Two Testaments (49 page)

From somewhere in the crowded chapel, a low, strong voice rang out. “I would like to say a few words,” David began. “Rarely in this life do we meet such a woman as Mother Griolet. A woman of goodness and humility. A woman who refuses to judge and embraces love. A woman with courage enough to stand up to prejudice and hatred, and yet humility to trust a Higher Power for direction.…” David’s voice cracked. He paused and wiped his eyes, then continued, “She had the gift of knowing how to make God real.”

He imparted the same confidence as if he were standing in front of his class, and yet by his words he drew attention not to himself, but to the woman they had come to honor. And ultimately he called the congregation to consider the God the courageous nun had served.

David’s eyes met Gabriella’s as he spoke. “It has been my privilege to know this woman. And to examine and embrace the faith she had, a faith that says that in the midst of the worst in life there is a hope for tomorrow—because there is a God who sees past our differences and calls us to Himself.”

The people in the chapel had never seen anything like it. One by one, townspeople from Castelnau as well as guests who had come from far away stood and gave brief testimony to what Mother Griolet meant to them.

At last Anne-Marie rose stiffly. “I know Mother Griolet’s decision to keep the pied-noir and harki children here has not been a popular one. But I bless her for it. Here my daughter’s life was spared. And many others’ as well. Here I was reunited with Ophélie. It used to bother me that everyone at St. Joseph quoted Mother Griolet, but now I see why. It was because she received her words from the Master.”

Then Sister Rosaline came over to where the children sat, squeezing her buxom body in between the people. She whispered encouragement, and one by one the orphans recited verses of Scripture, pronouncing the words with conviction.

Then, at a cue from Gabriella, all the orphans stood where they were and broke forth into song. “
My Jesus, I love Thee, I know Thou art mine … I’ll love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death
…”

Almost joyfully they lifted their voices louder, higher, to sing the last verse:

In mansions of glory and endless delight,

I’ll ever adore Thee in heaven so bright;

I’ll sing with the glittering crown on my brow;

If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, ’tis now.

The simple hymn echoed in the church and out into the streets of Castelnau through the sweet voices of the children.

Suddenly Denise Cabrol rose and stared about the room. “I-I was perhaps wrong in my judgment of the orphanage,” she choked out. She pursed her lips and looked toward the front of the chapel. “Forgive me. Can you ever forgive me?” She covered her face with her hands and wept.

Roger Hoffmann’s six-foot-four frame commanded the audience’s attention when he rose to speak. He looked around the chapel for several moments, until his eyes met David’s. He fumbled with his tie. “Thanks to this orphanage and to that dear woman, I have found my son twice.” He spoke briefly of his experience during the Second World War, then told of his present situation. “On both occasions, I thought he was lost forever. I have been doubly blessed to find him this time.”

Jean-Louis Vidal coughed dryly two or three times. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes and nose. “It has been said that to love another person is to see the face of God. I have seen His face in my dear Jeanette.”

When Sister Isabelle rose to speak, Gabriella doubted she could get a word out. But the shy nun surprised her.

“I have served under Mother Griolet for twenty-seven years. She did not simply talk of faith—she lived it, in the midst of all of life’s questions and hurts.

“She called life a tapestry that we see from the wrong side, full of knots and tangled threads. But God is weaving it, each life, each circumstance, to make something beautiful for Him. The tapestry of Mother Griolet’s life is represented here today by you. Can’t you see it? A magnificent work. There are faults, but even so, remember what she used to say? ‘God specializes in turning tragedy into triumph.’ Perhaps, by her death, God has done that again for us today.”

The eight pallbearers came and carefully lifted the casket from the stone floor and stoically carried it into the town square, where the hearse waited. The long black car crawled over the cobblestones, and the people walked behind it in a solemn procession, through the town to the small cemetery that was enclosed by a low stone wall in the fields beyond Castelnau.

Henri Krugler drew Joseph Cohen aside. “Who is that woman there? Do you know her?” He pointed to a black-haired young woman walking in front of them, holding the hand of a little girl.

“No, I don’t. I’m sure one of the Sisters could tell you.”

In the dining hall later, as the mourners ate and talked in soft, respectful tones, Henri drew Gabriella aside. “Mlle Madison,” he said. “I’m happy to see you again, even under these circumstances.”

Gabriella smiled sympathetically. “It has been a remarkable day, hasn’t it, M. Krugler?”

“Yes, indeed. The Lord has met us here.” He coughed uncomfortably. “Could I ask you, could you tell me the name of the young woman who said she had found her daughter at St. Joseph?”

“You mean Anne-Marie?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Yes, is that her name? Anne-Marie? And her last name? Do you know it?”

