Two Crosses (27 page)

Ophélie huddled on the bottom bunk at rest time. Anne-Sophie was asleep next to her, snuggling contentedly with her teddy bear. Above her, Marine whispered to Lorène on the next bunk. Most of the other girls slept. But rest time was Ophélie’s time alone. And what a wonderful time it was, now that she could read. Every day she pulled out Mama’s letter. It had taken her three weeks to get through the first page, sounding out the words in a whisper. Then she would reread each sentence again and again until she had practically memorized it.

Once in a while she could not figure out a word, no matter how hard she tried. Then she would copy it carefully in her
cahier de lecture
to show to Gabriella the next day. One word at a time, and Bribri had never seemed suspicious.

Finally today she was on the last page. Page one was all about how much Mama loved her and how she never wanted to leave Ophélie. And something about the war and helping other mommies and children. And M. Gady. Ophélie had cried when she read that part.

The second page was about the cross of Papy and how when she wore it, she would be safe. Ophélie had not taken off the cross since she had read that page last week. Now she turned to the third page and, with difficulty, began sounding out each letter as Mother Griolet had taught her.

I m … mu … st, I must tell you one m … more t … th … thing. I h … have never talk … talked to you of your fa … fat … father.
Ophélie gasped.
Father!
That was the word, she was sure. Somehow, she had never imagined that she had a father.

She wanted to read faster now, before the bell rang and ended rest time.
I don’t know w … whe … where he is, but, Ophélie, he is a good man.
She frowned.

He does not know he has a dau … daugh …
She struggled with the word for several minutes. “Daughter!” she said aloud.

Marine peered down from the top bunk and giggled. “You’re talking to yourself, Ophélie.”

Ophélie said nothing, waiting for Marine to start whispering again with Lorène.

I c … cou … could not tell him. Please forgive your mama. But he is a good man who h … hel … helped me w … whe … when we were bot … both very young and living in Algeria.
Algeria! Where they used to live.

Per … perhaps some … someday you will be able to f … find him.

The shrill clanging of the bell startled Ophélie. She pushed the letter under her pillow as the other little girls scurried off their bunks and out the door. One more look! Just one more look!

She pulled the letter out and quickly found her place at the bottom of page three. She wouldn’t have time to finish it all. But maybe one more line.
He is an Ame … Amer …
She threw down the paper in frustration. Another word she could not read! Sister Rosaline would be coming at any minute to look for her. Just one more line. She skipped the big word and continued reading.
Very han … hand …
She skipped that word too
. and smart. His name is Da … Dav … David.
David! Like the shepherd boy in the Bible. She had read the story in class yesterday. The boy who killed the giant. Her papa had the same name!

She stared at the letter again. Another word came after David, but it was long and complicated too.
Ho … Hoff …

“Coucou, Ophélie!”
It was Sister Rosaline’s high-pitched voice. “Come on now. Time for afternoon class!”

Silently Ophélie stuffed the letter into the tights and closed the middle drawer. She jumped off the bed and bounded into the courtyard, screeching to a halt behind little Christophe, who was pulling Anne-Sophie’s pigtails and giggling.

A father
, she thought all through the afternoon.
A father named David.
She felt happy with the knowledge. A secret from her mother. But how in the world would she find him? She could not even find her mother, and she knew just what Mama looked like. How could she find her father, who for the moment was only a name written on a pink piece of paper in Mama’s hand?

Afternoon class was over for the orphans. They filed outside into the chilly December afternoon. The sky was already growing dark. Gabriella waited for Mother Griolet to come back through the hall.

“Can we talk for a moment?” she asked the nun.

“Of course, my dear. Do you wish to come to my office?”

“Yes, yes … that will be fine.” They walked to the ground floor without talking. Gabriella disliked the awkward distance she felt.

Mother Griolet unlocked the office door and motioned for Gabriella to enter. When they both were seated, Gabriella fiddled with her hair, twirling it absently around her fingers. She didn’t know how to start.

