Two Testaments (9 page)

David immediately liked this woman. She at least had some hope left in her in spite of the war. He glanced down at the boy, and Anne-Marie spoke.

“David, Moustafa. This is Hussein. He’s only just found me. And look, look.…” She held out a slip of paper with the Huguenot cross scribbled in the corner.

Moustafa took it quickly. “What does he want?” His voice was brusque.

“He’s a harki’s son. He knew Mme el Gharbi and her children. He’s orphaned, like so many others, and begs to go with us. Oh, David! What do you think? Surely the orphanage will take one more?”

David suddenly felt claustrophobic. He had not expected this. His mind was still spinning with his own decision. The boy was wiping tears from his face.

“Perhaps there would be room at the orphanage. It’s so overcrowded now, what would one more child matter?” He shook his head. “What do you think, Moustafa?”

Moustafa touched the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve lost your parents?”

The child nodded.

“Let him go. Yes, send him on.”

David felt a release of tension and broke in quickly. “Anne-Marie, I won’t be going yet. I’ve decided to stay behind for a week or so. Until Moustafa can get his family out.”

Anne-Marie’s face drained of color. “You’re staying too? But, but what about—”

“Eliane will keep you company on board. If you have any trouble, she’ll be there to help you.” Moustafa broke in as if he had already rehearsed the lines.

As indeed he had, David thought.

“Of course. Of course, I’ll be glad to do whatever I can.” Eliane nodded.

“Here’s the address of the orphanage and the phone number. Call them when you get into Marseille. Ask for Mother Griolet.” David fished in his pocket for some bills. “And here’s some money. This will be enough for the boat and the train. We won’t be long. Tell them that. Tell Ophélie that Papa won’t be long.” He thought of Gabriella again and wished he had time to scribble a note. “And tell Gabby … tell Gabriella that …”

They were all staring at him, the small group, and he turned his eyes down. “Tell her that ‘ignorant armies clash by night.’ She’ll understand.”

Passengers were rushing to the paquebot.

“Hurry now, quickly, get on,” Moustafa said, but his voice cracked.

David shared his pain. He walked ahead toward Eliane and helped her gather the bags and children, motioning for the boy to follow. He left Anne-Marie alone with Moustafa to say what he hoped desperately would not be their final words.

People were pushing and shoving, children irritable and crying as the line toward the ferry formed. Tickets did not seem to be a requirement; just get on and get out. Hussein felt sick to his stomach. Sick with excitement and fear.

So Moustafa Dramchini was here too. Hussein wanted to run and tell Ali. Both of them were here. He clutched the suitcase in his hands, hoping no one would guess that there were firearms within, wrapped amid his clothes. He was going to France with Anne-Marie Duchemin. It had been rather easy after all. And surely Ali could deal with Moustafa.

The plank was lowered. It looked to Hussein like the mouth of a great fish, waiting greedily to swallow these filthy pied-noirs. That would suit everyone just fine, he supposed, if they were swallowed up at sea.

Anne-Marie, Moustafa, and David were pushing him along now. An officer stepped in his way. “Who is this?” he asked angrily.

“A harki’s son, sir. Orphaned. We’re taking him with us.” Anne-Marie’s voice was shaking.

The officer placed a hard hand on Hussein and shoved him out of the way. “No room for harkis on this boat. Can’t you see we’re clear full as it is?”

Hussein heard the thumping of his heart. He didn’t dare to speak.

“P-please,” Anne-Marie stammered. “The child’s all alone.”

“Did you hear me?” the officer demanded. “If you want to get on this boat, come quickly, but leave the Arabs to take care of themselves. Go on, boy. We’ve got no room for you.”

Hussein turned to flee, but Moustafa caught him.

“Hold on, son,” he said. Then he looked at Anne-Marie and said, “I’ll bring him with me. Later. Go on. Don’t worry.”

She nodded halfheartedly, blew Moustafa a kiss, and limped up the gangplank after Eliane.

Hussein cursed his luck. But then he smiled to himself. Moustafa Dramchini had just promised to bring him along. Things could be worse.

5

Mother Griolet laid the letter down on the mahogany desk, then picked it up again. She considered tearing it into thin strips and depositing them in the wastebasket. It was the third one this week. The same polite opening followed by the same questions. The same accusation.
What is going on in Castelnau, and why is our daughter’s education suffering? Is this exchange program perhaps too much for you now?
She sighed.

Caroline Harland was responsible. She had threatened to write her father about M. Hoffmann’s long absences, and doubtless the word had spread among the other parents. Oh, that silly, pompous girl! Jealous of her housemate Gabriella, no doubt, for winning the affections of the handsome American
professeur
. Now three polite, firm, threatening letters sat on her desk, with more sure to come.

