Broken Memory by Elisabeth Combres Page B

later.”
    But for Emma, “later” meant nothing. Her life revolved around a nightmare. Like a broken record, she kept replaying that horrible night when time stood still. Since then there had been no before and no after. Just the difficult now, where she struggled with ghosts.
    She couldn’t remember the happy days any more — her aunts, her cousins, the grandfather she loved so much. They were all dead but not buried. She couldn’t even remember the face of her mother, no matter how hard she tried. Sometimes she could see her brightly colored skirt, her outstretched hands, but never her eyes or her smile.
    The only thing that remained was that one command: “You must not die, Emma.”
    So she kept on living. Drifting. Carried by a whirlwind that spun around that night — the night that had taken away her mother and her past.
    Two girls jostled against Emma and pulled her out of her daydream with their bright laughter. She sneaked glances at them. They looked alike. They were probably sisters. Their hair was cut short and their blue uniforms were faded, as if they had been worn by several big sisters or cousins who had grown out of them.
    Emma looked into the sparkling eyes of the younger girl and suddenly wanted desperately to be like her.
    Was it school that made her so happy? She had a hard time imagining herself sitting in a classroom, or even busy learning her lessons in the house in the evenings.
    She couldn’t even remember the face of her mother. How could she remember anything else? It would be as if someone asked her to bring in the vegetables without having any place to put them that would protect them from the wind, the rain and thieves.
    Emma sighed and stared down at the pavement. Then she carried on to the market two kilometers away.

4.
    On Sundays the old woman got ready for mass. Emma never went with her. She couldn’t understand about this God that people sang to in church. It was in those same churches that men, women and children had been beaten senseless, shot, hacked up, burned dead or alive.
    How could everyone have forgotten all that? Had the entire country lost its memory?
    â€œI’m going to see my husband after mass,” the old woman whispered, without looking up or waiting for an answer.
    Emma left the house an hour after Mukecuru. Grandmother. That was what she had chosen to call her back in 1994, a few days after she arrived at the house.
    This Sunday, as usual, Emma dressed up, too, putting on her white blouse and her nicest skirt. She almost smiled when she saw how her brown hand looked against the pale fabric splashed with green, orange and red. She thought she almost looked pretty, even though her body was beginning to feel like more and more of a burden. As a little girl she had been quietly invisible, but a few months ago she had turned thirteen, and now she was as tall as a woman.
    She had seen the big change in how men looked at her, especially when she dressed like this. But it was important. It was for the visit. She never missed one.
    She left the house, strolled down the dusty path, then turned onto the paved road. You didn’t see many cars here, but the giant eucalyptus trees rustled like a crowd dressed up in their Sunday best.
    Emma didn’t like being out after mass. She ran into too many people. She was relieved when she finally reached the turnoff and practically ran down the grassy path that was almost hidden from the road.
    A bit farther on, she slowed down. She didn’t want to get there too early. It was Mukecuru’s visit. Emma knew that Mukecuru didn’t mind her coming, but she still couldn’t get rid of the awkward feeling that she was in the way.
    When she reached the end of the path, she was reassured to see the old woman in her usual spot, sitting on the rocky bench in the middle of the clearing. In front of her, wildflowers covered a mound about the length of a man — the grave of