She struggled in the grip of the sea. Above her glimmered light, but so faint and far she knew she would never reach it. Not burdened as she was. But still she grasped Nan tighter, and with her free hand clawed upward.
The sea, crushing, invading … she tried to cry out. But it poured into her open mouth, choking her scream, strangling them both.…
Susan woke. Her free arm was tangled in the blanket someone had thrown over her in the night. A dream. But the pain was real; she was sore as she came up from sleep. The marble floor had impressed itself into her bones. Then she realized that it was not discomfort that had awakened her, nor the dream. It was a hand on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes.
“I’m sorry, it’s not much,” muttered the young woman apologetically, holding out the tray as she bent over her. “We’re not equipped for so many people. There’re blankets, water, but not much in the way of supplies.”
“Thank you, this will be fine, Miss Freed,” she said, looking from cookies and toast to the official’s tired smile. She had probably been up all night, checking in refugees. Susan wasn’t hungry, but thinking of Nan she took a few of the wafers. “It was good of you to think of breakfast.”
“We’ll have something hot soon, tea or coffee. How’s your little girl?”
She glanced at her daughter. Nan lay curled into her mother’s coat, face shadowed against the morning light by a sleeve. “She’s still resting. She looks better, I think … maybe the fever will break today.”
“Do you think she’ll want to eat? We have a limited amount of cereal back in the staff kitchen. Bring her back when she wakes up and we’ll fix that and some powdered milk.”
“Thanks very much, we will,” said Susan. She looked after the woman as she picked her way between the blankets and luggage and the people who dozed or chatted in low voices, holding her tray awkwardly aloft. It had been nice of her. But what she really wanted was to go back to the hotel, poach herself under scalding water, then crawl onto a mattress for about twelve hours.
Unfortunately, Susan, that doesn’t seem to be possible just yet, she thought. But maybe tonight it will be. Maybe it was a mistake, minor rioting … perhaps the local police would have it straightened out.
She sat up carefully to avoid disturbing Nan. Rubbing her eyes, she saw that the refugee group had grown during the night. The stone floor was covered with blankets and clothing, leaving not a square inch more of space, and those who had come late sat against the walls, watching those who slept with thinly concealed envy.
“Coffee!” yelped someone, and she saw that near the counter one of the marines was easing down a pot. Steam rose from it as he broke open a roll of paper cups. Susan gave Nan a last glance—she was still, breathing in the shallow rhythm of sleep—and got up to join the line that formed. People stood silent, cups in their hands, waiting. An old lady smiled at her. “Good morning,” she said.
“Oh … good morning, Mrs. Stanweis.”
And “Good morning,” someone else said, and then, standing there, the smell of coffee getting stronger as the line shuffled forward, they began chatting. It made the whole morning different; all at once it was almost like Monday at the office, as if they bumped into one another in the American Embassy in Nicosia, Cyprus, every day.
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Some. That floor’s pretty hard.”
“Are they still shooting?” asked a man.
“I heard some a little while ago … the marines won’t let us go out. They locked the gates.”
“Who is it? What have you heard?” Dr. Stanweis asked the guard, who was standing by the coffeemaker, arms behind his back.
“Uh, I’m not sure, sir. But things are pretty tense out there. There were crowds in the streets when I came in from watch, a little while ago.”
“Cookies and toast! You’d think they’d have more than that in an embassy … don’t you have any cream to go with this, Sergeant?”
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
Susan half-listened to the chatter, saying little. Some of the people, she saw, were frightened; others cool. Mrs. Stanweis approached her as she stepped away, balancing two cups, one of them, Nan’s, syrupy with sugar. She supposed the caffeine would be all right, considering the circumstances.
“Mrs. Lendman, how nice you look this morning. I don’t see how you do it. How are you? How is your little girl?”
The old woman was bright-faced despite the hour, despite the circumstances. Ferdy, cradled in her arms, looked sullen, and snarled when Susan tried to pet him. She jerked her hand back. “It’s Lenson, Mrs. Stanweis. Susan Lenson. She’s sleeping, thank you.”
“Did the aspirin help?”
“Yes, thank you! I think they’re helping her fever.”
“I’m just glad I had a few in my bag. Leon always says there’s nothing better. And he’s been practicing for forty years. The young doctors, they all say there’s no one left like him in all of southern New Jersey—”
When she got back to their place Nan was awake, sitting up and looking around. She looked hot and confused, and coughed as her mother set the cup beside her.
