I was five or six years old and the whole street was our playground for my friends and I. My parents had me in the kindergarten during their work shift and the building was next to their factory. When they worked first shift and got out at 2:20 PM, I was at home by 3:15 PM, happy and ready to play outside.
I remember getting out on the street that day. I stopped on the sidewalk in front of our apartment complex’s big green gate looking for my friends. When this man showed up from nowhere. He wore a light brown raincoat and a hat and was holding a briefcase, the kind my dad had for work.
The stranger asked me, “Would you be so kind and show me where this person lives?”He didn’t say who that person was, but that didn’t bother me. I was happy to help. “Yes,” I said and walked down the street with him. After a few steps, he held my hand and I didn’t oppose.
While walking with him I asked who was the person he was looking for, but he didn’t say. As we were getting closer to the end of the street by river Bega, I knew my mom would give me a spanking for going so far from our home.
“I have to go back home,” I said. “My mom will punish me.” He clenched his hand on mine to not let go. “Let’s do something and I will let you go.” Not even at that point I was afraid. We turned the corner on the street by the river where the bread factory was. He got on the stairs in the quiet building, pulling my arm.
I followed him a few steps and then I pulled my hand out of his fist and ran away yelling, “My mom will beat me up.”
I kept running as fast I could, got back home, and never told my parents what happened. But that was my first and last time when I went with a stranger.
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