Abstract
Riverside. Land of oranges. Land of perfume. Time of torture. Aft er more than half a century, Polingaysi still could not recall that interval without a surge of emotion, remembering the white nights fi lled with the cloying scent of the orange and lemon groves, remembering the stifl ed sobbing of the lonely child she had been. But there was another, happier, memory of that time. Each day the schoolchildren sang. Song was Polingaysi’s salvation. Polingaysi Qoyawayma, No Turning Back, 59– 60
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