He muttered his cries for help, not knowing what he was saying because the sound of bullets being fired reverberated in his head and he couldn’t hear what was coming out of his own mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut like a child refusing to look when told, and knelt, huddled over himself, propped up by the women’s bodies, protecting himself behind them actually. No, he would not die with his eyes open. The sounds of the bullets clamoured in his head. He felt the shots in every part of his body. The sound of someone screaming, one man’s voice, called out with all his might, without stopping, ‘Hey all of you . . . for the fear of God!’ He couldn’t hear the wailing rising up around him – the moaning of a young woman shot in the shoulder who was bleeding profusely, and a nun struck with a bout of hysteria who was trembling and whose teeth chattered incessantly as she kissed the cross hanging at her neck. The nun’s fright was pushing him to the brink. He listened exclusively to the man’s voice, clinging with all his strength to the loud, angry voice as if it were a lifeline.