“Mommy, where are we? I had such funny dreams—”
“I know, Bunny. Everybody has those when they’re sick. Don’t wipe your nose with your sleeve, use this tissue. Look, cookies for breakfast! And you can drink coffee this morning, just like Daddy does.”
“Don’t like coffee.”
“There’s sugar in it, baby, try it. And this nice lady is Mrs. Stanweis; she gave us the aspirin for you last night.”
“Hullo,” Nan said unwillingly.
“Hello, Nancy. Do you remember Ferdy Dog? Ferdy, this is Nancy, she’s a pretty little girl, say hello.”
The dog growled. Nan glanced at her mother, then buried her face in her T-shirt top. “She’s shy around animals,” Susan was saying, embarrassed, when a jovial voice caught their attention.
“Good morning, all! I’m Fred Persinger, the American ambassador here. If you’ll give me your attention for a few minutes—”
The ambassador was not a short man, but his shape gave one that impression; he was almost round, with a round head, a round chin. He was wearing blue slacks and a white golf shirt, so casual looking that Susan felt concerned. Did he understand how serious this could be? He smiled as he stood by the desk, waiting for the murmur to quiet, but his eyes gave the impression that he had been required to smile so long at so many people that a smile was all there was left; that he would crack a joke and slap a back on the way over the brink. He raised a hand, smiling, and then one of the marines stood up behind him, looking grim, and the crowd quieted.
“I know this isn’t a political rally back in Philadelphia, but it sure looks like one!” He paused for his laugh, and drew a few nervous chuckles.
“Well, folks, I hate to say welcome, considering the circumstances, but welcome. There does seem to be some confusion out there about who owns this island, but right here you’ll be safe. So we’ll just sit tight for a day or so, till they sort it out, and then we’ll head for the airport and all go on about our business.” He pronounced it “bidness.” “As you can see, we’re not known for our hotel accommodations—but that just makes us try harder! If there’s anything we can do for your comfort, please ask Ms. Freed—she’s my assistant, this attractive young lady—or one of my aides.”
“Mr. Persinger?” Mrs. Stanweis fluttered her hand.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the ambassador, bending forward at the waist.
“Will we be able to send telegrams? I’d like my family to know where I am.”
“You sure can. We have facilities for that, we’re in touch with Washington right now. I’m sure Ms. Freed can take you down there in the basement and get a little message out. Yes. In back—?”
It was a short man with a grizzled brush-cut. “Ambassador, Joe Bunch, here. I’m a veteran, Korea. If that crowd turns ugly—can we hold them off? I noticed our gate guards aren’t armed.”
“Glad you asked that, sir. No, this building isn’t designed to be defended. Few U.S. missions are. We feel since both sides are our friends, we won’t need to worry about defense. We can close ourselves off from the street, we have an iron gate for that, and there are always the local police in case of trouble. No sir, I think that’ll be sufficient.”
“Are you sure? The embassy in—”
“You have a point there, Joe, and I’m going to look into it this very morning, that’s a promise,” said Persinger smoothly, and went on. Susan had to admire the way he shunted the man aside, leaving him still standing but with nothing left to say. “Any other questions? No? Then, thank you, and I’ll be about my business.”
His pep talk over, the ambassador disappeared back into his offices. But his attempt to calm them had made her nervous again. When Nan had finished her hot drink she drifted up past the desk, wanting to see these gates for herself. At night, coming in, she hadn’t noticed them.
An iron gate? she thought, when she stood behind it, looking out past the back of a silent guard. They were light metal, filigreed like a New Orleans balcony; compared to the stone walls into which they were set they seemed flimsy. The marines who stood by them, on the other hand, looked as rough and heavy as the walls, and for that she was glad.
A current of cool air came through the bars. She glanced back into the hallway. Smoke-hazed, filled with people, it seemed cramped, almost fetid, although she knew it was not; no one had been there more than a day. But it was a bit close, and the air from outside was fresh, smelling of rain. She moved the last few feet to the gate. One of the guards glanced back at her; he grinned. “Getting tired of indoors?”
“Yeah, a little.” She leaned her head against iron, against the smoothness of many coats of black enamel. The metal was thin, but she was grateful for whatever protection it offered.
She looked into a deserted street. The roadway glistened with rain, and there was still mist in the air. The unaccustomed cold made her shiver. Above the buildings she could see the gray underbellies of clouds, seeming to scrape the tops of the hotels. A storm, yes, the weather was turning mean; the orchards would get their rain, and more wind than they wanted. How wet it is, she thought. I thought it was supposed to be dry here.
