Two Crosses (19 page)

Then the terrifying wait in the train station, wondering who would appear to snatch her away like a quick burst from the mistral wind. But no one had come.

She thought of the subconscious warning that had haunted her on and off all day.
I should have listened to Mother Griolet … and to You, Lord.

Heavily she picked herself up off her bed, surprised to see a glimmer of sun streaking through the tiny gap in the closed shutters. Her head throbbing, she slowly pulled on her skirt and a warm wool sweater. The blue cashmere lay in a heap on the chair, reminding her of the way her day had ended.

Sunday morning. The whole weekend spoiled. Well, she would go help Mother Griolet with the orphans at the church.

She leafed through her Bible to the gospel of John and found the verse she had quoted to David on their drive through the countryside.
I am the Vine, ye are the branches … without Me ye can do nothing.

She closed the Bible and sat for a moment with her eyes closed. “
Nothing
, Lord. You are right. So please come along with me today.”

Gabriella found Mother Griolet sitting alone in the hollow echoes of the church.

“
Ah, ma fille. Bonjour!
I was not expecting you.” She reached up to kiss her softly on each cheek. Then she held her face away and stared into Gabriella’s eyes. “You are not well today, my vivacious redhead. Your pretty eyes are all swollen.”

“Homesick, that’s all. It’s nothing. Give me a job to do, and it will pass.”

“Ah, that I can do, Gabriella. A new child has arrived from out of the blue, as you Americans say. Her mother is missing, presumed dead. No father. She’s terrified and grieving, I’m sure of it. But that is not what you will see on her face. I cannot make her talk, so it’s best that she grieves in her way. But perhaps you could take her to the beach for a walk. I’ll handle the others this morning with Sister Isabelle and Sister Rosaline.”

Mother Griolet rose, her long black robes silently sweeping the stone floor. Gabriella followed, wiping a tear with her sleeve and turning to focus on a new challenge. As the old woman opened the peeling wooden door to the parsonage, she turned back and whispered, “Her name is Ophélie.”

The child hadn’t spoken since the moment they met.

“Here we are at the beach at Carnon, Ophélie. This is where we get off.” Gabriella stepped down from the bus and held out her hand for the little girl, who climbed off slowly without taking it.

They made their way off the road and down through a path leading to the beach, the little girl limping beside her. The rich scent of thyme reached out from the dunes that rose up as if protecting the beach from the noise of the road.

“I like to come here by myself, just to think,” Gabriella offered, but Ophélie did not turn her head up to look or listen.

They walked in the quiet of the late morning, the chilly sea wind stinging their ears. The beach was deserted. Ophélie’s long brown hair flew in wild wisps behind her, pulled by the wind. Her coat was unzipped and her nose red with cold.

“Would you like to go back? Are you too cold?”

A definite shake of the head was Ophélie’s only response.

A seagull swooped down in front and cried mockingly to other birds, as yet unseen. The froth of the sea settled dangerously close to their feet. Gabriella moved away from the approaching tide, but Ophélie continued walking straight in the same direction.

“Do you mind if we sit for a moment on the rocks over there, Ophélie? I want to tie my hair back. It’s such a mess in this wind.”

Without waiting for a reply, Gabriella walked up the beach and sat down on a cluster of smooth rocks that were embedded far away from the reach of the tide. Ophélie followed.

Gabriella quickly untied the bright-blue scarf from around her neck, placing it between her teeth as she gathered her mass of hair into a single thick strand. As she tied the hair into place, pulling wisps out from under her collar, the lightweight chain and cross came out from under her shirt and settled on her chest, shimmering in the sun like a child blinking in the morning light.

“Much better. I should have pulled it back before we came, but I didn’t think of it.”

Gabriella babbled on, making conversation over nothing, but Ophélie didn’t seem to hear her. The child’s gaze was fixed on the shimmering cross hanging lightly around Gabriella’s neck.

Slowly Ophélie reached behind her own neck and unfastened a chain, then with both hands brought it around in front of her and placed it in the folds of her skirt. She fingered it delicately.

The woman and the child stared for a long while at two identical crosses.

Ophélie whispered, “It was my mama’s cross. A gift from her papa before he was killed in the war.…” She continued staring at the golden treasure in her lap. Then she straightened and turned a tear-streaked face toward Gabriella.

Gabriella gently took Ophélie’s hand in hers and touched the child’s cross. “And now your mama has given it to you. It’s a beautiful cross, isn’t it?”

“It is hope for Mama. She is missing, but I don’t think she is dead.”

“Yes, it is hope. Does your mama believe in the God of this cross?”

A shadow crept across Ophélie’s face. “I don’t think so. But Grandpapy did. Mama said he used to sing me songs about God when I was a baby. But then he died. Mama tried to sing the songs, but she would always cry. Poor Mama. She was always so sad. She didn’t think I saw.”

“She was sad because of her father?” Gabriella pressed cautiously for more information.

“Yes … and because there were bad men who came for her.”

“Why would bad men come after your mama, Ophélie?”

Ophélie lowered her head further so that her hair hung limply over her face. Her voice was almost inaudible. “She is not bad. My mama is not bad!” Then slowly, “But people might think she was bad because of those men. They were not nice to her.”

