Two Crosses (56 page)

Ophélie’s pink stuffed pony smelled of perfume. Mother Griolet had scrubbed off the mud from when it had fallen out of her arms at the Pont du Gard, and now it looked like new.

“A bath for the pony,” Mother Griolet had said with a chuckle.

They had all laughed that night. Nervous, worried laughter. Papa was alive. Ophélie closed her eyes and saw him falling down, down until he was swallowed up in the angry river. She remembered Gabriella screaming. From their perch it had been impossible to tell who had fallen first. Only later, when the police had found Jean-Claude’s body on the bridge, had they dared to hope.

Three days had come and gone. Today she could see Papa.

She stood outside the heavy, whitewashed hospital door and cuddled her pony in her arms. Then she lifted a small hand and knocked lightly.

“
Entrez
,” a low voice answered.

Ophélie peeped her head inside. Her father lay engulfed in white sheets. His face was covered with bruises, black and yellow. His left shoulder was bandaged awkwardly.

“Come on in, sweetie. Don’t be afraid. Papa is going to be fine.” His voice sounded weak and sad.

She inched near his bed. “I brought you the picture, Papa. I thought it would make you happy to have it on your wall.”

He placed his good hand on her shoulder and smiled. “That will help me feel much better. Pull up a chair, Ophélie.”

She dragged a metal-framed chair up to the bed. Still holding the pony, she handed the drawing to him.

“You know everything is okay now, don’t you?” he asked softly.

She nodded hesitantly.

Papa continued, “The bad man is gone. He will not come again, dear. We are all safe.”

“What is the matter then, Papa? Why do your eyes look so sad?”

He smiled, and she saw the faintest little dimple appear in his cheek. “You understand too much. I’m sad because I have to leave again soon. But don’t worry. Not for long.”

Ophélie turned her head down. She didn’t want to read anything else in his eyes. Papa was right. She did understand too much. But he was whispering now.

“I’m going to get your mama. Moustafa has written to tell me where she is.”

Ophélie’s eyes grew round. “Mama? You will find her for me?”

“Yes, Ophélie. I’m going to get her. To make sure she comes back to us safely. So you must be brave for a little while longer. And you must help Gabby. It will be very hard for her to let me go.”

Ophélie frowned. “Because she loves you.”

“Yes.”

“And you love her too. Right, Papa?” She peeked at him timidly.

“Yes, Ophélie. Yes, I love her.”

“And Mama? Did you love my mama?”

He cleared his throat, and she thought he looked sad again. “Yes, Ophélie. I loved your mama. A long time ago. And then I had to go away. I wrote to her, but she didn’t write back. She didn’t want me to know about you.”

“Why not?” She stuck her lip out in a pout.

“I think because she knew I would come back to Algeria if I knew about you. And she knew that I was supposed to be doing other things.”

Ophélie wrinkled her brow. “I don’t understand.” She spoke defensively, irritated at adults who always complicated things.

“No, I’m sure it seems ridiculous to you, dear. You must simply believe me when I say your mama was doing what she thought was right. She loves you so much.” He squeezed her hand. “And I love you too.”

That was good. That was what she longed to hear him say. But she still had one more question. “Will you ever love Mama again?”

His eyes looked very sad now, and she was sorry she had asked. He pulled her head onto his chest and held her tight. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. “I don’t know, Ophélie. I just don’t know.”

Ophélie thought hard. What could she say to make Papa feel better? Suddenly she knew. She took out the cross from under her blouse and touched it to his finger. “Mama gave this to me. She said it would protect me. And Bribri says it too. If we believe in God’s Son, He will protect us. You’ll see, Papa. It will be okay.”

David fingered the cross gently as it hung around his daughter’s neck. “It’s beautiful, Ophélie. And you’re right. God will protect me.”

The room was austere and white. David’s coarse black hair contrasted starkly with the starched white pillow. A small clay pot filled with primroses sat in the window, their petals bright red with a splash of yellow in the middle. The clouds outside the window billowed, puffy and white. A beam of sun shone through the glass and blinded Gabriella for a moment. She watched David, arm bandaged, face bruised.

“The doctor said it’s more than a miracle you survived,” she said.

David chuckled. “Thanks to the flash flood. I can’t say I’d like to repeat the act.” He studied her face. “Maybe it was a miracle. Your God …
our
God saw fit to answer my prayer. I have a lot to live for now.” He reached over and patted her arm. “Don’t look so worried. I’m okay. We’re all okay.”

A knock came on the door, and Mother Griolet inched her head inside.

“Come in, come in,” David invited. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the free chair.

“Praise God, you’re recovering,” the nun exclaimed, and placed her hand on his. She kissed him on each cheek, laughing. “It’s not my custom to greet young teachers in such a manner, but this is a special occasion. Dear M. Hoffmann.” She shook her head from side to side, patting his hand.

“Please call me David.”

“Well …
bien sûr
. David. How glad we are to see you in one piece. How much longer will they keep you here?”

“Just till tomorrow. I’ve got to get out. There is still much to be done.”

