Two Crosses (5 page)

Bachir Karel crept through the streets of Algiers as the sun yawned and left a shimmering whisper across the face of the waters in the port. Its fading brilliance caught the silver on the
Capitaine
and sent a sharp glare out from the boat. Bachir crouched in the shadows and waited impatiently for darkness.

He glanced down at the slip of paper in his hand. A strange cross was scribbled in the top left-hand corner. It was a thick cross, with four arrows pointing inward and a bird drawn from the bottom arrow. Bachir reread the message scrawled on the paper:
vendredi 20H15
.

He stiffened as he heard a slight noise. Heart pounding, he pulled himself behind a small sailboat and watched. Silence. Only ten more minutes, and he would climb aboard the
Capitaine
and head to France. Ten more minutes to safety.

The boy had prepared the speech in his head.
My father served your army well in the Second World War and Indochina. Now he has been killed by the Front de Libération Nationale. They called him a traitor. He was a harki.
I am his son. We are on your side in this war. Please. My family have all been murdered. I am fleeing Algeria with only the clothes on my back. I was told by a friend that here I would be safe.

He knew the French did not want refugees, especially Algerian ones. They only wanted out of the war that was claiming their sons’ lives. Twenty years of fighting had taken their toll on France. First World War II, then Indochina, now Algeria.

But someone will understand
, he thought. He would start a new life in France. He looked at the sky. Black. Now was the time!

Slowly Bachir left the cover of the small sailboat. Crouching, he hurried along the dock. Four hundred yards to freedom.

Out of the darkness another form appeared, blocking his way. A low laugh echoed in the stillness of the night. “And where do you think you are going, Bachir?”

The boy froze, then looked frantically about him. He dashed toward a small fishing rig, hoping to jump into the water. But even as he moved, a shot rang out. Pain seared through his chest as he fell back onto the planks. Still conscious, he pulled his body toward the water. Another shot. One foot from the edge of the dock, he stopped. Bachir Karel never moved again.

The dark form of a man bent down over the body. “Fool! No one escapes Ali! Now your whole family has paid for the traitorous act of your father.” He searched the body and found nothing of importance in Bachir’s pant pockets. He pried open the dead boy’s fist and smiled. “Thank you, Bachir. This is exactly what I was looking for. Ali will be most pleased.”

He shoved the body into the cool waters and walked back toward the lights of the city, while the
Capitaine
waited and waited in the dark.

4

The bell rang out from atop the Church of St. Joseph as the young women hurried to the stone house behind the church. Gabriella slowed down when she reached the steps leading to the classroom on the second floor. Recalling her brief conversation with M. Hoffmann after yesterday’s class, she felt strangely embarrassed to see him again.

She took a seat next to Stephanie, who was stuffing the last of a
pain au chocolat
into her mouth.

“Did you read that poetry stuff for today?” Not waiting for Gabriella’s reply, Stephanie continued. “Analyzing John Donne! It’s pure nonsense to me.”

M. Hoffmann entered the classroom and strode smoothly to the podium, where he placed his notes and book. “
Mesdemoiselles
, please open your anthologies to page 1182. We will be considering the poetry and prose of John Donne, one of the wittiest and most spiritual men of the early seventeenth century, at once a scandalous young cavalier and a passionate, intellectual preacher.

“Mlle Madison”—M. Hoffmann turned his dark eyes toward Gabriella—“could you please tell us your impressions of a man who could write both sensual love poems and profound sermons?”

Gabriella was petrified, and she knew the teacher could see it—and he was pleased.
He wants to prove he knows more than I do. So let him.

But she was too proud to let this man win a battle of wits. So with only a moment’s hesitation, she expounded her thoughts on a man who happened to be one of her favorite poets.

“You were great, Gabriella,” Stephanie enthused after class. “Next thing you know, M. Hoffmann will be asking you to teach.” She scurried out of the room as the teacher approached.

“Miss Madison?”

“Yes?” Gabriella looked up at him without smiling.

“Would you care to join me for a stroll on the place de la Comédie this afternoon? It’s a wonderful spot for people watching. I’d like to hear about your years in Africa.”

“Well, I suppose I could for a little while. I need to study, of course, so I couldn’t spend all day, but—”

M. Hoffmann chuckled. “It is not a date,
mademoiselle
. Just a conversation in broad daylight. There’s no need to worry about my intentions.” He winked at her and bent down to retrieve his leather briefcase. “I’ll meet you outside the church at four thirty.”

He left her standing in the middle of the empty classroom, fuming at his arrogance in not even waiting for her answer.

M. Hoffmann led Gabriella through the tiny backstreets of Montpellier until suddenly they entered a vast open square surrounded by old majestic buildings. In the center the Three Graces fountain sprayed water around students who hovered near it.

“It’s beautiful!”

“Isn’t it? La place de la Comédie is a favorite spot for students. They waste their days away at little outdoor cafés around here. Speaking of which, will you join me for a drink?”

The sun was hot and the sky a fierce bright blue. Gabriella felt beads of perspiration on her forehead and wished she had tied back her hair. “A drink would be great,” she said.

