Two Testaments (18 page)

“It is my favorite—you spoil me.”

“You deserve to be spoiled a little,” Joseph teased.

They talked freely, laughing often. The Cohens knew how to appreciate life, Mother Griolet observed silently. They had narrowly escaped having theirs cut short, and now, with generosity and warmth, they welcomed beauty and laughter into their chalet.

Later in their conversation, Joseph’s voice grew more serious. “And how are things in Castelnau?”

“Just a few matters of concern.”

“Tell us, Mother Griolet,” Joseph said, as they placed squares of cheese into little cupolas that were set under a grill to melt.

She sighed. “I’m afraid the town is turning against me—not that I care for myself. But for the children. People are so narrow-minded and fickle!”

Joseph nodded. “Did you expect them to be different?”

“Of course not. You know it was like this before. They lauded me for helping in the Resistance, then they turned up their noses at the Jewish children.”

Emeline nodded solemnly. “At our children and so many others. But
you
didn’t! You have never turned up your nose at anyone. And look how Jehovah has taken care of you! And there are others who help you,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“
Oui, bien sûr.
I’m not alone,” the old nun replied. “God has given me a group of compatriots.” She laughed at her choice of words. “Compatriots from different countries! Senegal, America, Algeria, France. And I suppose you’ve heard about the pied-noir and Arab children?”

“Only a quick
résumé
from dear Sister Rosaline,” Joseph said with a chuckle. “It didn’t surprise us a bit. You’re still rescuing—” His voice caught.

Quickly, before haunting memories could destroy the evening, Mother Griolet explained the smuggling operation from its inception until the present situation, with the overcrowded dormitories and the complaining townspeople.

“I suppose I could understand if these children were just Arabs. But they’re harki children. Their fathers died for France. Ah well, prejudice is prejudice. But of course you understand all about that.”

Emeline nodded. “Jews, Arabs, pied-noirs. All unwanted.”

“So the people have complained, and I’m afraid the church may cut off its funding. And the parents who support the exchange program are equally irate. I let one of our best teachers—the most handsome and eligible—go to Algeria to help in a terrible situation, and one of the young American ladies is mad or jealous. Unfortunately her father has quite a lot of influence with those businessmen who support the program.

“Dear Jean-Louis is taking up the slack, but … well, you know Jean-Louis. He doesn’t exactly fit the part.”

The Cohens nodded sympathetically. “So you’re lacking funds all the way around,” Joseph summarized.

“Well, not yet. I can finish out the school year, but if the parents cut their support and spread rumors of incompetence, we’ll have to close down the exchange program. And you know I’ve been on shaky ground with my superiors for years. If I retire and there is no one to take over, I’m sure they will shut the orphanage down too.”

“So you’re thinking about retirement?”

Mother Griolet chuckled as she poured the bubbling cheese over a potato. “I should have considered it years ago. Not quitting, but training someone else. I got my theology confused—thought I would be immortal on this side of heaven.

“Actually there are a few young people who could take over, if they were properly trained. One is the daughter of Protestant missionaries in Senegal, another is a single-mother pied-noir with no religion whatsoever, and the third is this intellectual young American who is off in Algeria. Each has the energy and the heart for such a job, but I’m afraid the church wouldn’t approve of any one of them.”

“If the orphanage had proper funding, could it be privately run? Or could it be taken on by the state?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never considered it. Perhaps.”

Joseph wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Let me think about these things. Give me a little time to investigate.”

Mother Griolet smiled at the couple, her eyes grateful. “Thank you, thank you both. And, Joseph, I have another little matter of interest to discuss with you. It’s about my will.”

“Mother Griolet, you’re not planning on leaving us yet!” Emeline scolded.

Mother Griolet laughed. “I hope not. Nevertheless, things must be in order, and I have a few changes that need to be made. I thought you might have a lawyer friend who could look at it.”

Joseph squeezed her hand. “I have a dear
ami
who would like nothing better than to spend an afternoon looking out on the lake with a charming lady.”

Mother Griolet laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Well, then, I can see why the Lord sent me here. You will help me solve all my problems. But I’ve burdened you enough for one night.” She rose from the table, feeling very old.

“Anything we can do to help,” Emeline said emphatically, and Joseph nodded his approval.

“
Merci. Mille fois merci.
You’re so good to me.”

Snuggled beneath the warm comforter, Mother Griolet watched the luminous white moon so stark against the pitch-black sky. By its incandescent light the snow-capped tips of distant mountains were barely visible, looking somehow surreal.
Give me only a little while longer, Lord
, she prayed.
Only a little while. I am coming soon.

