me, sating! I want to hold my teddy bear again, want him to sing me cheering-up songs again, want him to make promises again while waving me my favorite video cassettes and narrating me about how all my superheroes would be taking care of me while he's away.
I almost have my tears up in my eyes clutching my fists. As he turns and walks to me, my estimation of him recognizing the memory of the never ending story in my eyes seems to be quite obvious.
"Do I still have to give my words to buy you chocolate on my way back?"
I feel a bulb growing big in my throat. He grins and continues, "Though I feel I need to make you promises to be home when I get back much stricter than before."
I can't help it anymore. I burst into tears. He hugs me and we cry together. In the end he sighs and says, "I'll bring you the chocolate, so stay home for it." And then he leaves.


I turn on Wagner as I walk into my room, seeking my teddy bear.
The Wagner music dies out, leaving our flat in silence except for the noises of me turning the pages while reading old comic books. Teddy and I leave my bed to explore daddy's library. Since my bed is already in community with the comics, we launch with about nine books on daddy's. When in Rome, do as Romans do. So launching on his bed, having smuggled his books I turn Schubert on.
It's quite exciting to be back to our favorite home-alone-pastimes, Teddy's and mine. Since Teddy is drastically handicapped, I have to read him the books for the poor guy to be also able to benefit literature and culture.
"That's exile not ex-mile." Daddy corrects the reading. I just wonder how long he might have been standing there at the doorway, listening.
- That's how we call it in the ward, due to respect for green mile maybe.
- Now listen young man, the last we need here is you bringing home the jail language.
- Sorry, I …
- No more jail talk, end of discussion… I see you're back to Asterix series.
He mentions, with the one of the books from my bed in his hand. The old stuff is pretty much falling apart; the pictures are nevertheless bright with fresh, shiny colors.
- Yeah, quite matching my case, you know.
- You know what makes them the greatest Gaul heroes?
I shrug waiting for answer and I know it's meant to be some major argument on me myself. "They do get in trouble, but they never stay in it for long." He says. And before I get to think me any answers up he continues, "We've got guest for dinner, but I don't recon you'd need to know who."
I turn back to look at the photo frames on the bookshelves; the one and only person who has always been there for dad, his very best friend. Picturing my childhood, the shelter the two of the built upon me, I feel safer and joyful as I look at the photos of the three of us, me, daddy and my godfather.
It's when we get busy that I realize how much I miss our kitchen innovations. Then it come to: preparing the suitable definitely Italian wine, the old records, the brightest shave after ages, my own aftershave perfume, my tie, my styling gel and… there rings my own godfather.
I wait till the door closes behind him, daddy welcomes him and he steps into our living room.
"Padrino!" I cry out jumping into his wide opened arms. He smiles in silence and I guiltily mention that he is also much older than I last remember him. He slightly laughs, "Ladies first bambino." He whispers and looks back as if expecting some body. I peer from above his shoulder although I already know who is there. There stands my girl with her shining eyes. We pretty wildly embrace each other howling like kids whose football team has shortly been announced the winner of the world cup. When was the last time you held your lady tight smelling her hair with tears filling your eyes up?
I barely remember the last time I burst into laughing with real joy. It is from the bottom of my heart that I feel so incredibly enthusiastic, being situated in some most ordinary situation for a guy at the age of 34.
When finally after having eaten, drunk and chatted we get on with the crazy dance of ours, it feels like participating in the most splendid exhibition ever taken place on the surface of this planet.


