Some people managed to escape by darting into the deep shadows under the trees that lined the boulevard.  However most of us were forced to turn back again. We fled to the only route away from Chang'an, a narrow street, Shibei Alley, that led south into a warren of courtyards and alleyways.

The police seemed to emerge from all sides, rushing in among us swinging their clubs.  We couldn't avoid them, and couldn't get to the alleyway quick enough.  My camera, a big model with a heavy flash, slowed me further.  I had to cradle it in my arms like a baby.  I was clubbed in the legs, and another blow struck my camera flash, crushing it. 

The police did not follow us into the alley. Then we discovered its end was blacked by a temporary wall protecting a construction site beyond.  An even smaller walkway led off to the right.  Yefu and I ducked that way with one group of people.  Others turned in other directions, finding the narrow passageways and doors that typically honeycombed such neighborhoods of ancient and jumbled houses.

Back at the entrance to Shibei Alley a soldier began shooting.  The bullets caromed off the walls of the narrow street still packed with people.  Yefu and I were protected in the side passage, but trapped too.  Behind us, in the alley ten people had fallen to the ground, five of them killed outright.

Frantically, Yefu and I grasped each other's hands.  We had to find a way out.  Suddenly we saw a ladder lifted over the wall at the end of the passage.  We scrambled over with perhaps 30 other people.  We found ourselves in a small courtyard.  

Some old women and other citizens were gathered there.  They had heard the shooting, and the cries of those trapped in the alley.  They set up a sort of battle station, setting out basins of water and bringing bandages to dress wounds.  On a table at one side they placed biscuits and pots of tea.  

Yefu and I did not stay long.  We had to see what was happening to the students in Tiananmen.  In the tangled web of alleyways and courtyards we could not find our way to the Square.

Climbing a wall, we looked east, but our view of Tiananmen was blocked by the Great Hall of the People.  We could only see many tanks gathered to the north and south, at the entrances to the Square.  

At last we made our way back north to Chang'an Avenue.  We saw few people in the streets now, and no soldiers.  It was very dark: all the street lights had been put out.  Yefu and I found a flat-bed tricycle parked at the side of the road in front of a small shop.  We lay down on it to rest for a moment.  We heard no sounds from the Square.  

The night was very still and very black.  Exhausted we succumbed to sleep.

***

At 5:00 a.m. we were jarred awake by the sound of gunfire.  "It's coming from Tiananmen," Yefu said.

We jumped to our feet and ran toward the Square.  Clouds of dark smoke covered the city.  Through the smoke glowed the feeble white light of the rising sun.  At the entrance to the Square, five hundred students and citizens crouched on the pavement.  They were shouting to the soldiers, "Don't kill the students in the Square!" again and again and singing "The Internationale".  Hands high, they made the "peace" sign with their fingers.  

Yefu and I joined them sitting down in the last row.  A few moments later someone cried out, "Look!"  Following his gaze we saw a woman lying on the roof of a low building next to the road, between the crowd and the soldiers.  

The night before, many people had climbed up on these low shops and warehouses lining Chang'an.  They wanted to see the street, or onto the Square.  The soldiers found them easy targets.

This woman had probably lain there for many hours.  We couldn't see her clearly in the murky light.  Then one of the students peered at her through the zoom lens on his camera and saw that she was injured but still moving.  We all looked at one another in consternation.  How could we rescue her from that precarious position?

One young couple, dressed in trendy clothes, stood up and stepped forward.  They raised their hands high in a gesture of surrender, then pointed to the woman on the roof.  Hoping that the soldiers understood, they began walking very slowly toward the house.  

When they were halfway there two soldiers stood up as well.  One shouted into a megaphone, "Go back!  Go back!"  The other raised his gun and began shooting at the couple's feet.  The couple scurried back to the crowd.

We were outraged.  How could they not let us rescue this woman?  They had shot her, and were willing to let her die in plain view of their countrymen.  These soldiers were not men, could not be Chinese.  They were monsters.  

"Fascists!  Butchers!" shouted the crowd, "Killers!  Criminals!"

Unexpectedly, the soldiers began singing. "The red clouds are flying by the Western Hills/The soldiers have just come back from target practice...."

This military song was one we all knew, soldiers and civilians alike.  It captured a spirit of camaraderie and pride and love of life.  It was not a political song, and it was one we had all loved to sing with our friends.

Now this song had become a slap in the face.  How could they sing this song, as if they had just finished some military exercise, some target practice?