She remembers each one of their names, still whispers every syllable every night—asks God to remember them because she can't forget.
Oh, he had wept over their desperate pasts, their miserable plights and desecrated bodies—had wept and gnashed his teeth against her until she could feel them too.
But she had tucked second hand blankets around tired but-I-don't-want-to-go-to-sleep bodies, told them stories until they'd hush—stories about Ruslan and Ludmila, Snegurochka—taught them to sing "Jesus Loves Me."
All children-save one-go to heaven.
And his name never needs remembering.