Two Crosses (15 page)

Gabriella sensed that something was wrong, and she tried to change the subject. “The rabbit is delicious, Mme Leclerc.”

“Oh yes,” chimed Stephanie and Caroline.

David’s silverware lay on his plate.

“M. Hoffmann, you are all right?” Mme Leclerc inquired. “The food is not good?”

David seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts. “It’s superb, Mme Leclerc. Only …” He lost his composure for a moment. “I’m afraid that I can’t eat the … the
lapereau
.” He said the word with difficulty. “The rabbit—I’m sure it is delicious. It’s just that …” Again his voice trailed off.

The girls stared at him, shocked. David Hoffmann had fallen from his pedestal. His face was red, and Gabriella noticed drips of perspiration on his forehead.

“I’m allergic,” he finished lamely.

Mme Leclerc stood and nodded sympathetically. “It is nothing! If only I had known.” She whisked the plate away. “I will fix you something else. It will not take long. You like chicken?
Poulet cordon bleu
, perhaps.”

David wiped his face with the cloth napkin. He had recovered. “Please, no, excuse me. It’s all fine. Don’t bother. A nervous reaction, I’m afraid. Please, I will have some more of the delicious
gratin dauphinois
and
des haricots verts
. That will be delightful.”

It took five minutes for the conversation to resume. The main course was cleared away, the rabbit forgotten. The cheese course was served, followed by a tray of fresh fruit and then Mme Leclerc’s rich yet light
mousse au chocolat
. It was eleven thirty before the coffee was drunk and the table cleared.

David thanked Mme Leclerc profusely for the meal and kissed her on each cheek before he left, causing her to roll her eyes with glee as she bustled toward the kitchen.

Then he took Gabriella’s arm and pulled her into the hallway. “You will come to Aix with me then?”

“Yes, David, I’ll come.” She wrinkled her brow. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m all right. I have to go now; I have a train to catch. Good-bye, Gabby.” He brushed her cheek with his hand, but he seemed distracted.

He descended the steps without looking back, leaving Gabriella to watch him go and wonder about a smooth-talking teacher who became unnerved over a dead rabbit.

Moustafa awoke to the sound of Anne-Marie’s incessant coughing. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and sat up. The sole window in the room, small and barred and near the ceiling, revealed no light.

“Anne-Marie,” he whispered. “There’s a little water left. Take it. It will help calm the cough.” He handed a bottle across to the mattress where she lay.

“Thank you,” she rasped. After a long drink she said, “We’re going to die here, Moustafa. I won’t wait any longer.”

Moustafa did not reply. She was right. They were slowly being starved to death. Might as well take the pill and be done with it.

Three and a half weeks they had spent locked in this room. Moustafa had made a mark on the wall at the same time each day, the time when a skinny hand unlocked the door and pushed in a plate of stale bread and a bottle of water.

“Anne-Marie, don’t give up. We’ll have our chance, and when it comes, we must be ready. As we planned, you’ll say I forced you to talk and you have more information that you must give to Ali. Please.”

“I’ll try,” she said. She lay back down and curled up like a kitten, desperate for warmth.

He reached out to touch her, but stopped himself. How he longed to hold her and love her, even in the filth of this basement. He could keep her warm. But he would not. An impossible love! A harki and a pied-noir. So he listened to her cough and watched her grow weaker by the day. And thought about the two pills that she kept in a small bottle sewn into her sleeve.

Ali lit a cigarette and stamped the match out on the cement floor. A small group of men, also smoking, sat in metal chairs before him.

“Emile has found the girl. He is a bit slow about his work, but he gets it done. We’ll have the information by tomorrow night.” He smiled. “Of course, we all know what an important night that will be in Paris. I am told it will be a peaceful march to the prefecture. But the French police will understand. Power to the Algerians. Freedom at last!” He paused a moment, transfixed.

“Of course, our little matter of concern will go quite unnoticed. No more harki children will escape. Nor will the pied-noirs. We will have their names, and they will pay for the sins of their fathers. Sweet red revenge! And you will bring me the proof. A coat stained with their blood!”

He had worked himself into a fury, and the men shifted nervously in their chairs.

“Leave! Go on with you. I will call for you when we have the news.”

The men shuffled out into the pitch-black night. Only Rachid stayed, at Ali’s command.

“What of the prisoners?”

“There is nothing to report. They are surely half-dead with hunger.” Rachid eyed his leader hopefully. “Do you wish for me to talk with them?”

