The audience’s clapping blasted in Nola's head. Her fear reached a new pitch. She signaled to the band to wait a moment longer before breaking into the opening notes of “A String of Magical Moments.” The song after this one was “A Day Like Any Other,” but both were wrong. She would have loved to sing “Plant My Own Garden,” a song about the freedom of the spirit, but it had been banned by the minister of culture. It was now perfectly ironic in a place where soldiers in fatigues intimidated performing artists.

Her hands resting on her hips, she scanned the area to her right again. Daniel, his face somber, had joined Yoram and was talking to the soldiers. Suddenly, the indignation that had seethed in Nola earlier mixed with a new fear. It took possession of her. If these men took Lulu, there was no way she could snatch her back!

As though moving on rollers, Nola glided to the silk partition and unstrapped Lulu from her stroller. As she carried her back to the center of the stage, she motioned to Jean-Claude to wait. His forehead crinkled, questioning, but she would not tell him her choice for the next song. He’d get it soon enough.

At the sight of Lulu in her arms, the applause subsided.

“You must be good now, Lulu,” Nola whispered to the baby, who examined her with wise, serious eyes.

“Lulululululululu,” Lulu said. Her mouth was near Nola's body mike, and her trill reverberated, bringing a burst of laughter from around the stadium. Startled, Lulu's lips curved downwards, as though ready to cry.

“Quiet, now,” Nola whispered, caressing her belly. “Don’t cry.” Or perhaps her cry would be the perfect accompaniment for this song. Nola indicated to the interpreter to stand next to her. In a solemn voice, she began, “We know that in China there are one hundred and seventeen boys for every one hundred girls. That means that one million or more girls disappear each year. Vanish.”

The interpreter stopped translating.

“Go on,” Nola said. “I’m quoting official government statistics.”

The young woman sent her a beseeching look, then completed the sentence.

“I’ve visited an orphanage where the death rate is eighty percent. It’s called the Dying Rooms,” Nola went on. “But many other infants are killed at birth or shortly after. To all these murdered babies, doomed before they had a chance in life, I dedicate this song.”

The interpreter’s lips trembled, and she shook her head.

“Please. This is important,” Nola whispered.

But the young woman bowed and walked off the stage.

A murmur went through the audience.

Nola felt lost for a split second, when Daniel stepped forward.

He stood at the side microphone, and, in a clear voice, repeated her statement in Chinese.

People shifted in their seats. The TV cameramen jostled for new positions.