Two Testaments (59 page)

“Yes,” she agreed, blushing. “But you’ll have to help me.” She lifted her hair off her neck and turned her back, with its long row of silk-covered buttons, toward her husband.

There was a brief pause, and then he said, “This will take me the rest of the night to get undone.”

Gabriella laughed. “No need to hurry, my love. We have all the time in the world.”

Henri liked the wiry young Arab the first time he laid eyes on him. The young man made no apologies for his pained movements or slowness but worked beside Henri without complaint, painting, hammering, fixing up. Moustafa was a good match for Anne-Marie, Henri concluded. And this old mas was going to suit them well. There were bedrooms enough for Mme Dramchini and Saiyda and Rachida each to have her own. The little apartment at the end of the hall would give Moustafa and Anne-Marie their privacy, with a small adjoining room for Ophélie.

As they worked up on the roof in the blazing heat of the end of August, Moustafa asked Henri questions, and the gentle pastor delighted in answering.

“You see what I mean?” he said. “One God, three distinct personalities. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” Henri breathed heavily in the sun and patted Moustafa on the back. “Keep up your questions. God is not afraid of them.”

“M. Krugler. Pastor. I have wanted to ask you … Anne-Marie and I would consider it a great privilege if you would marry us, right here in your church in Lodève.” He spoke quickly, as if he were afraid of being reprimanded. “We have spoken of our love for so long. It seems impossible, the cultures that separate us. But we are in love, and we have been through so much. We are not afraid. Will you help us, M. Krugler?”

Henri was too touched to speak. Would he help them!

Moustafa frowned as Henri remained silent. “If it is too awkward, we do not have to be married in a church.”

“Too awkward? No, my son! There is nothing I would enjoy more. Nothing.”

They shook hands on the top of the roof. An impossible love, Henri thought. But nothing was impossible with God.

After numerous phone calls between Joseph in Geneva and Henri in Lodève, they were most pleased with the progress they had made. Many pied-noirs and harkis throughout France had heard through word of mouth about the rescued children at St. Joseph’s. Some adoptions were pending. Other families gladly agreed to take in foster children. Amazingly a few Algerian parents who had escaped to France found their children in Castelnau.

And throughout France those who had come to Mother Griolet’s funeral or had heard the news of her death began to respond to the overcrowded situation. Orphans who had found a home at St. Joseph, later had been adopted, and had now married and had children of their own wrote to say they were interested in adopting a child. By the end of 1962, they hoped, the orphanage would once again house under thirty children.

Henri was truly worried for only one child. Hussein. No harki family wanted to take in an Arab child. They looked the same, these harkis and Arabs, but the war had made them enemies. The boy did not really fit in anywhere. He would probably end up staying at St. Joseph with the French children, Henri reflected. Well, at least he was safe.

“Mmm, this is heaven,” Gabriella murmured, stretching and staring at the Swiss mountains outside the picture window. She cuddled up against David and was surprised again at how natural, how right, that simple movement felt. Husband and wife.

The week at Joseph and Emeline Cohen’s chalet in Switzerland had been the ideal way to start their married life. They had taken long walks through the mountains past the cows jiggling their lazy heads, tasted the strong Swiss cheeses and eaten fondue as the nights cooled ever so slightly. And mostly they just had time together. Time to know each other and begin to learn how to love.

On their last afternoon there, Gabriella insisted on leaving the chalet, as she had at least once every day. “Otherwise, people will ask us what we did all the time, and what will we say?”

David picked her up, squeezing her hard. “I love you, Gabby. My angel! What will we say?” He grabbed her, and they toppled on the bed together, laughing. “We’ll say, ‘What do you think a young couple would do on their honeymoon! I bet you can’t even guess.’”

Anne-Marie grew impatient during the two weeks Gabriella and David were away. She had such wonderful news! Moustafa wanted for them to get married as soon as the mas was ready. Day after day he worked alongside Henri Krugler, making the place into their home. Henri talked of hiring Moustafa as his assistant at the centre aéré. This plus the funds from her father would be adequate money to start with. It seemed to both of them a small fortune. They had lived so long on nothing.

Anne-Marie and Ophélie spent the afternoons at the farmhouse rearranging furniture, cleaning spots where paint had been spilled, giving the place a feminine touch. Often Anne-Marie found herself standing beside the couch, caressing it lovingly with her fingers, remembering the time when it sat in the farmhouse in Algiers. She could almost hear her father’s stern voice growing soft as he held baby Ophélie.

