I want to tell you a story, without heroes but with many victims. No guns but everyday battles. No victories but with strong winners. A story I want to tell you about hope... You who hold this writing in your hands, have you ever heard of the "attic babies"? Has it occurred to you how many souls have never seen the light of the sun while running to meet it by slipping from their mother's wombs? You are ignorant, reader, of the small and great dramas of a society that hid, like a cat hiding its impurities, slips, sins, and even debauchery, wherever it could. In basements, in attics, and under the ground sometimes... Many such babies were found, years later, when it was time for the old mansions to become apartment buildings. Moist conditions seem to have played a role in turning them into tiny mummies that shocked those who discovered them. Attic babies... I am not among them though... I am an attic baby but I lived. And I grew up.... To write my story...
The book is available at the Library; call. Nο.: 889.334 Μαν [in Greek].
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