and it was opened to me. I asked for Mrs. F. and said who I was, and hardly had the maid gone into the house and pronounced my name when I heard a commotion and the stir of doors opening and closing. Then Mrs. F. received me and denied that my son was with her in the house. They had hidden him and taken him out through an inner door to the neighbors' house or to a friend's — I do not know. I saw his little shoes under the seat, and his toys here and there on the carpet, and I heard his voice from far away...

I said:

— And why did you not rush in and throw open the doors?

— No!

— And why did you not tell the lady that she was hiding the truth and that your son was there?

— No. I said nothing. My husband's sister is my son's aunt, and my husband's mother is the cause of his existence and the cause of my son's existence. And then, how could I say to a lady whom I respect, "You are lying"?!

I shall tell you — you who are reading this bleeding story — what I felt at that moment. I wished someone would take this woman up and cast her into the sea, that she might find rest from her killing love! Nor did I feel this strange rebellious feeling alone. My friend Mrs. A. Q. shared it with me, for after she learned what had happened to our friend in Cairo she said to me, word for word:

— It is strange, Salma, that I felt the very same feeling. She was with me on the balcony of this house of mine, and when she told me, I wished she would throw herself into the street and die and be at rest!

When I sailed for Brazil in the summer of 1939, I left her in Beirut, knocking on doors and appealing to lawyers and laws. Often my friend A. Q. and I tried to persuade her to abandon this suit, lost in advance; but we

were like one trying to budge that towering Sannine.

— Whoever wills a thing with all his strength attains it! I want my son, and I shall take him in the end.

Between 1940 and 1941 I was in a village of the Brazilian interior lying on the border of the state of Minas. One day the São Paulo mail reached me, and among it the newspaper al-Afkar, owned by Dr. Abi Jamra, and in it I read the following:

A Frightful Tragedy

The Beirut papers have brought us the story of a lady called A. F. — and al-Afkar told the story as the papers of that day chose to tell it, until it said:

But A. F. did not despair of contending with the days: she

carried her suit to the courts of France, and the French judges rejected her petition. It appears that the wounded mother grew weary of life without her son, for a few days ago she tried to drown herself in the river Seine; and when the divers pulled her out and the examining officer asked her the reasons for her attempt on her own life, she said sadly:

— For personal reasons that concern me alone.

But her longing for death was stronger than life. News from Paris reported that she threw herself from the fifth floor, where she lived, and struck the pavement of the street, skull and bones shattered! Then she gave up her spirit, murmuring: At last!!

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