Two Crosses (48 page)

“It’s beautiful,” he said. Beautiful and vast and eternal.

Like You, God of Gabriella. I don’t believe in You. I don’t believe an ultimate being of good exists. There is too much misery around. But Gabby does. If You were a man, I know I could win. I have always won. I can charm with intellect.

But, God of Gabriella, I don’t know how to fight against You! In her mind, You’re bigger and better than any man. You understand the questions we’re afraid to ask. And she believes You love and forgive.

He kicked at the sand and cursed. Forgiveness! Who would talk about that impossible word if they knew! Could he forgive his mother’s and sister’s murderers? Could he forgive his proud and guilty father?

No, God of Gabriella, I cannot. And can I forgive You? God of the Jews, who watched silently as they were slaughtered by the millions? I will not forgive You, God! You will never be my God.

He raised his clenched fists to the quiet sky as the water gently brushed his feet and the lightning flittered around. God wasn’t here. He couldn’t be. For if He was, then Gabby was right, and all David had done in life was a hopeless waste.…

He lowered his arms until they hung loosely by his side and slowly loosened his fingers. He stared at the living painting before him. The breeze felt unexpectedly chilly on his face, and he realized that it was because of his own tears mixing with the night air. He had not cried in many years, but he remembered all too well the last time he had.

They had stood still in the frozen camp of Dachau, awaiting roll call in the frost of an early December morning in 1943. His mother was in front and his little sister, Greta, behind him. Suddenly a rabbit appeared from behind the barracks, scampering in front of them toward safety. An officer laughed, raised his gun, and fired. The little beast burst into fragments before the weary onlookers. Greta cried out “No!” in the innocent voice of a three-year-old and began running toward the lifeless rabbit. “You shot the bunny! You shot the bunny!”

And then in a flash, his mother was running after her, crying, “Come back, dear, quickly! It does not matter.” But it was too late. Far away from the tower, a shot rang out, and Greta fell. His mother screamed in horror and ran to grab her fallen daughter.

“Leave her there!” an officer shouted.

But Mother didn’t hear. Didn’t move.

“Leave her there!” The only sound in the quiet of that tragic dawn was Mother’s sobbing. Then one more shot. And all was still again.

David’s tears ran down his cheeks. Greta had run, his mother had run, but he had stood still in his place, dying in his own silence.

Roll call continued, and then this hopeless mass of humankind turned their dull eyes down and walked back to the barracks. Past the remains of the rabbit and the small body of Greta and the bleeding body of Mother. Only David stared as he walked by, and he whispered, “Good-bye, Greta. Good-bye, Mother. Good-bye, life.”

That night, sandwiched on his bunk between other women and children, he could not stop the tears from flowing. He sobbed into the filth of the torn blanket for hours. And when he could cry no more, he lay awake with the eyes of an old man on the face of a child and said, “I am alone.”

Weak and spent, David stood motionless on the shore, his shoulders slumped. For two hours he had wrestled with the God of Gabriella and the nightmare of his past. How could the two be reconciled?

Forgiveness. It had worked for her. Could it work for him?

God couldn’t exist. But Gabby was real. And to be with her was to taste eternity. She brought hope. To love her, he must love God. And yet that would never work, Gabby said. It had to be from the heart. What heart?

But God must exist.…

David placed a hand on his throbbing head.

I give up, God of Gabriella. You’re too strong for me, and now I have no more strength tonight. Forgive me, God of Gabriella, for hating. For wanting revenge. If You exist, then take me if You want me. Take me, as Gabby says, and see what You can do. I’m tired of being alone.

Suddenly he was on his knees, barely noticing the wet sand beneath him, until, reaching down, he scraped the damp earth into his hand and held it up toward the flashing heavens.
Here I am, God, with nothing to offer but a hardened heart and a handful of sand. Here, God of Gabriella. Take it, and be my God too.

29

The bedroom in Marcus Cirou’s apartment was dark, the shutters drawn to keep out any sunlight. Anne-Marie dozed fitfully, her frame but a skeleton under the sheets. The effort of reaching for a glass of water beside the bed exhausted her.

She needed the care of nurses, but she refused to return to the hospital. Three weeks there had nearly killed her, she explained weakly to Moustafa. It was not a safe place. She could not go back.

Moustafa gently wiped her forehead with a cool rag. “I’ll bring you some soup, my
habibti
,” he whispered.

“Yes, soup will be good.”

When he came back into the room, Anne-Marie turned her haggard face to him. “What’s the news today?”

“More of the same. Rumors that the cease-fire will come soon. Dear one,” he said, “I must get you to France. You’ll get stronger as soon as you see Ophélie. Please, drink this soup.” He lifted her head off the pillow and slowly brought the spoon to her mouth.

“Thank you,” she rasped. “Yes, if I could only get to France. Will you take me to the
Capitaine
, Moustafa? Will you come with me?”

He stood up and walked to the window, staring at the peeling paint on the inside of the shutters. “You know I can’t leave yet, Anne-Marie. But I will get you there safely.” He came back to the bed and sat down beside her. “You must concentrate on getting stronger. I will do the rest.” He stroked her hair.

