Two Testaments (26 page)

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and scowled. “Yeah, I guess.” He wiped his plate clean with the bread, then stuffed the piece into his mouth.

Ophélie waited quietly as he chewed and swallowed.

“They’re okay. David and Moustafa are okay.” His voice caught, and he took a drink of water.

Ophélie smiled brightly. “Did Papa show you the cross I gave him? And the picture of the ponies? Did he say anything about them?”

“We didn’t talk much.”

“But did they say anything at all about when they will be coming back? Surely they said something.”

Hussein lifted his eyes and stared at her with a tortured face. He looked angry and sad and afraid. “Can’t you see I don’t know anything? I told you we didn’t talk much!” He stood up abruptly and left the dining hall.

Hussein made her afraid. But more than that, she felt sorry for him. After she put up both their trays, she walked into the courtyard and whispered a prayer: “Help me be his friend, God. He really needs a friend.”

Hussein fell on his cot, breathing deeply. Why did that kid have to be so darn persistent? And cute? He needed to hate her. Hate a six-year-old who was friendly as a puppy, and her beautiful mother too.

But the only person he felt hatred toward was Ali Boudani.

Five times a day Hussein said his prayers to Allah, and every time he begged him to spare David and Moustafa.

He felt so confused. He had thought it would be easy to hate the harkis and the pied-noirs after all the horrible years of war. But what he saw when he got to know them was kindness. They were bewildered people, just like him, caught in a war that divided and killed.

His people deserved freedom from the condescending Europeans! They had rightfully gained their independence!

But at what price?

Freedom sounded grand and heroic until he attached faces, human faces that he knew, to those who must be eliminated. Ali said these people were traitors, spies, murderers. But all Hussein saw were kind young men who had sheltered him and a mother and child who wanted only to befriend him.

He had no choice. Allah, through Ali Boudani’s orders, had sent him on a difficult mission. He opened the second drawer in his dresser and fingered the revolver tucked beneath his clothes. At least he need not worry that the Sisters would snoop in his belongings. Mother Griolet had assured him of privacy, and Sister Rosaline had stated matter-of-factly that anything that needed washing had to make it to the dirty-clothes bin. She did not have time to sort through the drawers.

He needed a plan. He considered using explosives in the dorms. No, first he should deal with the little girl. She would be the easiest. To do something so incredibly hard, Hussein had to progress logically. Start with Ophélie.

With that settled in his mind, he felt reassured. Allah would be with him.
Inshallah.

16

A dark cloud hung over St. Joseph, threatening rain. A similar cloud seemed to have perched itself above Mother Griolet’s head. Her hands trembled as she skimmed through the letter. Her mouth was set in anger, and her bright-green eyes shone with rage.

“
Seigneur, ce n’est pas vrai!
It is not fair! How can we go on?”

Though we most heartily applaud your efforts at caring for the misplaced war children, it has come to our attention that their conduct is causing trouble in your village. Without the financial support of the townspeople, we cannot guarantee the continued functioning of St. Joseph. Several camps are being set up to keep these harki children. They will doubtlessly be happier in their own communities.…

Mother Griolet felt sick to her stomach. For years she had been considered a renegade, a troublemaker. But she had never lacked the money to run the orphanage and exchange program, and so the church had not complained. She was left alone, as long as she kept quiet and the villagers did their part.

But this wasn’t fair. The rumors simply weren’t true! Yes, the orphanage was overcrowded. But the children did not make noise in the middle of the night. It was glaring prejudice, and it made her sick.

Couldn’t the villagers of Castelnau see what the government was doing to these people? Parking them in camps, away from society. They would never integrate. She was sure the memory of what they were doing to the harkis would one day come back to haunt the French.

The old nun buried her face in her hands. “Lord God, I’m tired and angry. Forgive me for this anger that burns in me. Please remind me that You are in control. If You want this little place to keep running, I’m sure that You will find a way to do it.”

But to be honest, she couldn’t see how.

The problem of the exchange program could be rectified quite simply, she was sure, if David Hoffmann came back before the school term ended. His presence at the school would reassure the girls and their parents.

But the presence of a dozen harki children was not so easily resolved.

In a sense she did not blame the townspeople. The whole country was in upheaval as masses of pied-noirs poured in daily. This region of France was especially scrambling to provide housing. People were hesitant, worried, suspicious.

