We nodded obediently and drifted into the gardens to look for our brothers. The high walls of the palace gave the illusion of privacy, even when there were probably a hundred people spread over the eighty-three acres of grounds and buildings. As we walked, I let my fanned fingers graze over the shrubs and took in the bright scent of the orange trees. One rosebush had gone into early bloom, and Neelab, an amateur botanist, wanted to touch the velvety petals.

Uniformed soldiers were posted beneath an arched portico of Dilkhusha, my favorite building in all of the palace. The soaring wooden doors creaked open, and President Daoud Khan emerged. With their faces partially hidden by olive-colored caps and their pant legs tucked into thick-soled boots, the soldiers stood at attention. The president, flanked by three advisers, walked with his hands clasped behind him and his body angled forward, as if a strong wind blew at his back. He walked a few meters away from the palace before turning on his heel and pacing in the opposite direction.

Neelab and I crouched down. Shrouded from view by the dense rosebushes, we watched and listened.

“Sir, give the word and I’ll order the soldiers to round up the prisoners and do away with them tonight.”

Neelab’s face went slack, her eyes fixed on her grandfather. I held her elbow because she looked like she might topple over.

“So another crop of white flags will grow out of the earth?” a second adviser barked. “Creating martyrs out of dissidents is like taking a blade to an itch.”

My father emerged from a side door and joined the conversation that had clearly been going on for days.

“Respectfully, we are in the very quandary I predicted when the construction of the prison began. We build large schools in hopes they will fill with children. We build grand masjids in hopes they will fill with believers. We built Pol-e-charkhi, a prison large enough to fit thousands of people. Did we really intend for those cells to sit vacant?”

“We don’t have time for philosophy,” one adviser retorted. “What’s to be done? Moscow says if we allow them to increase and gather, those fingers become a fist.”

The president stopped abruptly, clapping his hands against the sides of his legs. Neelab and I flinched at the sound.

“No one kills a single prisoner without my word!” he declared.

“Moscow will not be pleased if—”

“We did not wrest free of the British to be ruled by Moscow,” my father insisted.

“Enough!” Daoud Khan roared.

The adviser lowered his head and relaxed his shoulders. I’d never seen the president’s jowls quiver with anger. By the expression on Neelab’s face, I doubted she had either.