Suddenly, I heard unfamiliar shouting sounds from the level above us. I could hear Syrian men screaming as if he had found something. My head froze. My heart froze. Everything froze. I got up slowly, my heart racing and pointed towards the direction of the nearest underground exit.
“The men are here,” I whispered. Fr Franz peered at me the thought of being caught not registering into his head.
“The soldiers! They’re here!” I whispered fiercely. His eyebrows shot up, eyes widened.
He stood from his little altar and gestured us to rise.
“Hurry now! We are being hunted!” He whispered with so much fear in his eyes. I helped my grandmother up and calmed my aunties and cousins. Fr Franz ushered us to the tunnel exit and hid most of our props in any of the small concealed rooms in the cellar. We crouched and squatted in our crowded areas and prayed. Men stomped down the stairs, their machine guns ready, torches revealing every hidden corner of the cellar. We held our breaths, praying and praying and praying that they wouldn’t find us.
One of the soldiers shone their torches on us for a second but didn’t see us. The man stared at us and requested for retreat.
“No one here, men. Retreat. They have found a new hideout.” He commanded, shining his torch up the stairs. I breathed a breath of relief. He saw us, why didn’t he seize us? My heart leaped with glee, we were spared…hopefully! As soon as the soldier squad left the building, the man neared us, his face familiar. I glared at him.
“Yolanda?” His eyes widened. “Yolanda!” He cried embracing me. I didn’t quite recognize him, until that familiar odour hit my nose. It was my Father.
“Merry Christmas, Yolanda.”