I sat on the couch, with absolutely no intention of moving from it. My head lay on the armrest and my legs sprawled over the narrow space of the cushion. My eyes were closed, my mouth was open and piano was playing on the cassette. The fire crackled and everything was quiet and peaceful. I listened to the sweet notes of Beethoven’s 5th symphony, and nodded my head along. Today was perfect and beautiful, and I had no intention of doing anything else.
Suddenly the door burst open. Standing there was a little girl in the pale white night suit ,matted braids and tiny pink flip flops. She was breathing heavily and her eyes had a crazed look to them. Her dirty night suit did nothing to hide her jutting rib cage. Her face was tired and wrinkled with tiny gashes and scratches. Her night suit was torn, ripped and bloodstained. Her legs quivered and her feet was specked with mud, and equally as bruised as the rest of her.
Horror and pain coursed through me, the sheer inhumanity of whatever she had faced caused me shiver. I looked at her again, scared and terrified of what she was running from, what had caused this torture to her. She didn’t have any time to waste and, she screamed at me in a foreign language, panicked and urgent. I barely knew what she was saying because of how quickly she was talking, and each word was interjected with racking sobs. I finally understood what language she was speaking in and understood bits of what she said. “They’re coming” she uttered “Please help”
After I had heard that, a million things rushed through my mind, but I knew she was looking for a place to hide. “Go to the ventilator under the stairs. That is the only entrance to the basement.” I said in her same broken language. She nodded, and she ran quickly, pink flip flops slapping against the ground. I heard marching footsteps and banged the door shut. The click of ventilator sliding back into place calmed my nerves, and I walked back to the couch. But my relief was short lived
The sound of a gun banging against the door made me jump out of my recent position. and I saw a hint of yellow and silver, and I knew it was the Busekist. They roamed the streets, looking for people who were against the government, or were for democratic policies
“Are you housing a fugitive!” the sergeant at my door declared.
“No” I immediately replied calmly, thinking of the girl who was almost certainly was fleeing from these men.
The man spoken the same language to the rest. “Search the house”, I understood. The sergeant still looking at me, amused with my cheeks stuffed with potato chips. But I didn’t care about what any Busekist thought.
Then somebody in the street screamed and the sergeant grinned. He ran off with his team and Beethoven continued.
