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Yves attempted to tug Tibon away. Tibon would not let go. The boy was struggling for every breath now, his neck limp, his body shaking.

One of the other boys grabbed Yves’ machete—Félice’s machete, Doña Sabine and Don Gilbert’s machete—and plunged it into Tibon’s back.

Tibon seemed startled by the intrusion of the cold metal into his back. It was as though he had been in the middle of a dream. Releasing the boy, he reached behind him to check his wound. The boy fell to the ground, coughing, rolling beyond our reach.

Tibon thrust his hands in front of him once more, clutching at the air. The others kneed Tibon in the ribs and watched him fall to the ground. Tibon turned on his side and closed his eyes. The boy whose neck he had been squeezing slowly rose to his feet. He regained his balance and kicked Tibon in the chest.

Now the others circled Yves and me. La Orquesta Presidente Trujillo started playing the popular hymn “Compadre Pedro Juan.” The crowd cheered as they watched one of the youngest players squeeze his accordion while holding it over his head.

I fumbled with my parcel and tried to find my knife. The bundle slipped from my grasp and someone grabbed it. I saw hands clutch it and then watched it disappear above the heads into the crowd.

Yves and I were lifted by a mattress of hands and carried along next to Tibon’s body. Two soldiers laughed, watching. The young toughs waved parsley sprigs in front of our faces.

“Tell us what this is,” one said. “Que diga perejil.”

At that moment I did believe that had I wanted to, I could have said the word properly, calmly, slowly, the way I often asked “Perejil?” of the old Dominican women and their faithful attending granddaughters at the roadside gardens and markets, even though the trill of the r and the precision of the / was sometimes too burdensome a joining for my tongue. It was the kind of thing that if you were startled in the night, you might forget, but with all my senses calm, I could have said it. But I didn’t get my chance. Yves and I were shoved down onto our knees. Our jaws were pried open and parsley stuffed into our mouths. My eyes watering, I chewed and swallowed as quickly as I could, but not nearly as fast as they were forcing the handfuls into my mouth.

Yves chewed with all the strength in his bulging jaws.

At least they were not beating us, I thought.

I tried to stop listening to the voices ordering the young men to feed us more. I told myself that eating the parsley would keep me alive.

Yves fell headfirst, coughing and choking. His face was buried in a puddle of green spew. He was not moving. Someone threw a bucketful of water at the back of his head. A few more people were lined up next to us to have handfuls of parsley stuffed down their throats.

I coughed and sprayed the chewed parsley on the ground, feeling a foot pound on the middle of my back. Someone threw a fist-sized rock, which bruised my lip and left cheek. My face hit the ground. Another rock was thrown at Yves. He raised his hand and wiped his forehead to keep the parsley out of his eyes.

The faces in the crowd were streaming in and out of my vision. A sharp blow to my side nearly stopped my breath. The pain was like a stab from a knife or an ice pick, but when I reached down I felt no blood. Rolling myself into a ball, I tried to get away from the worst of the kicking horde. I screamed, thinking I was going to die. My screams slowed them a bit. But after a while I had less and less strength with which to make a sound. My ears were ringing; I tried to cover my head with my hands. My whole body was numbing; I sensed the vibration of the blows, but no longer the pain. My mouth filled with blood. I tried to swallow the sharp bitter parsley bubbling in my throat. Some of the parsley had been peppered before it was given to us. Maybe there was poison in it. What was the use of fighting?

I thought I heard a bugle, a cannon blast, then another bugle. La Orquesta Presidente Trujillo stopped playing.