Two Testaments (35 page)

Oh, he was very well. He and the American had taken them to the little sailboat with the funny Frenchman for a captain. Moustafa was coming with their other brother, Hacène, the day after independence on a boat just for the harkis.

They babbled on, smiling, and Anne-Marie knew then that Moustafa had never mentioned a word to them about what had happened during the months that he was missing. They did not know she loved him. Not yet.

She could not help but smile with great relief to hear of his plan to come to France. With his mother and sisters here, right here at St. Joseph, and a boat waiting to bring him. It was a miracle. Moustafa would be coming. The day after independence. Tonight was June 30. She had only three more days to wait.

Hussein spoke in Arabic with the new kids, placing himself within hearing distance of Anne-Marie and the three Arab women. It took every ounce of concentration for him to keep up a conversation with the children and still hear what the women were saying. He gathered that these Arabs were the mother and sisters of Moustafa. He heard, yes, he was sure that the younger girl said that Moustafa would be coming on a boat in a few days. A hint of a smile crossed his lips.
Allah be praised. They are alive!
He let out a long sigh.

21

The mood in Algiers on July 3 was one of joy and celebration for the Arab population. Hundreds of thousands of jubilant Algerians packed the streets, singing, waving flags, raising their arms in a cry of victory. Rows of women with white-veiled heads marched behind FLN army men. Today the heavens were raining down not mortar and bloodshed, but a bright ray of peace.

Mahmud and Fatima celebrated with their countrymen, but Ali was in no shape to join in the festivities. He was lucky to be alive, the doctor had told him somberly when he had regained consciousness yesterday. So he sent Fatima to be his eyes, to take part in the merriment and report back every detail.

Two hundred fifty miles from Algiers, in the small port city of Philippeville, a thick tension hung in the air in the open square, the Place. One after another, Arab soldiers from an Algerian auxiliary troop of the French army walked up the plank of the ferry that awaited them. French officers stood guard, brandishing arms as they welcomed their harki brothers aboard; in the faces of the Arabs they read pain, sorrow, and relief.

FLN officers milled around the square, looking disgusted as the harkis prepared for departure. When the old Renault pulled to within sight of the ferry, Moustafa squinted, searching for Hacène. How would he find his brother in the crowd?

“He’ll be there. Don’t worry,” David reassured him.

Moustafa nodded. He fixed his thoughts on the feat before him, walking the five hundred yards to the boat. He had not walked more than a few feet since the shooting four days earlier. Two bullets had been removed: one from his shoulder, quite easily, the other with considerable pain and a good bit of blood from between two ribs. He still felt terribly weak.

“I’d better be going,” he mumbled to David and Rémi. The thought of leaving Algeria left him numb. The uncertainty of what lay ahead in Montpellier made him sick with fear. He chose to imagine a different scene.

First there would be Anne-Marie running to him as he stepped onto the dock in Marseille. She would run with no effort, laughing, as she had when they were teenagers playing in the fields, hiding in the orange groves, letting the sweet scent of the fruit make them heady with their power and youth. He could almost feel her arms around him, holding him, her soft voice whispering, “Everything is fine now, Moustafa, my love. It is fine.” Behind her, his mother and sisters and Ophélie would be huddled like a peck of hens, cackling with pleasure. Hacène would go toward them, and all would be well.

As he stepped from the car, he was greeted by a blazing hot sun and the overwhelming smell of gas fumes and seaweed. His head swam. He leaned on the Renault for a long minute, watching the sea glisten in the port.

“Good-bye, David. Rémi.” He shook their hands.

“We’ll see you soon in Montpellier,” David called after him. “It will all be fine.”

One foot in front of the other, Moustafa inched along toward the ferry. He shivered as he walked, despite the fierce heat. He sensed the eyes of the enemy on him. His people, these newly independent Arabs, were burning their hatred for the harkis through a hard stare like the sun on the back of his neck. His ears wouldn’t stop ringing.

“Allah, or whoever you are, God. Whoever you are, have compassion on us,” he said out loud, but it was as if the words were not his own, as if this whole scene were unreal.

Harki soldiers climbed up the plank, hurrying, tasting for the first time, he imagined, the hope of safety as they stepped off the soil of this country gone mad. This country that was not safe for so many of its former inhabitants.

No more than a hundred feet from the boat, Moustafa stumbled, fell, and caught himself with his hands, touching the slimy hot pavement. Then he saw Hacène.

“Moustafa, what’s the matter? What happened to you?” Hacène grabbed him around the waist, dragging him forward.

“Never mind that now. I’ll explain everything on the ferry.”

“Yes, that will be good.” His brother looked nervous, his eyes darting from side to side. “Moustafa. I … I’ve had a hard time getting you a right of passage. You must understand that this ferry has been hired by our top French officer. There are so many, so many who have fought in the war.” Moustafa could sense the edge of panic in Hacène’s voice.

