Two Testaments (60 page)

David murmured in her ear, “Beautiful, sure, but don’t expect it to stay like that for long.” He politely shooed the happy group of spectators out of the apartment, caught Gabriella in his arms, and whispered, “Welcome home.”

34

During the fall of 1962, routine murders took place throughout Algeria as the FLN attempted to rid the country of every last harki and his family. For the most part they were successful. Selma and her father never talked about the harki they had housed in their apartment. It was a badge they wore on their hearts, along with many other secrets.

They prayed to Allah for the new Algeria. The country was in ruins, and many cities resembled deserted battlegrounds. Selma could not look out in the square without remembering the day of bloodshed. From the carnage one life had been spared. She wondered about the young Arab man. Had he reached France? Had he indeed been saved?

She wondered too what the future held for the pied-noirs whose empty stores testified, like sealed tombs, to their flight from this world. Their world. Algeria. Had they found peace in France, among their own?

The questions had no answers. Selma’s young, independent country was struggling, struggling. The birth had been so long and painful. Would the new child survive? She did not know. She only knew that she loved this land. She prayed five times a day to Allah that their costly freedom would bring them peace at last.

Throughout France, in pockets of cities, the pied-noirs settled among themselves. Perhaps it was their pride in their origins; perhaps it was their distrust of the French. More likely it was their complete indifference, but early on the lines seemed drawn. The pied-noirs were not truly French.

Many struggled to find jobs and rebuild their lives. They were grateful for the government loans, yet a bitterness settled in their souls against all that came from President de Gaulle. That traitor. They would never be able to make the French understand how he had betrayed them. The war was over, and that was all that seemed to matter to France.

Eliane and Rémi saw that the rift was inevitable. But at least their one small family would try to go forward, to forgive and be forgiven. As Eliane put on her fanciest dress, she called out to Rémi, “The excitement of the weddings has certainly brought a bright spot to the situation,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Quite remarkable, the way it has all turned out, Eliane.” He came and wrapped his arms around her. “Remarkable, like you.”

She pushed him playfully out of the room, retrieved her hat and purse, and picked up baby José, who was chewing on a soggy cookie. “Oh, look at you, child.
Tant pis.
I don’t have time to change you now. We can’t be late for Anne-Marie and Moustafa’s wedding!”

One week after Gabriella and David returned from their honeymoon, Anne-Marie and Moustafa were married in the chapel of le Temple Protestant in Lodève. They wanted the simplest of ceremonies, with no reception. Only let them be married!

From beneath the lace veil of her cream-colored hat, Anne-Marie glanced at Gabriella, who winked back. Eliane was smiling from ear to ear. Ophélie sat beside David, with Mme Dramchini on the other side. The little girl bounced in the pew, whispering, “My mama is so beautiful!” loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Anne-Marie had never been happier. She had family, she had friends, and now, God be praised, she had her impossible love. They had agreed on a Christian ceremony, and this thought brought tears to Anne-Marie’s eyes. Apart for all these months, she and Moustafa had each come to believe in the Christ.

M. Krugler performed the ceremony and afterward said to them, “Remember, I am here for you, my children.”

He was a mixture of father and guardian angel, Anne-Marie speculated. Why did he care for them so, desiring to help and protect a pied-noir bride and her harki husband? She wondered if it had been planned long ago that M. Krugler’s life would be woven into theirs. Tapestry! Perhaps it was back when he had preached in Algeria and her father had believed. She thought it went even further back than that, to the heart of a perfect God who had chosen to die for His people.

There was plenty of work to keep both Henri and Moustafa busy all day and often well into the evenings. For Moustafa, it was a gift that was being offered to him: the ability to work and work hard. Then at night he sat at one of the long tables, surrounded by women.
His
women, he thought often to himself, playfully. Sometimes he stared so long and intently at Anne-Marie that the others started teasing and whistling. But he couldn’t help it. She still seemed like a mirage, and yet he was holding her hand.

The farmhouse suited them well. It was big enough to give Moustafa and his bride the privacy they needed but still give his mother and sisters a feeling of belonging there. He appreciated how quickly and fully they accepted Anne-Marie into the family with kindness, letting her fill some of the void left by his father and Hacène.

Impossible love. He considered the words and then smiled. At least for them, for Anne-Marie and him, it had worked. They had gotten their impossible love.

Every other week, on Saturday afternoons, Moustafa joined Henri Krugler with a group of Arab teenagers. Each time they met, the number grew as they played sports and board games and talked of their fears and frustrations. These harki teens liked the white-haired pastor, and they immediately trusted Moustafa. It was as if his wounds, his struggle, represented a part of each of their lives. When Moustafa spoke of his life, timidly at first, he was surprised that the youths listened intently.

Henri called this informal meeting Oasis. That had made Moustafa smile, with a stinging in his eyes. Of course. An oasis. The kids weren’t the only ones searching. He too had looked and longed for something strong and intangible. He had not understood at first. But now he knew. He had stumbled onto it, like a famished traveler in the desert. It swept over him, cool and refreshing, full of hope. An oasis for his soul.

Henri Krugler looked out at his small congregation, smiling at the elderly French who wrinkled their brows as his booming voice announced the first hymn. On the other side of the chapel, much farther back, sat a row of Arab kids, huddled together, casting suspicious glances around them.

Moustafa and Anne-Marie entered the chapel with Ophélie. They hesitated, then looked at Henri, who waved them in. It was the young couple’s first time at the Sunday service. Moustafa rumpled the hair of one of the Arab youths as he walked by, then motioned for the whole group to follow him to the front of the chapel.

Slowly, one by one, the Arabs got out of their seats and moved forward, trailing behind the young couple and the little girl. An elderly French man rose and extended his hand, first to Moustafa and Anne-Marie, then to one of the teenagers. “
Bienvenue
,” he said softly. “Welcome.”

It was a humble beginning, Henri mused. But it was a beginning. The first Arabs to attend a service! He stared out at the strange little flock. He swallowed twice, but he couldn’t dislodge the lump in his throat.

“May we all rise,” he managed to say.

The organ warmed up with a whine, and the dear old organist pressed her fingers onto the keys to form the first chord. It resounded in the chapel. Blended. Harmony.

Their faces buried in the hymnbooks, the small congregation began to sing, as soft as a whisper at first. By the third verse, Henri raised his voice to sing more loudly, and they followed. He even saw them smiling at one another. He felt very close to God.

Later, as Henri preached about Jesus’ visit with a woman at a well, he pointed out that this woman had no right to Jesus. She was not Jewish, His chosen race. She was from a despised minority, she was only a woman, and she was an adulteress. But Jesus offered her living water.

He wondered if they would understand. Maybe, with time …

He concluded the service and walked briskly to the back of the church, standing at the door to greet his people as they left.
I wish you could be here to see it, Maxime Duchemin
, he thought.
You would be mighty surprised at what God has done.

David woke and glanced quickly at the clock by the bed. Six forty-five. He turned to Gabriella and gently shook her awake. “Sweetheart, it’s time to get up.”

She stretched and yawned as she always did, looking to David like a beautiful red Persian cat. It fascinated him to watch her wake up. She rubbed her eyes, yawned again, and fell against him.

“Do we have to get up already?”

“Honey, yes,” he said, with a tinge of impatience in his voice. He climbed out of bed. “Classes start today, remember?”