Two Crosses (6 page)

“Perhaps the most pitiful are the
harkis
—the Arab military who have remained loyal to France. They, of course, are seen as traitors to their country by the FLN, which takes great delight in slitting their throats from ear to ear if they are captured.

“And in the middle of this complicated mess you have a lot of innocent people getting killed. It’s the same in every war.” His voice betrayed a deep-set bitterness.

“It sounds, as you say, terribly confusing,” Gabriella admitted, although she was still thinking of the Huguenots.

They sat for a long time without speaking. Gabriella stared down the Esplanade and pictured the men of yesterday screaming their pain and love to God as they were martyred. She reached up her hand to touch the small cross that hung around her neck beneath her blouse.

M. Hoffmann broke the silence with a question. “Miss Madison, don’t you agree that religion brings despair? If there were a God up there, why would He sit silently by while His devoted followers tear each other apart?”

“I believe that God looks after His children,” she replied.

“His children! Ha! I love it! Aren’t the Jews His children? And didn’t your God look after them well as they were marched off to death camps and put in gas chambers? What a great father!” His eyes flashed angrily.

“Tell me about your father, Miss Madison. What is he like?”

Gabriella looked puzzled for a moment, then brightened. “My father is a very kind, wise, and loving man. He gets along great with all kinds of people. He’s not pretentious. He’s … he’s humble, but smart.…”

“Yes, you have a nice father, and so you believe in a nice God—a daddy God. Well, I’m not interested in a God who will be my father. The one I have just about killed me.”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d had such a terrible experience.”

“No, Miss Madison, I’m not interested in your God. David Hoffmann believes only in David Hoffmann.” He scowled. Then his face softened, and for a moment he seemed to want desperately for her to understand. “You were raised in a family that believed in an omniscient, loving higher being. It’s easy for you to believe as your parents do. You Christians say something is an answer to prayer. I take the same circumstance and say it’s coincidence. Prove to me a prayer was answered in your neat little religious way. I’ll show you it was not.”

Gabriella was silent, contemplating his challenge. Why was this man she barely knew challenging her with such angry intensity? Finally she spoke. “M. Hoffmann, I cannot prove that prayers are answered or that God is above if you do not want to believe it. But that isn’t my business anyway. It is God’s. He’s the one who changes hearts. I dare you to ask
Him
to prove Himself to you.”

M. Hoffmann laughed loudly. “Miss Madison, you are rarely at a loss for words, are you?” He reached out and touched her hand.

She met his gaze and pulled her hand away. Ironically she could think of nothing more to say, and so again they sat in silence.

Presently he spoke, “‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.…’” He continued reciting. “‘The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.’ Aren’t you impressed, Miss Madison? I know that psalm and many others by heart. But you will wait a very long time if you hope to hear me claim it as my own prayer.”

Gabriella had been put on the defensive long enough. “I thought you asked me here to talk of my life in Senegal, not to criticize my religion,” she snapped.

“Forgive me, that was my original intention. It was thinking of the poor Huguenots that got me on another tangent. And now I’m afraid it’s time to go back. I wouldn’t want your landlady to disapprove.” For a moment he seemed genuinely disappointed. “But never mind. We’ll be seeing each other often. You’ll have plenty of time to tell me all about your life on the Dark Continent.” He got to his feet, then took Gabriella’s arm to help her up.

She brushed away his hand. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay here a little longer.” With a touch of sarcasm, she added, “And don’t worry about my getting home. I’m a big girl.”

He kept his composure. “As you wish. Good afternoon, Miss Madison.” He walked across the wide, open square and turned down an adjoining street toward the bus stop.

If he asks me to do something again, I’ll say no
, she promised herself. But she knew it was a promise she wouldn’t keep. The heat of the sun began to fade and shadows spread out along the Comédie, but she did not move from her seat at the café until she was sure that David Hoffmann was a long way away.

Gabriella sat at the small wooden desk in her room, books spread out in front of her. In her mind she saw again David Hoffmann’s dark eyes taunting her and heard his voice reciting Psalm 121 with all the conviction of a true believer.

The man was so angry. Still, Gabriella was convinced that there was something more to him, behind his cynical eyes and proud exterior. Something worth discovering.

She imagined again the French Protestants being tortured and killed for their faith, and she pulled the cross out from under her blouse. Holding it gently in her hand, she traced its outline with her fingers. The points of four thick arrows turned inward toward the center, with a
fleur-de-lis
embedded within each corner of the cross. A small dove dangled below the bottom arrow. In Montpellier had lived the people who wore this cross. And wearing it, they had lived and died for their faith.

She opened her Bible and leafed through the pages until she found Psalm 121. In the margin Gabriella had scribbled the words
This is Your promise to me, God
. How ironic that M. Hoffmann had quoted the very psalm she had claimed for herself upon leaving Senegal for France.

She didn’t fall asleep until long after the moon had risen to its full height. The warm wind of September teased the olive tree outside her window, causing its leaves to brush against the windowpane and taunt her with a whisper of love and hope.

5

The boat rocked wildly on the waves of the Mediterranean. Dawn had not yet come, and the wind blew cool. Far off, Anne-Marie could see the flickering lights of the shore. Her eyes gazed out from a face swollen and bruised.

