Two Testaments (21 page)

“
Au contraire
, you’ve been of great help. This is so much better than Marseille, I assure you.”

Anne-Marie sat down on the bed, and the mattress sank under her weight. She laughed. “You’re right. This isn’t so bad. And you’ve got the little park across the street for the children.”

“It’s really fine, all things considered,” Eliane agreed. “And with you and Ophélie here today, everything is perfect. Shall we go outside?”

Ophélie, Samuel, and Rachel enjoyed a game of tag in the park, while the women strolled José.

“There are Arabs everywhere in this neighborhood,” Eliane said. “Most have been here since the end of World War II. They came over to France as cheap labor and live in government housing.”

“Are you afraid of them? Are they hostile?”

“No, not really. We just keep to ourselves and so do they. Separate groups, living in our own little worlds. It makes me sad. I wonder if any of us will truly integrate into the French population.”

“You mean as we were in Algeria before the war, a happy hodge-podge of people. Or at least we thought everyone was happy,” Anne-Marie said. “It’s too early to tell what will happen. For now you’re here, we live closer, and Rémi will be coming soon.”

Eliane looked anxious. “I don’t know about that. He’s wrapped up in saving children. You got a letter too,
n’est-ce pas
? They’re sending the harki child. In my trunk, of all things!”

“Your trunk?”

“Didn’t Moustafa say? Yes, they’re smuggling him in a trunk, my trunk, filled with all our treasures. Well, I suppose the treasures won’t be coming after all. Not all of them. But Rémi is sending the most important. The baby things, a few scrapbooks, and your father’s will.” She gave Anne-Marie a wry look. “And a young boy.”

“You’ll be happy to have a few things to make this place seem like home. But in a way, I’ve found it’s almost freeing to have nothing.”

“Yes,” Eliane agreed. “I much prefer this life to the absurdity of what’s going on in Algeria. We may not have much, but at least the children are safe.” She reached over and squeezed Anne-Marie’s hand. “And pretty soon our men will be here too. You’ll see.”

Anne-Marie shrugged, and Eliane knew she did not sound very convincing.

Lodève was a small village west of Montpellier with a rich and secret past. From the sloping hills surrounding the town, Henri Krugler liked to look down on his adopted city. The thirteenth-century Cathedral of Saint-Fulcran in the center of town still displayed its Gothic tower and some of the original fortifications. The whole region surrounding Lodève was dotted with chateaus, ancient abbeys, and remarkable geological monuments dating back, some said, to the Neolithic period.

Five years ago Henri had moved from a picturesque village in Switzerland to Lodève, not in search of archaeological ruins, but out of conviction. A direct descendant of the Huguenots, proud of his heritage and undaunted by rejection, Henri was a pastor with a dream straight from the heart of God.

A widower with grown children, Henri needed another mission in life to give him a reason to wake up in the morning. Even the lush mountains of Switzerland lost their charm when his Louise died. And so he prayed, and God answered.

The small Protestant church he presided over in Lodève was home to no more than two handfuls of old people. The youth of the city were mostly Arabs. Lately several harki families had fled to the village, with more sure to come. Henri’s dream was integration. Catholics with Protestants and Arabs. And the means was a
centre aéré
, a recreational center for children. All children. A place to draw families together. After two years of French paperwork, the center was ready to open, the dream to come to fruition.

The townspeople, suspicious at first, had grown to love the passionate giant with the blazing eyes and the kind heart. He was a robust man, a man of endless energy. With his white hair and goatee, he resembled a huge mountain goat. The stooped Arab women smiled at him from behind their white scarves, and the fragile ancient
fidèles
at his church called him pastor with the assurance and comfort that should anything befall them, he would be there.

It had not been out of the blue that God’s finger had led him to Lodève. Years ago his friend Captain Maxime Duchemin had recommended the village. “A stone’s throw from Montpellier, a perfect place to retire. Which is what I intend to do.”

Henri Krugler did not like to think of Maxime’s “retirement.” He shook his white head.
Retired unto the Lord.
This was true. And it sounded somehow more hopeful than
murdered by the FLN
, which was also true. And that made integrating anyone who had anything to do with the Algerian War into society in France a very delicate problem.

Hussein found Ali examining papers at his desk. “It is time for me to go. Everything is arranged,” the boy stated.

“And your housemates?”

“Staying behind until Moustafa can convince his mother and sisters to leave. They hope to send other harki children along as well.” He fished in his pocket. “Here is their address. Smack in the center of Bab el-Oued.”

Ali spun around in his chair. “You have everything you need? The guns, the explosives? You remember what I have taught you, Hussein?”

