Two Testaments (29 page)

“No, that is impossible. We are in hiding.” The turbaned man did not try to hide his frustration. “We will come back in three days.”

When they had left the apartment, Moustafa showed Anne-Marie’s letter to David. “She said Hussein left the trunk in Marseille. Why in the world would he do that?”

“Maybe it was too much of a mob.”

“But he knew it contained valuables.”

“What are you getting at?”

Moustafa thought out loud. “I don’t know. Anne-Marie says he wouldn’t tell her a thing about us. Don’t you find that strange? What has the kid got to hide? He’s an orphan.”

David’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have any idea. He never was very talkative anyway. But it’s a shame about the trunk.”

“Yeah, a rotten shame.”

They squatted in the fine sand around a bucket of ripe black olives, eating the fruit and spitting the seeds out on the ground. Rémi was shaking his head as he listened to Moustafa. “How could the boy do it? Leaving Eliane’s trunk? It had her favorite heirlooms in it. I thought you trusted him.”

“We did. He seemed happy to help in any way.” David stood up, stretching his legs. “Look, Rémi, I don’t know what to say. We miscalculated. I’m sorry.”

“How could you know? It’s just for Eliane. She’s already been through enough, and now this. She must be heartbroken.”

“Surely they wouldn’t destroy the trunk. There must be a warehouse where lost items are stored.” Moustafa threw a seed into the sand.

“You’re right. It is all the more reason for me to leave here soon.” Rémi rose. “I’ve been fixing up the other trunk like the first. I’ve put the rest of her favorite things in it, and there’s plenty of room for another child. But now I wouldn’t trust anyone.” He laughed bitterly. “Maybe I’ll hide in it myself. Maybe that’s how I’ll get to France.”

The men talked on. A worry line crept over Rémi’s face as Moustafa spoke of securing a place on a ferry for his mother and sisters so that they could leave immediately.

“Have you been to the docks lately? It is claustrophobic. Hundreds of panicked pied-noirs. The wait is days long. No room for Arabs. I am afraid your mother and sisters would be left sitting by the sea when independence comes. It is much too dangerous.” He saw Moustafa’s face fall. “I’m sorry.”

“There has to be something we can do,” David said, tossing an olive seed forcefully into the yard. In a second, his face lit up. “Of course! Why haven’t we thought of him before? Jacques and the
Capitaine
!”

“We haven’t thought of him,” Moustafa said sourly, “because you told us he refused to make any more trips. Too dangerous.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right. That’s what he said. But you know Jacques. He needs a lot of coaxing, a feeling of importance. One last trip. We’ll fill the boat with the harki women and children and tell him he’ll be a hero. Which is the absolute truth.”

“And how will we convince him? It’s not like we can trot on over to Marseille tomorrow.”

“Your friend, Moustafa. At the épicerie. He’s sending and receiving mail with the ferries. Jacques could have the letter in a matter of days.” David sounded confident. “If I word it right, I’m sure Jacques won’t fail us. We’ll get the children ready. Tell them it will be in less than two weeks. I’ll write the letter today, and you will leave with your mother and sisters.”

Moustafa shook his head vehemently. “I promised Mother that I’d stay until my brother goes. She won’t leave unless I do. But don’t worry. I am planning a trip to Philippeville on the second of July.”

“That’s three hours away. What will you do there?” Rémi asked, narrowing his eyes.

“My brother and I will be on the harki ferry. Protected by the French army. I’ll do anything to be on that boat.” He smiled at the men, but his eyes were solemn. That same determination, that loyalty, was fixed on his face. “Will you drive us there, Rémi?”

The basket of olives was almost empty. Rémi reached down and pulled out one last small black fruit, turning it over in his fingers. “Some of the finest olives anywhere in the world. Grown right here.
Chez moi.
How I hate to leave it.” He tossed the olive up in the air and caught it in his mouth. “I’ll take you, Moustafa. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to watch you ride away from this putrid place to find a future in France.”

18

The sun was hot and forceful as Henri Krugler straddled the roof of the farmhouse, working on some loose tiles. He wiped his forehead to remove the perspiration. His back was burning, he could tell, and reluctantly he pulled a white T-shirt over his thick torso.

For a moment he looked toward the rolling hills surrounding Lodève. These were not the majestic mountains of Switzerland, yet the rugged, wild beauty of the Cévennes pleased him. He liked to think of his Huguenot ancestors hiding in these mountains, refusing to abdicate their faith to the cruel King Louis XIV. That same zealous, fervent blood ran in his veins. Because of the atrocities, the Huguenots had fled to many other countries, notably Switzerland. There his ancestors had prospered and multiplied, and he felt proud to have so rich a heritage.

And now he was back in the same Cévennes mountains, carrying his message of hope and reconciliation not only to the French but also to the Arabs.

