142
PARTISAN REVIEW
The soldiers left. I was hit in the shoulder and thigh . I had
blood from the others and my own on my arms, on my hands, on my
lips . With sweat. Karim asked for his father. His belly was open. He
took my hands, plunged them into his wound as if to calm the pain,
and, with his mouth open in awe, he died.
We waited a long time for the noise of the trucks to go away
and disappear. At nightfall there were no more than three of us,
alive. I looked at the sky. There weren't any more stars. I don't
believe anymore. We retraced our tracks. The hillside was strewn. I
saw black birds. They were coming from the dead city. We got to
Abou Zar early in the morning. They cut off my left leg and told me
never to tell this story. They had to separate us, all three of us. I
have a story to tell , papa. Where are you? So who do I tell it to?
There were a thousand of us. We hadn't even opened the route . The
soldiers came back a few days later with a new contingent. As many
children for the other half. I buried my leg, myself. With my fingers.
By scratching.
At night, when he put us to bed in order of our ages, my father
used to kiss our feet. When was that? Before. Before what? And
why? My story I tell to myself. It won't be of any use. They are
hiding me. The soldiers mustn't find me. I have seen . A girl will
never want me, like this. Children, already, throw stones at me. I
don't even know where I buried my leg .
It
was near a tree . Tomor–
row I'll be fifteen .
Translated from the French
by
Howard Girven
