Two Crosses (8 page)

The rain had stopped, and the air was muggy and thick and still unbearably hot. Beads of perspiration ran down David’s face. He studied the hand-drawn map that had arrived in the mail and cursed. “Right in the middle of Aigues-Mortes. Just as he said.”

He sat lost in thought for several minutes. What did he feel? The months of planning might at last bring results. Vital results—the kind that could perhaps touch even David Hoffmann’s hard heart. Yes, he felt excitement, as well as anger and that old enemy—fear.

He thought of his afternoon on the beach with Gabriella. He truly liked the girl, innocent though she was.
So why am I dragging her into this?
he argued with himself. Of course he could do it alone. Yet he wanted to take her with him.

Slowly he lit a match and held it to the map until the paper disintegrated before him. “May your God be with you, dear Gabriella. You may need Him.”

7

Monique Pons brought two cups of steaming coffee into the parlor, where her friend Yvette Leclerc sat at the table perusing a basket full of fruits and vegetables.

“The pears were not a bit pretty today at the
marché
, quite a pity, but the price of tomatoes was down twenty
centimes
! And such tomatoes. The last of the season, to be sure.” Yvette accepted the
demitasse
of black coffee with a smile and sat back in her chair. There was nothing better than coffee and a chat at Monique’s house. It had been their daily custom for over twenty years. Castelnau was a small town, but there was always news to give and receive.

“He came back from the beach sopping wet, but he was happy,” Monique declared. “M. Hoffmann is a strange man. He rarely smiles. But I can tell when he is happy.” She leaned forward, her cheeks rosy from the fresh air. “But that afternoon he was all smiles. Gave me a kiss on each cheek, he did, when he came in.” She blushed, remembering. “Kissed me, and stood there dripping on my floor.
Ooh là là!
”

What extreme luck, that M. Hoffmann was interested in Yvette’s own beautiful American boarder! When this romance blossomed, the two women would practically be related!

“And, Yvette, listen. He said he was so sorry that they hadn’t eaten everything, but that they had been so busy talking. You would have thought a bird had been nibbling at my basket. And the wine bottle was still half full. Imagine! He said she didn’t drink a drop. No wine to make the heart gay, and still they talked and talked. It is surely a sign.”

Yvette smiled and nodded. “She doesn’t touch the wine, that Gabriella. She’s an interesting girl. Smart as a whip, I tell you. As smart as that American professeur, I’m sure. But she’s different, all right. Not looking for a free party in France with all the wine and … well, you know how the other girls are sometimes.”

Their eyes met, and they laughed heartily. Oh, the troubles they’d had with some of these American girls. Oh, the scandals. But always the two aging widows had each other to confide in and commiserate with. In truth, they would admit occasionally, they loved the American girls—and the extra revenue they gave to a widow’s pension.

Suddenly Yvette stopped laughing. “But truthfully, I can’t imagine what Gabriella is doing with the likes of your M. Hoffmann. He is not her type.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You know, she is very religious.”

Religion was fine, the women agreed—if it was the Catholic Church and Mass. But this Gabriella was Protestant.

“And not a Protestant like the other Americans I’ve seen. She reads her Bible! Every day, I think. And once, I caught her praying on her knees! Now what would a girl who prays on her knees see in your cold professeur?”

When they really thought about it, neither Monique nor Yvette could figure out why such a strange but fine young woman had gone to the beach with David Hoffmann.

Mother Griolet’s small office was cozy and inviting. The bookshelves were stuffed with antique books in French and English by the saints of old. Gabriella lightly touched the worn volumes of
L’Imitation de Jesus-Christ
and
The
Pilgrim’s Progress
. Interspersed among the old classics were books on psychology, children, education, and theology. But remembering the reason for her visit, she left the bookshelves and settled into the dark wood chair that sat before Mother Griolet’s desk.

The old nun smiled. “Ah, Gabriella Madison. You’ve grown up to be a very lovely young woman. Your parents must be proud.”

Gabriella blushed. “Thank you, Mother Griolet. But I’ve come to see you about a … a problem. I mean, it’s not really a problem, but a question. Well, it’s just an idea, and … and I’d like your advice.”

Mother Griolet waited patiently for Gabriella to explain. “Yes, my child. I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can.”

“It’s about your work. Well, not exactly this work, but …” She paused awkwardly, then began again. “Have you ever really wanted to do something great—not for yourself, I mean, but something that mattered, that helped others?”

Mother Griolet settled back into her large office chair. Her green eyes twinkled as she considered Gabriella’s question. “I suppose when I was your age, I dreamed of doing something great for God and man. We all have dreams. And sometimes the dreams are selfless and good.”

“Yes. I mean, I know some of my thoughts are wrong,” Gabriella said. “I just wish I knew for certain what I should do with my life. Mother and Father were so sure that God had called them to Africa, and they were no older than I am. But I’m not even sure where I belong. Is Africa home? Is America? I barely know America. Or perhaps it doesn’t matter.”

