Madar, I tried to cry as children and the silver-haired do when they face the sharp end of the world. If heaven lies at a mother’s feet, what hope is there in her absence?

Madar, the summoning of a salve, the singing of a lamentation.

Chapter 6

April 28, 1978

I dared not peek out from behind the curtain. Hidden from view, I grasped at every possibility that kept my family alive. Surely someone—anyone—was rushing them to a hospital where they would be stitched up and restored. I prayed for white gauze and syringes and the able hands of doctors. But these hopes were flimsy as soap bubbles, especially as voices I did not recognize echoed through the hallways unchallenged.

When I was four years old, I’d been awakened one night by my mother’s shouts. A burglar had crept onto the roof of our Kabul home and sent a vase crashing as he’d slipped into our home through a window. When he fled, my father gave chase, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. He caught the man on the roof of a home one block away. At least, that’s how I remembered it.

It was as likely that he’d chased the man down the street as it was that he had catapulted across the homes of our neighbors while they slept. Regardless, this was my memory of the night, and it became part of how I saw my father. It was the reason I believed my father could and would protect us from any danger. I remember when he walked me to school I would watch his shadow stretch long ahead of us and believe it was the shape of truth. To me, day or night, Boba was larger than life.

That was why I could not comprehend why I’d seen Boba buckle as he had. I expected him to appear in the window at any moment and pull me onto the roof of the building to escape. I peeked at the clock on the wall. After three hours of standing, the muscles of my legs burned. Still, I stood as straight as I could, trying to keep my body hidden in the small sanctuary behind the curtain and out of view to anyone looking up from outside.

Where was everyone? Why hadn’t President Daoud exploded onto the scene with loyal troops to round up the murderers? I listened hard and eventually heard the boom of President Daoud’s voice rise from somewhere deep in the palace.

Traitors!

I couldn’t make out any other words.

I felt unmoored and wanted badly to slide down and give myself over to the floor. The moon still glowed bright, but in an hour or so the rising sun would turn the horizon pink.