Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (23 page)

He let out a long sigh and shrugged his shoulders—he actually looked relieved by our request. The man had many more people living with him now than at the beginning of the war, and sheltering us was a constant worry for him.

“If going to the French is what you all want, I’ll find out where they are and see if it is possible to take you there,” he finally consented. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. It is still very dangerous outside . . . a Tutsi seen on the road will be killed instantly.”

PASTOR MURINZI WAS WORRIED. He was afraid that three months of confinement in his little bathroom had addled our minds, so he decided that he had to stimulate them. One night while we were waiting for news about the location of the French troops, he came to us with a surprise invitation. For the first time since he’d locked us away, he asked us to join him in the main house for a visit. And not just any visit—he invited us to the movies.

In the wee hours of the night, when everyone else in the house was sound asleep, the pastor led us down the hallway to an empty bedroom where he’d set up a TV and video machine. He shushed us along the way because of the noise we were making. After months of sitting, our legs were wobbly, and we kept bumping into the walls. Nevertheless, I was very grateful to the pastor for giving us a respite from the bathroom, and we were all smiling from ear to ear.

The pastor was worried that we might be overheard, so we watched the video with the volume turned off. Luckily, by that point we’d become expert lip readers and had no trouble understanding the entire movie. I missed the name of the film, but I remember the story vividly. It was about a nurse stationed in a desert village that had no doctors, so to save lives, she was forced to practice medicine without a license. She was persecuted for her good deeds, but was ultimately vindicated—and by the end, she was both triumphant and celebrated.

The story was inspiring, but what I remember most about the movie was a scene where a young boy was singing a song while riding his bicycle through a park. My first reaction was of concern: I was worried that he’d be spotted by the killers and attacked, and I wanted to yell at him to go and hide. Then I remembered that it was only a movie, and it wasn’t even set in Rwanda. I’d forgotten that there were places in the world where being born Tutsi wasn’t a crime punishable by death. Once I knew that the boy was safe, I desperately wanted to jump through the screen and join him. I wanted to run in the grass, sing a beautiful song, and make a joyful noise unto the Lord! I wanted to live in a world where children laughed and no one was forced to hide.

Unfortunately, the pleasure of our movie night was short-lived. One of the pastor’s houseboys had been outside and had seen the blue light of the TV flickering in the window of what he knew should have been an empty room. Hoping for a reward, he reported what he’d seen to a group of killers and told them that he’d long suspected Pastor Murinzi was hiding Tutsis somewhere in the house.

A friend of the pastor warned him that a very large group of killers was preparing to search his home. He told the pastor that they thought he’d been lying to them for weeks and were very angry.

When the pastor came to tell us what had happened, he looked very nervous. I’d never seen him so scared. He dropped onto his knees, and for the first time since we’d arrived, clasped his hands together and prayed for our souls: “Dear God, if it is time for these ladies to go to You, please take them quickly.”

I didn’t find his prayer at all comforting. He’d frightened us more than we’d ever been—if that was even possible. “Pastor, do you think that the houseboy saw us go back to the bathroom after the movie? Do you really think that they know exactly where we are?” I whispered.

“I’m not sure what they know, but we’ll find out soon enough. The killers are on their way. If they know about the bathroom and find you here, they’ll kill us all.”

CHAPTER 16

Keeping the Faith

I
heard
the killers call my name.

A jolt of terror shot through me, and then the devil whispered in my ear again:
Now they know who you are . . . now they know where you
are. . . .

My head snapped back, and I was thrown completely off guard. Why did they call out
my
name—how did they know I was here? Were they coming to the bathroom?

I tried to call on God, but all I could hear was the negative voice blaring in my mind . . . along with the vicious, sadistic chants of the killers echoing through the house. Clothes soaked in sweat, I fumbled with my faith.

There were hundreds of them this time. They were yelling at the pastor, accusing and threatening him. “Where is she?” they taunted. “We know she’s here somewhere. Find her . . . find Immaculée.”

They were in the pastor’s bedroom, right on the other side of the wall. Less than an inch of plaster and wood separated us. Their footsteps shook the house, and I could hear their machetes and spears scraping along the walls.

In the chaos, I recognized the voice of a family friend. “I have killed 399 cockroaches,” he boasted. “Immaculée will make 400. It’s a good number to kill.”

As I cowered in the corner, the devil was laughing at me:
They
know your name . . . they know you’re here. Where is your God now?

The killers were pressuring the pastor: “Where are the Tutsis? You know what we’ll do if we find them. Where is she, Pastor? Where is Immaculée? This is the last place she was seen. Where are you hiding her?”

My spirit tumbled back into the arms of fear and doubt, and I was even more frightened than I’d been the first time the killers came. Their voices clawed at my flesh, and I felt like I was lying on a bed of burning coals. A sweeping wave of pain engulfed my body, and a thousand invisible needles stabbed my flesh. Yet I tried again to pray:
Dear God, forgive me for my lapse of faith . . . I trust in You, God . . .
I know that You will save us. You are stronger than the evil in this house.

The killers were in the room where we’d watched the movie, overturning the furniture and calling out my name again and again. “We want Immaculée . . . it’s time to kill Immaculée.”

I covered my ears, wishing that I had one of their machetes so that I could cut them off to stop from hearing. “Oh, God . . .” I began to pray out loud, but couldn’t form any other words. I tried to swallow, but my throat closed up. I had no saliva, and my mouth was drier than sand.

