Two Testaments (33 page)

David lay on the couch in the den of the Cebrians’ farmhouse. The doctor had diagnosed a broken rib and advised him to have it x-rayed as soon as he got to France. He also had a nasty head wound, from the butt of Ali’s gun, and his whole body ached.

He tried to make sense of the turn of events, but he could not think straight. He could only hear the crazed Ali explaining the fate of the orphanage. Surely, surely he was wrong. Hussein? With bombs?

David would not believe that they were gone. Gabriella, Anne-Marie, Ophélie. All the others. It was too grotesquely impossible to imagine.

But he feared with everything in him that it was true.

No, God would not permit it!

Every ounce of faith drained away. Bitterness engulfed him. If it were true, then all he had left was his dying father. He did not want him. It was not a fair trade.

His father slept on a mattress hauled from one of the bedrooms. Starvation and torture, the doctor had whispered. He needed medical help badly. But it would have to wait until they got to France.

David was glad he could not see the procedure the doctor was performing on Moustafa. In spite of his rage and grief, the only thing that seemed to make any sense was prayer. He closed his eyes.
God, I don’t understand what is happening. I’m too afraid to learn the truth. Gabby has always said You are a good God. She says that the righteous will prosper. I have read it in Your Word. Please, bring Moustafa through.
David shut his ears to the low moans coming from the other room.
Bring him through, God. And … and give me a word, a simple word to say to my father.

Before he had finished his prayer, Roger Hoffmann whispered, “David?”

“Yes?”

“Are you badly hurt, son?”

“No. No, Father, I don’t think so.” The words were like glue in his mouth. “And you?”

“Fine.” He sighed. “The plane has already left.”

“Father?”

“Be sure, Annette, to show your American passport if there is any doubt. I’ll be back in three days.”

“Father! Father, what are you saying?”

“Detained, David. I was detained for questioning.” He looked at his son, his eyes dull. “It was the SS. They found out our work. Took me to a camp. It was the torture, David. I thought I would say nothing. The torture. All my fault. For you, for Annette and Greta. All my fault.” His father’s voice was cracking with emotion. “I had forgotten what you say when you are tortured.” His breath came in sporadic sighs. “I’m so sorry, David. It was all my fault.”

Roger Hoffmann was sobbing like a baby. At first David could only stare, wide-eyed. Surely this wasn’t his father, confessing in tears before him. Why had he never explained it before? Why had he not said that he too had been taken to a camp?

David felt he would vomit. He put a hand on his forehead. “You were in a camp?”

“Only for a few months. My passport worked for me. But there was no word of you and your mother and sister. By the time I traced you, it was to that orphanage in France. And you were alone.”

“You hated me for surviving, didn’t you? You wanted it to be Mother, not me.” There was no accusation in David’s voice. He might as well have been asking a question about the weather.

He heard no answer, and at first David thought his father had fainted. His breath came slowly and with effort.

“I didn’t hate you, David. I hated myself. For all these years, I have hated myself. Annette. Greta! Why did I leave that day? I have asked myself that question a thousand times. And the only answer is self-hate. I contaminated you with it, David. I thought I had ruined your life, as I had my own.

“But you were strong and smart. You survived in spite of me. You didn’t need me. And I couldn’t bear the sight of you. Your very presence accused me.”

David did not want his father to see that he was crying again. With difficulty he asked, “And now?”

“Now.” He spoke resignedly. “Now the nightmare has come back to haunt us both. Another war. Another chance to betray the one I love.” He did not look at David. The words floated in the stifling air.

When Moustafa awoke, he was aware of incredible pain. It was more than physical; it was psychological, invading his being. He wished he had died from the bullet wounds. Now the torture was only prolonged.

There was no reason to leave for France. Anne-Marie was dead. His thoughts spiraled down to despair, imagining his mother and sisters arriving in France with all the children. What would they find? A shelled-out orphanage? A crazy kid tossing bombs as if they were stones? Who would warn them?

Another thought came to him from the corner of his mind.
He’s lying.
Ali had done it before, months ago, telling Anne-Marie that they had captured Ophélie. The thought made his heart soar with hope. Of course! A lie. Hussein would not murder. But how could he be sure?

Trust? Whom? There was no one to trust.

The Christ. He heard the words in his mind. He fought to push them away. Impossible! No God could save them from this hell.

And yet, for now, they were alive and safe. It stung him to think of it. Despair or hope. He could choose. He closed his eyes, wincing with pain, and, reciting something he remembered reading in the New Testament, Moustafa whispered, “I believe. Help Thou mine unbelief.”

20

The petition from the townspeople of Castelnau was conclusive. Get the Algerian children out and now. Only Pierre Cabrol, the boulanger, and Jean-Louis had voted to keep them. Every other person had expressed, some vehemently, dissatisfaction with the overcrowded, understaffed, and integrated orphanage of St. Joseph. The situation was already grim, and now another fourteen harki children had arrived in the night with three Arab women.