She was about to turn back to Nan when one of the guards straightened and stepped up to the gate, looking out.
“What is it, Corporal?”
“People coming, Sergeant.”
“Locals?”
“No, don’t think so—”
They were Americans, ten or a dozen of them; she couldn’t see whether they had driven up or walked; they were just there suddenly. The younger marine—the corporal—talked to them through the gate for a few minutes. The discussion became heated, with ID cards and drivers’ licenses thrust through the openwork. When he finally drew back the bolt, the gate opened inward to a press of bodies. He had time for only a brief glimpse at IDs. One of them shouldered past Susan, a dark man, dropping his passport back into a sport coat; their eyes met briefly, then he was past, inside. The next face Susan saw was Moira’s, and her friend saw her at the same time. They met with a tight hug, and she could feel Moira’s dampness, her shivering.
“Betts! I’m so glad you made it here. Is Nan with you?”
“You bet she is.” Susan held her roommate at arm’s length, studying the bruise that marred the Ox’s perfect complexion. “I figured you’d stay at the digs, out of the way! What happened to your face?”
“It’s turned bad out there,” said the archaeologist, looking back into the crowd that pressed still against the gate; the guards had regained control, were letting them through one by one now. “Michael! I’ll be inside, with Susan here.—Yeah, even in the hills. They won’t talk to us anymore, and the man who owned the land ordered us off. I don’t know why … on the way back, some people tried to stop our car, and there was a fight. Anyway, the airport’s closed, so we decided it would be best to come here.”
“I’m glad you did. But I hope you brought something to eat.”
“Uh-oh.” Moira winced. “Food problems?”
“Looks like there might be. There are a lot of people here.”
“Yeah, I see that. Well, we didn’t bring much to eat, but does wine count?”
Susan had to laugh. “It’s certainly a plus.”
Cook, Moira’s grad student, had a small radio. They lay around on Susan’s blanket and listened to it through the morning. They could hear Turkish being spoken, but none of them knew it, so they stayed with the Greek stations, and later found a British Forces broadcast in English. Both sources agreed that tension was building hourly along the line of demarcation. The British said that a move forward was imminent. The Greek-speaking stations agreed, but added, in strident accents, that if an advance beyond the cease-fire line began, the army and people would resist, and that Athens, the mother country, would not stand back this time.
“I don’t get it,” said Susan. “Why would the Turks attack? They already have half the island, and only about a third of the Cypriotes are Turkish.”
“It’s all for show,” said Moira. “Why do men make wars, anyway? To prove they have balls.”
“I think it’s a little more serious than that,” said Michael, opening his mouth in Susan’s presence for almost the first time. He had a gentle smile, long, sun-bleached hair that fell over his forehead and sprang up in a cowlick, and she liked him immediately. “Probably the new Turkish leadership. They want something to unify the country, and they’re generals—war is a natural. Don’t forget, this island’s only fifty miles from Asia. The Turks owned it for a long time. It goes back and forth. Our bad luck to be here when it’s happening again.”
“Not everybody seems to take it as fatalistically as you do,” said Susan. She nodded at the radio, where a speaker was holding forth on blood, fire, and resistance to the last bullet.
“It’s their home,” said Moira, and changed the subject, looking at Nan, who was sitting up, looking sleepy. “And how’s my niece doing? Feeling better this morning, huh?”
“Hi, Moy-ra!” Nancy shrieked. “Mikey! Where’s your bottle?”
“We’ve got to empty one first,” grinned Michael, patting his clinking knapsack.
There was very little for lunch. Canned soup, a few more cookies, and that seemed to be the end of the embassy’s supply. She took Nan back to the kitchen for the promised cereal, but it was gone. Someone else’s child, there were three or four others among the families camped in the crowded hall.
The afternoon wore on much like the morning. They hung above the radio, their sole source of news, until Nancy, growing costive, demanded they turn it off. Susan was glad enough to comply. After a while her daughter napped, and Michael brought out a pack of cards. They played whist and passed one of his bottles of rodakino around through the afternoon and on into dusk. It was too sweet, and she only sipped at it. The corridor darkened gradually, and around the four of them as they played the other people prepared for sleep. Ms. Freed came out to snap on the lights, but nothing happened. The power had gone off sometime during the afternoon.
It was a little after that, as if the gradual withdrawal of day was a cue, that the far-off shooting began again. Susan suspended a hand rich with royalty—it was almost too dark to distinguish jack from queen—as they turned to the courtyard windows to listen. More shots, drifting, it seemed, above the low roofs and into the open windows on the wind; and then, closer, the sound of shouting.
