Two Testaments (11 page)

Roger Hoffmann slammed down the phone angrily in his office on Capitol Hill. Another belligerent reporter seeking information that Roger could not give. Would not give.

His steely six-foot-four frame towered over his desk. He was a handsome man for his fifty-four years, and he knew it. The flecks of silver in his black hair gave him a distinguished look, and he carried himself with cold, calculated confidence. His rare smile broke through like a sunbeam in a cloudy sky, at just the right moment, when a deal needed to be closed or a woman’s favors won. No one needed to be told to respect Roger Hoffmann.

He sat down and spread his long, thin hands across the cherry finish of his desktop and sighed. From behind a tray of neatly stacked papers he drew out a picture of a young man dressed in black gown and mortarboard. The man in the photograph had the same lanky yet powerful build, the long, handsome face, the closely cropped black hair, the fine aristocratic nose, the thick black eyebrows and lashes. Only the eyes were different. They were Annette’s eyes. Her beautiful black, brooding eyes.

He placed the picture back out of sight behind the file tray. Annette Levy Hoffmann, his lovely Jewish French bride, had been swept out of his life twenty years ago by the rifle of a cocky, bloodthirsty SS guard. That same gun had murdered little Greta, their three-year-old daughter. He could still see her cherubic face and ringlets of black hair and blue eyes. His blue eyes.

He could not bear to remember. For fifteen years he had lived with his son in a pained silence, never looking into those eyes that betrayed his mother’s heritage. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his son. It was just the unbearable memories David’s presence brought back.

Five and a half years had gone by since he had last really looked at his son. At the train station on a sultry September afternoon he shook David’s hand and wished him well as he headed north to Princeton, Roger’s own alma mater. Roger had been proud to send him there, proud of his son’s achievements, proud of his own financial status that made an Ivy League school possible.

He had visited only twice, once for David’s induction into an honor society and then for graduation. There had been no letters between them, no friendly comparing of notes about the good ol’ days. The wall had been built brick by brick over fifteen years, and the geographical distance between them now only strengthened the stony silence.

Roger massaged his brow. Top of his class from Princeton, and now the kid had disappeared somewhere in Europe. What had the reporter said? The Algerian War. What the heck was David up to now? Roger remembered distastefully his son’s affair with the daughter of a captain in the French army. But that was years ago. Why would he go back now, especially with the mess that country was in?

From under the neat stack of official government papers, Roger pulled out a newspaper clipping he had received anonymously two days ago. A remarkable story of a young man falling 160 feet to his death from the top of some ancient Roman aqueduct in the south of France. And another man, a David Hoffmann, falling as well—not to his death, but into the swollen waters of a normally placid river. A miraculous survival. No picture accompanied the article, but Roger was sure it was his son.

Roger folded the clipping and tucked it into a drawer. He did not have time to contemplate David’s audacious acrobatics. Not today. Washington was waiting for him.

Gabriella stood on quay number 2 at the train station in Montpellier, holding tightly to Ophélie’s hand. Her palms felt sweaty, and she hoped the child could not tell how nervous she was. In five minutes the train from Marseille was due to arrive, carrying Anne-Marie Duchemin and David Hoffmann.

Perhaps they would step off the train hand in hand, faces beaming with reunited love. Perhaps David would not dare to look her in the eye, embarrassed for her to read the truth she would find there. Perhaps …

The sound of train wheels screeching pulled her back from her thoughts. Heart pounding, she watched the train slowly grind to a halt. Then she looked down at Ophélie. The child’s eyes were shining.

“Oh, Bribri! I can’t believe it. Mama is here! Mama and Papa!”

The doors to the train opened, and people began pouring out onto the quay. Gabriella’s eyes searched up and down for Anne-Marie and David. Suddenly Ophélie let out a squeal, dropped Gabriella’s hand, and dashed toward the end of the train. “Mama!” she cried. “Mama!”

Tears formed in Gabriella’s eyes as Ophélie practically tackled her mother on the steps of the train. At once Gabriella admonished herself for her jealous thoughts. Anne-Marie Duchemin buried her face in her child’s hair and wept.

She was but a wisp of a woman, thin, malnourished, limping badly. Suddenly Gabriella remembered what David had told her.
Moustafa fears she will die.
Indeed, Anne-Marie looked as if she had been battling death for a long time. A wave of pity swept over Gabriella as she watched the feeble young woman caress the cheek of her little girl.

But where was David?

After several minutes Ophélie took her mother’s hand and led her toward Gabriella. “Bribri, I want you to meet Mama,” she announced proudly.

Anne-Marie’s strong grip startled Gabriella. Behind the tears, Gabriella saw deep gratitude.

“How can I thank you enough,
mademoiselle
, for all you have done for my daughter? Someday I hope I can return to you the blessing that you have given me.” She gently kissed Gabriella on each cheek.

“You have a wonderful daughter,” Gabriella said, clearing her throat with difficulty. “It has been a pleasure to get to know her.”

The woman looked as if she might collapse right on the quay. “We must get your mother to the bus, Ophélie. She needs to sit down.” Gabriella put an arm around Anne-Marie’s waist to support her, then dared to ask. “David … did David come back with you?”

