Two Crosses (60 page)

In truth, Gabriella worried for Mother Griolet. With David away and all the new children here, the old nun’s predictable schedule had come tumbling down.

“It’s always this way at first,” she had reassured Gabriella. “During the Second World War we scrambled for a while, but we eventually settled into a routine.”

But Gabriella was not convinced. Over fifteen years had passed since that war, and Mother Griolet was no longer young. Still spry, yes, but she was suddenly looking quite old beneath her habit. Her face looked more wrinkled, and her green eyes had lost some of their sparkle.

Forty-three orphans and forty-two American college women would be plenty for an energetic young woman to handle. Perhaps too much for a woman of seventy-two.

Presently Ophélie left her friends to join Gabriella.

“Bribri,” the child began, fiddling with Gabriella’s long red curls, “what will it be like when Mama, Papa, and you are all here together?” She scrunched up her nose, her brown eyes shining and sincere.

Gabriella cleared her throat and stroked Ophélie’s hair. “It will be a wonderful reunion, Ophélie. An answer to prayer.”

“And who do you think Papa will choose? You or Mama? And who will I live with?”

Gabriella bent down beside the little girl. She hoped her voice sounded light and carefree. “Dear Ophélie. Your papa will not choose your mama or me. He will choose
you
! He will pick you up and swing you around, and the whole orphanage will ring with your laughter. Don’t you worry now. Don’t worry.”

Take your own advice
, Gabriella thought as she sent Ophélie off with a soft pat on the back. Two days ago David Hoffmann had kissed her—really kissed her—and then he had left on a humanitarian mission to a country gone mad. She did not want to dwell on it, for the possibilities were too frightening. Better to think of the children.

A fight broke out between two boys, and Gabriella dashed over, yelling, “
Eh! Ça suffit!
” She pulled the children apart, scolded them playfully, and began chasing several of the smallest boys, tagging one and calling, “You’re it!” A few minutes into the game she stumbled, out of breath, to the side of the field, crushing a red poppy beneath her feet.

Marseille, France

David Hoffmann stood at the bassin de la Joliette in Marseille. Amid the huge ferries,
paquebots
, and steamships, he spied a comparatively small black-and-white sailboat. The
Capitaine
was empty now, except for a grisly old Frenchman at the helm.

The wharf was awash in families debarking with trunks and suitcases. Adults and children alike looked confused, sad, hopeless. David shook his head. One little orphanage in the south of France sheltering a handful of
pied-noir
and
harki
children was a drop in the bucket. These people were French citizens, but where would they go? Did France want them? David knew the answer was no.

He slipped onto the
Capitaine
and greeted the rough sailor with a handshake.

“
Bonjour
,” Jacques replied. “You sure you want to go back there now? It’s a bad situation and is only going to get worse.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I have to go.”

Jacques looked at the ground. “I can’t go back, M. Hoffmann. There’s nowhere for me to dock. The ferries are taking up all the room. Thousands of pied-noirs are running away faster than the mistral gusts down the Rhône. If you’re sure you have to go back, I advise you to take a ferry. It’ll be a lot safer, and I guarantee you there’ll be room—nobody’s going
back
to Algeria.”

David frowned, contemplating the sailor’s words, then shrugged. “I understand, Jacques. Thank you for all your help. There are many children in Castelnau who are grateful to you.”

The two men shook hands.

“
Bonne chance
, M. Hoffmann. You be careful now. Raving crazy, that country is. Raving crazy.”

David stood on the deck of a huge empty ferry, his tall frame silhouetted against the night sky. The wind whipped across the sea. His hair blew back, his eyes squinted against the wind, and his jacket billowed and filled with air. He gripped the railing with his good hand, his other shoulder and arm bandaged and tucked inside his leather jacket.

The whitecaps rose up to touch the sky, and a thousand stars blinked back, as if flirting with the water. The sea air smelled fresh and strong. He wished briefly that Gabriella were snuggled beside him, then pushed the thought away.

He had twenty-four hours alone before he would step into a world of chaos, and he wanted to spend this one night well. The scene before him reminded him of a night on the beach one month ago. The night of his surrender, he called it in his mind. His surrender to the God of Gabriella.

There was no doubt that something inside of him had changed. In that moment he had actually felt forgiven, and too many coincidences had happened lately to deny intellectually that God seemed to be up to something in his life. He was twenty-five years old, yet he was somehow new. A new man. A new conscience. A Presence was with him. He had a suspicious feeling he would never be able to get rid of this God now even if he wanted to.

