Two Testaments (37 page)

He stopped himself. “Forgive me. I’m sure you know your history lessons.”

Mother Griolet said softly, “Please continue. It’s always a blessing to hear of God’s provision for His children.”

“Amen,” Henri said heartily. “Yes, well. After my wife died several years ago, I felt the call of these mountains where my ancestors had suffered for their faith. My dream is to reach another group of refugees, the Arabs. By establishing a centre aéré for the French and Arab children, I hope at the same time to offer them the opportunity to understand the truth. God’s truth.

“Right now we have thirty children who come on Wednesdays when the schools are closed. Most of the children come after school on the other days for snacks and activities. And we have a group for the teenagers.” He flashed a quick smile. “It is my belief that these different cultures must learn how to live side by side, to integrate, so that Arab children, who are really more French than Arab in their lifestyle, will feel at home, welcomed into this society. So they will have a future here.”

The nun nodded her head in approval. “Very good, M. Krugler.”

“And you, Mother Griolet. Tell me how I can be of help to you.”

She massaged her temples and said, “I run an orphanage in a small village on the edge of Montpellier. Normally we house between twenty to twenty-five children. Their schooling is provided. But lately, due to extreme circumstances, we have accepted many more children at the orphanage. I forget the exact number.”

“Fifty-eight. Fifty-eight children now,” Mlle Madison broke in. “These new children have all arrived within the last six months, refugees from the war in Algeria. Pied-noir and harki children, escaped by the skin of their teeth. Mother Griolet has taken them in, and now the townspeople and the church are demanding they be sent away to refugee camps or the orphanage will be closed.”

“Gabriella!” the nun reprimanded. “Dear, let me explain.”

The girl blushed, bit her lip, and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry.”

Henri forced a chortle to stay in his throat. Quite feisty herself, this Mlle Madison!

“As Mlle Madison has said, we face a difficult time. We have fewer than thirty days now to solve this problem or be closed down. When Joseph Cohen wrote me about you, well, I thought it would be a good idea to meet you.”

“Yes, it is so unfair!” the girl broke in again. “If you knew all that Mother Griolet has done for that town, for so many children. Why, during the Second World War she saved many Jewish children. Surely M. Cohen has mentioned it.” The young woman stopped suddenly. “Excuse me, Mother Griolet. May I tell him some of your stories?”

They made quite a pair, the wise nun and the enthusiastic girl. Henri listened, spellbound, as they shared remarkable stories from both wars as well as from their present troubles. He thought of the families moving into the area. Would any of those Arabs, harki families, be willing to take in another child? It was possible. Anything was possible. He had seen much stranger things happen in his lifetime.

Hussein splattered a brushful of bright-green paint onto the mural in the classroom. He watched the thick blobs run down the paper. Just when several threatened to run off the edge, he gave a swish of his brush and stopped them.

“What are you making, Hussein?” Ophélie asked, coming to his side.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing.”

“Sister Isabelle says that you can even make mistakes into something pretty. She helped me—”

“It’s not a mistake!” he answered gruffly. He wished Ophélie would leave him alone. He felt all tense inside. Worried and tense.

He wasn’t alone. The tension vibrated throughout the orphanage. They were all trying desperately to busy themselves so they wouldn’t have to think about it, but it wasn’t working. Not for him, not for anyone.

When were they coming? Two full days had passed since independence. If Moustafa had gotten onto that harki ferry, as Mme Dramchini had explained, well, there should be some word soon.

Hussein saw the hurt expression on Ophélie’s face. He reached out to touch her hand. “You’re right. I’m sure I can make something out of this.”

The child pushed her pigtails behind her and headed back to her spot on the wall. She picked up her paintbrush and then paused. “And don’t worry about Papa and Moustafa, Hussein. They’ll be here soon. You’ll see.”

She was the strangest little kid, Hussein thought. To think he had almost … but Allah be praised, he had not followed through. When David and Moustafa returned, they could help him compose a letter to Ali. One that was believable.

“Hurry home,” he whispered, and began painting the random spots of green, turning them into long, delicate leaves on a weeping willow tree.

The radio played continuously in the refectory kitchen. During the evening meal the women huddled around it, eager for news. The talk from Algeria was all of celebration, the new Algerian government, the exodus of the remaining pied-noirs.

Anne-Marie grabbed Gabriella’s hands. “I can’t stand the waiting any longer. There must be news!” She searched Gabriella’s face. “I’m praying for it night and day. For protection for Moustafa and David.” She pronounced the names cautiously, painfully.

