Two Crosses (39 page)

“May I take your coat?” he asked.

“No thanks. I’m freezing.”

He ordered two hot chocolates and waited for them to appear before speaking. “Gabby, I’ve received some more information about the work. It will take me a while to sort it out with my contacts in Algeria. It’s been so long, you see, since I’ve actually heard from them. But when it’s all worked out, St. Joseph may be flooded with kids. And Mother Griolet will need someone to help her get the children and deliver messages. I need you to be that person.”

Gabriella sighed as he took her hand. “David, you know I want to help. I have no choice, really.”

“I may be gone for a while. I’m convinced there will be more peace talks going on between de Gaulle and the FLN to try to settle this Algerian question. Things will start happening fast, Gabby. And we must be ready for something bigger than we bargained for.”

“And if Jean-Claude finds us in the meantime? What will we do then?”

“Contact me. I’ll leave an address and check in every few days. But, Gabby, he
must
not find you. He works for an Algerian, high in the FLN. A man with a grudge from another war. This man seeks to wipe out whole families through cold-blooded, premeditated murder.

“But I have a feeling that when Algeria is independent, it will all break up. If we can hold on a few more weeks, a couple of months, this danger will be over—and another, different one will come.”

Gabriella’s eyes glistened. “War and danger and secrets and spies. I never expected this from little Castelnau.” She gave him a wry look. “I never expected cruel memories of my past either. But I’ll try to help. Tell me what to do, and I’ll try.”

He stroked her fingers. “You’re beautiful and brave, my Gabby. You will tell me the inner strength comes from your God. I don’t know if it’s from God or simply from an amazing woman’s drive, but I know you will do it.”

“And Mother Griolet? Won’t she grow suspicious if you go away again?”

David chuckled. “My dear, she is already very suspicious. She dislikes me. But M. Vidal will take my classes. She won’t protest.”

“When will you go?”

“Next week. Sometime after the twenty-fifth.”

They finished drinking their hot chocolate; then David scooted his chair back and stretched out his long legs under the round wooden table. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled as he stared at Gabriella.

“Have you ever been in love, Gabby?” he asked suddenly.

Months ago she wouldn’t have dared to answer his question, afraid of a snide remark. She could feel the heat of embarrassment on her face.
What I really want to say, dear David, is that I’m in love with you.
But she could not.

The long silence was broken by her one-word reply. “Once.”

David didn’t question her further, but in his eyes she read his hunger for a few details, so she continued.

“I was fifteen; he was seventeen. His name was Dimby. A brave, strong, kind boy. We grew up side by side, like sister and brother. We didn’t mean to fall in love. I learned African customs from his sisters. I spent many hours at his home. His family was the first in the whole region to accept our God.

“Dimby thought about deep things. We could talk and laugh and … and suddenly we were in love,” she finished quietly, unable to explain the depth of emotion that had passed between them.

“You mean you were in love with an African? He was black?” David asked incredulously.

“Correct on both counts.” A slightly defensive edge crept into Gabriella’s voice.

“And what did your parents say? Surely they forbade it! A white missionary kid from the States in love with a black man from a tribal village in Africa.” His voice was full of wonder.

“No, they didn’t forbid me to love him. My parents also liked Dimby very much. Perhaps they were strange, but I don’t think they saw black and white when they looked at people. They saw hearts and souls and hurts. They didn’t discourage me, but they knew that our love wouldn’t … wouldn’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dimby was promised to a young girl in a nearby village. The fathers had arranged it years ago. To break this tradition would create distrust and hatred towards us as missionaries.”

“Surely Dimby realized this. Why did he pursue you? How did you do it?” His question was unfocused, but she understood his meaning.

“We cried and whispered our love. He brought me a wreath of African lilies—a sign of commitment in his tribe. He held them out for me to smell, and the sweet scent curled up between us. Then we burned the flowers and scattered the ashes, as is their custom when someone very cherished dies. We never touched, never kissed, never held each other in an embrace, but in our hearts we knew. We had loved. He left that night, and soon after was married to his promised bride. He lived in a hut a half mile from my home, but I never saw him again. His tribe was known for its discipline. For honor and respect, they would never go against family.”

“But he loved you! And he wasn’t really one of them anymore. You said he was a convert.”

“There are things we can’t understand but we must accept. I didn’t think it was wrong that he left. It had not been wrong to love him, but it was not wrong to lose him.”

“And your mother. What did she say to you?”

“She said, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.’ And she hugged me. I cried for a long, long time, and she held me. Then she said, ‘Gabriella, someday you’ll see, our God does not make mistakes.’”

David reached over and tenderly took her hand. “I’m sorry, truly.”

She didn’t meet his searching, compassionate gaze. Instead she asked, “And you, David, have you ever been in love?”

Still holding on to her hand, he replied, “I don’t know.” His voice was soft but tormented.

“Is it so hard to know whether one is in love?”