Ophélie lifted her face toward Gabriella. Her eyes were liquid and dark and filled with a hurt too deep for a child so young.

Gabriella pulled Ophélie closer, enfolding her in her arms. “Of course she’s not bad. She must be a very wonderful mother indeed to have a little girl like you.”

She kissed the child softly on the forehead and held her for what seemed a long time. In her mind she had a flash of another little girl whose mother was not bad. And farther out, the peaceful Mediterranean watched the wordless embrace of the young woman and the child, and the sun danced its rays through the mingled strands of red and brown hair and dried the unseen tears that they shared.

14

Jean-Claude Gachon nursed the large bump on top of his head with a pack of ice. The headache was still there, but not as fierce as the day before. He wished the children in the streets below would not make such a racket; he wished the baby upstairs had not cried at two a.m. But these were the slums of Marseille, and he had not come here in search of luxury.

He cursed as he thought of the wine bottle crashing on his head. Ali’s information had been right. Something
was
going on in Aix on October 21. Something to do with the redhead. But the girl hadn’t been alone.

He held a roll of film in his hands and slid it into a thick envelope. Ali needn’t worry. It was only a quick train ride from Marseille to Montpellier. He would find the redhead again. It was a simple matter of knowing where to wait. There were not so many choices after all.

He licked the flap of the envelope and sealed it tightly.

David caught Gabriella’s arm as she was leaving class on Monday morning. “May I have a word with you, Miss Madison?” He waited for the other students to leave, then closed the classroom door and motioned for Gabriella to take a seat. He stood, leaning against his desk. “You made it home without trouble? I have your things. I am sorry—”

Gabriella was too angry to hear his excuse. “You’re sorry, David. But not for me. You’re sorry that I botched your plans. I don’t know what they were, but I got in the way. You could at least have the decency to tell me what you are dragging me into.”

David didn’t flinch. “You’re right. It won’t happen again.”

“And that’s all you have to say? You put my life in danger, and that’s it—‘it won’t happen again’?” She looked away, brushing her long hair over her shoulders. The late October chill made her shiver as she watched the last leaves clinging to the branches of an old gnarled plane tree. “You won’t tell me what you are up to, and you pretend that it’s for my safety. But there’s something else.”

He still said nothing in his defense, so Gabriella continued. “Does it have to do with the war?” she blurted. “Are you involved in the Algerian War?”

David laughed. “And what would I, an American, have to do with the war over there?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

His expression changed, and he leaned toward her. Suddenly she felt ill at ease, as if she had demanded that he reveal a secret she had no business knowing.

“Revenge,” he replied.

“Revenge? Revenge for what?” Gabriella was incredulous.

“Revenge for a helpless little boy who watched his mother and sister die. Revenge for a Jew.” He whispered with a vengeance that scared her. “This war is about minorities. Algerians who feel oppressed by the French. Pied-noirs who want to keep their land and possessions. Harkis who are faithful to France. They are all pitiful minorities.

“So I was too, in the other war. My people were killed because of our heritage. I was in a camp for a year. And I was the only child to survive.”

He turned toward Gabriella, but she was sure he was not seeing her.

“I survived, but I died doing it. You cannot know! You have no right to know!” He stood abruptly and walked toward the door, then stopped.

Gabriella felt pity for him, but she was too proud to say it. “And so now you take out your hatred on others? Is that it? You are such an angry man, David.”

“I deserve to be angry, Gabriella! What right do you have to accuse me, you who lived in the shelter of your mother’s skirts? Don’t judge me in your pious way!”

Gabriella said nothing for a moment. Then she spoke, reaching for her words, as the sun shimmered through the window.

“You think you’re the only one in the world who has suffered? You think that because I call myself a Christian, life has been easy for me and my family? You think we are immune to suffering, nothing touches us? If that is what you think, you’re wrong.”

Her eyes were wet with tears. “I have two younger sisters, but at one time I had three. When Ericka was six, she got sick, and Father was away in the bush. Mother had some medicine, but the fever rose. Ericka needed penicillin, but we had no transportation. We’d been in this village for two years, living among the people, but they still seemed hostile and removed. Mother radioed to the closest mission station, two hundred miles away, but it would be three days before they could get to us. And so she prayed. For two days and nights she didn’t sleep. She bathed Ericka and put compresses on her, but my sister only grew weaker.

“Her skin turned yellow, then blue, and she coughed up blood. And then she was gone. Mother sat beside her cold body for another day. She spent all her tears there. Then she put on her black shawl and the other traditional mourning clothes of the Senegalese. She opened her home and received the women of the village. They embraced her and wailed and held her. For, suddenly, she was like them, in her grief. We buried Ericka, Mother and I, with the people looking on. When Father returned five days later, it was all over.”

David touched her sleeve, as if to touch the pain, but Gabriella’s head remained bent.

“And how did you get through your pain?” he asked.

“I cried a lot, and I yelled at God. I thought I would never get over it. But the pain left, finally, and then there was something even worse. It was hate.” She brushed her eyes and continued. “I was angry. Angry at my father for being away. Angry at the mission for not coming quickly enough. Angry at God for letting her die. He could have stopped it! And I was angry with myself for standing by and not being able to do anything.”

David nodded, as if he understood the feeling of helplessness. “And are you still angry?”