“The crowds at the port must have been even worse than before. They may still be waiting, but it won’t be long.” Gabriella’s voice did not sound optimistic.

The announcer reported on a group of harkis moving to a little village near Arles.

Anne-Marie leaned closer, motioning for silence. “Should I go there, Gabriella? Do you think Moustafa is there with Hacène?”

Mme Dramchini spoke in worried Arabic to Saiyda, and the young girl translated. “Mother thinks that the men are there. If not, she fears they have perhaps been forced to the refugee camps. She wants to go with you, Anne-Marie, to Arles.”

“Should we wait one more day?” Gabriella suggested. “If they are there, David will know. Give them one more day.” She squeezed Anne-Marie’s hand.

“One more day then,” Anne-Marie whispered.

On July 5, Rémi encouraged David to leave for the ferry with his father. “Go back to France. You heard what the doctor said. You both need medical attention. You’ll be better off there.”

David doubted it. Was there an orphanage still in Castelnau? He was overcome by fear and dread. But Moustafa had believed Ali was lying. Moustafa …

David had failed in every way. Moustafa was not coming back to Anne-Marie, and maybe there was no one to go back to. The thought made his head swim. The only choice was to take a ferry back to France and find out. And if it were true? Then there would be nothing but an awful gaping hole in his heart … and his father standing there to watch.

David slipped into the back bedroom to check on his father. He was sitting in bed, pillows propping him up. The gray stubble that had covered his face had now become a thick beard. He stared into the room with a vacant expression.

“Father. Are you ready to go?”

The older man nodded but made no effort to move.

“I’ll be back in a sec for you.”

Curse it all
, David thought. His head throbbed. The wound was not healing properly. Blood and pus oozed onto the bandage. He unwrapped the gauze and changed the dressing again. Maybe he was simply losing his mind.

Rémi came into the house and stood beside him.

“Why don’t you come now too, Rémi?”

“There are things to tie up. Tell Eliane it’ll be a few weeks. After we finish with the oranges.”

“It’s dangerous to stay, Rémi.”

“I know.” He took another olive. “The pied-noirs were supposed to be able to stay in Algeria, you know. If the OAS hadn’t committed so many unspeakable atrocities in these past months … It’s their fault we’re leaving. The pied-noirs are afraid of what the FLN will do to get revenge, now that Algeria is free.”

They did not speak of what they had seen. The mass graves, the bodies. The genocide in Philippeville had been complete, and they had stood by and watched. What had their feeble effort mattered? They had not rescued Moustafa or anyone else.

Rémi placed a hand on David’s shoulder. “Don’t live with guilt. You did what you could. Get on with life.”

“Do you think it will be that easy?”

Rémi grimaced. “No. We’ll wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and screaming. And only those who have lived through it will understand.”

“And that isn’t guilt?”

“Scarred. Scarred but healing,” Rémi said. “Come on. We’ve got to get your father in the car. It’ll be all right, David. You’ll see.”

They had waited twenty-eight hours before they found a place on a crowded ferry. It was now far out at sea, and David could not help thinking of his last crossing. He had stood alone, hopeful, confident in his new faith. Sure of his mission. Now he slumped over the railing, casting a glance behind him at his father, who slept with his back against a cabin door.

Rémi thought having charge of his father would help David get his mind off other things. But all David heard in his head was
Why are you here with me? Why must I care for you? Why didn’t you die instead of Moustafa?
It filled him with an incredible sadness and guilt, but his anger was stronger. What blasted right did this man have to reappear now and ask forgiveness? What blasted right did he have? Was David supposed to smile a sick, sweet smile and say, “Sure, Dad. I understand. It’s fine”?

It wasn’t fine. Oh, he understood about the dreadful mistake and the concentration camp. His father himself had been detained in a camp, unable to help them. But how could he have left him, a six-year-old child, in charge? It was so David could harbor the guilt, the blame for their murders. The coward! How could he dare to think it would be all right?

I don’t want to forgive you, and I certainly don’t want to get to know you. So why must I drag you along in my pain? Why must you be here to complicate what is already too heavy to carry?

It actually crossed his mind to pick up his father while he slept and throw him into the sea. He held his head and moaned. “You’re messed up, David.”

He cursed the sea and then cursed God. It was His fault. Why was He showing Himself so helpless when David needed Him most? Why was He allowing this anger and hate, this blasphemy to well up within His child? David felt he would go mad with the questions.

His father called for him, and David knelt down beside the weakened man. That icy blue stare, softer now, met his son’s gaze.