The clock chimed four in the morning.
My heart squeezed with profound sorrow as I hugged my aunt tightly and reminded her that next time we would stay for more than five days.
Later, I found myself sitting again comfortably in the back seat of the car but this time, I was holding a large white straw bag full of wonderful gifts from my aunt and cousin.
As my mind was busy memorising the joyful moments, a large smile spread across my face.
Meanwhile, from the car radio, a woman’s quiet voice told an ancient German story, accompanied by a piece of serene instrumental music.
My parents and I were immersed in that calm and peaceful atmosphere inside the car.
My eyelids grew heavy, and I felt warm and reassured as the recent sweet memories of my short visit to my aunt still danced cheerfully in my mind when all of a sudden, countless powerful flashlights emerged from the darkness, catching our anxious eyes, and a strange loud fierce voice howled behind our car, “STOPPEN! STOPPEN!”
My heart leapt in dread as my father hit the brakes hard, bringing the car to a screeching halt.
I shrank into my seat in panic while from the corner of my eye, I stared at the bright lights around me, hoping to make out the faces of those surrounding us from every corner.
They were large men, about ten in number, dressed in military uniforms and heavily armed.
Their commandant was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties with a harsh, frightening voice. He roared at my father as he pointed a Kalashnikov at the car’s front door. “We told you to stop. What do you think you’re doing, huh?”
As the man continued to shout furiously, the door beside my dad opened violently and two soldiers grabbed my father by his shoulders and hurled him out of the car.
“I had the radio on, so I couldn’t hear you shouting,” replied my dad, struggling to free his arms.
“Really? My voice went hoarse even though I was shouting! Are you deaf?” asked the man as he squeezed the grip of his Kalashnikov tightly.
“I said I didn’t hear you,” my dad insisted.
“Well, now that you’ve heard me, you might as well tell us who you are and what you’re doing in East Germany?” the soldier inquired.
My father quickly reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. Immediately, the man snarled as he snatched the paper from my father and began to read it.
“Ah! Look at this,” he pointed his finger at my father as he snickered, “Matteo! Matteo! The famous journalist who wrote about our East Germany? Nice to meet you, man.” He jokingly bowed as mocking laughter erupted from the other soldiers before he asked once more, “So what was the reason for your trip to East Germany, Mr. Matteo?”
“I came here to visit my sister,” replied my father with a strange quietness.
“Mmm, ah, yes! So nostalgic!” He cocked his head from side to side as the others giggled. “I suppose you missed your hometown after twenty years since you fled to West Berlin, didn’t you?”
Then he added with a chilling whisper, “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming, Sir Matteo, huh? We would have prepared some celebration for you. You know, it’s not that easy to have a popular journalist come here.”
“But, Sir, isn’t he the man who wrote that we are poor, we don’t make a costly living, we are starving?” A young soldier asked, gazing fiercely at my dad. “Didn’t he criticise our government in all of his articles and incite citizens to revolt? Didn’t he say all these things?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot. Eh, I’m getting older day by day. Thanks for reminding me, my boy,” the commandant replied as the other soldiers’ giggles grew louder.
Then he suddenly turned to him and grabbed him by the collar of his military jacket while shouting. “Why are you still here, huh? Did you check the car? You, you, and you, I want all the bags opened here in front of me on the floor. Every corner of the car must be closely inspected, understood?”
In a moment, the three soldiers rushed towards the car, threw all our bags on the ground, and tore them up while two huge fierce dogs began to circle our car, sniffing it and growling as if they were preparing to pounce on their prey.
My blood ran cold as the dogs, all horrifying, approached me closely, sniffing me. I remained still, holding my bag of gifts firmly and trying not to move my shivering legs as I began to sweat frantically.
My breaths came in heavy sharp gasps. It all felt as though I was caught in an endless, spine-chilling nightmare that I could have never expected in even my most pessimistic thoughts.
Suddenly, one of the soldiers snatched my bag of sweets, took some pieces, and threw them into his mouth before throwing the entire bag to the other two. “Mmm, eat these. Nice handmade sweets.”
Looking from my seat, I remained silent and rigid. I felt severe chest pain and dizziness as if the sky were going to collapse on my head.
A few hot tears ran down my cheeks when all of a sudden I heard my dad’s weak voice, calling out my name. “Matilda, are you okay, my little girl?”
I turned my head toward my father and murmured in grief, “I love you, Dad.”
I closed my eyes and caught my breath, fighting back my tears. I did not want to cry. I must not cry. “You have to be strong,” a voice hissed inside me. “Your dad needs you to be strong.”
I could not help but bury my face in my trembling hands and immediately burst into tears.