In the morning I wake up with daddy's coffee perfume. I have never been able to figure out why no other coffee ever fills up the flat with such an appetizing smell.
After the big breakfast we lie on the couch and watch cartoons together. First daddy provides me with some "father and son" quality time and then he brings up the being-needed-on-the-outside issue again. Frankly, I am tempted, half convinced to take up silence and help those who are left hopelessly out here in the cities. It is exactly at this very point that I find myself to be no exception of the aging process. 9 months ago it would have been the most pitiful to be hiding myself backstage when the bloody show still does go on, but now I am sitting silently on this couch thinking daddy might have a point. For he has been actually looking forward to this moment, he switches the subject saying that we're invited for lunch. I know him well enough to know he has taken all security measures and yet there must be a necessity for us taking up this invitation.
I do not know why, maybe for the look in his eyes, I am already feeling guilty.
In front of the door he tells me he is going in first and I would have to wait out for him talking something up with the host. The door opens; I merely see anything inside, daddy gets in and the doors closes behind him. Although the female voice I hear is not really clear, I can guess from the intonation that they must be greeting. Her voice sounds quite excited and then there is a few seconds of silence. I am suddenly terrified with the thought of having lost daddy. I take a pill to calm my fast beating heart down. What if she took the one reason for me to be out of jail, daddy, away from me? The only safe shelter…
But the door opens again before I get more time to think me something up; a deep sigh of relief to see daddy having opened the door. When I get it, he checks the street out and closes the door.
"Are you still sure that I'm invited, too?" I ask, hanging up my coat in the narrow corridor. He nods, "you'll see." He says, "Here lives one of those left-alone-on-the-outside ladies."
- I see.
- She's in the kitchen. Make yourself at home.
We both sit down on the couch. I look around after any familiar sign when a childish voice cries out my name. I turn around and the little guy jumps on me. I can't help smiling when I hold my best friend's son tight.
- They didn't say you were coming.
- I didn't know either.
- You got longer hair.
- And you got longer legs! You're quite a big boy now.
- Do you like our new home?
- I see.
- We didn't like the old one without dad.
- I am sure he'd like it better here.
"Nice to see you out."
I stand up to greet his wife properly, as old friends do, while daddy's words rush up to my mind. It must have surely been quiet rough for them to keep on ever since he's been caught. I can perfectly understand their reasons to move. Now I guess to know why daddy said it could be harder for those outside the jail.
After lunch we have some photo album time. It suddenly amazes me to mention that I have participated in almost every important event of their life timing before the war. Their engagement, marriage, little guy's birth, first house, first car, little guy's first day of school, even their first unofficial date; naturally accompanied by my lady.
I was about the little guy's age when we became friends and on our way back home it seems to me as if we have spent every day of our lives since our birth together. It feels like daddy is winning. It makes me feel better to realize that I am not married yet, that despite my friend's will I remained true to our family tradition and refused marriage all these years. Having to wait on a guy with my great talent to get himself killed is tough enough, let alone being legally related to him and undergoing all the pressure of bringing up his child all by oneself.
Half a year ago, when we started organizing against the occupiers, it all seemed to be really temporarily, it was supposed to turn out all right and we were supposed to get back home pretty soon. I still do possess the guts to confess that I'm afraid of it taking us ages, charging us more lives, more pain, more families left behind.


Tonight, when our guests come for dinner, I mention daddy and padrino being all dressed up. I see the determined look in their eyes and I know I had better be expecting some major shots tonight. Therefore it does not even slightly surprise me when my lady tells me about her and padrino staying over for night.
It is a good one.
Some days later, when I totally miserable and lonesome, facing people I truly madly deeply hate, I can so easily fall for this shot. If there are any familiotherapists in the world, my father and my godfather are definitely among the best, most expensive ones.
At night, as I go to sleep, my girl lying beside me and knowing that my men are just a wall away, life looks much brighter and my breath seems much lighter. I feel good and I lack any intention to give any thoughts or any attention to the day about to break in a few hours. I even do not feel the pain that has been screwing my knees up for the last four years.
What happens to a guy who wakes up with the charming smile of his lady addressing his face? Especially if he has been under total protection of his trustworthy Father and Godfather.
Ever since I was a kid, I have always dreamt of traveling around the world, of living in every possible spot of the world for a while and then moving on to next. Now I stupidly doubt if I should waste any time far from home. Ask me and I will say this morning's breakfast in pajamas makes it to the 8th world wonder.
But the breakfast ends rather drastically as the lady and the father leave me and the godfather in the kitchen to turn it on for a godfather-godson conversation. I feel quite frozen and heavily loaded with steel rods of guilt, which is typical of the times padrino wants to talk to me over something serious. I am thankful that he has done it so rare so far that I can recall every 8 previous times.
What makes me so consciously miserable is the fact that it is held on to a total ignorance of words. What basically happens is that-for example this morning-we sit down with coffee in front of one another, we sip the coffee gently keeping eye contact, when the right time comes and the coffee is drunk up he grins, messes up with my hair a little bit and finally says, "I knew you would understand it's for your own good."
Then he stands up, goes fro more coffee-plus milk this time-and miraculously daddy and my girl enter the kitchen at the very same time when I am quarreling with the feeling which seems to be sucking my insides up to a totally vacuumed space.


