I once, when I was five years old, listened at the tourbase as a mother of one child told one story to her son at night. I realized that this was their favorite story for the night. And it was this story of how the fascists caught the guerrilla and there for a long time cut something, cut, then put on the back of the hot iron.

My son probably slept well. I hadn’t slept for years, if I remembered. Unanswered questions still remain, how the son grew up and what with the head of that mother.