The Beating
He held both of the little boy's hands high, straight up with his left hand. And with his doubled belt in the other hand, he delivered the cruel strokes.
Whup-thup. Whup-thup!
Mercilessly rhythmical; angrily business-like. Yes, he would teach the little "kerata" (rascal) a good lesson, a lesson never to forget.
Whup-thup. Whup-thup!
The boy's frightful cries pierced the small diner's ambient noise, his little limbs flailing all over as his welted, tender skin reverberated with every whup. The few customers present looked on eagerly as if it were the Roman arena or a welcome sideshow.
Beating one's child is not civilized behavior; I hope you agree. However, contextualizing the whipping of my brother in an environment where civilization had gone awry sheds a somewhat different light on my father's behavior. This was in the early nineteen forties: Second World War lawlessness, desolation, misery, and wretchedness – all man-made -- cruel, idiotic humanity in high gear. Life was iffy; the times were anti-life -- extreme violence reigned supreme. A lot of damage had been done to civilization. People were killed by the thousands, blood flowed all over, and food was scarce. The Italians and the Germans had occupied Greece, and a strict curfew was in place. 60,000 Greek Jews, mainly from Salonica, were herded cattle-like for shipment to forced labor or extermination camps.
I remember witnessing some of the transit as a four-year-old. The railroad station was kitty-corner from our house. It was the point where two tracks had been laid down to facilitate the passage of cross-traveling trains. One train would wait on the side track while the other, going the opposite direction, was allowed to pass.
I recall loitering between the tracks and ogling the people inside the freight wagons more than once. German soldiers would stand, machine guns ready, on either side of each freight car door. The doors on one side would be left open during the stop to let more air in. They and the small windows on either side were barred with barbed wire. Nothing can erase my memory of the faces of exhausted, unkempt people packed like cattle and destined for places like Auschwitz for exploitation and extermination.
I was a little boy -- hardly taller than the German boots I walked by – I was not prevented from looking at the awful spectacle.
This was a most uncivilized environment; I know you'll agree. How does war butchery compare with child beating? Do you suppose violence is contagious?
As a child, my father was orphaned and had been beaten. The culture condoned beating and even recognized it as a primary means of effective discipline.
My father was a resourceful man. He was a successful butcher and a multifaceted businessman. My preschooler brother and I were regularly tasked with shepherding the few goats and sheep our father could wrangle from the mountainous villages on the other side of Rion Strait. These animals were to be butchered at the end of each week.
It was a dangerous trek to defy the curfew by crossing the strait's hazardous winter waters on a small rowboat in the dark of the night. However, my courageous father risked it successfully and repeatedly. Thanks to his efforts, we never went hungry at a time when people were literally dropping dead on the streets from lack of nutrition.
On the fateful day of the beating, one of the goats slipped away from the rest and simply walked into the sea before we could turn it around. We were small and frightened, powerless and on our own. We called it back, and we yelled and cried. We waved our sticks in desperation and threw pebbles in its path to turn it around, to no avail. The stubborn goat paddled on ploddingly deeper and deeper as if possessed by a death wish or a yearning to find its home or mate across the strait. And our fearful little children's hearts sank lower and lower. My entire pre-school self was filled with fear: fear of the whirling waters – we were at the point of the cape, where one of the townsfolk had recently drowned -- and fear of our father: how could we explain the loss of his goat?
My brother was about a year and a half my senior. As he was getting viciously belted, I ran my fastest to get our mother from the backroom to plead with my father to stop the beating. She and I rushed to the restaurant's corner, where the wicked performance occurred. But my mother stopped short of physically intervening. She only whimpered:
"Come on, John. Let him go," (Μικρό παιδί' ναι,) “he's just a little kid.”
Disappointed by my mother's faint-hearted helplessness and without wasting any precious moments, I whooshed between my brother and father, my nose bumping onto his knee. I pounded on my father's thighs, tears streaming down my face. I screamed and cried:
“You're killing him! Let him go now! Let him gooooo!" But he pushed me forcefully aside, intent to continue.
