Page 47 - English Reader - 8

She pushed him into the gap between the almirah and the wall and then she squeezed herself in,

facing the door. Her heart beat loudly and painfully in her chest. “Dear God,” she prayed once more,
“Help me, please.” Behind her, she heard her Grandfather’s rapid breathing. He coughed, a harsh
dry racking sound.
“Grandfather,” the girl begged, “Don’t cough now, please. They will find us.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the old man, trying his best to control the sudden urge to cough, “Yes.”

An outburst of frenzied uproar from the crowd at the entrance sent fresh shivers of fear down the
girl’s spine. She held her breath and listened into the tense night. She listened to the blows of iron
bars that pounded against the wood, again and again. And then the door gave way and crashed
against the wall. The small house seemed to tremble as the mob poured headlong into the drawing
room, overturning chairs, breaking glasses, hitting mindlessly at everything within their reach. The
men were yelling, “Get the cowards! Get them.”
And above all these voices rang out one, loud and clear and laden with hatred, “Come out, you
traitors come out, before we come and get you.”

The girl’s heart missed a beat. She gulped and sidled closer towards her Grandfather. It could not be
true! It could not. This voice she knew, knew it only too well. The same voice had told her only the
other day, “Why, look at your dahlias, my little princess, they are bigger than mine. Next week, some
of our snapdragon seedlings will be ready. You can have some if you like.” The voice had been kind
and warm and the hand that patted her hair had a gentle touch. But now that very same voice was
full of brutality. It was Tutu’s voice, Tutu, their neighbour’s son—Tutu, her friend. So her Grandfather
was right, oh, so right! Neighbours had turned into foes and they were here to kill them.

Fear seized the girl, fear and despair. She knew she was lost.
There was nobody who would help them, nobody
she could turn to now. And pressing her hands to

her face, the girl began to pray. For the first time
that night, the prayer welled up from deep inside
her and the words almost forced themselves over
her lips.
“Search the rooms,” thundered the same voice.
“They must be at home. They are hiding, the skunks,
but we will find them.”

The voice came closer, came towards the bedroom.
The door was kicked open and silhouetted
against the drawing room light stood a tall young
man—Tutu, the neighbour’s son. He switched on
the torch. Its beam searched through the dark room. It crept over the floor and under the bed, it
zigzagged over the wall towards the window, glided down the curtains and travelled on. The young
man took a step forward, then another. He did not speak a word, but the girl could hear his heavy
breathing, as he advanced closer and closer.

45