Two Testaments (34 page)

Jean-Louis found Jeanette dozing at her desk. The sight of her, mouth opened, face supported by one hand that leaned precariously on the desk, embarrassed and frightened him. He had never known Jeanette to nap in the middle of the day. He fidgeted with his hands, running the yellowed envelope between them, back and forth, back and forth. Perhaps he should turn and leave. Taking a deep breath from the hallway, he rapped softly on the open office door.

There was a shuffling sound, then Jeanette cleared her throat and called, “
Oui, qui est là
?”

Jean-Louis took two steps into the office, keeping his eyes turned to the floor. His temple pulsed. “I just had a little matter to discuss with you,” he mumbled.

The nun straightened up, flashed him a tired smile. “Of course, Jean-Louis. Come in and sit down.”

Always a shy man, he was often embarrassed in the presence of women. But life had forced him to overcome some of the timidity. He sat stiffly on the edge of the chair, still clutching the envelope.

“Whatever is the matter, Jean-Louis? You look positively moribund!”

He removed his wire glasses and ran his fingers around his bloodshot eyes. “I have something for you.” He held out the envelope. “But before you read it, I must tell you one thing. I have kept this letter all these many, many years, not out of hurt, but out of love. I have loved you, Jeanette, as much as Sebastien did, and more.”

His hands were shaking violently. He could not look her in the eyes, but his voice was steady. “It has been my greatest pleasure and joy to know you, to work beside you, to watch you. We could not be man and wife. I knew that so long ago. But you have been my sister.” He smiled bashfully at the pun. “A sister closer than blood. I admire your tireless work for the children, for this town, for the young American women, for me. You are a fine servant of our Lord. Don’t let those letters get to you. I will do everything I can to keep St. Joseph open. I had to tell you now, so there would be no doubt. Whatever you need, I will help you.”

He stopped talking abruptly, feeling the sweat on his forehead. He placed the envelope on her desk. “I could not give it to you sooner. Forgive me.” With a slight bow of the head, he rose to leave.

“Jean-Louis,” Mother Griolet said softly. She took his hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. You have always been here for me. You are a blessing in my life.”

He squeezed her hand in return, then turned and left the office.

Jeanette rested her face in her hands and stared at the yellowed envelope. Her name was written across it in a handwriting that she recognized immediately, even after half a century. The envelope had been ripped open, then taped shut; and the tape, equally yellowed, no longer held any stick.

Her hand shook the slightest bit as she pulled out two pieces of paper, one yellowed, one white. She opened the yellowed sheet and felt a tightness in her throat. Fifty years could not make her forget the way her heart leaped when she had received a letter from Sebastien. This one was barely legible, but nonetheless his hand.

Ma chère Jeanette,

I fear I will not see you again on this earth. I cannot bear to tell you the extent of my injuries or the nightmare we face. I only want you to know that I have loved you for two years. I could not love you more. But I must release you to God. Go forth with strength, examine your heart for your service. It is worthy. More worthy than I.

I wanted to share life with you. If not me, let God lead you into your calling. Only please care for Jean-Louis. He will miss me so. And his love for you is as strong as mine.

Sebastien

The second sheet, clean and white, was scribbled by Jean-Louis and dated several weeks ago.

Forgive me, Jeanette. This letter was found on Sebastien’s body. I could not give it to you all those years ago to place an extra burden on your heart. Somehow you fulfilled his wish without knowing of it. God is gracious. Merci.

Jean-Louis

It had startled her to see Sebastien’s handwriting. Why now? Why after she had permitted herself that brief moment of memory in the chapel? She thought about the letter, and then she thought about Jean-Louis’s note. Dear Jean-Louis. He had seen it lived out before him. There was no burden in the task. Surely he had understood what had been evident to her for years. His absolute devotion and her complete love.

To say that people at the orphanage seemed frazzled was a gross understatement. Fourteen new Arab children and three Arab women were, as the French said, the drop that makes the vase run over. The children had slept on mattresses on the floor of the dormitories. The three women had spent the night in Mother Griolet’s den, but as soon as more mattresses could be found, they planned to move into one of the classrooms on the third floor of the parsonage. With almost sixty children at the orphanage, the buildings seemed to somehow shrink. Room was running out.

At least the girls from the exchange program were gone, Gabriella thought as she pushed several straggling children into the refectory. The din of silverware clanking on plates and voices shouting greeted her ears. One of the new Arabs screamed and another threw his food. Gabriella observed Sister Rosaline’s displeasure. She snapped at them, then asked Hakim to see what they needed.

Sister Isabelle wrung her hands together, completely overwhelmed. Gabriella caught Anne-Marie by the arm and whispered, “This is bedlam. We’ve got to do something.”

