Two Crosses (36 page)

She squirmed away from him, feeling suddenly naked, vulnerable.

“I wouldn’t mind a romantic fling, Gabby, if that was what you were after. But I know better. You want a meeting of souls, a sharing that encompasses the whole being. And I can’t give you my whole being. I don’t own it yet.” He rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Perhaps you won’t believe me, but the fact is that I respect you too much to pull you into an affair that would leave you heartbroken and guilty. After all, I’m not wooing you away from another man. It’s a jealous God who demands your total devotion. I can’t fight that, Gabby. I will not.”

He moved closer to her again and gently put his hand under her chin and lifted her head so their eyes met. Hers were brimming with tears.

“Dear Gabby, you don’t want me. Ours is an impossible love. Please don’t cry. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly.” He offered her a white handkerchief.

She blew her nose loudly and dabbed her eyes. “You’re right, David. You’ve seen my heart and my questions. But it doesn’t seem fair. Aren’t you afraid that you’ll go through the rest of your life and always wonder, if only we had given it a chance?”

He grinned, turning up one side of his mouth. “Sure, I’ll wonder. I’ll think about you in ten years and hope you aren’t married to a boring old pastor who preaches hellfire and brimstone but puts you to sleep in bed.” He raised his eyebrows mischievously, and Gabriella laughed.

“So I’m doomed,” she stated. “I can’t be a disobedient child even if I want to. You, my tempter, will protect my purity.” Her eyes were sparkling again.

“Innocent and chaste, I used to picture you. But I’m afraid I’ve at least destroyed the first stereotype. You’re in the thick of things with me now.”

“Yes,” Gabriella said, happy to change the subject. “I want to know more about this secret mission of yours. Why are you helping to bring kids out of Algeria?” Before he could answer, she continued, “And don’t give me that bit about revenge and minorities. Maybe it’s true. But there has to be a deeper reason. Something has made you feel strongly enough about this war that you’re here in lowly Castelnau, smuggling orphans into France.”

He sighed, shifting his lanky frame to another position on the couch, so that they were facing each other, no longer touching hands. “You really want to know?”

The way he regarded her made Gabriella’s heart skip a beat. If she was merely David’s friend, he could care about another.

“Yes, of course I want to know.”

“Mother Griolet told you that I once lived in Algeria.”

She nodded.

“I made friends during that year, 1953, just before the war started. Then in late 1959, one of those friends wrote me about a desperate need to get children who are in danger out of Algeria. I had just graduated from Princeton and had some time on my hands, so I decided to see how I could help.”

“You must have cared a lot about this friend to come here,” Gabriella said.

David smiled. “Yes, I suppose I did. At one time. But that was a long time ago. And now … now I’m involved in this operation and I find it … compelling.”

“And the cross?” Gabriella had removed her cross from under her blouse and now held it in her palm.

“The cross is the symbol of our operation. Nothing religious. It was a reminder of the past. It seemed to fit. Quite a coincidence that you wear the same one.”

“Yes, a coincidence, David. A simple coincidence.”

The sun was peeping behind the red tiles of the houses facing the apartment. “I should take you back,
non
? I have a few things to do, and perhaps you will be seeing Mlles Thrasher and Harland?”

“Yes, I suppose I should get back.”

He helped her with her coat and they left the apartment, walking out into the dusk of Christmas Day. The streets were empty. Gabriella thought of a hundred things she wanted to say, but she could not bring herself to say any of them.
Don’t leave me alone tonight. I want to stay with you. Just a while longer.

He stopped at the entrance to Mme Leclerc’s apartment. “Listen, Gabby. I’ll be leaving for about ten days. Until school starts. Please remember what I’ve said. Lie low. Jean-Claude won’t come here. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be okay. I have four new orphans to look after.” She didn’t meet his eyes, for hers were filling with tears. “Thank you for a lovely day, David. The lunch, the print. The poem. I won’t forget this Christmas, David Hoffmann.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him softly on the cheek.

“Nor will I, Mlle Madison,” he whispered. “Nor will I.”

The Christmas record played softly in the background as David packed his suitcase. He hummed along with “Silent Night,” reliving the afternoon. Gabby knew too much now, but there was nothing to be changed. Ten days on the road. He hoped that Jean-Claude Gachon would decide to stay away from Montpellier, but nothing was certain. Quickly he scribbled a note on a scrap of paper. Before placing it in an envelope, he sketched a rough drawing of the Huguenot cross in the top left-hand corner.

The santon standing on the chipped desk caught his eye, and he shook his head.
You’ve explained things to her clearly. She agrees. Get her out of your mind.

The black leather Bible sat beside the santon. David leafed through its thin gold-lined pages. The words were in French. He closed it, then opened it again. Gabriella’s handwriting adorned the inside cover, and he paused to read the inscription.