Moustafa shivered again. He felt light-headed and placed one hand on his forehead. “I have to sit down,” he said with a groan.

“Yes, of course.” Hacène knelt down by him as Moustafa collapsed on the dock. “I’ll get a stretcher and tell them you are wounded. They’ll let you on,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “They must.”

Moustafa realized his mistake at once. He was not a part of this Algerian troop. How foolish to have believed he could simply slip on the boat unnoticed when all the others wore their military uniforms. But Hacène had seemed so sure. Moustafa turned to look out at the square that swarmed with Algerians, giddy with their new independence, now circling the ferry like a pack of hungry wolves.

God, don’t leave me here to die.
He pulled his body to the edge of the dock. The oil on the sea reflected a rainbow of colors two feet below. Moustafa looked up. The gangplank was almost within his touch. So close.

From the car, David strained to see what was happening on the ferry. “We have to get out of here,” Rémi insisted. “This place is crawling with FLN. Moustafa is with his brother; he’s safe. Safer than we are right now.”

David watched as the French officers motioned to one another to pull up the plank. Had Moustafa gotten on? He could not be sure. There was a brief discussion, and then an officer of the FLN approached the ship. Hundreds of Arabs now surrounded the ferry, chanting in angry Arabic. David could barely see past them to the officers, still arguing by the plank.

“Rémi, there’s trouble. Something’s not right. I’m going closer to see.”

“Are you crazy?” Rémi grabbed his arm. “What can you do?”

David swung around. “I promised Anne-Marie he’d get there. I’m just going a little ways. Just to see.”

Rémi nodded. They left the shelter of the car, walking toward the ferry, then stopped before entering into the crowded square. Jubilant Arabs carried guns and knives, looking like cruel barbarians. Looking like everyone looked in Algeria. Crazed, half-mad.

David heard loud shouts in the distance. A chilling scream. Another. He felt a cold sweat drench his body. Now the French officers, the same ones who had moments ago welcomed the harkis aboard, were forcing them to get off the boat with guns at their backs. And the harkis were clinging to the Frenchmen, begging, screaming in anguish. They were being pushed off the ferry into the angry Arab mob, who yelled, “Traitors! Cut their throats!”

First a dozen harkis, then twenty more, then a whole tangled group of them, staggering, lurching, cursing, helplessly being fed into the violent crowd. It couldn’t be happening, David thought, trembling.

Rémi gagged beside him, crying, “No, God, no.”

A massacre. They were witnessing the harki massacre that Moustafa had been so sure would come. The ferry promising safety had turned into a cruel, taunting decoy. David could not bear to see more, and yet his eyes were riveted on the scene. The harkis grabbed on to railings, flooring, other men, pleading. It was useless. The Arab mob surged upon them, pulling them down and then stabbing, shooting, and finally slitting their throats.

“No!” David cried out. “No!” He started forward, but Rémi caught him from behind.

“David!” he yelled. “David, listen to me. It’s hopeless. This whole stinking world has gone crazy. The French are betraying their comrades.”

David stumbled backward, eyes glued to the horrific scene.

“There’s nothing we can do but be murdered as well if we stay.” Rémi was sobbing. “We cannot help Moustafa now. It is too late.”

Too late. David’s throat constricted, and the muscles in his chest tightened. Still backing toward the car, he cried, “Moustafa! Moustafa!” Then he broke into a run. “The sea!” he cried.

Rémi seemed to understand, and together the two men raced to the water’s edge. Hidden by a thick-leafed plane tree, they kicked off their shoes and dived into the murky water. They swam furiously underwater toward the ferry. When they surfaced, the sound of their heavy breathing was swallowed up in the chaotic babble on shore.

“God, let us see him,” David prayed. The screaming men, sobbing and groping, slid down the gangplank that was forty feet away. He watched the knife of a muscular Arab find its target in a harki’s neck. Recklessly he cried, “Moustafa!” And again, “Moustafa!”

Two Algerians ran toward the edge of the dock. “Who is there?” one spat angrily. David and Rémi dived down again underwater, watching a spray of bullets above on the water’s surface. Rémi shook his head slowly in the water, pulling at David’s shirt, swimming back away from the dock. Thirty seconds later, lungs burning for air, they emerged.

“It’s no use,” Rémi gasped. He pulled himself out of the water, then caught David under the arms and dragged him out. They lay on the grassy shore for a moment, their chests rising and falling. Everything in David’s body burned.

“Can you get up?” Rémi stood, offering David his hand.

They stumbled to the car, crawling inside and slamming the doors as several Arabs, detoured from their butchery, ran in pursuit. Rémi stamped on the gas, and the tires squealed. A bullet grazed the back window as they sped toward the road.