“I agree, but what?”

Suddenly Gabriella grabbed a soup spoon and a pot, stood on a chair, and banged on the pot with the spoon. The noise was deafening. Immediately all was silent.

“
Eh, les enfants! Taisez-vous!
Quiet down, won’t you? Everyone find seats. Now.”

Three of the boys who had been flipping peas across a table scrambled to find a chair. They clamped their arms between their legs, looked down, then caught their friends’ gazes and giggled.

“This is not how we behave at St. Joseph. Manners are a must if we are all to get along. I think it would be appropriate for those of us who have been at St. Joseph for a while to welcome our new guests. As I call your name, come stand in three rows beside me. Anne-Sophie, Christophe, André, Ophélie, Hakim, Jérémie …”

Gabriella called all forty-three names, and one by one they came, grinning sheepishly, and stood before the newly arrived Arab children. Quietly and yet with great animation, Gabriella drew the children around her. “First we’ll sing ‘
Pour ce repas
’ in a round. Then ‘
Eclate de Joie
’ and finally, ‘
Je t’aime, O Jésus
.’”

A short time later Sister Isabelle and Gabriella were sitting in chairs facing the group of orphans. As they began to sing, a chill ran through Gabriella. The voices of angels. She turned around and saw that the Arab women and children were mesmerized by the different melodies. When the song ended, silence reigned. Then a wide smile formed on the face of one of the Arab women, and she began to clap. Soon all the others joined in. By the time the impromptu program was over, order had been restored to St. Joseph.

Mother Griolet had not come to dinner. Gabriella slipped out as the orphans sat back down to be served dessert. She found the nun in her office, writing letters.

“Mother Griolet, are you all right?”

“I’m afraid that I’m being buried by all this paperwork,” the nun replied, not looking up. “And perhaps I don’t quite have the strength to face all the children. There are several possible adoptions I’m working on. I must finish them before, before …” She set down the paper. Her eyes fluttered closed briefly, and she ran her hand across her forehead. “The petitions arrived today. All ninety-three of them. And the final warning from the church. We have thirty days to get the Arabs out. I’m afraid I am going to lose my post, Gabriella. I’m just trying to get as many children situated as possible before that happens.”

“You mean there’s no hope for St. Joseph?”

“My dear child. I am so sorry to have misled you. I asked you to make a tough decision, and now my control over it has been yanked away. Of course there is always hope. But not as I had imagined. I will not be staying around unless I agree to send the Arabs away to refugee camps. I don’t intend to do that.”

“It’s not fair! They can’t force you to go away. It’s wrong!”

“It’s not as I had hoped and prayed, but my superiors see it differently. My responsibility is to stand up for what I believe. But I cannot convince others that I am right.”

“But the townspeople love you. The church has admired your work. How can they not see the good?”

“It’s a dangerous thing to want everyone’s approval, Gabriella. You must be willing to stand firm and take the risk of being misunderstood. We must find our approval at the feet of our Master.” She closed her eyes again. “It’s a lesson I have learned over and over. We’re to expect suffering, in whatever form it comes—physical, emotional, spiritual. The Holy Book promises suffering for those who follow Christ.”

She placed her unfinished letter in a stack of neatly folded papers. “Come now, Gabriella. They’ll be needing us at the refectory.”

Gabriella helped Mother Griolet up, then interlocked arms with her and walked slowly down the steps into the basement and through the hallway. She felt her mouth go dry. Thirty days. That was all the time they had. It was much too short.

Anne-Marie regarded the big-bosomed, gray-haired Arab woman who was now patting the heads of the children who had crossed the sea with her. She had not seen Mme Dramchini in years, nor her daughters, Saiyda and Rachida. In the confusion of the day she had not yet gotten to speak to them. Now she could have news of Moustafa. She approached them slowly.

“
Madame Dramchini, bonjour.
Do you remember me, Anne-Marie Duchemin?”

The gray-haired woman nodded and took Anne-Marie in her arms, kissing her cheeks. “
Ma fille
,” she exclaimed with a heavy accent.

Knowing that Mme Dramchini had never mastered French, Anne-Marie addressed her daughters. “
Bonjour
, Saiyda and Rachida. How very good to see you.”

The young women embraced. Politely Anne-Marie answered their questions about how she had arrived with Eliane Cebrian on the ferry. Of course, they remembered Eliane. Yes, yes, Rémi had followed them to the dock. Anne-Marie’s head was swimming. She did not know what Moustafa had shared with them. She did not want to seem too eager for information. As glibly as possible, she asked, “And Moustafa. How is he?”