His eyes caught hers in a moment of recognition. The eyes that were so often dark and brooding now carried a spark of something. What was it, Gabriella wondered. Then she knew. Like the faraway gleam of a lighthouse promising safety to the weary, wind-tossed vessel, his eyes carried the light of hope. Just a flicker, but nonetheless, hope.

In that moment he took her other hand, squeezing them both softly in his, and whispered, “Perhaps, my dear Gabby, it’s not so hard at all to know when one is in love.”

Ali Boudani didn’t notice the stench of rotting fruit that seeped in the window of his apartment as he read the paper on the morning of January 20. He was quite pleased with the headlines. In Paris two days earlier, the OAS had set off numerous explosions and killed none of their intended victims. In Algiers, however, two of the prime men with the OAS had been assassinated from within their own ranks. Surely the brutality of this desperate operation would benefit the FLN, as the French were divided among themselves. Surely de Gaulle would give in to the FLN’s demands before long, and a free Algeria would result.

He stood up from his dilapidated desk and reread the names listed on the wall. Mme Sentier and her children had perished soon after her husband’s neck was slit. That was good. Another harki family dead. But two remained in Algiers. Mahmud had more information about Mme el Gharbi, whose husband had been murdered last week. The family was in hiding, but Mahmud had news. They would be the next target, Ali decided. Tomorrow night if possible. Then there would be only Mme Bousquet and her grandchildren.

Ali contemplated this as he picked up a slide he had recently received from Jean-Claude. He held it to the light. The elusive David Hoffmann. It was good to know he was back in France. So it had been him all along. Of course! How foolish of them not to have guessed this sooner. Ali closed his eyes and saw the young man as a strapping teenager.

“This is Ali Boudani,” Anne-Marie said. “His father was in my father’s division in the war. An excellent soldier.” She turned her cherubic adolescent face toward Ali. “David’s father is here in Algiers working in the American embassy. I’m showing him around the city.”

The encounter had lasted only a few minutes, but now Ali recalled it vividly. Anne-Marie had paid time and again for her foolishness. She would pay again. And so would David Hoffmann.

A young Arab boy entered Ali’s room after knocking lightly on the door.

“Hello, Hussein, my boy. Do you have news for me?”

“Yessir, Ali. Good news!” The boy grinned, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Let me hear it then,” Ali growled.

“I’ve seen the woman you search for. She went into La Fillette apartments in Bab el-Oued. She talked to an old woman. I was quiet as a mouse. She didn’t see me. She said the children must be at the docks by midnight on January 25.”

Ali patted the boy’s thin shoulders. “You have done well, Hussein.” He dropped a few shiny coins into the boy’s dirty hands. “And did you see where this woman lives? Did you follow her to her house?”

The young boy’s face fell. “No. I tried to follow, but a tall man met her. He had a gun with him and I was afraid. I followed as far as rue Tripoli, then I lost them.”

“That is good enough for now. Out with you, Hussein. Keep looking, my son. Keep looking.”

The boy nodded and dashed out of the room. Ali sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and took a slow drag. “Midnight on the twenty-fifth at the docks. We will be waiting.”

It was late afternoon on January 22 when Mother Griolet climbed the steps from the basement and opened the door to her apartment. She was glad for a moment of silence, for her mind was racing. More children were set to arrive in five days. She unfolded the note that Jean-Louis had handed her ten days ago. He would meet the children as they arrived by boat in Marseille. She sighed as she thought through the logistics of lodging five more children. The dormitories had exactly five free beds left. One in the girls’ and four in the boys’.

A smile erased the worried expression on her face. Hadn’t Jean-Louis said there would be one girl and four boys coming? The Lord always provided just what was needed at the right time. She sank onto the brown couch in her small den and slowly bent to unlace her shoes. She propped up her swollen feet on the coffee table.

She could not forget the handsome young man at her door last week asking for information about Ophélie. Nor could she forget the letter from Ophélie’s mother with her revelation about David Hoffmann.

Something else bothered her about M. Hoffmann. It was only a faint memory, but as she dwelt on it, she felt a sharp panic rising within her. Quickly she went to an old file cabinet in the back corner of the office and pulled out the bottom drawer. She leafed through some files and found several dated 1943. She pulled them out, cursorily perusing the contents. Her eyes fell on one short paragraph. She read it over twice, then sighed heavily. Slowly she replaced each file.

“Whom can I talk to about these things, Lord? Whom shall I trust?” She thought of her old friend Jean-Louis, with his bloodshot eyes and ruddy cheeks. Did he remember as well? But it was not Jean-Louis who needed to know.

Then she thought of Gabriella. “She is young and strong, Lord. But she is already dealing with a lot of pain from her past. And she loves David Hoffmann. In spite of herself, she loves him.” She closed her eyes and didn’t move from the couch for half an hour. When she rose again to her feet, she felt confident. “I will talk to her, Lord. I will tell her the secrets she does not know about two people she loves very much.”