scared as anyone else and I did what they
said, although I wondered why the Russians hated us so much
and I was thinking there must be a Russian child like me,
scared to die. You can’t help being scared when you are so
little and all the adults say the same thing. Y ou have to believe
them. You had to stay there for a long time and be quiet and
your shoulders would hurt because you had to stay under your
desk which was tiny even compared to how little you were
and you didn’t know what the bomb was yet so you thought
they were telling the truth and the Russians wanted to hurt
you but if you stayed absolutely still and quiet on your knees
and covered your ears underneath your desk the Russians
couldn’t. I wondered if your skin just burned o ff but you
stayed on your knees, dead. Everyone had nightmares but the
adults didn’t care because it kept you obedient and that was
what they wanted; they liked keeping you scared and making
you hide all the time from the bomb under your desk. Adults
told terrible lies, not regular lies; ridiculous, stupid lies that
made you have to hate them. They would say anything to
make you do what they wanted and they would make you
afraid o f anything. N o one ever told so many lies before,
probably. When the Bay o f Pigs came, all the girls at school
talked together in the halls and in the lunchrooms and said the
same thing: we didn’t want to die virgins. N o one said anyone
else was lying because we thought we were all probably going
to die that day and there w asn’t any point in saying someone
wasn’t a virgin and you couldn’t know , really, because boys
talked dirty, and no one said they w eren’t because then you
would be low-life, a dirty girl, and no one would talk to you
again and you would have to die alone and if the bomb didn’t
come you might as well be dead. Girls were on the verge o f
saying it but no one dared. O f course now the adults were
saying everything was fine and no bomb was com ing and
there was no danger; we didn’t have to stand in the halls, not
that day, the one day it was clear atomic death was right there,
in N ew Jersey. But we knew and everyone thought the same
thing and said the same thing and it was the only thought we
had to say how sad we were to die and everyone giggled and
was almost afraid to say it but everyone had been thinking the
same thing all night and wanted to say it in the morning before
we died. It was like a record we were making for ourselves, a
history o f us, how we had lived and been cheated because we
had to die virgins. We said to each other that it’s not fair we
have to die now, today; we didn’t get to do anything. We said
it to each other and everyone knew it was true and then when
we lived and the bomb didn’t come we never said anything
about it again but everyone hurried. We hurried like no one
had ever hurried in the history o f the world. O ur mothers
lived in dream time; no bomb; old age; do it the first time after
marriage, one man or yo u ’ll be cheap; time for them droned
on. B ay o f Pigs meant no more time. They don’t care about
w hy girls do things but we know things and we do things;
w e’re not just animals who don’t mind dying. The houses
where I lived were brick; the streets were cement, gray; and I
used to think about the three pigs and the bad w o lf blow ing
down their houses but not the brick one, how the brick one
was strong and didn’t fall down; and I would try to think i f the
brick ones would fall down when the bomb came. They
looked like blood already; blood-stained walls; blood against
the gray cement; and they were already broken; the bricks
were torn and crumbling as if they were soft clay and the
cement was broken and cracked; and I would watch the houses
and think maybe it was like with the three pigs and the big bad
w o lf couldn’t blow them down, the big bad bomb. I thought
maybe we had a chance but if we lived in
said, although I wondered why the Russians hated us so much
and I was thinking there must be a Russian child like me,
scared to die. You can’t help being scared when you are so
little and all the adults say the same thing. Y ou have to believe
them. You had to stay there for a long time and be quiet and
your shoulders would hurt because you had to stay under your
desk which was tiny even compared to how little you were
and you didn’t know what the bomb was yet so you thought
they were telling the truth and the Russians wanted to hurt
you but if you stayed absolutely still and quiet on your knees
and covered your ears underneath your desk the Russians
couldn’t. I wondered if your skin just burned o ff but you
stayed on your knees, dead. Everyone had nightmares but the
adults didn’t care because it kept you obedient and that was
what they wanted; they liked keeping you scared and making
you hide all the time from the bomb under your desk. Adults
told terrible lies, not regular lies; ridiculous, stupid lies that
made you have to hate them. They would say anything to
make you do what they wanted and they would make you
afraid o f anything. N o one ever told so many lies before,
probably. When the Bay o f Pigs came, all the girls at school
talked together in the halls and in the lunchrooms and said the
same thing: we didn’t want to die virgins. N o one said anyone
else was lying because we thought we were all probably going
to die that day and there w asn’t any point in saying someone
wasn’t a virgin and you couldn’t know , really, because boys
talked dirty, and no one said they w eren’t because then you
would be low-life, a dirty girl, and no one would talk to you
again and you would have to die alone and if the bomb didn’t
come you might as well be dead. Girls were on the verge o f
saying it but no one dared. O f course now the adults were
saying everything was fine and no bomb was com ing and
there was no danger; we didn’t have to stand in the halls, not
that day, the one day it was clear atomic death was right there,
in N ew Jersey. But we knew and everyone thought the same
thing and said the same thing and it was the only thought we
had to say how sad we were to die and everyone giggled and
was almost afraid to say it but everyone had been thinking the
same thing all night and wanted to say it in the morning before
we died. It was like a record we were making for ourselves, a
history o f us, how we had lived and been cheated because we
had to die virgins. We said to each other that it’s not fair we
have to die now, today; we didn’t get to do anything. We said
it to each other and everyone knew it was true and then when
we lived and the bomb didn’t come we never said anything
about it again but everyone hurried. We hurried like no one
had ever hurried in the history o f the world. O ur mothers
lived in dream time; no bomb; old age; do it the first time after
marriage, one man or yo u ’ll be cheap; time for them droned
on. B ay o f Pigs meant no more time. They don’t care about
w hy girls do things but we know things and we do things;
w e’re not just animals who don’t mind dying. The houses
where I lived were brick; the streets were cement, gray; and I
used to think about the three pigs and the bad w o lf blow ing
down their houses but not the brick one, how the brick one
was strong and didn’t fall down; and I would try to think i f the
brick ones would fall down when the bomb came. They
looked like blood already; blood-stained walls; blood against
the gray cement; and they were already broken; the bricks
were torn and crumbling as if they were soft clay and the
cement was broken and cracked; and I would watch the houses
and think maybe it was like with the three pigs and the big bad
w o lf couldn’t blow them down, the big bad bomb. I thought
maybe we had a chance but if we lived in
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