She sifted through the rest of the mail, and her eyes fell on handwriting she knew well. The return address on the envelope was Senegal. Gabriella’s mother, Rebecca. Four sheets of stationery fell onto her desk. Before she had read the first word, Mother Griolet felt tears brimming in her eyes.

It is difficult to be so very far away, to read of one’s daughter’s struggles and feel powerless to help. I am so thankful she has had you, Mother Griolet! Her letters bring you back to me in full color! God has touched many, many lives through you. You know the joy and the pain of serving Him. Thank you for being there for her, as you were there for me so long ago.

We are hoping to be able to come in July to spend a few weeks in Montpellier before going on to the States for our furlough.…

The old nun smiled as she read. How like her God. He had inspired a woman in Senegal to write this letter weeks ago, so that on this day when she needed it so desperately, Mother Griolet would receive a word of encouragement.

It was not coincidence. It was tapestry. Thunder grumbled outside, but the dark cloud had completely disappeared from Mother Griolet’s heart.

Anne-Marie looked in the bathroom mirror. Her exterior was soft and smooth, but inside she churned. She had hoped, even expected, that Hussein would bring a letter from Moustafa, but there had been nothing. The boy was silent and reserved. She wanted to grab him by the arms and demand that he tell her everything. Was Moustafa well? Did he speak often of her? Had his mother consented to come to France? Was there reason to hope?

She chided herself. The boy was alone and terrified. She expected too much from a child. Maybe she even expected too much from Moustafa. She told herself there was no reason to doubt his love. But she doubted his resolve to come to France. His loyalty, the trait she most admired in him, might keep him away from her forever.

She wished he could see her now. Even her limp was hardly noticeable. She could run into his arms, those solid, strong arms, tousle his unkempt hair, and look into the chocolate-brown puppy-dog eyes. But would she ever have the chance? Would Moustafa return?

She took out a sheet of stationery and wrote quickly, pouring out her heart on the pages. She told him of Ophélie, of the kind people, of the strange way they looked at their faith, and of her certain love for him.

A soft rap came on the door. Anne-Marie swung around, almost embarrassed to see Gabriella standing in the doorway.

“Did I interrupt something?” she inquired.

Anne-Marie blushed. “No, just my feeble attempt at a love letter. I wish I could write like you. My words seem so trite.…” Her eyes filled up with tears.

“Anne-Marie!” Gabriella sat beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head. “I just wish I had what you have. A faith, an assurance that somebody cares and is in control. And a man who is coming back for you.” She was crying softly now. “I have nothing. Nothing but a weak dream.” She held Gabriella tightly. “What is Ophélie’s future with me? No family, no country, no hope.” She covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry. It is just, just that I miss him so much. I had hoped so for a word from him. I’m afraid, Gabriella.”

Gabriella held her for a long time without speaking. “Did you finish your letter?” she whispered finally.

Anne-Marie sniffed and nodded.

“Let me have it then. I know just how to get it to Moustafa.” She squeezed Anne-Marie’s hand. “I’m sure it will be exactly what he needs to hear.” She stood up and faced her, and Anne-Marie saw that Gabriella’s face too was streaked with tears.

“You are
une vrai amie
. Why in the world do you care about me?”

“I care because God has knit my soul to yours. And I am crying because, even though my life is very different, I think I understand how much it hurts to love someone.”

“Would you look at this, Monique!” Yvette set down a basket full of fruits and vegetables with a huff. “Did you get the same thing in the mail yesterday? A petition from Denise Cabrol.”

“I got it,” her friend replied sourly, “and I don’t like it one bit. She’s scheming, that woman. She wants to close the exchange program. That’s fine and well for her—she doesn’t have her income tied up in it. I’d lose a third of my monthly revenue without the exchange students. A third!”

“
Ooh là là!
Don’t I know it.
Catastrophique!
” She furrowed her brow, revealing a half-dozen fat wrinkles. “But didn’t you approve of the measure to rid the town of the Arab orphans?”

“Of course I did. But Arab and pied-noir orphans have nothing to do with the exchange program. Denise is overzealous. She never liked Mother Griolet in the first place.” She leaned over the kitchen table and whispered, “If you ask me, she’s been jealous all these years that her Pierre and Mother Griolet get along so well.” She winked. “She’s just been waiting for an occasion to get back at her!”

“Really! And after all the good that nun has done for us! Well, what did you do? Did you sign it or not?”

Monique stood up and retrieved a folded piece of paper from the counter. “Here’s what I did. Read it for yourself.”