“A real Kristallnacht,” said Moira softly. She shuddered.
“Riots?”
“Not that harmless.” The archaeologist was biting her lip, looking at the falling darkness outside the windows. “It’s going to be bad. I can’t say Moslems are my favorite people, but I wouldn’t want to be one tonight in Nicosia.”
“They’ll kill them?”
“At least beat them, burn their houses and shops. There aren’t many here anymore. Most of them went to live on the eastern side of the island. But there were a few that stayed. They had homes here, too.”
They listened somberly, each imagining him or herself at the mercy of a crowd like that.
They tried to go back to cards, but Susan could not concentrate. She found herself still listening, and from time to time she heard the sounds of guns again. And then shouts.
“Jeez, they’re getting closer, aren’t they?” said Moira.
“Maybe it’s the wind,” said Michael, but as they suspended play again to listen Susan felt sweat trickle along her forehead. They were closer, all right. Maybe on the next street over—
Something flickered at the corner of a window.
“I can’t take this.” Michael jumped up, upsetting the bottle; sticky wine gushed over the blanket. “Oh, hell. Moira, can you get this? I’ve got to see what’s going on. I’m going up to the gate.”
“Be careful, Mike.”
“Sure.”
He left. Moira mopped at the stain with a tissue, gave up, and tipped the bottle back for the last swallow. “Jeez,” she said again. “You don’t think they’d bother us, do you, Betts? These people don’t have anything against Americans that I know of.”
“You’re the expert here, not me,” said Susan; but she was thinking, and what about the people who tried to stop you on the road, Moira? The ones who gave you that bruise?
The shouting beat at their ears again, louder, the sound of a dangerous surf. Looking toward the courtyard windows, Susan felt the pasteboards tremble in her hands. Fear? Yes. She was afraid. It had been growing all afternoon, since she had seen the gates.
Perhaps the embassy, the shelter of the flag, was not inviolate.
The flicker was stronger now.
Michael returned. He pushed his hair back. “Everything’s cool out front,” he said. “A crowd went by there awhile back, but they didn’t seem to notice the embassy. Or care. The shouting’s coming from down the street.”
“Man, that’s good news. But what’s with the fire?”
“It looks like part of the city’s burning.”
It was then, for the first time, that Susan was sure something bad was going to happen. She knew it all at once, deep inside, and reached out to shake Nan awake, pulling her daughter into her arms.
“Calm. Please stay calm,” someone was shouting. “We have everything under control. No one has any reason to disturb us. Please, you’re quite safe here.” It was Persinger, the ambassador; his bald head shone in the light of a portable lantern at the counter. From outside the flames grew brighter, flickering through the windows and into the corridor.
Above his voice, above the whispering of the refugees, came another spatter of shots. Five of them, spaced out, almost like a signal. They were close, just outside, and around her she heard the muttering stop and then rise again, louder. In front of them, like a scene lit for the stage, the sweat-shining face of the ambassador gleamed in the firelight as his mouth smiled and talked on.
The two marines who had been off watch came running from the offices, carrying rifles. They slowed as they came abreast of Persinger, looking at him for direction, but he simply waved them on, toward the gate. As she hugged Nan, watching, Susan saw the ambassador’s face change as he looked after them. The smile faded, flickered back up, and then left his face. Without it he looked blank and slightly surprised. He pulled his coat down and sucked in his belly. He rubbed his mouth, glancing back at the people who had filled his once-cool and peaceful post. Then he nodded slightly, the first thing she had seen him do that seemed to be done for himself, not for the observation and consumption of others.
He turned and went with short bouncy strides after the marines. Behind him she saw the dark man she’d noted earlier rise from a seat along the wall and follow him toward the gate.
Michael got up, too. “Where do you think you’re going?” said Moira instantly.
“See if I can help.”
“That’s their job. They—”
“There’s only a few guys to hold the fort. One more might make a difference. Stay here with them.” He, too, moved into the flickering darkness, toward the shouting.
“Are they coming in here, Mommy?”
“No, Bunny. Don’t worry, Mikey and the soldiers will stop them.”
“Who is it out there? Bad men?”
She looked down at her daughter’s frightened eyes, and smoothed with her hand the drops of moisture at the edges of her forehead. Bad? She hardly knew how to answer … she had never, reading the papers back home, really thought of attacking an American embassy as bad. It was only natural, the outcome of a policy that supported any oppressive regime, any dictator, so long as he claimed to oppose Communism. She had thought it a form of popular justice.