“Oh, Ophélie,” she murmured. “I’m glad you can’t see Mama now. It’s better that you think I’m dead. God be with you, Ophélie. The God of Papy be with you!”

The sheets rustled on the bunk above, where Moustafa sat in a crouched position, his head skimming the ceiling of the tiny compartment.

“We’ll be there soon.” His voice was gruff, and Anne-Marie felt the anger and bitterness in his words. Moustafa would not help her now. He had been beaten into submission. He was theirs.

She didn’t blame him. It was her life or his. Only for love did one give his life for another, and there was no love in this war. Only wild extremists who sacrificed everything for the cause of independence. And a crazy man who sought a terrifying revenge.

What had happened to the Algeria she had known and loved? The joyful days of her childhood when she played in the street with friends, French and Algerian, Muslim and Catholic, Protestant and Jew, now seemed like a dream.

“Get up, Anne-Marie! We’re going to debark.” Moustafa climbed down the ladder and waited for her to rise.

She stood shakily and for a moment thought she would faint, but Moustafa’s hand steadied her and firmly led her through the door and down the dark corridor. Ali and Rachid waited impatiently by the door.

“Here, put this on,” Ali hissed, thrusting a white lace scarf into her hands. “Welcome home, little tramp!” He pushed her forward toward the railing as the boat lurched and made its way into the port.

Anne-Marie stepped from the crowded bus into the streets of Algiers. Before her loomed rows and rows of buildings stacked up like a deck of cards on a hill. No one needed to tell her where she was; they were entering the Casbah. This was the old part of the city, named for the Turkish-built sixteenth-century fortress that dominated the quarter. It was also the headquarters for the FLN.

They walked past stalls where merchants were selling fruits, vegetables, and other wares in front of a row of low arches. Anne-Marie pulled the scarf tightly around her face so that only her eyes were visible. It was a death sentence for a pied-noir to be spotted in this neighborhood. Even in France she had heard of the young pied-noir girl raped and beaten to death here a few months earlier.

Keep walking or they will kill you right here
, she told herself. Her skin was not as dark as that of the Algerians, but her black hair and dark eyes and the traditional Algerian scarf covering her face helped to conceal her identity.

Moustafa was by her side, pushing her along in front of Ali and Rachid. They started up the hill toward the mountain of apartments that stretched out before them in haphazard fashion. It was true what people said: the Casbah was a labyrinth. Once you were inside, it was impossible to find the way out unless you lived there.

Anne-Marie wished desperately for a drink of water, but she dared not ask. The sound of her dry cough echoed again and again as they continued up the road. She glanced over at Moustafa and pitied him. Her danger in the Casbah was great, but what about his? He was twice a traitor, and nowhere would be safe for him. Yet he didn’t look afraid. His face was set in determination and hate—so different from the face of the trusted friend she had known almost all her life.

Just eight months earlier she and Ophélie had crossed the Mediterranean with him, escaping from Algeria. A pied-noir woman, her fatherless child, and the son of a harki.
Harki!
It was an explosive word in these days of war.

Moustafa had come to her, eyes wide with fear. “The FLN killed my father, Anne-Marie. They slit his throat. I must leave or they’ll kill me. You must go too. It’s much too dangerous for Ophélie … and for you.”

She had known he was right. Life in Algeria was dangerous enough for a son of a harki and a pied-noir who at one time had given information to the FLN. If only their crime stopped there. But it was much worse. So they had fled from their homeland in the middle of a bitter night in January in search of safety in France.

“In here.” Ali’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “This is where you’ll stay.”

Rachid shoved Anne-Marie into the darkness of a drab cement building, and Moustafa followed.

“Touching, isn’t it, to see these friends reunited in their lovely Algeria,” Ali crooned. He entered the dark room and grabbed Moustafa’s shirt, pulling him around. “Explain the rules to her carefully. Remind her what happens to beautiful women who do not talk! To disgusting pied-noir trash! Though I would be surprised if she has forgotten so soon.” He pushed Moustafa back into the darkness. “We’ll be back shortly.”

Ali and Rachid left. Anne-Marie, sobbing, felt about in the blackness and found a chair.

Moustafa paced back and forth in the small room. “Stop crying!” he whispered angrily. “I can’t think if you cry.”

She turned toward him. “You won’t betray Ophélie, Moustafa?”

“You are foolish, Anne-Marie. They’ll find Ophélie and bring her back here with the information. There is hope that you may both live, if you will only talk. Otherwise you will die. And they’ll still find Ophélie, and it will be much worse for her.”

Anne-Marie held her head in her hands. She didn’t believe him. She felt certain that he too would be eliminated as soon as Ali had gotten all the information he wanted.

At least by now M. Gady had the little blue bag, and Ophélie was safe, hidden away. All Anne-Marie had to do was reveal a part of the truth. They would go to M. Gady’s shop and search, but no one would be there.

She turned to Moustafa, a hopeful tone in her voice. “Don’t worry, Moustafa. I’ll talk.” But in spite of her resolve, she touched the tiny bottle sewn into her sleeve and smiled to herself. Ophélie would be safe.