He looked away, then back at Mariam. “My mother used to say that he was the bravest man she knew. Like a lion, she'd say.”
“But she told me he was crying like a child the morning the communists took him.”
I'm telling you so you know that it's normal to be scared. It's nothing to be ashamed of, mother.”
For the first time that day, Mariam cried a little. Thousands of eyes bore down on her.
In the crowded bleachers, necks were craned for the benefit of a better view. Tongues clucked.
A murmuring sound rippled through the stadium when Mariam was helped down from the truck.
Mariam imagined heads shaking when the loudspeaker announced her crime.
But she did not look up to see whether they were shaking with disapproval or charity, with reproach or pity.
Mariam blinded herself to them all. Earlier that morning, she had been afraid that she would make a fool of herself,
that she would turn into a pleading, weeping spectacle. She had feared that she might scream or vomit or even wet herself,
that, in her last moments, she would be betrayed by animal instinct or bodily disgrace.
But when she was made to descend from the truck, Mariam's legs did not buckle. Her arms did not flail. She did not have to be dragged.
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