M. Hoffmann led her across the vast square. “Montpellier has been called the Oxford of France,” he commented. “The university has been around since the thirteenth century.”

Gabriella nodded, enchanted by the huge gathering spot of multicolored youths. Beside a movie theater a violinist played, his open case collecting franc pieces from appreciative passers-by.

“Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn,’” reflected Gabriella, charmed by the poignant melody.

“Ah, the missionary is not only well read, she also knows classical music.” He feigned astonishment. “Have a seat,
mademoiselle
.” He offered her a chair at a small round table overlooking the Comédie.

To her right Gabriella saw more spewing fountains and a wide, long tree-lined park where people walked slowly beside gardens overflowing with impatiens and begonias.

Following her gaze, he said, “That’s the Esplanade, a lovely little plot of earth filled with centuries’ worth of history and splattered in bygone years with the blood of your beloved Protestants.”

“What do you mean?”

“She can quote Pope and Donne and dance to Vivaldi, but she doesn’t know the history of her own rich Protestant roots in this town? ’Tis strange, methinks.”

His tone was again theatrical, but Gabriella sensed that he only was looking for a friendly argument.

“If you mean the history of the Huguenots, I am quite aware of the courageous stand they took after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685. I know they hid in the Cévennes mountains north of here, and I hope I will get to see Aigues-Mortes where the women were imprisoned. But if you mean what happened right here where we sit, Sir Historian, I’m all ears. Please enlighten me.”

“
Touché!
” M. Hoffmann replied. “When Louis XIV was in power, the despicable Nicolas Basville was overseeing life in this region, and he ordered many Huguenots to be killed. They were martyred for their faith right here on the Esplanade, where we sit, and thousands turned out to watch the bloody deeds.”

A waiter hovered over them, interrupting her professor’s sordid tale.

“Yes, I’ll have a
pastis
, if you please, and the lady …”

He looked inquiringly at Gabriella, who blushed and said, “
Un citron pressé, s’il vous plaît
.”

“Wonderful! A lemonade for the lady.”

Gabriella squinted up at him. “Do go on with your story.”

“Ah, with the bloody deeds? Well, Claude Brousson was a brilliant lawyer and also a Protestant pastor. He was torn apart alive on the wheel, right here on the Esplanade.” He paused as if to let the gruesome words sink in. “And why? Because he didn’t agree with His Majesty and the pope. And then there was Pierre Durand. He was hung from the gallows as people like us stood and watched. It’s a terrible waste, wouldn’t you say? These intellectuals came to study at the great University of Montpellier and were killed for what they believed.”

Gabriella didn’t reply.

“That’s why I don’t believe anything, Miss Madison. You would tell me there is a God up there? What was He doing while His people argued over petty doctrine and ripped each other apart? Such a waste, religion. A curse for those who are born under its roof.” M. Hoffmann spoke with passion now, continuing his soliloquy.

“Look at Algeria today, with its Muslims and Catholics and Protestants and Jews. They lived together in peace until somebody thought Algeria needed its precious freedom. Then suddenly they started hating each other and killing and torturing their neighbors just because they were forced to take sides. The war is over independence, but still religion divides. It’s pointless.”

Gabriella looked up as the waiter placed their drinks on the table, spilling a bit of the citron pressé and rushing off to another table with two frothy mugs of beer.

She spoke with mock admiration. “My, you know a lot about history. But with such cynical views, why are you so concerned with the Algerian War? Which side do you pick to win?”

“That’s a very good question, and one I’m not prepared to answer. It’s rather complicated, after all. On the one side you have the Algerian extremists who launched this crazy war in 1954. They want Algeria to be independent of France. The Front de Libération Nationale—the FLN—is a fanatical group, though of course they have their reasons. Most of the Arab population of Algeria, nearly ten million strong, agree with them.

“Then you have the pied-noirs—the French citizens born in Algeria. Many of these families trace their heritage back to when Algeria first became a French colony in 1830. There are maybe a million of them, and naturally they don’t want to leave what they consider their homeland.”

“Why are they called pied-noirs—‘black feet’?” Gabriella interrupted.

“Oh, there are lots of explanations. The most colorful is that the first French citizens who settled in Algeria came as farmers and wore big black boots to work the land. The Algerians had never seen boots; they worked the land barefoot. So they called the foreigners
pied-noir
. Now, of course, it just means a French citizen who was born in Algeria.”

She smiled, but he was already resuming his lecture.

“You also have the French army in Algeria, who originally came to keep Algeria French and ward off the FLN. In military power, they have all but won this war. But politically no one is satisfied, and the FLN, though small in numbers, is strong in persuasion through fear.”

Gabriella wrinkled her brow, trying to keep up with this man who suddenly seemed lost in a world of his own.

“Back in 1958, the whole country, both Arab and French, demanded that General de Gaulle return to power in France, seeing him as the only man capable of settling this gory war. But the pied-noirs and many in his own army now see him as betraying them, as it becomes more apparent that he will give Algeria its independence.

“So now there are those in the French army, some very important men, who are against de Gaulle and have formed the OAS—Organisation de l’Armée Secrète, France’s own secret terrorist group. They are determined to keep Algeria French and resort to the same barbaric measures as the FLN.