The sun on his white hair and beard gave him a look of power, sitting like a huge troll on the roof of the centre aéré. The ancient farmhouse was never intended to be a children’s center. But it had been left in his keeping for these five years, and it appeared that he would have it forever. His apartment a few minutes down the road was plenty adequate for his needs. So when his requests to buy other buildings for the centre aéré were turned down, Henri decided to transform the house into a center. The additions were actually minimal: another bathroom, insulation for the basement, an enlarged eating area. He had enlisted the children, French and Arab working side by side, to peel off the soiled wallpaper and apply fresh paint.

Henri knew the predictions. Soon Lodève would be flooded with Arabs, more specifically harkis. The parents’ prejudice had grown and ripened over the years. He could not change that. But two afternoons a week with the children might just start something in Lodève. He was betting his life on it.

He waved down to the pedestrians who walked by and gawked up at him. “
Une belle journée, n’est-ce pas
?” he roared down to the elderly women who watched him in awe. They nodded back, their old eyes wide.

Since its opening a month ago, the centre aéré seemed on the road to success. Every afternoon after school, forty children invaded the farmhouse. On Wednesdays, when there was no school, Henri had the children for the entire day. And soon, during the summer break, he would fill this little farmhouse with children every day of the week.

The children loved the friendly giant. Lonely Arab teenagers hung around the center in their free time, offering to help with the work, content to be in Henri’s presence. Henri seized these opportunities to build friendships and raise questions about the meaning of life. During the hours that the centre aéré was open, he could not talk religion. But afterward he spoke to the children, who stared at him with eager eyes, of a gentle prophet who was also a priest and a king.

So it seemed that quite naturally God was guiding Henri in the next step of his dream. A centre aéré met the needs of the children, helped the parents, and provided nonthreatening integration. The next step was to form a group for the teenagers and young adults, a group that spoke of faith but respected culture. A safe place to come and talk. An oasis.

This afternoon, in only thirty minutes, the first meeting of Oasis would take place. Henri climbed down from the roof and headed for the shower. Afterward he dressed and towel-dried his white mane so that it stood up on his head in every direction as if to demonstrate the power of an electrical current. He let himself into a newly wallpapered bedroom upstairs and sank to his knees.

“Father God,” he prayed aloud in a rich, booming voice made for a pulpit. “Thank You for making the dream a reality. Thank You for this house. You provide in the strangest ways. And thank You for the children who will come today. Give them the courage to attend despite their fears and prejudices. And, dear Father, give me the words and the actions to show them that this is indeed a safe place. An oasis for their souls. Amen.”

The warehouse smelled of mildew and rotting fruit. A young French soldier, weary from his journey and a few too many bottles with his departing comrades, stumbled through the large building that was packed with newly delivered boxes fresh from the ferries. Other soldiers had already picked through the good fruit and the clothes. What was left was junk. The soldier laughed to himself, recalling a saying his father had often repeated: “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

But there was no treasure here. Absentmindedly he walked through the warehouse, running his finger over suitcases with broken handles, split umbrellas, a doll with one button-eye missing, boxes of mildewed clothes. Why didn’t someone throw out all this rot?

And it was all rot, everything that had to do with this stinking war. But he was home now, on friendly French soil. Four years in Algeria had made him doubt that any place was friendly. Too much blood, too many tortures, too many men behaving like raving lunatics. He might still be there if it weren’t for the bullet that had grazed his head. He touched the bandage. Thanks to the bullet, he got to go home a whole two weeks early.

He spotted an old wooden chest squeezed in beside a larger container and a metal trash bin. He bent over to inspect it. Now that was a nice piece of work. A trunk. A treasure chest fit for Robinson Crusoe, he thought, chuckling to himself. He ran his fingers over the rounded top with its black metal casing. His mother could use such a chest to store their blankets and quilts during the summer months. He lifted the lid, and a broken lock fell to the floor.

He felt a tinge of disappointment. Papers and china and old dolls and a big family Bible. Pictures of children, knickknacks. It was strange, though. The contents had been picked through, lying randomly in two compartments in the interior of the trunk. But the center space was empty, with grilled-in open windows in the front and the back. It looked like, well, it looked like somebody had been in the trunk. Now that was an ingenious way to get to France. Hidden in a treasure chest. He let the lid fall back in place and noticed the address written in bold letters on the top.
Castelnau.
Never heard of it. But the postal code meant it must be near Montpellier. Too bad for whoever was looking for their treasure. They’d never find it in this old warehouse. Just a piece of junk.

He rubbed his stubby chin thoughtfully. He’d ask his mother about it. If she seemed remotely interested, well, he could find his way back to this warehouse. It wasn’t so far from where he lived. Yeah, if that would make dear old Mama happy, he would take it home, clean it up, and give her a nice surprise for her birthday in July. He left the warehouse, muttering to himself, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”