ISLAND OF TERROR

The bleak, waterless, sun-drenched rock called Makrónisos sits on the Attica coast about 30 miles (50 km) from Athens. The island is just eight miles (13 km) long and 1.5 miles (2.5 km) across at its widest point. Yet, from 1947 to 1958, it hosted more than 100,000 prisoners, including active and suspected communists, former resistance fighters, and scores of faithful Witnesses of Jehovah.

When I arrived in early 1949, the prisoners were divided into several camps. I was placed in a low-security camp along with several hundred other men. About 40 of us slept on the ground in a canvas tent designed to hold 10 people. We drank putrid water and ate mostly lentils and eggplants. The constant dust and wind made life miserable. But at least we did not have to haul rocks endlessly back and forth, a sadistic torture that broke the bodies and minds of many unfortunate prisoners.

One day while walking on the beach, I met several Witnesses from other camps. How we rejoiced to be together! Taking great care to avoid detection, we met whenever we could. We also discreetly preached to other prisoners, some of whom later became Jehovah’s Witnesses. Those activities and heartfelt prayer helped to sustain us spiritually.

INTO A FIERY FURNACE

After I had been through ten months of “rehabilitation,” my captors decided that it was time I put on a military uniform. When I refused, they hauled me before the camp commandant. I handed the man a written statement, saying, “I only want to be a soldier of Christ.” After threatening me, the commandant handed me over to his second-in-command, a Greek Orthodox archbishop decked out in full religious regalia. When I boldly answered his questions from the Scriptures, he angrily roared: “Take him away. He is a fanatic!”

The following morning, soldiers again ordered me to put on an army uniform. When I refused, they beat me with their fists and a wooden baton. They then took me to the camp infirmary to confirm that my bones were not broken and dragged me back to my tent. This daily ritual continued for two months.

Because I would not compromise my faith, the frustrated soldiers finally tried a new tack. Tying my hands behind my back, soldiers savagely beat the soles of my feet with ropes. Through the intense pain, I recalled Jesus’ words: “Happy are you when people reproach you and persecute you . . . Rejoice and be overjoyed, since your reward is great in the heavens, for in that way they persecuted the prophets prior to you.” (Matt. 5:11, 12) Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, I fell unconscious.

I awoke in an icy cell without bread, water, or a blanket. Even so, I felt calm and composed. As the Bible promises, “the peace of God” was ‘guarding my heart and my thoughts.’ (Phil. 4:7, ftn.) The following day, a kindly soldier gave me bread and water and an overcoat. Then another soldier gave me his rations. In these and many other ways, I felt Jehovah’s tender care.

The authorities viewed me as an incorrigible rebel and took me to Athens to face a military court. There I was sentenced to three years in prison on Yíaros (Gyaros), an island about 30 miles (50 km) east of Makrónisos.