Algiers, Algeria

It was midafternoon at the Place du Gouvernement in downtown Algiers. The great Cathedral of Saint Philippe formed an imposing barrier between the steep, narrow roads of the Casbah and this tree-filled square that teemed with people shopping, sipping mint tea at a
café
, and milling about in carefree jubilation. There was a feeling of peace and security among the population of Algiers. The cease-fire to end Algeria’s seven-year war for independence from France had gone into effect two days before.

The noise from the square was merry, loud, jovial. This was the Algiers Hussein remembered and loved. Seven years of war had stolen his boyhood away. At fourteen, he had seen more violence than many a soldier. He secretly longed for peace. Beyond the war, beyond the hatred.

Now was the time to breathe openly, to relax, to hope. No pied-noirs had ventured out into the sunshine today, Hussein mused with grim satisfaction. Ali had predicted they would leave
en masse
before official independence was declared on July 2. Algeria would be rid of the filthy French and their colonial ways.

Yet Hussein still wished he could find the woman, Anne-Marie, to placate Ali’s fury. Ali Boudani was a man obsessed with revenge. He was at one moment delirious with joy, the next moment brooding with contempt. Algeria was independent, but Ali’s personal mission was not over.

Hussein glanced up at the sky, hearing a noise that sounded like a plane overhead, or maybe a missile being launched. Then his body tensed. He stood transfixed in the shadow of a building as, above him, one, then two bright flashes exploded with a terrible boom in the center of the Place du Gouvernement. Debris from the street, chairs from cafés, and bodies seemed to dance on the tips of the bright flames before his eyes. For a brief moment the deafening roar of the explosions silenced the screams coming from everywhere in the square.

Clutching one another, panic on their faces, people clambered toward the shadows of the buildings, some fleeing in the direction of the cathedral. Dead and maimed lay in the center of the square; a shrill cry of agony pierced through the din of confused voices. Everyone stopped; no one dared move. Would more bombs follow?

Then almost at once, the masses surged forward to help the wounded. Arab FLN terrorists worked alongside the French police for perhaps the first time in Algiers’ bloody history. Hussein watched it all. An old woman, bloodied and disfigured, collapsed against the stones of a building. Three men lay dead. The peaceful leafy square of five minutes earlier resembled a battleground. Hussein turned on his heels and fled.

It was a lie! There was no peace for Algeria! Up the layers of tangled, dilapidated buildings of the Casbah Hussein ran, until he stumbled into the one-room office where Ali sat.

Already the Casbah was ringing with cries of indignation and fury.

“Ali! The Place du Gouvernement! Explosion!” Hussein choked on his words and took in gulps of air, his lungs burning.

Ali rose and stepped into the street as young men poured forth from their whitewashed stalls.

Other members of the FLN were already holding men back, some of them forcefully.

“Not yet! Don’t run to your deaths. This is what the OAS is waiting for. Hold your ground. It’s their last effort to win back Algeria.”

Ali grabbed Hussein by the shoulders. “It’s not over yet. You aren’t afraid of bloodshed, my boy?”

Hussein gazed at him and shook his head, knowing all the while that the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

“Go then, and tell me what you see. Go to Bab el-Oued and wait. Take it all in. We must be ready.”

Hussein turned and escaped through a narrow alleyway. Tears ran down his cheeks. Oh, for peace. For even a moment of peace. Then he could play as he had when he was seven and war had been only a handful of toy soldiers on the floor of his room.

A ricochet of bullets sounded in the street below the building where Anne-Marie Duchemin was staying with fellow pied-noir Marcus Cirou. She watched Moustafa hurry a young man into their building, and she quickly limped to the mirror that hung on the flaking wall. She felt a pang of despair as her reflection stared back at her. Her black hair drooped loosely upon her shoulders. She cringed at the way her protruding cheekbones accentuated her deep-set and dull eyes. Her skin looked pale and almost yellowish. She turned away.

A thick gray sweater hung impossibly over her thin frame, but she felt completely naked. David Hoffmann was about to walk back into her life, and she was not ready. Her heart belonged to Moustafa. With him, she was not afraid to be sick and disheveled. She read devotion in his eyes. But David! Her lover when they were but adolescents. She had not seen him in so long.

Suddenly she felt afraid. He was risking his life and wasting his time to help her. Why? Would he be angry to see what she had become? A pitiful, withered flower …

The door swung wide, and David stood in the opening and paused. Anne-Marie swallowed hard and met his eyes. His six-foot-one-inch frame had filled out so that he looked every bit the grown man he was. His black eyes were softer than she remembered, and the tenderness she saw in them scared her even more. His coarse black hair was swept back away from his face, but one wisp tickled his forehead. A black leather jacket hung loosely over his shoulders. As he leaned down to set a suitcase on the floor, she noticed his bandaged arm. He straightened up, not moving forward, as if waiting for her invitation.