Mother Griolet leafed through each petition, reading the angry notes. She could almost feel the embarrassment of her friends and neighbors as they scribbled their signatures. People she had loved and trusted and helped. People who had given their money to the Church of St. Joseph. She reread the latest letter from her superiors and gave a bitter laugh.

The choice was hers. Send the Algerian children away, or be sent away herself. There really was no choice at all. She would not send orphaned harki children to be cloistered from French society. Here, at least, they could learn to function within a small village, find some safety, integrate. With all her heart, Mother Griolet knew that the answer to the harki problem was not refugee camps.

She fingered a letter from Joseph Cohen. She wished for a moment that she were back at the chalet in Switzerland, sitting by the roaring fire with Joseph and Emeline there to advise her. As it was, they counseled her now through a letter. Joseph urged her to get in touch with his Swiss friend Henri Krugler, who now lived in Lodève, an hour’s drive from Montpellier.

He would be sympathetic to her cause, Joseph said—“a giant of a man whose heart in every way matches his size.” She reread Joseph’s description of Henri Krugler’s centre aéré in Lodève, which had recently opened to both Algerian and French children. Perhaps indeed this man could help her find homes for the children before the church dispersed them to the camps.

With great determination the old nun picked up a pen and wrote a letter to this intriguing stranger.

It was love that propelled Mother Griolet to enter the empty chapel later that afternoon. A strange kind of love. She stepped slowly onto the stones, relieved to escape the brutal heat of the sun in the cool interior. Feeling dizzy, she placed her hand on the back of the last row of wooden pews to steady herself. She closed her eyes briefly.

With labored steps she walked toward the west side of the chapel into a small alcove. She paused in front of a stone pillar, one of several that supported the roof. Then she touched the simple stone monument that rested on the pillar. She read the words through blurred vision.

Nos frères, nos fils, nos maris qui ont donné leurs vies pour notre pays. 1914–1918.

On the plaque was a list of thirty-eight names of men from Castelnau who had died during the First World War. She ran her fingers over the stone, feeling the rise and fall of the chiseled letters until her hand came to rest on the last one. Sebastien Vidal.

She let the memories come, let the emotions rise as she remembered the soft kiss on her lips and the terrible searing in her heart when he had left. The bittersweet agony of knowing he loved her and knowing he must leave. She leaned against the stone to keep her balance. “Sebastien,” she whispered.

She shuffled to a wooden pew and sat down. “Dear Lord, my Savior. I have never accused You of taking Sebastien. There are things too hard to understand. I have known Your power and grace for all these years. And now this place that has been my calling is being taken away from me. But it is not mine; it is Yours. Work Your will, Divine Father, and may I accept it. You have always provided for every need, for me, for the Sisters, for the children. I trust You now.”

She closed her eyes and pictured the orphans in the courtyard, laughing. She thought of Gabriella and Anne-Marie.

“Please, Holy God, give these women Your courage to face the future. I understand the pain of waiting. And show me how I can help. Surely You will not forsake Your own. We are Your people and the sheep of Your pasture.”

She did not hear Anne-Marie enter the chapel, so that when the young woman sat down beside her, the nun let out a small gasp.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Am I bothering you if I stay?”

“No, of course not. I was just finishing my conversation.”

“Your conversation?” Anne-Marie asked, looking around the empty chapel.

“With the Lord.”

“Oh.” Anne-Marie lowered her eyes. “Excuse me.” She rose to leave.

“My dear, don’t go. The Lord and I have been talking for many years. He understands interruptions. Especially those that He ordains. Please, sit back down.”

The young woman could not look the nun in the eyes. “I’m so afraid, Mother Griolet.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid of the future, if the orphanage is closed. Where will I go? You and the others, you have saved my life and that of Ophélie. I don’t want to return to the life of fear and hiding. I long to start a new life with Ophélie. I had hope. But now …”

Mother Griolet turned toward Anne-Marie, blinking back a stubborn tear. “Life takes many twists and turns. It bruises and burns and rips apart. But it also loves and heals and forgives.” She took the younger woman’s thin, smooth hands into her own. “Perfect love casts out all fear. And there is only one perfect love. It’s in Christ. In seventy-two years, He has yet to let me down. He’s in control when life is completely out of control.”

She searched Anne-Marie’s eyes for understanding. Perhaps there was a gleam, a hint. Mother Griolet sensed an urgency to open her heart to this brave young woman.

“It’s the truest word in all of time. If you are in Christ, nothing, nothing, my child, can separate you from His love ever again. Not tribulation or distress or persecution or famine or nakedness or peril or sword.”

Her words were melodic and powerful as she sang the scripture as much for herself as for Anne-Marie. The lively little nun recounted the promises of God to Anne-Marie, and as she did, God’s peace flooded into her own soul once again.