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“Nice,” he says, nodding. “Good.”

“Are you visiting your family?” I say.

Maurice translates, but the soldier looks at me vaguely.

“Okay!” Hortense approaches from behind. “We really must hurry! It’s going to get dark soon.”

I am not willing to leave without interviewing Fitina, so Hortense ushers us back to the compound. “Try to make it short, eh? We will run into trouble at the port.”

I grab a chair and find a quiet spot where we sit on the edge of an open, unfenced field, with the forested hills just behind us. Fitina holds a young child on her lap and another little girl, about six years old, clings to her. They are her grandchildren.

“Can you talk with us for a minute about your experience of the war?” I ask Fitina.

“We didn’t go to Tanzania,” she begins. “We went up to the hills and stayed in the bush, where we stayed in bad conditions until the end of the war.”

I ask about her children.

“Five of my children are alive. Two among them are in school in Baraka.”

“How many children have you given birth to?” I ask.

“Fifteen. I gave birth to fifteen. Five are alive and ten have died.”

“Can you tell me how they died?”

“From illness.”

“What were the names of your children?” I say. “How old were they when they died?”

Fitina’s voice grows thin, “Maribola . . . Makambe . . . Maribola died from illness. She was a teenager. She only had a headache and she died. Makambe died when she was a few months old. . . . All died from illness.”

Fitina has a remote look in her eyes. But I am feeling the pressure. Military in the village. Port closing. Long boatride home.

I press Hortense to translate again. “Can she just list the names and how old they were when they died?”

“Liza also died,” she says. “Ruben also died. Na . . . Na . . . Nape also died.”

She struggles. “Some died when they were two, some others were a few months old, a few more than three years old. Maribola died just after the war. She already had breasts. She was a teenager.”

“But can she list their names and how old they were when they died?” I plead again. “Just a list?”

My pushing does not strike me as inappropriate in the moment, but she is swimming in her own thoughts, not listening to me. And Hortense does not translate; I take note of her cue.

“The others . . . I don’t remember their names because I never want to talk about them.”

“Is it difficult?” I ask. “Would you prefer to not talk about them?”

With a crack in her voice and desperate, evading eyes, she ekes out, “I feel grief when I talk about them.”

We sit in silence for a long while.

Then I try again. “Do you remember other names, or do you want to just forget?”

Hortense snaps. “She has already given you five names. She has forgotten the names of the others because she never wants to talk about them.”

Fitina fiddles with her hands. An exasperated, pain-soaked smile spreads across her face. She strains to say, “They were all so young.”

Another long silence. The child still hangs on Fitina, resting her head on her grandmother’s shoulder, watching me like I am the enemy. Even with the language barrier, the child sees what I’ve missed. My push to reduce Fitina’s losses to a list has shut her down completely. There is nowhere to go.

Finally, I ask, “Is there anything you would like to say to other mothers in America?”

Fitina smiles shyly. “I send my greetings. If you are strong, it is my happiness.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Water Water

WITHIN MINUTES OF wrapping up with Fitina, we load onto the boat. The motor revs up and we are off.

Cruising along the edge of the peninsula, Maurice, Kelly, and I sit outside on the wooden benches, exhausted from the day. I ask Maurice, “Were they Congolese military?”

“Ah, no. They were Mai Mai,” he says, as he leaves to retire inside.

Fear chemicals surge through me and I start to shake as I describe the soldiers to Kelly.

The boat slows down suddenly. The skipper and first mate are throwing on their life vests. This is not a good sign. They’ve been barefoot and shirtless most of the day.

I