Two Testaments (47 page)

Gabriella and the Sisters painstakingly went through every drawer and every file in Mother Griolet’s office, finding names and addresses, trying to contact those who would want to know about the funeral.

Sister Isabelle stood in front of a bookcase, touching the brittle spines of Mother Griolet’s treasured volumes. “Ah, here she is. The santon.” She carefully picked up the clay figurine, studying the face of the old woman who was hunched over under her bundle of sticks. “I’ve always loved this little lady,” she commented. “Do you remember the children who brought her to Mother Griolet?”

Sister Rosaline came to Sister Isabelle’s side. “Christine and Yves. I could never forget them,” she said softly. “Those pitiful children begging to be hidden, imploring Mother Griolet to take them in. And offering her this old santon, their only treasure.” She bit her lip. “Their parents’ names eventually appeared on the list of those who were lost in the camps.”

“Have they been contacted?” Sister Isabelle asked. “They would certainly want to know.”

Sister Rosaline picked up a manila folder stuffed with papers. “I think I saw them on the list of names M. Cohen said he had contacted.”

“I just love the santons,” Gabriella said, standing in front of the old clay woman and thinking of the clay baker she had given David for Christmas. “‘Little saints,’ bringing their humble treasures to lay at the feet of the Christ child.” She touched the fine pieces of real wood on the old woman’s back. “You are bringing your burden to the Christ child. He will carry it for you now.” When she looked around, the two nuns’ faces were shining with tears.

It took quite a few phone calls to Washington for David’s father to update his colleagues on the extraordinary circumstances he had encountered in Algeria and to reassure them that he was now safe in France. It took only one more call to convince them that he needed an extended vacation there. So at Monique Pons’s insistence, he moved into the widow’s apartment.

“Of course he must stay with you, M. Hoffmann!” she told David. “It is no trouble, and you will have the place to yourselves. I’ll be leaving on vacation with Yvette Leclerc after the funeral.” She blew her nose loudly into a plaid handkerchief. “It is too sad.”

That evening she prepared them a
taboulé
and a plate of cold cuts, saying, “Eat whenever you want. I must go out for a while.”

So David found himself alone with his father in the dining room. “You look much better, Father.”

“Feel much better too, Son. I’m certainly glad to be out of that hospital.” He helped himself to the taboulé, then passed it across the oblong table. “Looks good. Very nice woman, this Mme Pons. You say you’ve been here two years?”

“Two years this month.”

His father put down his fork. “Can you tell me what it was, really, that brought you over here, David?”

“I’ve told you before.” David’s voice was crisp. “I came to help Anne-Marie.”

His father took a sip of wine. “You haven’t told me everything, David. I learned quite a bit from the wild man, Ali. A fascinating story. ‘Operation Hugo’ I believe he called it.”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry you had to get involved. The guy is a lunatic. Dragged you into something that had nothing to do with you.”

“I’m proud of you, David.” He said it stiffly, formally, a stern expression on his face.

David did not want to talk, did not want his father’s accolades. He started to say something sharp, but he hesitated and instead simply replied, “Thank you.”

“I’ve been a wretched father, David,” the older man said at length. “I don’t blame you for whatever you feel toward me.” He dabbed the white cloth napkin over his mouth. “Could we … I … I’d like to catch up with you, David. Before I go back to Washington. Could we try?”

“Maybe,” David said unenthusiastically. Then something pierced him like a sharp knife. This was his chance. He had missed it on the boat. “Sure, Father. Would you like to go for a drive?”

The evening air was cooler, and they drove out into the country as the sun left the sky. His father seemed to want to talk, and David forced himself to listen, consciously pushing the anger away for this one night.

“I’ve always thought this part of France was one of the loveliest spots on earth. It brought back hope to me all those years ago. When I got out of the camp, I looked for you and your mother and sister for a long, long time. Eventually I learned of the fate of Annette and Greta, but I still held a tiny hope for you. St. Joseph was the twenty-fifth institution I visited, looking for you.”

“Mother Griolet said you cried when you found me.”

“Of course I did.” His father stared out the car window into the darkness. “You know I’m not very good at saying I’m sorry. But I want you to know I mean it. Can you forgive me, Son, for keeping my distance from you? I’ve wasted so much time.”

David could see the strain on his father’s face. Every word was an effort to pronounce, an admission of his failure.

“Do you think we could start over, Son?”

David kept his eyes on the road. “I suppose anything is possible.”

