Remember by Barbara Taylor Bradford Page B

all saying the same thing—get out before you’re killed.”
    Clee said, “Nicky, I’m going to go get some shots of those guys on the loudspeakers, and of Chai Ling.”
    Nicky spent the next ten minutes or so strolling in the area of the monument, her eyes scanning the crowds and the ledges hopefully. There was no sign of Yoyo, Mai or the other students she’d come to recognize, and she began to wonder if they had finally left the square.
    There was another announcement over the loudspeakers, another short silence, and then a second voice was heard, echoing out.
    Nicky walked on, circling the monument one last time. Much to her surprise, a number of the kids were beginning to stand up, climb down off the ledges and walk away. Many had tears streaming down their faces, they had lost their peaceful fight for freedom and democracy, military power had prevailed, and many innocent people had been slaughtered. But at least some lives will be saved now, she thought.
    Dawn was breaking, streaking the sky with light, filling it with an eerie, incandescent glow. She peered at her watch. It was after five, she could not stay in the square much longer. Sighing under her breath, she left the monument and started to walk to Changan. She would return to the hotel to prepare her newscast and the film segment, shower, put on her makeup and change her clothes. She and Arch had decided that first she would do the filmed piece on the balcony of the hotel, to be sent out by courier later that morning. At eight-fifteen she would do her live phone narration for the seven o’clock nightly news.
    Nicky had not walked far when she remembered the small canvas travel bag Yoyo kept in his tent. He had once told her his most important possessions were in it. Was his passport in the bag?
    Had he gone back for it?
    She turned around, dodged through the students who were now leaving, and hurried toward the tent encampment. As she ran she saw to her dismay that an increasing number of soldiers were coming into the square. Suddenly it seemed to her that they were everywhere, and in the distance she heard the clatter and rumble of tanks and armored personnel carriers moving forward across that vast rectangle of stone.
    War correspondents were not supposed to be heroic. They had to get the story and get out alive. Her father had drilled that into her. But now she had to go back to look for Yoyo and Mai, and so she plunged ahead through the deserted encampment, shouting, “Yoyo ! Mai ! ” One or two faces peered out of tents, and she cried, “Leave!
    Tanks are coming!” Realizing that they did not understand English, she made urgent gestures with her arms, and cried, “Go!
    Go ! ” hoping they would somehow get the message . And then she ran on, making for the center of the encampment.
    They saw each other at exactly the same moment—Yoyo and Mai, rounding the side of one tent as Nicky came out from behind another. They had both put on jackets, and Yoyo was carrying the small canvas bag.
    “Forgot bag,” Yoyo explained, holding it up. “Passport.”
    “Come on,” Nicky said. “Troops are here, everyone’s leaving.” She swung away from them, ready to return through the encampment.
     
    “This way! Quicker!” Yoyo exclaimed, and he took the lead as the three of them ran down a narrow opening between the rows of tents, and came out into an open area of the square, just to the north of the Martyrs’ Monument.
    Lines of troops were rapidly advancing in their direction, and behind them came the APCs and tanks intent on destroying everything that stood in their path.
    Nicky swung to her right and called, “Follow me ! ” then ran the opposite way, aiming for the monument and the entrance to Changan just beyond it.
    Her heart sank as she heard the sound of rifle fire behind her.
    Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that Yoyo and Mai were keeping up, so she continued to race across the square, putting distance between herself and the