But could you feel the same way, when you were one of the frightened people inside?
And how did you explain the difference between war, and dissent, protest, justified revolt to a child? Good and bad … that was a child’s distinction. In this night an enemy identified himself by the primeval differences, language, race, even appearance. “I don’t know, Nan,” she said at last. “I don’t know who they are or what they want.”
“Will they hurt us?”
“No, of course they wouldn’t,” Susan said; but she wished there was someone who could tell her that with all the conviction of an adult to a three-year-old.
Several minutes passed. Huddled in the near-dark, the refugees waited. Susan felt helpless. It enraged her. Give me a rifle, let me stand at the gate … then she thought of Nan. No, her place was with her daughter.
If only Dan was here …
The shouting came again, louder. She couldn’t make out words. The flickering light of torches or street fires wavered redly against the courtyard windows. Huddled back in the corridor, behind a hundred other frightened civilians, she and Nan could only hear what happened. They couldn’t see the gate, but they could hear the shouting that came again and again, louder, then the shattering of glass and a closer glow of fire, a stink of oil and flame.
The front window burst in, paving rocks skidding into the crowded women and children, glass opening in a glittering bloom like a lake under raindrops. Nan screamed, and Susan held her tight against her heart, shielding her child with her body. The hall flickered, paved with shadows, and it was like—the thought came to her from somewhere—a medieval play; all dark save for the flamelit foreground, the shouting, the silent or weeping spectators.
A moment later there came a burst of gunfire, so loud and close it seemed to come from within the embassy itself.
Please, not to us, she prayed blindly. At that moment a textbook image had come to her, the layers of charred ash and bone at Knossos, Troy, Mycenae. How many mothers had held their children like this as battle raged at citadel gates, moments before defeat and death.
God, no, not to us. Not to me and my child.
She was hugging Nan, as much to comfort herself as the child, when another stutter of shots came, not from outside, but past the counter. The refugees gasped. She caught Mrs. Stanweis’ eye. The two old people sat close together, and the woman was hugging her dog, just as she was hugging Nan.
Another shot went off, a single one this time, and she heard many voices shouting. There was a sharp explosion, not loud, but cracking like a whip. A yielding, high-pitched screech succeeded it, like a truck grinding a motorcyclist into shreds of leather and flesh, and then the clang of metal on stone. It could only be the gates, torn free of the walls, ringing on the pavement outside.
Ms. Freed came running back, white-faced. “What is it?” “What’s going on?” They reached up to stop her, to ask her questions.
“Don’t—let me by! There’s a man with a gun—he’s shot a guard, and—” She turned in mid-run. “This way, and—Doctor, can you help the ambassador, please?”
“Oh, my God,” said Moira.
It was Persinger. Michael was half-carrying him. His round head was rolled forward on his chest.
“What was he doing out there?”
“Probably making a speech,” said Moira. Susan turned on her, ready to cry out, but then she saw that she was serious. Yes, she thought. The smiling man probably had done just that: tried to reason with a mob.
Behind Persinger and Cook a rifle came into view. It was being pointed by a small man dressed in nondescript dark trousers and stained short-sleeved shirt. His teeth were very bad. They stared at him as he threaded silently among them, his eyes darting restlessly here and there, but principally on the two who staggered ahead.
Behind them, like an actor emerging into limelight, someone else stepped into the firelit hall of the embassy. Susan saw him clearly. He was no more than twenty-five, in jeans and an open-collared white shirt under a sport coat. With a shock she recognized the man who had shoved by her at the gate. A rag of green cloth bound his arm. For a moment she thought he was wounded, but when he raised the short-barreled weapon he carried in that hand she realized that it was a marking, some kind of impromptu uniform. He was looking over his shoulder toward the gate, where the shouting went on. Turned, balanced, the weapon raised high, he looked heroic. She felt a thrill mix with the fear she felt not for herself, but for her child.
Nan, though—she glanced down—had stopped crying, and stared now with wide eyes, unblinking. It was the same rapt expression she wore when she watched television.
The man with the rifle gestured toward the gate, calling out. There was too much sound; she could not make it out … in answer six or seven more of them ran into the hall and stopped, looking at the people on the floor. Some of them carried strange-looking pistols, some the short rifles, and one brandished what looked like a grenade. For a moment the two groups seemed frozen, facing each other; both uncertain, perhaps both afraid.