“Why, of course. She’s Anne-Marie Duchemin.”

For a moment the color drained from Henri Krugler’s face.

“Is something the matter, M. Krugler?”

“The matter? No, no, not at all. Thank you, Mlle Madison. Thank you very much.”

It was not the time for further questions. Henri mingled among the people and silently thanked God for this day. “A day of miracles,” he said to himself. His work with the orphanage at St. Joseph was far from over.

29

In the marshlands outside the city of Arles, an hour’s drive from Montpellier, mile after mile of flat farmland stretched out until eventually, at the back door of the immense Rhône River, there sat a tiny community called Mas-Thibert. The village had been there for centuries, housing a handful of families who had tried to tame the swampy plains, making them bear fruit.

Now Saïd Boualam, a wealthy Algerian landowner who had sided with the French throughout the war, had another idea for Mas-Thibert. With his own money he decided to make it into a village for his people, the harki refugees. And so some harki families came to live there, among the already existing French population. Here, there was hope of integration.

But in other parts of France, the housing offered to the refugees looked shockingly similar to the barracks in the death camps of another war. These refugee camps were set up away from the French people. In this way, the leaders of the country reasoned, “these people” could live together, secluded and safe with their own traditions.

The French government boasted of this humanitarian step to provide for their loyal brothers. But it seemed that the whole country breathed a sigh of relief that these Arabs, these strange misfits, were hidden away from the rest of the nation. France had its hands more than full with the pied-noirs.

In other pockets of France, especially the southern part, groups of harkis gathered in the low-rent housing they found available within the cities and hid themselves from the angry glances of the French. There was no way to tell, after all, if these Arabs were the enemy that had claimed so many young French lives or those who had fought for France. Most of the French citizens didn’t give it a thought. These immigrants were different and beneath the French standard. Even more than the bothersome pied-noirs, these harkis were completely unwanted.

In the middle of the humid Algerian night, as the stars twinkled in the black sky, Rémi shook Moustafa awake. The curly-haired Arab managed a smile and blinked a few times. There was a gleam of excitement in his brown eyes.

“So this is it. This time, by God’s grace, we’ll make it, Moustafa.”

Moustafa regarded the strong farmer. “You’re a good man, Rémi.” He stood, resting his arm on Rémi’s shoulders.

Another chance to leave. Another chance to find Anne-Marie, his mother, his sisters, Ophélie. A letter had arrived from Eliane just yesterday confirming that all was well at the orphanage. David and his father had arrived safely a few days earlier. Eliane expressed her extreme sorrow over Moustafa.

They are mourning for me
, he realized. It made him long to be there even more quickly, to end their pain.

The car was packed, except for the rounded-top wooden trunk.

“I’ll wake Amar,” Rémi said.

“Could we pray first, Rémi?” It was an urgent request that Moustafa made without really knowing why.

“Of course.”

Moustafa sat on the dust-covered couch and bent over, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know the first time I prayed? I mean really prayed, my own prayer?”

“When?”

“When I woke up in this very same house after we escaped from the Casbah. It seems like a hundred years ago. I’ve died a hundred deaths since then.”

“You have lived, Moustafa. God has His hand on you.”

Moustafa shrugged, his long curls almost touching his shoulders. “I hope so, Rémi. I hope so.”

Silently they bent their heads, and Rémi spoke quietly. “Holy God. You have brought us this far. Protect us now. We’re afraid. Give Moustafa strength. Take us to France. Our lives are in Your hands.”

The men whispered “Amen” together. Then Rémi opened the lid of the trunk. “Are you ready?”

In answer, Moustafa climbed into the trunk and sat down, his knees hugged tightly against him. Rémi placed two canteens filled with water in Moustafa’s lap. Then he shut the lid. “Can you manage a drink?”

Cramped inside the trunk, with his head touching his knees, Moustafa fumbled with the top of the canteen, unscrewed it, and brought the bottle to his mouth. “Yes, it’s okay.”

His voice was calm, but he felt himself shaking. Perhaps he would panic and cry out at the port, begging to be released. He had not realized how tightly he fit in the trunk. Hussein was much smaller. His clothes were drenched with sweat even before Abdul, Amar, and Rémi carried him to the car.

The trunk was placed on the backseat, and Rémi took off for the port with Amar. Inside the stuffy compartment, Moustafa repeated over and over to himself something he had read in David’s New Testament, the comforting words of the Christ:
And lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world
. They were the words that had swum through his mind as he lay in a coma in the Arab woman’s apartment in Philippeville. Somehow they had brought him peace. And tonight, when again he felt he had no more strength, he said them again and again to himself. In the end he fell asleep.