Dear David,

Wise professor! Shakespeare memorized it, John Donne preached on it, Victor Hugo quoted it. Throughout the centuries God has drawn man to His Word to read and be transformed. You who can so eloquently transmit the deeper meaning of works written by mere mortals, tarry a moment on these immortal pages. May you find here, as I have, the Bread of Life for your hungry soul. If not, at least you will have dared to seek an answer to its heavy questions.

Thank you for being my friend.

Gabriella

December 25, 1961

Underneath her note she had written a verse:
For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. Luke 11:10.
A Huguenot cross was sketched underneath the verse.

David remembered his promise to her and put the book into his suitcase. He left his room and stretched out on the couch, listening to the familiar melodies of Christmas carols, the tinkle of a bell, the soothing violins, the triumphant trumpet.
O come let us adore Him, Chri-ist the Lord.
The record ended, again turning silently on its table. David didn’t move to stop it. He fell asleep, still hearing the refrain of the last carol in his mind.

23

The plane trees in Castelnau that offered shade in the heat of summer had been trimmed far back so that they appeared like men with no forearms, thrusting their knobby appendages toward the magnificent blue sky. Early January shone bright and full of promise, Gabriella reflected as she hurried through town. The ten days without David had passed swiftly, taken up with the children and their games and cares.

She had agreed to sleep in Sister Rosaline’s quarters by the dormitory while the nun went on a spiritual retreat. Ophélie had especially taken advantage of the extra hours with her Bribri. Gabriella smiled to herself, thinking of the child. What was it that Mother Griolet had said? Tragedy to triumph?

Sometimes when the six-year-old lay curled on Gabriella’s temporary bed, the young woman would smell the child’s clean hair and remember Ericka cuddling up beside her in Senegal, squeaky clean after her bath in the iron tub behind their hut. Then it would take an extreme effort to pull herself back to the present and into the life of the bright-eyed girl lying at her feet. And every time Ophélie shared a story or a new discovery, Gabriella would think,
So this is what comes after six
.
The thought haunted her when she was alone, an aching, joyous hurt.

At night, alone on her cot in Sister Rosaline’s room, Gabriella often felt a crushing weight of sadness. But when she awoke the next morning, the heaviness would be gone, replaced by a chorus of happy children. Hearing their voices, Gabriella believed she could go on.

The four new orphans began to shed their masks of fear, warming up to the merry laughter of the other children. Mireille and Julie, five and eight, told Gabriella of the terrible night their mother was beaten to death in their apartment. The girls had escaped out a window and fled to a cousin’s house. Elima was thirteen, shy, reserved, and distrustful, a beautiful Arab girl. Gabriella didn’t know her story. Youssef, the twelve-year-old Arab boy, had formed an immediate friendship with Hakim. They laughed and played and planned together.

But Mother Griolet seemed distant and disturbed. Gabriella approached her this morning with care.

“Mother Griolet,” she began softly, as she met the nun in the basement hall by the classrooms.

“Yes, my dear, what may I do for you?”

“It is only that you seem … concerned. I know you have such responsibilities, but you’re not yourself these past days, and I’m wondering if it is something I have done.”

The little woman’s face broke into a smile. “For goodness’ sake, no. No, Gabriella. Here, come into my apartment.”

Gabriella followed Mother Griolet into her den.

“
Au contraire
, I don’t know what I’d do without you! I suppose I’m feeling my way through a new adventure. There are quite a few concerns, with these children from Algeria. You see, for now it’s quite clandestine … and no one knows how long this war will go on or how many more children will come.” She paused for breath. “But I’m forgetting who is in charge. There’s a verse from the Psalms I learned years ago, during the other war. It jumped out at me, and I grabbed it and used it for all it was worth.” She chuckled. “‘Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high for me.’ I keep reminding the Lord of this verse.”

Gabriella had taken a seat on the sofa. “I think you’re amazing. Look at all you’ve done for these children and so many others. And yet you just keep going, without taking any credit. You’re my heroine, Mother Griolet. I hope you don’t mind. I want to be like you someday.”

“
Ooh là
, Gabriella. Watch out now! You may see me as a role model if you wish, but don’t put your hope and glory in simple humans. I’m sure to disappoint you.” She winked at Gabriella. “Glory is a dangerous thing, linked with that enemy, pride. No, sweet child, give the glory to God. He is the only one who deserves it.” She turned toward the door. “Lunchtime in ten minutes. I must call the children.”

Gabriella rose to leave too, with a feeling of fresh anticipation. Today David would be coming home.

Pierre Cabrol arrived at work at three o’clock in the morning, just as he had done for the past thirty-five years. He flicked on the light in the boulangerie and pulled a stained white apron over his head, tying it around his trim waist. Thirty-five years of baking bread had not gone to his middle, he was proud to say.

Pierre relished the early black hours before dawn alone in his kitchen, preparing the dough, letting it rise, smelling the first whiff of cooked bread as it baked in the ovens. He enjoyed creating the pastries, their creams and the chocolate fillings. He especially liked the special orders for parties and weddings.