It was true she had been distracted lately. They all had—David, Jean-Louis, Gabriella, and the Sisters. Too many irons in the fire. It had always been her weakness. She was rarely sick and had found it easy to rise before dawn all these years. She worked and gave and seemed never to need a break.

She rested her face in the palms of her hands and felt very old. Perhaps she had been wrong to participate in the rescue of the children—but it had seemed so right. Children who were not merely victims of war, but targeted by a madman for murder. She had rescued children before, and God had blessed it.

But during the other war, she had only had the orphanage to manage. The university exchange program had come later. She frowned, reminding herself that she’d had no idea David Hoffmann was involved in the smuggling operation to save Arab children from a vengeful madman when she hired him. It was not her fault.

Just as quickly she reprimanded herself. She was slipping into self-pity, defending herself. That was not to be tolerated.

She leafed through the children’s files. Adoption prospects were not bright. Young couples wanted to adopt healthy, cooing babies, not wounded children. Yet in the past she usually found homes for them. She had rarely had to send a fifteen-year-old off alone to the state’s care.

But in the past she had been dealing with French children. Plain French, not pied-noir, and certainly not Arab. Perhaps some of the new children’s parents were still alive. Perhaps they would flee to France too, as so many were doing, and find their children. She could only wait and pray and keep working.

She hoped David would return soon. Maybe that would solve the problem of the angry letters. He would come back for the trip to Paris and charm the girls so they would write glowing reports home to their parents. The year would finish successfully, as in the past. If only he would come back.

Poor Jean-Louis, droning along, annoying the girls because he was fat and bald and boring. It was as if those girls needed M. Hoffmann to help them dream and flirt.

“Bother it all,” she muttered to herself.
“Ce n’est pas possible.”
The program had thrived for years before David Hoffmann came. He was not the only thing that held it together! The girls must simply grow up.

She glanced at the letter again, then closed her eyes.
Dear God, forgive me, please. I am trying to figure this out on my own. Hélas! I can take the criticism from the parents. I can even take the idle talk from the townspeople. But for the children. For the children, please help me find a way.

She stood with difficulty, pushing back the chair and resting with both hands on the desk. She took two deep breaths, straightened up, smoothed her black habit, and left the office.

Gabriella leaned on the desk and faced her fellow students. She could feel her face going red even before she said a word.

“Hi.” It was all she could think of.

The girls giggled.

“Go on, Gabriella. Don’t be nervous,” Stephanie Thrasher said.

Gabriella smiled, thankful for the support from one of her fellow boarders at Mme Leclerc’s.

“Well, yes. M. Vidal has kindly asked me to teach M. Hoffmann’s class for the next few days. I … I have always been fascinated by the work of Victor Hugo. His genius was in poetry, drama, and fiction, and he’s been called the greatest writer since Shakespeare.

“Like Shakespeare, he was adored during his life and enjoyed the praises of many. He was a powerful man, with a huge appetite and endless energy. They say he would pop a whole orange in his mouth and eat it—without removing the peel.”

The girls laughed again, and Gabriella’s legs stopped shaking so much.

“He was very active politically, using his literary genius to either ridicule politicians or enhance their stature. But of course, he is best known for his novel
Les Misérables
. It was actually a collection of stories and appeared as a continuing humanitarian epic, holding the whole world in rapt attention month by month.”

She picked up a hefty paperback copy of the book. “Of course, we will not tackle the work in its entirety, but rather this version that David—” She stopped, mortified, then cleared her throat.

Stephanie smiled back nervously. Caroline, on the other hand, looked delighted with Gabriella’s slip and batted her eyes.

“This version that M. Hoffmann provided. He left a note indicating that we will be studying this novel for the next two weeks.”

Caroline raised her hand politely.

“Yes, Caroline,” Gabriella responded.

“Gabriella, do you have any idea when M. Hoffmann will be back? I thought maybe since you and he are such … good friends, you might have an idea.”

Gabriella felt her cheeks burning. “I really can’t say,” she mumbled.

Stephanie stood up quickly. “Hey, Gabriella, would you like some help handing out the books?”

A wave of relief came over her. “Yes, Stephanie, that would be great.” She walked behind David’s desk and stared at the neatly written notes that he had left for M. Vidal.

Come back
, she groaned inside.
I can’t do this. I need you.
Her throat tightened. Not two weeks ago he had held her, kissed her, handed her back the exam that he had crafted just for her. It seemed like forever. She thought for the hundredth time of his brief note at the bottom of the last page …
When you begin to question, read this exam again and know that I meant every word.

Gabriella glanced up and realized that the girls were waiting. How long had they been staring at her, letting the silence speak for itself? She ran her hands through her curly mane of red hair and stared back. But for the longest moment, she could not think of anything to say.