Anne-Marie forced a feeble smile on her face. “The doctor said I would walk again. The bullets were taken out. I can’t understand why it’s taking so long to heal.”

“We nearly lost you twice, you know. It takes time. In another week you’ll be walking. It will be March then. And you will spend springtime in France, Anne-Marie. With Ophélie.”

It had started as chicken pox. All the children got chicken pox in February, Mother Griolet reassured Gabriella. It was the same every year. But Gabriella didn’t feel peaceful. For five days Ophélie’s fever had raged at 104. The other children were now healthy and strong, but Ophélie was confined to Sister Rosaline’s room on a cot. Gabriella took turns with the Sisters sponging her, holding a cool rag on her head, trying to relieve the itching. The child was covered with scabs, and some had become infected. The doctor ordered antibiotics. Still the fever hung on.

“Why doesn’t Papa come? If only he would come to see me, I know I would get better.” At times Ophélie called out, delirious, “Papa! Mama! Come now!”

Gabriella didn’t know why David had not come back. His absence of a week had slipped into more than two. She fought to control her anger. Didn’t he care about his daughter?

She closed the door to Sister Rosaline’s room and walked down the corridor toward the girls’ dormitory. Coming to Ophélie’s bed, she fell heavily to her knees and prayed.
Oh, Lord. She must get better. The doctor says there is nothing to do but wait and try to get the fever down. Even he doesn’t know why the medicine isn’t working. But You do, Lord. What does she need?

Suddenly she saw her mother, exhausted and red-eyed at the bedside of little Ericka. Gabriella could almost smell the stench of death again and see the yellow tint of Ericka’s skin.

Oh, God, please. Daddy never made it back to see Ericka alive. Please, Holy God, may it not be so for David. Bring him home to meet his daughter. And let her live to know her papa.

Sister Isabelle startled Gabriella, touching her on the shoulder as she prayed. “Excuse me, Mlle Madison. But something has just arrived in the mail for Ophélie.”

Quickly Gabriella got off her knees and stood, taking the envelope from Sister Isabelle. She recognized the handwriting.

“Thank you, Sister Isabelle. Perhaps this will be just what little Ophélie needs.”

Sister Isabelle grinned and, looking heavenward, whispered, “Yes, maybe it is just what the Doctor ordered.”

As the nun left the dormitory, Gabriella opened the envelope and read the page-long note. It revealed a tender side of David Hoffmann and sent a tingle through her too deep to describe. It couldn’t have been easy for him to write. His hand was clear and measured, as if he were writing slowly, instead of the hurried script he used on the blackboard in class. These words had mattered to him.

She walked back to Sister Rosaline’s room and peered in the door. Ophélie’s eyes were closed. “Ophélie? Sweetheart? May I come in? I have a surprise for you.”

Ophélie turned her head weakly toward Gabriella. “
Oui.
Come in, Bribri.”

Gabriella gently sat on the end of the cot. “A letter has just come for you in the mail. It’s from your papa.”

With extreme effort Ophélie raised her head off the pillow. “Really?” she asked, a wisp of eagerness in her faint voice. “My papa wrote me?”

“Yes, dear. See? Shall I read it to you?”

“
Oui, oui
, Bribri. Please read it.” She let her head fall back on the pillow and listened.

Gabriella reached the last line, inwardly refusing to yield to the tears she felt welling up inside. “I love you, Ophélie. Papa.”

She watched as Ophélie fingered the cross around her neck, a fragile smile on the little girl’s lips.

“You were right, Bribri. Papa does love me. He said so. I’ll get better now. Your God will protect me, and I will be all well when Papa comes back.”

Rosie Lecharde was not beautiful or rich. But she was smart. She had grown up on the streets of Marseille, and she was not afraid of anyone. She laughed at the slimy little men who pawed her body in raunchy hotel rooms. She always got an extra tip before they left—it was easy to take a few bills from a wallet.

And Rosie knew that the handsome young Frenchman could bring her more money. He was hungry for many things, this man. And she could give him everything he needed. Ten days with him had already provided her with more money than she had seen in a year.

She preferred the lanky American gentleman with the black eyes. But he was not as hungry. She wondered how to lure him along. Careful and smart, he was. But maybe desperate.

The streets behind the hotel were silent. She pulled her tattered shawl around her shoulders. At least she would sleep well tonight. Jean-Claude was a madman, but at least he kept her warm. She pranced into the lobby, her high heels clicking on the crackled linoleum.

“Room 32,” she said, winking at the desk clerk.

“He’s waiting for you,” the young man mumbled.

Rosie pinched her cheeks and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Jean-Claude wouldn’t like to see that she was cold. She spread a thick coat of bright-pink lipstick across her lips, checking her work in the mirror of her compact. She slipped it back into her purse and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Jean-Claude crooned. He sat in the room’s lone chair smoking a cigarette, a half dozen empty bottles of cheap red table wine at his feet. “Well?” he growled.