“Dear child, you are wondering what the future holds. I wondered too at twenty-one. But I already had my orders as a nun. My friends were all getting married. They thought I was quite strange and devout.”

“And didn’t you want to marry, have a family?”

“How can I explain?” She rested her arms on the desk, fingers intertwined. “It was not so much that I didn’t want a husband or a family as that I had the conviction that I must do something else. This.” Her arm swept around the room. “I chose this life, and it didn’t seem heavy or full of sacrifices at the time, because I loved what I did. I loved teaching the children. We had just come out of the Great War, and there were so many orphans. So we started a school and orphanage right here. I didn’t have time to worry about a family.”

“And that was enough? You never wanted to do something else? A higher position? A different town?”

“There were opportunities to leave Castelnau for something that sounded better. But I could not. God was working here. And of course, when the Second World War came and France fell in 1940, we had even more orphans. And we hid many Jewish children.”

Gabriella was impressed. “It must have felt good to be helping like that. I mean … it was dangerous.”

“We each did our part. We weren’t looking for honors. Just survival. I do not take sides in war. In the end, nobody wins. I prayed, and God showed me whom to help. By God’s grace some children survived who would not have otherwise. I keep in touch with many. You see, I do have a large family.” She nodded to the far wall, which was covered with photographs of children.

“And how did you know all this was from God?”

“God is always at work around us, child. You have doubtless seen that in Senegal. Now the question is, will I join Him or will I ask Him to join me? One way works, the other does not. I found out long ago, the hard way, that God did not need my lofty plans. His are much better.”

She paused for a moment, lost in some memory, and Gabriella regarded her with amazement. This woman over seventy had such a zest for life, such a sparkle and assurance. And a faith that was real. Without thinking, Gabriella blurted out, “And did you always agree with the Catholic Church?”

Again the elderly woman smiled. “I think I should rather say that they did not always agree with me. I seemed to be running ahead of them and teaching things that got me in all sorts of trouble. And kept me right here in lowly Castelnau.” Another mischievous grin. “I knew I was obeying the Master, and I got my marching orders from His book. Ah well, it is not up to me to judge. Have you noticed that it is usually easier to judge than obey? Religious people are especially good at it. I tried not to get caught up in that destructive little game. God works. I obey. Not an easy life, Gabriella.” She looked the young woman full in the face. “It is never easy to take orders from Him, but I can assure you, I have never been bored.”

Gabriella contemplated Mother Griolet’s words. “Mother says the same thing about her life. It’s true. Our days were full and hard and exciting … and terribly painful …” She let her phrase dangle, and Mother Griolet nodded, understanding. “But if only I knew that being here was right and how I could help. I see you with the orphans, and I feel like that is what I want to do. Pour my life into children who have no life. To give them a future and a hope, as the verse says in Jeremiah.” Now Gabriella’s eyes were dancing, and an enthusiasm filled her voice. “I’m not good at much, but I am good with children. I’ve taught lots of things in Africa—Sunday school and crafts and sports and—”

“Gabriella, are you asking if you can help me with the orphans? Is that your question?” The nun seemed amused. “Because, my child, I will certainly not say no to that.”

“Really, Mother Griolet? When may I start?”

“Come to the parsonage basement after your last class tomorrow,” Mother Griolet said, “and I’ll introduce you to the children.”

By the end of the next afternoon Gabriella knew almost every child’s name. She was winded after their game of
un, deux, trois soleil
in the church’s garden. Now she took the chubby hand of little Christophe. Barely four, he was the youngest at the orphanage. He had bright-blue eyes and round rosy cheeks that gave him the appearance of a little cherub.

His six-year-old brother, André, came beside Gabriella on the other side. He was tall and thin for his age, a sharp contrast to his pudgy little brother. André said nothing but stared at Gabriella, his hazel eyes surrounded by long, delicate brown lashes. In their eyes Gabriella saw that these brothers, in fact all of the children, knew hurt and solitude, a painful wisdom beyond their years. But also a hope and longing that maybe, just maybe, this new
maîtresse
would have enough love to soothe their hurting hearts, like a lullaby before bedtime.

The story of the bombing in the street beside Monoprix made the front page of every Algerian newspaper. S
EVEN
K
ILLED IN
M
IDNIGHT
M
ADNESS
, the caption read. This time the victims were all pied-noirs, although the previous bomb had killed two Algerians. The nationality did not matter to the FLN. Their point was well taken: Watch out. No one is safe. And underneath the terror, whispering in the night to all those who still favored a French Algeria, was the veiled threat:
Get out while you can, or it will be too late.

Ali was pleased with the front-page report. “Good work, Rachid. With results like this, you will soon have more important jobs. Perhaps a position in the new government! Independence is not far away, I tell you. Algeria will be free! The senseless pied-noirs will see soon enough what their holy General de Gaulle meant when he said, ‘I understand you!’” He laughed dryly. “He meant he understands
us
! He understands that it is hopeless for the French. They can never win this war. Give up! We will be free!”