I closed the door behind Vianney and Augustine and joined the other Tutsi women.
Pastor Murinzi carried a flashlight and led us down the dark hall- way to his bedroom. Our eyes followed the beam of light along the walls until it landed on a door that I assumed opened to the yard.
“This is where you’ll stay,” he said, swinging the door open to reveal our new home: a small bathroom about four feet long and three feet wide. The light shimmered as it bounced off the white enamel tiles on the bottom half of the walls. There was a shower stall at one end and a toilet at the other—the room wasn’t big enough for a sink. And there was a small air vent/window near the ceiling that was cov- ered with a piece of red cloth, which somehow made the room feel even smaller.
I couldn’t imagine how all six of us could possibly fit in this space, but the pastor herded us through the door and packed us in tight. “While you’re in here, you must be absolutely quiet, and I mean silent,” he said. “If you make any noise, you will die. If they hear you, they will find you, and then they will kill you. No one must know that you’re here, not even my children. Do you understand?” 5
“Yes, Pastor,” we mumbled in unison.