“Yes, we’re receiving nine children on the seventeenth. Imagine.” She looked heavenward.

“How many more will come after that, David? Do you have any idea?” Gabriella asked.

“I think this is the last of those at risk from Ali,” he stated. “But when the war ends …” He shrugged.

“And just who is this Ali?” Gabriella blurted out. “Could you please explain it to me from the beginning?”

David turned toward the two women. “You have both heard bits and pieces. It’s not a pretty story, but I’ll tell you. You’re ready to hear?”

Gabriella whispered a faint yes, and Mother Griolet nodded.

“In 1936, the French government in Algeria voted against granting equal rights for Algerian war veterans. Lieutenant Mohammed Boudani was enraged. He had fought well in World War I. His son Ali was likewise furious with the ruling. He was twenty-one and a soldier loyal to his father, who had always been his hero. They were both in Hitler’s war. The anger in their souls against this racism mounted as they fought beside the privileged pied-noirs, but they remained loyal to France. And Ali’s father promised his son that someday Algerians would know equality.

“But in 1945, Lieutenant Boudani was captured, tortured, and killed in a raid. When the details of his death became clear, Ali was delirious with rage. His father, the leader of this platoon, was the only man to be captured. And that platoon belonged to the battalion under Anne-Marie’s father, Captain Maxime Duchemin.”

“But how do you know all this?” Gabriella interrupted. “Do you know Ali?”

“I met him in 1953, when I was with Anne-Marie. But she was the one who learned all the details later. Ali moved into hiding in the fifties. He became a leader in the FLN, determined to create a free Algeria. Still, the image of his dead father tortured him.

“Then a small incident brought things to a head. In the spring of 1958, he saw Captain Duchemin at a political rally for the North African Army. He was possessed by some twisted desire to avenge his father’s death.”

“But Anne-Marie’s father didn’t kill him!” Gabriella protested. “He wasn’t even in the platoon, right? He was much higher up. Wasn’t it the German army that was responsible? The SS?”

David nodded. “Yes, but Ali could not get past the image of a sacrificial lamb. He was convinced that Captain Duchemin sent his father in to be killed and that the members of his platoon abandoned him. Of course it isn’t true, but …” He shrugged. “He determined to avenge his father’s death, and he began in May of ’58 by slaughtering Maxime Duchemin and his wife. Ali is an intelligent and methodical man, and he organized a group of six men to gather information about his father’s platoon. Documents were hard to come by. He targeted Anne-Marie, the captain’s only child. She was twenty-one at the time and known to be politically involved in the war, for the pied-noirs.”

David closed his eyes and remembered Anne-Marie’s hysterical voice across the miles, crackling through the phone wires. He didn’t want to dwell on that part.

He continued speaking in a sterile, removed tone, like a doctor reporting a cancer. “In December, Ali and some of these men abducted and raped Anne-Marie.”

Gabriella gave a soft moan and shook her head. For a moment David’s eyes met hers.

“Ali’s a sick man. After that, he sent a dashing young Frenchman to ‘rescue’ her—Jean-Claude Gachon. For several months Anne-Marie felt safe with him. Of course she had no idea of his link with Ali. Jean-Claude convinced her that Ali wanted to harm other families of the men in one of her father’s platoons in World War II. So at his suggestion she began looking for the names of these families and gave him several.

“But Anne-Marie is not dumb. Gradually she wondered what was happening and found out that two harki families whom she had identified had been murdered, and she grew scared.”

David rubbed his eyes and lifted a glass of water to his lips, wincing with pain at the movement. “That is when she wrote to me at Princeton. I hadn’t heard from her since I’d left Algeria in 1954, though I’d written her letter after letter. I had finally given up, hoping her silence was merely indifference and not an omen of the war.” He set the glass down. “Now I know she was afraid to answer. Afraid to tell me about Ophélie.

“Anyway, in December of 1959, she wrote and then called me and begged me to help these children who were going to be systematically murdered. She knew—well, she hoped—I would be able to come to France … because of my past.…”

He let the phrase dangle, and Mother Griolet shot him a sympathetic look, with a question in her eyes.

“Mother Griolet, would you explain that part please?” He rested his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. As Mother Griolet picked up his tale, David drifted off.

“In 1944, when David was just a boy, he came to our orphanage, alone. It took several months before his father located him. The man was sick with worry.”

David heard the words and opened his eyes. “My father? Sick with worry?” He laughed.

“David! Of course he was. He stood before me and wept. He kept repeating, ‘It was all my fault.’ He was heartbroken, David. Crushed.”

“He was not! He couldn’t stand the sight of me. He, he … left us in Paris with American passports. And then the SS came, and my father was nowhere to be found.” David’s voice had changed. He spoke loudly, angrily.

“David, please stay calm.” Gabriella touched his hand, then held it tightly.

He sighed. “That’s another story altogether. It’s something I will resolve in time, if God wills.” But still he was lost in the nun’s words.
He stood before me and wept.
David had never once seen his father shed a tear.