When she shook herself back to the present, she was smiling. Her father had loved her, cared immensely for Ophélie. He had provided for them. She had been loved by him, and now she was loved by Moustafa. They had a lifetime in front of them, and nothing, not prejudice or difficulties, could change that. They had survived. God be praised. Yes, this God really did seem to be in control, not only of the universe, but also of her life. He was trustworthy, and He was in charge.

Anne-Marie wondered at all the people who had showed up in her life in the past year. It was like Mother Griolet’s tapestry, the many-colored threads inching themselves through her life, weaving their pattern of hope and faith. She told herself then that the waiting, the impossible months of waiting and wondering, had been worth it. If things had gone more smoothly, perhaps she would have never taken the time to seek and to understand.

She did not know. All she knew was that when Eliane came that afternoon to take her shopping for a wedding dress, she was going to buy white. She felt clean, pure, and yes, forgiven. She was no longer condemned. This God accepted her as she was. And so did Moustafa. She had gotten her new chance after all.

Eliane and Anne-Marie came back from shopping, their faces glowing. “We’ve found the perfect dress for the wedding,” Eliane confided to Rémi and Moustafa. “But that’s all we’ll tell you for now.”

The two couples sipped tisane in the farmhouse den, talking excitedly. “I want to hear about you,” Anne-Marie insisted. “I’ve been rattling on and on, and we haven’t even heard. What have you found?”

“An apartment on the west side of Montpellier. Many pied-noirs are moving into the complex,” Eliane said.

“Oh, so you won’t have a yard?”

“No, not yet, but after three months in a hotel room, this apartment looks pretty good.” She sounded, as always, cheery and optimistic. “And Rémi has several leads for work. It will all be fine.” She leaned back against Rémi. They seemed so happy just to be together. They shared a cozy familiarity, an easy intimacy that came, Anne-Marie suspected, from years of living together, sharing dreams, hurts, practicalities. She hoped she and Moustafa would grow into that same kind of love.

“Oh, I almost forgot! We brought your wedding gift,” Eliane exclaimed. She motioned to Rémi, who slipped outside and came back a few minutes later carrying the old trunk that had brought Moustafa to France.

“You can’t give this away!” Anne-Marie cried. “It’s an heirloom.”

Eliane shook her head. “No. It held my heirlooms. But this trunk is for you two.” She suddenly looked at Rémi, unsure. “If you want it, that is.”

“Of course we do. What a lovely idea.” Anne-Marie kissed Eliane softly on the cheeks. “You do like it, don’t you, Moustafa?”

The young man grinned. “Let’s just say I’m glad I can observe it from the outside.”

“Well then, open it up!” Rémi said.

Moustafa lifted the lid and laughed. Anne-Marie came alongside and peered into the trunk. It was filled with towels and sheets.

“A young couple’s got to have something to start out with,” Rémi explained.

“Oh, Eliane, Rémi. You shouldn’t have. You’re having to start over yourselves. It’s too much.” Anne-Marie was genuinely concerned.

“Our pleasure,” Eliane reassured her. “Don’t forget, these two trunks did eventually bring me my things from Algeria.” She reached inside the trunk. “Oh, and there’s something else.” Lifting the towels and sheets, Eliane brought out a thick black leather Bible with
Moustafa and Anne-Marie
engraved on the front in gold.

The young couple took the book and reverently leafed through its gold-lined pages. “It’s beautiful. Really.”

“We thought you might as well start out with one together.”

Anne-Marie touched Moustafa’s hand. “Yes, we have so much to learn … together.”

When Gabriella and David returned from their honeymoon, everyone insisted that David carry her over the threshold into their new apartment.

Gabriella looked around her and gasped. “Thank you! Thank you, everyone. I don’t know what else to say.”

She had wondered what it would feel like to live in Mother Griolet’s apartment, but it was so transformed that it seemed to have taken on a life of its own. The walls were lighter, the windows outlined by curtains in bright, bold prints. The worn furniture in the den had been replaced with more modern pieces.

She walked into their bedroom. A double bed was there, covered with a thick yellow comforter and half a dozen pillows. “Mother! It looks like something from a designer’s magazine! It’s beautiful!”