Anne-Marie shook her head. “He got me to the boat and made sure I would have a place. But then, quite suddenly, he decided to stay behind with Moustafa—to stay and help until it is all over.”

Gabriella did not want to hear any more. This was worse than she had imagined. She was not losing David to another woman, but to a country and a cause she could not understand. If he loved her as he claimed he did, why didn’t he come back? She needed him here! He had classes to teach, and goodness knows there was an abundance of work with the orphans. Mother Griolet was completely overwhelmed.

The threesome stopped at a bench for Anne-Marie to sit down and rest. “He asked me to give you a message,
Gabrièle
,” Anne-Marie said, pronouncing her name in French. “He said a strange phrase, but he was sure you would understand. Let me only remember.…” She closed her eyes. “
Ah, oui, ça y est.
‘Ignorant armies clash by night.’ That’s what he said.” She smiled almost apologetically.

At first the phrase made no sense at all to Gabriella. Anne-Marie had spoken in French. Then it dawned on Gabriella, as she translated it into English. “But that’s from ‘Dover Beach’!” she said aloud.

“Oh, I don’t know it. Is it a poem?” Anne-Marie asked politely.

“Yes, a poem. By Matthew Arnold,” Gabriella replied absently. “The last line.” Her voice fell. She didn’t want this message from David. She thought of the last lines of this pessimistic poem that she loved and feared.

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

“Dover Beach” was beautiful in its tragic tone. The doubt and darkness between the speaker and his woman. But couldn’t David have sent her a line of hope?

Ophélie and Anne-Marie were chattering excitedly together. They did not see her pain, and she was glad. She forced David’s message out of her mind and regarded Anne-Marie with pity. She wore a white blouse and a black skirt that fell to her ankles. A black shawl covered her thin shoulders, and a light wool coat hung over one arm. She looked like a refugee. Gabriella supposed that indeed she was. A French citizen and yet a stranger in this land. A pied-noir.

Ophélie snuggled in her mother’s lap, talking happily. “And you will meet Anne-Sophie and Christophe. And see my doll and the panties with the lace on them. And Mother Griolet has set up a bed for you …”

“The bus is coming now,” Gabriella interrupted softly. She helped Anne-Marie to her feet. Together they walked the short distance to the bus stop. With great effort, Anne-Marie stepped onto the bus as Gabriella and Ophélie steadied her. Mother and daughter found a seat together. Gabriella seated herself behind them, the words of the poem echoing in her mind.

The moment Anne-Marie stepped into the halls of St. Joseph, she felt safe. It seemed to her tired eyes the most idyllic plot of earth imaginable.

The nuns stood quickly, beaming, when Gabriella led her into the chapel.

A small elderly woman greeted her. “Welcome,
Mademoiselle Duchemin
. I’m Mother Griolet. We are delighted to have you among us.” The nun kissed her tenderly on each cheek and then bent down toward Ophélie. “
Ma chérie
, would you like to introduce your mama to your friends?”

The scene moved in slow motion before Anne-Marie as her daughter led her by the hand to each child. Anne-Marie’s eyes clouded with tears as she recognized the faces of the children she had helped to flee from Algeria. Several reached out to her and hugged her tightly.

Eventually she felt dizzy from standing and seated herself in a pew.

“My, how rude we’ve been!” the elderly nun exclaimed, coming beside her. “Ophélie, run ahead with Sister Rosaline and get a plate of food ready for your mother.”

Anne-Marie watched her child scurry off proudly and felt a lump in her throat. Ophélie was healthy, beautiful, happy. It was more than she could have hoped. And now they were together.

“Can I bring you anything here?” Mother Griolet asked. Although her pure-green eyes sparkled, she looked tired to Anne-Marie. Tired like herself.

“No,
merci
. I’ll just rest a moment longer, and then I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Then Gabriella will show you to your room. We’re a bit tight on space. I hope you won’t mind sharing with Sister Isabelle.”

“No, of course not. Your hospitality is overwhelming.”

“Well, I hope it will do,” Mother Griolet said with a chuckle. “And M. Hoffmann has not come back, you say? That is too bad. Do you think he will be long?”

“I hope not,
Mère
. I’m sorry. He stayed to help a friend of mine. I hope they will both be coming soon.”

“We will pray that God sees fit to bring them to us soon.” The nun turned to the children. “Come along,
les enfants
. Dinner will be ready soon.
Allez-y!
”

The red-haired woman waited beside Anne-Marie while the children filed out of the chapel behind Mother Griolet. A timid Sister Isabelle followed in the rear, glancing shyly in her direction.

Everyone seemed kind. Sorry for her and kind. She stood up, ignoring the pain in her legs, forcing them forward. She tripped, and Gabriella caught her.

“Hold on to me if you need to,” she said.

Anne-Marie obliged. She was a beautiful, angel-like woman, this Gabriella. It was no wonder David loved her, with her creamy skin and flaming hair and delicate face, the bright-blue eyes and fine, thin eyebrows, the long auburn lashes. She was sorry that David had not stepped off the train into this woman’s waiting arms. He deserved a woman like Gabriella.