It is finally me and daddy again. His look suffices me to understand it is about time I made my final decision. I do appreciate his efforts in the past days to show me what he was unable to explain to me, though it is not an easy decision to make. I put on Beethoven's 5th symphony and I sit in front of the recorder with m eyes kept shut which is the only thing to give me the time I need.
It is during the 3rd movement that they break into our flat. We both stare at each other silently as they rush inside. I close my eyes again. Nothing but the enchanting music seems to exist when they handcuff me. I open my eyes and see the heavy look in daddy's eyes as they ask him to bring enough identity cards with him.

He deals with the identity cards at the registration as I silently sit at the door of the investigation chamber, for I do not find any sign of an official bureau in it. I got a few bruises which sting a little bit. This time I showed no resistance to being arrested which seems to have drawn them crazier and to have provoked them good reasons for physical violence. I just loved the look on their faces as I started singing in answer to their questions. It was worth a battle. It was only when they asked for an ID card that I said, "come on dumbass, don't pretend to have written my name less than a thousand times." It was not without difficulty that daddy resisted laughing, I bet he was feeling proud the moment.

I undergo 5 hours of interrogation. Do they know how much I hate the number 5? Yet it is so unbelievably short that I start to feel something fishy here. I have been forced to listen to their junk music all this time so I have a deadly headache and since it has been forbidden for me to take my pills; my pulse is around 230 times a minute tapping on my temples and leaving me a nasty taste of blood in my throat. As they finally get me out of the cramped room with no windows, I get to mention that daddy is still there. Due to my physical conditions I am gifted with not properly analyzing, so I feel perfectly lucky at his presence and I wave to him grinning as I pass him by. I appreciate their understanding of daddy being clean and innocent. I seem to be more famous around and better know than I thought.

