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him with all my might and smelled his skin。 Yes; I trembled and I couldn’t
breathe。 Yes; I begged Allah to raise him up and have him sit silently in his
corner among his books as he always did。 Get up; Father; get up; don’t die。 His
bloodied head was crushed。 More than the torn papers and books; more than
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the breaking and tossing about of the end tables; paint sets and inkpots; more
than the wild destruction of cushions; worktables and writing boards; and the
ransacking of everything; more even than the anger that had killed my father; I
feared the hatred that had destroyed the room and everything within it。 I was
no longer crying。 A couple passed down the street outside; laughing and
talking in the blackness; meanwhile; I could hear the infinite silence of the
world in my mind; with my hands I wiped my running nose and the tears off
my cheeks。 For a long long time I thought about the children and our lives。
I listened to the silence。 I ran; I grabbed my father by the ankles and
dragged him into the hallway。 For whatever reason; he felt heavier out there;
but without paying any mind to this; I began to pull him down the stairs。
Halfway down; my strength gave out and I sat on a step。 I was on the verge of
tears again when I heard a noise that made me assume that Hayriye and the
children had returned。 I grabbed my father by the ankles; and pressing them
into my armpits; I continued to descend; faster this time。 My dear father’s
head had been so crushed and was so soaked in blood that it made the sound
of a wrung…out mop as it stru
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