The leader waved them forward, and the men moved in among them. They held their weapons ready, looking down at the people who crouched away. Neither side spoke. The refugees were silent. The intruders were silent too, their faces angry and frightened at the same time. From time to time they reached down to pull apart a bundle of clothes, perhaps searching for arms. Michael spat in Greek at one who picked up his knapsack. He looked surprised, but finally shrugged and put it down.
But their eyes, and Susan’s, kept going back to the first man, the one who held the rifle and directed the others. He stood with his head thrown back, black hair tumbling over his ears. He was thin, imperious, fierce-looking. He alone of all of them seemed to know what to do. And then, for the first time, she saw his eyes straight on, and knew why. They were fixed and wide and black, and utterly determined. They made her think of John Brown.
More men stumbled in, making perhaps a dozen in all; the last three he waved back to the gate. The language came from deep in his chest, the very sound of it fierce and strange. She caught a few of the words: “Irjah la wourd … Bara wala dakh’el.”
“Who are they?” she hissed to Moira.
“I don’t know. That’s not Greek. He’s posting a guard,” Moira whispered. “That’s good—I think.”
“What? Moira, who are these people?” she whispered, feeling the uncontrollable quiver in her throat.
“Terrorists.”
“Tell me something I don’t know! Where are they from? What do they want?”
“I’m not sure yet … Turkish Cypriotes, maybe leftists … but that didn’t sound like Turkish, either. Anyway, what’s the difference? They’ve got guns and we don’t.”
“Skhot’!” said one of the men threateningly, and they all understood that; be quiet.
She was quiet; she and Nan, and Michael and Moira, and all the refugees, were quiet, and watched and waited. Sooner or later, they would find out what he wanted, this fiery young man who directed the others as if they were peasants. And then they would know what had to be endured. Until then they did not know whether to fear little or much, whether what he planned was harmless to them, or might mean great harm.
She wondered, then, what had happened to the guards at the gate.
“Mommy?” Nan’s face was pressed to her breast; she could feel the heat of her whisper.
“Go to sleep, Bunny.”
“Will that man hurt us?”
“I don’t know, Bunny.”
“Will he stay here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Daddy? I want Daddy.”
“Daddy’s not here, baby.”
“But I want him.” She began to cry, and Susan, frightened, tried to stop her. At last she muffled the child’s face against her chest. When she released her Nan sobbed for breath, looking scared. “Mommy—you hurted me—”
“I’m sorry, Bunny, but you’ve got to keep quiet,” she whispered urgently. “Please, please don’t cry now. Go to sleep, darling love. Better just go to sleep.”
At that moment there were shouts from the rear of the building. Suddenly two of the men emerged from the office area. They were pushing a pale American in a gray suit whom she had not seen before. An embassy ID swung at his pocket. He stumbled along with blood on his face and a shattered pair of glasses hanging off his ears.
“Houweh i’jahreb yezhab la barra.”
“Mau’to!”
By the tone it was an order. And they acted on it. They forced the official down to his knees. He made no resistance, as if he knew this would be his fate, as if he accepted it.
Susan stared, her mind empty, stripped to observation and horror. The gun came down smoothly, fitted against the pale forehead without haste or hesitation. Against flesh and bone it made a muffled bang, and liquid flew from the back of the head and pattered against the wall.
“Bismallahi rahmani rahim!” said the tall man. “Listen to me, you people. I want everyone to stay seated. Do not move! Do not attempt escape. This man”—he prodded the gray bundle at his feet with the muzzle of his weapon—“was attempting escape. Penalty was death. Penalty for disobeying of any my orders is death. Until I choose to tell you our plans for you, you will wait. There will be no moving and no talk.”
Susan smoothed her hand over her daughter’s hair. She had not thought to hide it from her. It had happened too quickly, too casually, for her to realize what it was until it was too late. Now she saw her terror. No, darling, she cried deep in her heart. Don’t fear. I’m afraid, but let me fear for us both. Because if you do, daughter, it will last you and mark you your life long.
Nan closed her eyes. Susan smoothed their lids, so tiny, so delicate, with her lips. Did she understand? She felt the small heart thudding against her own, fast, so fast.…
The men stood around the walls, guns dangling. She watched them, head lowered, masking rage and fear with the same blankness she saw the other women wearing. One of them bent to a confiscated cigarette, and the flare of the match lit their faces for an instant. They were alert, hostile, foreign, and she could not tell what was in their minds. They waited. Across their features flickered the light of the distant flames, dancing in fierce liberation in the streets.