“Yes, sir,” he whispered, cowering as Ali reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt. “I remember.”

He knew his mission. Destroy the Duchemin woman and her child and anyone else in the way. He tried to make his face look hard, set with hatred. But the thought that worried him broke forth. He cleared his throat and asked in his deepest voice, “And what shall I do when I have finished this mission?”

Ali released the boy and smiled. “Do not worry. Allah will guide you.” He handed Hussein a wad of French bills. “This is all you will have. But if the work is well done, then you will see how well I can reward you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ali grabbed him again and pulled him close so that Hussein inhaled the taste of Ali’s rancid cigarettes. “You aren’t afraid, boy? There are many younger than you who have already killed half a dozen people in broad daylight in this city.” He softened his voice. “What could be easier than a few timely explosions in a peaceful little orphanage? It will be simple. No one will even know to be afraid.…” He burst into laughter. “Until it is all over and much too late. Go on now, my boy. Allah be with you.”

Rémi felt the farmhouse growing distant and cold around him, as if it were preparing itself for his departure. He watched out the window as the farmhands, Amar and Abdul, continued harvesting the oranges. The groves spread out in every direction. Rémi had always felt a type of virility at the farm, with the fertile trees all around. Life had been good here.

But the end was blowing toward them like the fine, stinging sand from the Sahara that forced them to take shelter during a dust storm. Algiers offered no shelter. So all the pied-noirs were leaving. The engineers, the store owners, the doctors and nurses, the farmers like himself.

He recalled the scene at the airport yesterday where he had taken a neighbor who was fleeing with his family. Babies slept in boxes on the floor of the overcrowded terminal. Flies flitted on sleeping children’s faces. Mothers cried. Suitcases supported the backs of the elderly.

The official limit for each traveler was two small suitcases. Rémi patted the heavy wooden trunk that sat in the den, where he worked on it day after day. The trunk was three feet high, four feet long, and two feet wide. Nobody would call it small.

Why didn’t he leave now? What could he gain by staying and waiting by his window at night with a gun in his hand? In six weeks, Algeria would be independent. Then he would lose everything. Why wait for the inevitable?

Even now, many departing pied-noirs burned their belongings rather than leaving them to be looted by the Arabs. So this was how the war would end. Mass exodus, terror, flight, and a razed countryside. And every plot of land, Arab and pied-noir alike, stained by blood.

Glancing out the window again, Rémi saw David and Moustafa approaching. Relief flooded him as he opened the door and invited the men in. They declined drinks, and he read the determination in their eyes.

Rémi proudly displayed the trunk. “The boy will crouch in the center, knees tucked under him. I’ve made two boxes to fit on either side of him. They’re filled with a few of Eliane’s favorite things. When the trunk is closed, the boy can control the lock from the inside. So he will be able to free himself once it’s dark and the ferry is at sea.” He pointed to little barred openings at the front and back of the trunk. “And the air holes are here.”

Moustafa patted Rémi on the back. “It’s good work.” He stepped into the trunk and carefully lowered himself into a crouched position. “Yes, the boy will fit. He’ll have plenty of room. I think I might even make it for a few hours.” He eyed David. “Good thing you’re not an Arab. With those long legs, we’d never conceal you.”

“I’ve written the address of the orphanage on the top and bottom of the trunk,” Rémi continued. “Looks pretty convincing,
non
? An innocent trunk heading to Castelnau. But you must go to the right guard, the one my friend has paid. The others will never allow this monstrosity on the boat. Families are waiting for two or three days to get on. And you must be there at precisely nine thirty—he will be watching—and take the trunk on.” Then he added, “He has no idea, of course, what is inside.”

Moustafa ran his hands over the large box. “This chest will carry a treasure, like a pirate’s chest. A priceless treasure.”

“One life. It’s worth it,” David stated.

“Of course it’s worth it. I only wish I could climb in there too.”

Rémi nodded. The harkis were slated to be killed. If he could help a few more, well, then perhaps he could make some sense out of the end of this war. The men standing before him still had some sort of hope in them. He did not want to extinguish that.

“And once the ferry leaves the port in Algiers, no one will care. The boy can let himself out and be inconspicuous. Then in Marseille, he must simply hire a taxi driver to take him and the trunk to the train station. From there you say he will have someone to meet him in Montpellier.”

“Yes,” David confirmed. “He only needs to call them to give his time of arrival. They’ve already been told of the date.”

Rémi looked skeptical. “You are sure this boy can handle it? I don’t want Eliane’s things lost. Or Captain Duchemin’s will.” He pointed to a thick envelope pressed tightly between two large photo albums.