I know the torment is not over yet. I will not get to figure out why they register me every time if not for torturing me. Despite my knowledge their numerous stupid forms work on me precisely every time. The asshole at the computer knows me better than his son and yet he asks how my name shall be spelled. Why would they otherwise ask me for details on my graduation every time, when they know very well that my graduation day has already passed and can not be changed for the rest of the human history? My fracture point is normally when they ask me if I knew any of the lawbreakers who received either death penalty or detention and I have to repeat them all the information they already have, naturally nothing more. All the bastards know every detail I tell them, and yet I am made to spell each name and explain to them any further detail I know. This consumes the residue of my fatigue resistance. I blow my top and their party begins.
Daddy runs to the registration where they are pretty busy beating me, shocking me or something of the sort; I do not exactly get what. I do not mention it by having seen his worried face, but from the familiar sound of his rushed worried footsteps reaching us. They hold on, one of them grabs into my hair, pushes my head up so that I could see daddy's sad and maybe pleading look and then he whispers in my ear, "don' wanna disappoint him, do you?"
I feel drunk, so totally drunk. I see another head behind daddy's. I close my eyes and reopen them, though I do not need much concentration to recognize my godfather. I throw up to the shock. An officer stands next to daddy and padrino telling them they could stay close when I fill up the rest of the forms.
"Bunch of dumbasses, you know," I address to the two most trustworthy men of my life, "could means actually should, should means actually you're dead meat, just too stupid to learn a language…" another one hits me on I do not know where. The pain seems to go travel through your veins after some time and every hit hurts generally instead of locally.
Now I am obliged to get rid of the registration as fast as possible. I can not deny my anxiety. I do not get what they might be about to, what kind of an evil plot might include my old men?
When I am finally done with it, the one standing next to daddy smiles so vastly, that I can see almost all his well rowed teeth. He stretches one of his filthy arms over daddy's shoulder and the other over padrino's. Then he with a honeysweet voice he says, "You owe these two gentlemen here already too much, but the one I reveal you now is just too generous. They have volunteered to witness for you and to take up your supervision personally."
I feel as if stroke by lightning. Even my heart seems to be unable to beat further.
"You'll be able to benefit conditional freedom with work permission." He continues, not sweetly anymore, "nevertheless you are not allowed to leave the town, just for your own good, and you are to report yourself daily to the head office. Since you have proven yourself immature to manage your own self, the total responsibility of anything you might commit would be taken by these two gentlemen."
The sharp pain who takes over my body and soul at this moment seems to be from another world for I have never ever in my life experienced such a thing. It hurts more than anything else they have ever tried on me. This time they got me. Now they have officially taken my home sweet home away from me turning it to my prison. If I mess up, I have killed my best ever men. I feel like sobbing like kids.

Yet I still have to undergo investigation another building before being sent home. I say goodbye to my men since they have to stay next to the guards at the big parking entrance as I get in the back of this security truck to drive me to the other logistical building. Two other prisoners are coming with me. One of them is a teenaged boy who is, as I suppose, caught more to frighten his band than for what he might have worked out himself. The other is a middle aged lady of about 50, a remarkable writer. I recognize her as she approaches the seat in front of me. It was about time they showed their authority by arresting her.
Before she takes her seat I see the officer and 4 soldiers walk to my men and leading them to another car which I suddenly mention to be awaiting them in another corner of the parking. Shit! I had suspected it must not have been all so respectfully so gracefully. I can not believe for a guy of my experience to have fallen for such a childish trick.
I jump of the truck faster than to leave the soldier at the door the time to shut the door on me. "Noone messes with my old men." I cry out running towards them. I hear the soldier warning me, though I can not get to listen to him. All I can see are my father and my godfather.
I should wonder which nerves control my body now, sympathic ones or parasympathics. I am somehow paralyzed by my own rage and all I can do is to run. I see daddy, padrino, the officer and the soldiers stop, turn to me and I hear daddy and padrino say something.
What I can mention is only the first bullet penetrating throw my left forearm and the burning feeling of pain being quickly warmed up by the flow of my blood. From the next ones the hits are all I get, which seem to be the only effect my nerves have the time to transfer to my brain. In the long run the hits take over my balance and I hit the hot asphalt ground with a loud noise, or at least loud to my own ears.
I see daddy and padrino kneel next to me and sit down. Daddy puts my head on his lap and strokes my hair with cloudy eyes. "We were just coming to witness your investigation." Says padrino with a voice, which is not so easy to hear.
I smile. Something suddenly makes me feel good. I try to wipe daddy's tear dry. They both look young again to me, like the night before my first day of school, when they were both at my bed convincing me to go to sleep sooner that night. I feel cold wind blowing, trying to dry out my warm blood.
"You'll be fine, son. Everything'll turn out all right." says Daddy. I reach out my hand to padrino who takes hold of it. I do not know what daddy means by ok, but I feel magnificently safer now. I feel as if at home, I feel fresh and free. I call my lady's name, asking daddy weather she would be staying for tonight.
"She sure will" answers padrino.
I close my eyes to sleep. Home, sweet home!