The silence between them pounded in his ears as he thought about his father’s question. It was his chance and his choice. He could cut the proud man down with one simple word. Or he could find his father after all these years. Another minute and the opportunity would be gone. David blinked his eyes and heard himself say quietly, “I forgive you, Father.”

He said it without emotion, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. A smile flickered on his lips. With one hand on the steering wheel, he held the other out to his father, who took it warmly in his. “I forgive you.”

Bedtime was the hardest for the children. They plagued Gabriella, Anne-Marie, and the Sisters with questions about the future. The orphans who had been at St. Joseph for a good while cried into their pillows, calling out for Mother Griolet. The Arab children simply cried out in fear, feeling the tension and the overwhelming sadness all around them.

Ophélie clung to Anne-Marie, begging to sleep in her bed with her. “Why hasn’t Papa come to tell me good night? Where is he?”

“He’s with his father, sweetheart. He’ll see you in the morning. Tomorrow you’ll meet your grandfather.”

“I don’t want my grandfather. I want my papa now.”

Anne-Marie’s face clouded. “
Ma petite
, you must calm down.”

“No, I won’t! I won’t.” She sat up in bed, clutching her mother. “Mother Griolet is dead, and Moustafa is dead. Are you going to die too, Mama?”

“No, Ophélie. We’re together. We’re safe. Mama will never leave you again. I promise.”

But Ophélie would not be comforted. She sniffled and wiped her nose and then burst into tears again. Finally Anne-Marie led her out of the dormitory. She knelt down beside her daughter in the bathroom, wiping the child’s eyes with a tissue.

“Darling, I’m so sorry about Mother Griolet and Moustafa. But it’s going to be all right. I just know it is, because … because I believe. I believe in this strange, kind Savior, and He has given me His peace.” She took Ophélie in her arms and held her tightly.

“Oh, Mama,” the child said, sobbing. “You believe! I knew you would someday. And you have told me on the day I needed it most.”

Anne-Marie cupped Ophélie’s face in her hands. “You see so much, my child. Sometimes I think this God has given you a different type of eyes, eyes that see the heart.” She kissed Ophélie on the forehead. “Shall I pray?”

The little girl nodded.

“Dear God …” Anne-Marie’s voice was shaky. “We are very sad, God.” She bit her lips and brushed her hand across her face. “We miss Moustafa and Mother Griolet very much. I think You understand, because You lost someone very dear to You once. Please help us, as we are sad. And please, God, don’t stop holding us in Your arms. We need You. Amen.”

She carried her daughter back to her bed, pulled the sheet over her, and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Ophélie, very much.”

Ophélie was already asleep.

A heavy depression took hold of Hussein when he heard of Mother Griolet’s death. If Allah had permitted that Moustafa and the good nun should die, why should he allow Hussein to live?

David Hoffmann had tried to help him, but his words had fallen flat. Staring at the top of the bed above him, Hussein frowned. The American had taken all the explosives, but he didn’t know that Hussein also had a gun. He kept it hidden under his mattress, the pistol that he had almost used on Ophélie. He did not plan to use it on any of these people at St. Joseph. There was already enough grief for them. But he would use it. He had already composed the letter to Ali.

Master Ali,

Allah be praised. Algeria is free, and my work here is accomplished. The old nun is dead, and everyone is gone. There is no more St. Joseph, no more orphanage. Moustafa never made it from Algeria, slaughtered at the docks.

I have completed my task, and you may celebrate. By the time you read of this note, I will be no more. My final task will be accomplished. A death with honor for Allah.

Farewell, Ali.

Your humble servant, Hussein

It pleased Hussein in a twisted sort of way that he had not lied to Ali in the letter. Everything he had written was perfectly true. The orphanage would soon be closed, and everyone gone.

He would wait until after the funeral tomorrow, then he would simply disappear. He turned the cold revolver over in his hands. With one bullet from this pistol, he could end his misery. When someone finally discovered his body—and he intended to make that hard—there would be no one left at St. Joseph to remember him anyway.

28

When Saturday arrived, bright and sunny, there was almost a feeling of joy in the air that neither the Sisters nor Gabriella could explain. They busied themselves in the dining hall, preparing food to be offered after the funeral. Sister Rosaline took pride in creating the centerpiece, a hollowed-out watermelon filled with Mother Griolet’s favorite summer fruits.

Pierre Cabrol appeared at the parsonage door early in the morning, carrying an elaborate
pièce montée
, layers of pastry puffs that had been stuffed with cream and stacked up to form a tall pyramid. His wife followed, carrying every imaginable type of bread. Jean-Louis came next, with two large trays full of pizza.