Two Testaments (17 page)

The graying baker came out of his shop, covered in flour, a sheepish look on his face. “
Bonjour
, Sister Rosaline,” he greeted her. “Today I have a little
cadeau
for two of your friends.”

“What kind of present? And for whom?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He laughed as he brought out a large paper sack full of warm baguettes and placed them on the counter. “Your regular order, Sister Rosaline. Plus this
pain de seigle
for Mlle Madison and a
pain complet
for Mlle Duchemin.” His eyes were merry, as if he had just played a trick and was trying to hide it.

Sister Rosaline nodded. “I understand.” She was just a simple link in the chain. But as she picked up the bag, she could not help saying, “Just like old times,
n’est-ce pas
? Just like old times.”

She was back at the orphanage in five minutes, and everyone still slept. Except for perhaps Mother Griolet. She was an early riser too. Or at least she used to be.

Sister Rosaline unlocked the door to the refectory, flipped on the light switch, and began placing bread in the long straw containers on the tables. Yes, Mother Griolet was tired, she mused with a smile on her face. But today she would announce the news to the old nun. Today she would tell her that she was expected for a two-week vacation in the Swiss Alps in the very near future.

She tucked the pain de seigle and the pain complet under her arm and stashed them in a kitchen cabinet. So there was news for the two young women too. Good for them. News all the way around today.

No sound of children’s voices echoed out into the hallway as Anne-Marie stepped into the building from the courtyard. The girls’ dormitory sat empty and quiet. She stretched out on Ophélie’s bed and withdrew a letter from her skirt pocket. The crusty, oblong loaf of pain complet had held a priceless treasure, and she unfolded the wispy sheets of paper, smiling to herself as she remembered Gabriella’s delight at having received a letter from David baked inside another loaf of bread. News from their men!

Anne-Marie,

I am sending this the way we have sent messages to that lonely orphanage for so long. Are you safe? Are you happy to be with your daughter? Are you stronger? And your legs? I think of you constantly and hope that you and Ophélie are well, laughing together. I miss you, my habibti.

There is no laughter here. The madness only increases. The FLN continue to terrorize the pied-noirs. The OAS have killed nearly a hundred Algerians just this week. All innocent victims.

I am glad David stayed. He is careful and smart. Mother refuses to leave until Hacène comes, but I hope to send her as a chaperone to other harki children going to the orphanage. For that she will leave with Rachida and Saiyda. The boy you met at the docks, Hussein, is staying with us. We hope to send him along soon. I am in contact with Rémi Cebrian, and he has several ideas.

Write to me, Anne-Marie, through the boulanger. I will get your letter. I dream every night of being back with you. A new life in France. This I imagine. I am not good with words, but you know my heart. Give my love to Ophélie.

A bientôt, j’éspère,

Moustafa

She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to have Moustafa here with her. She could not see it. The thought sent a chill up her spine as if in warning. She should not expect too much happiness. She did not deserve it. A tarnished woman.

Hath no man condemned thee?
Those words spoken by the enigmatic Christ. But was He to be trusted? How could she be sure? If she were not condemned, perhaps she could dare hope for a future—for Ophélie, for herself, even for Moustafa.

Everyone at this orphanage said the same thing.
Trust.
Well, of course they would. They were religious. But even David believed something now. That puzzled her. What would make a sworn atheist believe? She wished she could ask him the questions of her heart.

“Neither do I condemn thee,” she whispered and left the dormitory, holding the letter tightly in her hands.

11

Roger Hoffmann walked along the Potomac, admiring the blossoms on the cherry trees that were reflected in the Tidal Basin, looking like snow on the twisted branches. The Washington Monument stretched before him like an elongated finger pointing to the heavens. Daffodils tossed their yellow heads in the mild breeze at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial, as if to entice the president to come down from his pedestal to play.

He’d better enjoy the scenery now, Roger reminded himself, because in three short weeks he’d be leaving for another part of the world whose landscape would provide a sharp contrast. Of the five Americans whose dossiers had been presented to the FLN, he had been chosen.

He had balked at the idea of going to Algeria now, before the country was officially declared independent on July 2, but the word from the FLN was adamant. Important negotiations about oil needing immediate attention. Russians have expressed similar interests. The message was clear: first come, first served.

He felt a gnawing apprehension, which perhaps was not even directly related to the war. It was that blasted journalist asking questions about his son. And the newspaper clipping from mid-March. Somewhere in the recesses of his conscience, he wondered what David was doing in the south of France.

Might as well look him up while I’m over there.
He scoffed at the idea. He had no clue where David was.
Get the work done and get out if you know what’s good for you.