However, the boldness of a five-year-old had an instant profound effect on the scene. From a socially approved disciplinary action, the beating suddenly morphed into an act of cruelty. My swiftly emboldened mother grabbed hold of the belting arm as if possessed. My father took notice. A furtive glance at the few diners around -- their now disapproving faces produced a sudden change in him. And as if by a puncture, his anger deflated as quickly as it had exploded. His hold on my brother went loose. He mumbled some of his usual insults while putting his belt back on.
I felt immensely relieved. I had rescued my brother and possibly myself, as my turn would have likely been next. This was not the first beating, nor would it be the last during our years with Father. The only choice for us children and my mother was submission. The patriarchal order was strict -- we couldn't even conceive of raising a hand against the father. Doing so would have indicated disrespect, an improperly functioning family, and one in which established tradition had not taken root. I took my brother by the hand to the back room, our bedroom. He curled up on our shared bed, still howling like a wounded dog, and I sat beside him, patting his forehead and comforting him. And it felt right; I had initiated and gotten the rescue done and made a small dent in a vast cultural defect.
There is a streak of a freedom fighter or an independence advocate in me. I would occasionally irritate and anger my father with my penchant for fearlessly pointing out contradictions. Time and again, I remember being told that I had no right to "have nerves" as a child. I understood that my child's rights were non-existent and only what my parents would ad-hoc grant me.
My father was not happy with me for yet another reason. I would not help him kill an animal for our butcher shop. No amount of coaxing could get me to do that. However, my brother did. Needless to say, I was not then his favorite son, and neither was I my mother's.
My father could run very fast. And so could I. I must have inherited that trait from him, which may be why I'm still alive. I vividly remember my father with a knife in his right-hand close at my heels, sprinting at full speed, but I don't recall why. It was one early summer afternoon, which must have been during my early teenage years. Full of mortal fear, I could feel him furiously running close behind me. He was as angry as can be and eager to use the knife, but I thankfully managed to outrun him. I stayed away from the house, wandering chilled and hungry in the vineyard nearby for many hours. No family member dared defy my father by coming to my assistance. I had to wait long hours for my father to turn in for the night before I could return, grab something to eat, and go to sleep.
Would you say knives are a butcher's weapon of choice? Do you think it's easier for a butcher to kill with a knife or to kill at all? For the record, my father never killed anyone. Well, almost.
I had nearly forgotten another incident until my brother reminded me a few years ago. My father provided very well for us, but sometimes some things were extremely scarce. This is most likely one of the times when the following incident occurred.
Our father was enjoying an orange after our family lunch while the rest of us, four children and my mother, looked on – no oranges for us. Being the way I am, I couldn't resist pointing that out. Not wasting a microsecond, my father grabbed the sharp knife he'd been using to peel the orange and threw it at me like a dart. Anticipating his aim, I lightning-like sidestepped out of the way at the last instant. However, the knife settled in the right forearm of my poor mother, who happened to be standing behind me. Thankfully, she recovered and even received a small disability pension in addition. I still cringe at this outcome as I sense a lack of reckoning and dishonesty. I see my father getting away with what I considered opprobrious behavior time and again, and I can't condone his conniving complicity in securing the disability benefit.
Sooner or later, everything ends, from major events like wars to minor ones like beatings.
Once, my father cornered me in our back storage room, where our giant, horizontally-arrayed wine barrels rested. I must have been about fourteen at the time. He started hitting me with abandon, his belt rising and falling rapidly. As ill luck would have it, I stumbled and fell while backing up against the barrels to avoid the strokes. I was lying on my back; his body was blocking the exit; I was trapped. There was no way out! Realizing his advantage, he eagerly bent over me to continue his dirty deed. I quickly brought my legs as close as I could to my chest, and with all the might both of my legs could simultaneously muster, I kicked him in the groin. It had to have been my most powerful kick, born of absolute desperation and indignation, and it had to have hurt a lot. I floored him. I quickly got up and scrambled from the scene.
He never laid his hands on me ever again.
Boquete, Panama,
January 2022.