I closed my eyes and prayed that I’d disappear, but the voices grew louder. I knew that they would show no mercy, and my mind echoed with only one thought:
If they catch me, they will kill me. If they
catch me, they will kill me. If they catch me, they will kill me
.

I put the Bible in my mouth and clenched it tightly between my teeth. I wanted to swallow God’s words, to gulp them down into my soul. I wanted to find His strength again, but the negative spirit that had haunted me for so long was planting horrid images in my mind. I saw what the killers would do to me when they found us: I saw the torture, the humiliation, the murder. . . .

Oh, God, please!
I screamed silently.
Why do You want me to go
through this? Why? What else can I do to show You my love? I want to
believe that You will save us, God. How can I have more faith? I’m praying
so hard, God, so hard . . . but they’re so close, and I’m so tired! Oh, God
. . . I’m so tired.

I felt faint—consciousness slipped away from me until the killers’ thundering voices were only a soft, distant rumble. Then I was sleeping . . . and dreaming a sweet dream of Jesus.

I floated like a feather above the other women. I saw them trembling below me on the floor, holding their Bibles on their heads, begging God for mercy. I looked up and saw Jesus hovering above me in a pool of golden light, and his arms were reaching toward me. I smiled, and the constant aches and pains that had become part of my body after weeks of crouching disappeared. There was no hunger, no thirst, and no fear—I was so peaceful . . . so happy.

Then Jesus spoke: “Mountains are moved with faith, Immaculée, but if faith were easy, all the mountains would be gone. Trust in me, and know that I will never leave you. Trust in me, and have no more fear. Trust in me, and I will save you. I shall put my cross upon this door, and they will not reach you. Trust in me, and you shall live.”

Suddenly I was back on the floor again with the others. Their eyes were still closed, but mine were wide open, staring at a giant cross of brilliant white light stretching from wall to wall in front of the bathroom door. As I looked, radiant energy brushed my face, warming my skin like the sun. I knew instinctively that a kind of Divine force was emanating from the cross, which would repel the killers. I knew that we were protected and safe, so I jumped to my feet, feeling like I had the strength of a lioness. I thanked God for touching me with His love once again, and then I looked down at the others.

For the first and last time while I was in the bathroom, I shouted at my companions: “We’re safe! Trust me . . . everything is going to be okay!”

The loudness of my voice hit them like a slap in the face. They looked at me like I was a madwoman, and then they reached up and pulled me down to the floor. I smiled—even though I could no longer see the cross on the door, I knew it was there. The killers had already left the house . . . I heard them singing as they walked away.

The pastor came to see us later that night. “They went straight to where I’d shown you the movie,” he explained. “They tore the room apart. When they found nothing, they almost tore the
houseboy
apart. They apologized and left, but it isn’t safe here for you anymore. I fired the houseboy . . . now he’s angry
and
suspicious. He’s friends with the other servants, and I’m sure that they’ll all be watching my every move from now on. Let’s hope that the French soldiers arrive in our area soon.”

For the next week or so, we lived on tenterhooks. The killers visited again, turning Pastor Murinzi’s bedroom upside down in their search for any sign that he was hiding Tutsis. And again, they promised to be back.

The pastor was so worried he was being spied on that he cut back on the number of times he’d bring us food. We tried to joke that we’d found a sure way to escape the killers—starving to death—but hunger gnawed at us greatly.

IN EARLY JULY WE HEARD ONE OF THE OTHER HOUSEBOYS knock on the bedroom door. “Pastor, it’s been such a long time since I’ve gotten to the bathroom in there. Why don’t I clean it for you now?”

Our spines stiffened . . . would this torture never end?

“Don’t worry about the bathroom,” the pastor replied. “I’ve cleaned it myself.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t do that—that’s
my
job. Let me in, and I’ll scrub that bathroom good for you.”

“No. I’ve lost the key, so I’m not using the toilet in there . . . now go away. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Maybe I can open it without a key.”

“Go away! Didn’t I just tell you that I don’t want to be disturbed?”

It was the first time in three months that someone had asked to clean the bathroom, so it seemed clear that the houseboy had figured out where we were hiding. We were beside ourselves with worry, certain that he’d go to the killers and tell them exactly where to search: the only room in the house where they
hadn’t
already looked!

The pastor came to us after the houseboy left and said that he didn’t think he’d go to the killers right away. “They almost killed the last houseboy when they didn’t find Tutsis in the place he told them to look,” he explained, “so I think this one will wait until he has proof. He might not go to them today, but he will definitely go to them soon.”

We looked at each other, knowing that we’d run out of time.

“I heard this morning that the French soldiers are in the area looking for Tutsi survivors—I will talk to them today. Make sure that you’re extra quiet while I’m gone,” the pastor said, and hurried from the house.

As soon as he left, the houseboy began tormenting us. We could hear him moving around outside the bathroom window all afternoon. We knew that he was listening for voices or any movement, trying to confirm his suspicions before going to the killers. We didn’t move a muscle for hours.

At one point, he dragged a stool or table beneath the window and climbed up. We held our breath as he clambered up the wall, and we nearly fainted when his shadow appeared against the curtain. Thank God the window was just beyond his reach, but he still stood there for the rest of day, waiting and listening. Eventually someone called him away, and we relaxed a bit, although I felt nauseated from the adrenaline that had been pumping through my bloodstream all day.

The pastor returned that evening, but this time he brought good news—maybe the best I’ve ever received: “I found the French soldiers, and I told them all about you. They’re not far away from here, and they said to bring you to them very early tomorrow, between 2 and 3 o’clock in the morning.”