Beginning of Credo

Clang, screech, clank.

The bolt on the steel door slid back and the door began to swing open. The man, sitting on the bed, was reflexively filled with a sense of dread. That door was rarely opened, and when it was, the result was never good. The man was not sure when the door had last been opened, but it had been a long time. Months perhaps, or maybe even a year. It was difficult to keep track of time when there was no sunlight to mark the passing of day and night. To a man sitting alone in a jail cell, the concepts of day and night start to lose meaning. Perhaps it was just one endless day that the man endured; or one endless night.

As the door swung open, the man shielded his eyes from the bright light that shone in from the corridor and bathed his cell in a glow to which he was unaccustomed. He prayed that if they took him out again, they would kill him so that he could be free of this life. He had prayed for death many times, especially during the torture, but it had never come. Perhaps, he had thought, there is still more for me to do in this life. But what that could be, sitting in isolation in a jail cell, he knew not.

Two men entered the cell, one dressed in the usual uniform of a prison guard, a submachine gun tucked under one arm, anticipating some act of resistance that the prisoner could not possibly offer. The other man wore a different uniform, one the prisoner did not recognize, but it was clear that he was no lowly prison guard. His uniform jacket looked new and crisp. His dark gray pants sported a perfect crease, and his black boots reflected the light from the corridor as if it were the sun. The newcomer was splendidly decked out, probably some high-ranking officer in the army or the secret police.

The officer spoke, "Stand up, prisoner."

The prisoner stood, as quickly as he was able.

"Turn around, let me look at you," said the officer.

The prisoner turned around slowly.

"Hmm, I thought that after so many years here you might have gone mad or be on the verge of death. But you don’t look so bad. I think you will do after all," he said. He then called out some words in a language the prisoner did not understand. In a few moments, another officer entered the room, carrying a large parcel.

"I have something for you here. These are the clothes you were wearing when you arrived. I’m as surprised as you that they weren’t burnt first thing. But that worked out well for us. Providential, you might say," the officer said with a little laugh. "In any case, get out of that prison outfit and put on your clothes. I will be back in fifteen minutes to collect you. Then we are going on a trip."

The other officer put the parcel down on the bed and the two officers and the guard left the room, leaving the prisoner in his twilight again. The prisoner sat on his bed, next to the parcel. He pulled the brown paper away from the bundle, and saw a flash of red and black. It was a robe, a sash, a cap, a pair of soft shoes. At first, he did not recognize these items as being his. But the officer said he had worn them when he arrived, so they must be his. Yes, he began to remember, they were his. He had worn them in what seemed like another life, during another age of the earth--an age that had passed away and perhaps would never come again. He slipped out of his prison uniform, and slowly began to dress in his own clothes.