In the meantime, Roger had plenty to keep him busy. Details to handle. Conferences to attend. Counsel to be sought from a few men in the know. And a plane to be caught in the middle of a warm afternoon to take him to a country whose gaping wounds had surely swallowed up any hint of springtime renewal.

The train pulled into the quay in the Geneva station. Mother Griolet listened to the loud whistle and the incomprehensible announcement that came over the intercom.

So
, she thought.
I’m here
. A forced rest. The other women’s scheming had worked out perfectly, and she was glad for it. She had felt excitement, anticipation this morning when Jean-Louis drove her to the train station. But after five hours on the train, she had no energy to move from her seat.

A good thing this was the end of the line, she decided, or she might just stay put and take off to some unknown destination without the strength to protest.

A tall, silver-haired man in a dark-blue business suit stepped into her compartment. “There you are, Mother Griolet! How wonderful to see you again.” He bent down and kissed her cheeks. “You look just the same.” He held her arm as she stood shakily. “But I imagine you’re exhausted after the trip. I’ll have someone fetch your bags.”

“
Merci
, Joseph. I’m delighted to be here. How kind of you to come to get me.” She straightened up with difficulty, holding tightly to Joseph Cohen’s arm.

“Emeline has everything ready for you. Tonight we will stay at our home in Geneva, and tomorrow we’ll have a short drive to our chalet near Montreux. The perfect spot to rest. Just the lake and the mountains to charm you. Two weeks of complete rest—that’s what the Sisters ordered, and we intend to see that you get it!”

Mother Griolet felt as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders and any dark clouds had dispersed. She let her eyes drink in the scenery. France’s beauty was wild, almost untamed, but Switzerland looked as if someone had mowed the mountains so that every blade of grass was in place.

They followed the shoreline of Lake Geneva all along the drive, and the contrast of the placid deep-blue lake with the tall caps of the mountains reminded Mother Griolet of a psalm.
O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is Thy name in all the earth!
Majestic
was the word to describe the picture that moved outside her window.

Joseph parked the car by a chalet that sat perched on the mountain like an ornate triangle high above the lake. The narrow dirt driveway continued down at a steep angle where the lower part of the chalet was built into the sloping mountainside. Mother Griolet took Emeline’s arm, and they walked in the front door.

Beyond the entrance hall unfolded a spacious sitting room with a stone fireplace and a picture window that encompassed the entire side of the chalet. A sliding glass door led to the balcony with its finely sculptured wooden railings. Four oblong planters blossomed with bright-pink and red geraniums that cascaded down from the railing.

Emeline slid open the glass door, and Mother Griolet cried out in spite of herself, “A taste of paradise! It’s more than I could have hoped for.” She took her friend’s hand, squeezing it as they stared into the radiant sun.

“Yes,” whispered Emeline with a catch in her throat. “Much more than we ever imagined. Jehovah Jireh—the God who provides. Who would have thought that after the hell of the camps we would ever live to see these exquisite mountains?” She cleared her throat. “Let me get your bags. I’ll be right back.”

Elegant at forty-five, Emeline Cohen carried her tall frame with grace and poise. A woman of standing, the French would say. Her blond hair was swept back in a soft chignon. Such a contrast from the skeletal woman who had appeared at the orphanage in 1945. “My children,” she had said pitifully. “I am looking for my children.”

It was a dark memory, yet it shimmered with hope, because the three Cohen children had survived. Mother Griolet could still hear their squeals of delight as they ran into the arms of their mother and father. Jehovah Jireh.

“I’ve given you the room just off the den here,” Emeline called out as she crossed the spacious room. “That way you won’t have any steps to manage. I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”

Mother Griolet left the balcony, following Emeline through the den into an immaculate bedroom. “Oh, Emeline.
C’est trop beau.
”

“
Mais non!
Nothing is too good for you.”

The furniture was all light pine, crafted in simple Swiss symmetry. A fluffy white down comforter covered the bed, and a porcelain vase filled with wildflowers sat on the bedside table. The large window opened to the same view of the lake and mountains as that from the den.

“We’re so glad that you’re here,” Emeline said. “You must be tired. Why don’t you lie down for a few minutes while I get lunch ready?”

Mother Griolet did not argue. Instead, she unlaced and removed her black shoes, pulled back the comforter, took off her wimple and veil, and lay down on the bed. She had one flickering thought—
The whole earth is full of Thy glory
—before she drifted off to sleep.

The evening air turned chilly as the sun left the mountain in shadows. It touched the lake, making it glisten with a few waning rays, and disappeared. Joseph had lit a crackling fire in the fireplace and was sitting down in a comfortable chair, puffing on his pipe.

Emeline brought out plates. “It’s a bit late in the year for
raclette
,” she apologized, “but I remember how much you like it.”