“You are too eager, Rachid. When Emile brings us the girl, then we’ll see fear in the eyes of the Duchemin woman. She’ll talk and talk. She will beg to tell us everything.”

“And the harki son?”

“Moustafa is a swine. And you know what happens to swine. To the butcher! Soon. Do not worry.”

12

Gabriella knocked softly on the door of Mother Griolet’s office.

“Come in,” came the gentle reply.

Cautiously Gabriella entered and took a chair. “I think I’ve gotten myself into a real mess, Mother Griolet,” she began. “Could I talk to you about something … something personal?”

The nun nodded.

“I just feel … I feel … how can I describe it?” She searched for the words. “I feel
unpeaceful
. That’s it. As though I’ve made a mistake.” She leaned back in the big chair and sighed. “I hate making mistakes. What do you think God thinks about our mistakes? I know He is forgiving, but …”

“What exactly is the problem, my dear?”

“It’s David—I mean M. Hoffmann.” She blushed. “I’m not sure what he’s up to, but I am … involved with him, and I don’t know what to do.”

Mother Griolet waited patiently for an explanation.

“It’s just that he’s an atheist. He doesn’t believe in God. Have I messed up everything?”

Mother Griolet settled back in her chair, a kind smile spreading across her wrinkled face. “Gabriella, you are very familiar with the Scriptures,
non
?” She nodded toward the large Bible on the corner of her desk.

“Yes, of course. I read my Bible.”

“Then you are familiar with the stories of Abraham and Joseph and Moses and Paul and Peter and many of the other patriarchs and the saints?”

“Yes, I know about their lives.” A baffled expression came over Gabriella’s face.

Mother Griolet smiled. “I have always found great comfort in the fact that our Lord worked with extremely human humans. They were always bumbling around and getting themselves in the worst trouble, even when they knew better.”

At this she raised her eyebrows and looked at Gabriella, who reddened and looked down.

“Fortunately for us, the Lord kept picking them back up and helping them get on with the business He had them about. I can’t recall a one who was perfect. But the smart ones recognized when they had ‘messed up,’ as you say, and they came before God and asked forgiveness and got back on the right track. Isn’t it wonderful how forgiveness works?

“We’re free to sin, and for some things we’ll suffer the consequences all our lives. Think of Moses missing out on the Promised Land because he struck a rock instead of speaking to it, as God commanded. And Saint Paul, how many years did it take him to convince those he’d been persecuting that he was now a believer?

“But when Christ forgives us, we’re freed to start over again, in His power. And little by little we learn.” She stopped for a breath, but Gabriella said nothing.

“I’m afraid I’ve babbled on. And perhaps I’ve not answered your question about M. Hoffmann.”

“No. I mean yes, you have. It’s true I need to get on with things. It’s just that … that I think I’m in love with him.” This she said so softly that Mother Griolet had to strain to hear.

“And this is a problem? To be in love?”

“Well, you know. He doesn’t believe. We’re so different.”

“And you would be the same? Is that your wish?”

Gabriella smiled. Dear Mother Griolet, playing the devil’s advocate. “You will have me spell it out, won’t you, Mother Griolet?”

The old woman nodded.

“I find myself having very strong feelings for him, but I think I shouldn’t because he mocks my God. I know it’s dangerous to love someone who doesn’t share your beliefs. But the problem is that I don’t
want
to stop caring for him. And I don’t know what to do.”

“So you would ask me to approve what your conscience forbids? I cannot do that, Gabriella.”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t ask that of you. You don’t like M. Hoffmann, do you?” Her eyes begged for mercy.

“Professionally speaking, he is an extremely intelligent young man who performs his role as teacher without flaw. But you want my feeling here?” She pointed to her heart. “He scares me. There is a war going on, and people do strange things in war. Perhaps he’s not involved, but there is something about him that bothers me. He’s very secretive. For your own good, Gabriella, I beg you to be careful.” She was quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. “I wouldn’t want you to mistake something else for what you think is love. He has a certain way with the ladies, and perhaps his interest in you is—”

Gabriella was crying now. “He’s using me,” she blurted. “That’s what you think. I’m afraid too, but I can’t stay away. Will you pray for me, Mother Griolet?”

The old woman came around to the front of her desk and knelt beside Gabriella. She took the young woman’s soft, creamy hands into her weathered ones. Then she looked at Gabriella with her bright green eyes that did not betray her age. “Our God is not a God of confusion. You must trust. He gives strength to do what we cannot do on our own. But, Gabriella, you must let Him do it. Even if it breaks your heart.”