The new terror in the month of May spread from the bowels of Bab el-Oued into all of Algiers. Teenage pied-noirs, aligned with the OAS but now uncontrolled, exploded into complete madness. The death count in the first week climbed toward two hundred. Seven Arab women were shot in the back of the head as they walked from their homes to the pied-noir residences where they had worked for years. A thirteen-year-old youth interrupted a young couple in the road, pulled a trigger, and shot the man in the face.

A booby-trapped truck blew up at the docks while hundreds of Arab men waited in line to be hired for the day. Over sixty perished. A priest watched twenty Algerians murdered within the church, while he stood by helpless. Postmen, store owners, street vendors, housewives. Random and terrifying, pied-noirs and Algerians alike watched and wondered when the horror would end.

Rémi Cebrian thanked the Lord every day that his wife and children were safe in France. Perhaps not happy, but safe. And by now Eliane would be in Montpellier, near Anne-Marie. How ironic that their lives were entwined again with their old neighbors. The Duchemin girl in France, the Dramchini boy here in Algiers.

Rémi brought a tray of steaming mint tea into the main room of the farmhouse. The two young men who sat before him looked intent on their business.

Rémi listened as Moustafa and the American, David Hoffmann, explained how their rescue operation had worked in the past. They told him of the orphanage in Castelnau and their conviction that more war orphans could be saved using the same means.

“It won’t be easy to get the harki kids onto the ferries,” Rémi commented.

“Yes, we have already realized that,” the lanky American said wryly. “Is there no other way?”

Rémi thought for a moment. His eyes fell on the two trunks in the corner of the room. “I have an idea,” he said softly. “Just an idea, so bear with me. I have these wooden trunks to send to Eliane. Perhaps we could smuggle a child in one of these.”

David frowned, and Rémi forestalled his argument. “No, look. If we cut holes in the insides, enough for a little air. Once the trunk is on the ferry, the child could get out—at night while everyone slept. No one would throw him into the water once he was already on board.”

“And how do you propose to get a trunk on the ferry?” Moustafa said skeptically. “The people are fleeing with tiny suitcases.”

“We’ll think of a way. There has to be a way.” Rémi had already opened one of the wooden trunks and begun taking out the contents. “Yes, a child could fit in here. Have a look. How old did you say this boy is that is staying with you?”

“Around ten, I think,” David said.

“Would he fit?” Rémi asked.

David pursed his lips. “Possibly. Uncomfortably, but it is possible.”

“Good! I’ll start working on it tomorrow!” Rémi patted Moustafa on the back. “Give me two weeks. That gives you time to warn your people at the orphanage and me time to inform Eliane.” He grinned. “And time to make some contacts about getting a trunk onto an overcrowded ferry.”

In the adjoining bedroom at Marcus Cirou’s apartment, Hussein could hear David and Moustafa talking in hushed tones. Planning his escape. He frowned, suddenly claustrophobic at the thought of being stuffed into a trunk and smuggled onto a boat. But he had no choice.

“Should we tell the boy yet?” Moustafa was asking.

“Better wait until a little closer to the date,” responded David. “I’m glad we can at least get that poor kid out. And to think that here in Algiers, it’s kids only a little older who are doing the killing now. Senseless!”

Hussein frowned again. David was wrong. The youths were his very own age. Fourteen. It was only that he looked much younger. He felt a slight twinge of guilt to think that these benefactors were sending him to do exactly what many of the Arab and pied-noir boys were involved in here. Murder.

But pity was not allowed. He tried to think of something that would stir up his hatred for the pied-noirs, so that he would not consider the kindness of these two men. He thought of the dead Algerians he had seen yesterday at the café. That worked. With plans to appease Ali’s desire for vengeance floating in his head, Hussein fell asleep.

It was long past midnight, but neither man could sleep. They stared at each other from their mattresses.

Moustafa’s voice cut through the silence. “Are you ever afraid?”

“Sometimes,” David whispered. He paused, considering his answer, then said, “What are you afraid of?”

Moustafa shifted on his mattress, throwing off the sheet. “Of having been loyal to the wrong thing. To something that has no meaning.”

He watched as David seemed to struggle with the idea.

“I can understand that,” David said finally. “For the longest time I wasn’t loyal to anyone but myself. I worked out a neat little philosophy that protected me from being hurt.”