Why is Sarah silent. . . (Part 2)

By Kirsten Nour Namskau

Some weeks later, I again tried to bring her to talk.
She was in a mood as if she wanted to cry. I took her on my lap and whispered: “ It’s OK Sarah, if you want to cry. No one will know. Only you and me.”
She rested her head on my shoulder as the tears run down her cheek.
After a while, I whispered: “ Will you tell me, Sarah?”
“Will you tell me you pain and sorrow?”
Sarah went down from my lap and stood in front of me, holding her hands on my knees.
But she didn’t say anything. She only stood for a long time and looked into my eyes.
I looked at her and started to hum with low voice:
“ Why is Sarah silent, why won’t Sarah talk to me?”
I repeated the humming several times: “ Why is Sarah silent, why won’t Sarah talk to me?”
Then she slowly took one step back, she took her pointer and hold it to her mouth as if she wanted to say “hush” , then her eyes turned very angry as she stared at me, she then took her pointer and draw a line crossing her throat.
She looked at me to see if I had understood.
I felt the chill creep in on me, because I understood very well.
I asked Sarah: “Has someone told you that if you say a word that person will kill you?”
Sarah nodded her head, looked at me and put her finger at her mouth.
I said: “ I will not tell anyone, Sarah.”
I continued: “ Sarah, can you draw the bad man?”
I gave her crayons and paper. She started to draw. . .
The first thing which hit me when I saw the drawing of a man was his hands.
She had used the red color and the fingers were “long”.
It was dripping blood from them. The man had glasses, was slim and used cover on his head.
When she was finish, she used the crayon and hit the man over and over again until the crayon broke.
I knew . . . This was the murderer of her parents.
As usually, I put the drawing in her file.

Some weeks later I whispered to Sarah: “ Sarah, will you tell me what happened that day?”
I gave her paper and crayons.
She made a drawing of a room in her home. There was a child sitting under a table, hidden by the table-cloth. Two people were lying on the floor. One man covered with red blood all over, and a woman. But the woman didn’t have any head. The head was on another place. On the floor was a big knife. The whole paper was filled with red color in tough lines and curls.
I looked at Sarah and asked: “ He didn’t see you, because you were under the table, Yes?”
Sarah nodded her head.
I continued: “ Sarah, is it that man who has said he will kill you too, if you talk?”
She nodded her head.
“Sarah” I said “ Do you know the man?”
She nodded her head and looked at me with scared eyes.
“Sarah” I said “I will not tell anyone what you tell me. OK?
But Sarah, I have to ask you . . . . How often do you see that man?”
She held her hands up in the air and started to count and count and count showing one and one finger at the time and suddenly I understood.
Suddenly I got scared myself. I was thinking: “Does this man know me too and my contact with Sarah? Am I in danger too?”
I asked Sarah: “Do you see him every day, Sarah?”
She nodded her head.
“Does he know you are coming to me for lessons, Sarah?” I asked.
She nodded her head.
I let her go to her class; I had got something to think about . . .

(To be continued. . .)