“Well, I’m sure you realize why I’ve come to see you,” she said finally. “It’s my conscience. Today is my day to say I’m sorry. I’m not very good at it, but”—she sat up in the chair—“I need to apologize for my anger the other day. I’m sure you didn’t wish to see me hurt. I’m sorry that I accused you.”

“
Merci, ma fille.
I know it’s not easy. And your anger is normal,” Mother Griolet reassured her.

“Mother Griolet, have you ever felt like you were dying inside?”

“Yes. I have known that pain before.”

“And how did you find the courage to forgive? I have already forgiven once for what happened to Ericka. Now it seems I must back up and start over … only it’s even more painful. Somehow it feels like it’s my fault. In my head I know that’s wrong. But I feel responsible.”

“It is often that way. Gabriella, I don’t mean to sound like a distant doctor who has all the answers. It’s simply that I deal often with children who have been abused—physically, psychologically, emotionally. The grieving period can be long. You must be patient with yourself.”

“And in the meantime? What do I do in the meantime?”

“You keep living. And talking out your feelings. Actually your outrage last week was very good. A necessary step. I prayed you wouldn’t feel embarrassed to come back. It’s too hard to carry your anger alone.”

“Do you think we can forgive
anything
, Mother Griolet? The worst offenses? Do you think it’s possible?”

“Forgiveness is not just for the offender,” the nun stated, compassion in her eyes. “You’re a victim, and until you forgive, you will always be a victim, locked in your hurt and bitterness. Forgiveness frees.” She paused for a moment. “How big is your God, Gabriella? Mine turns tragedy into triumph. A rape, and a precious daughter born.”

“But she died!” Gabriella protested. “Why must Mother grieve twice for her? You said Mother died in her heart when Ericka was conceived. But then she looked past the awful pain and found love. Why did she have to die a second time? It wasn’t fair!”

She held the cross in her hand. Just yesterday she had returned to M. Auguste’s shop to retrieve it with its chain. She thought of Mother Griolet’s words.
An intricate weaving of lives.
A Huguenot cross that a Catholic nun had given a Protestant mother to help her forgive an unknown Arab. A daughter born, only to be yanked away too soon. Gabriella closed her eyes. The story tormented her. How could a simple cross bring peace to such a tangled mess?

Her eyes still closed, Gabriella saw the image of Ophélie smiling before her. She whispered, “And now this same cross has brought another six-year-old into my life.” She opened her eyes and looked at the nun, who seemed to be in prayer. “Tragedy to triumph, is that what you said, Mother Griolet? Your God can bring triumph out of tragedy,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Mother Griolet lifted her head and nodded slowly.

Gabriella stood up. “He is my God too. I have something to do now. I will try to keep living, as you have said. There are others I must keep living for.”

The phone booth stood at the back of the small square in Castelnau where an olive tree rose from within the stones of the street. The small fountain beside it sprayed water into its moonlit pool, occasionally sending its mist toward the glass booth when a gust of wind caught the water. Gabriella closed the sliding door behind her and felt in her pocket for the paper and franc piece. She squinted in the dark to read the number and slowly lifted the receiver from its hook, then dialed.

It rang once, twice, a third time. She was about to replace the earpiece in relief when a man’s voice answered.

“Allô? Oui, est-ce que c’est Jean-Claude?”
Her voice shook.

“Oui, c’est Jean-Claude.”

“Jean-Claude, this is the woman you met in Montpellier. Gabriella? I’m sorry to bother you, but I promised Ophélie that I would call to see if you have any news.”

“I am glad you called,
mademoiselle
. I do indeed have some news.”

“Yes? Do you know where Anne-Marie is?”

“Why don’t we meet, and I will tell you what I have learned?”

Gabriella hesitated.

“Perhaps this Saturday on the Comédie? I’m sure little Ophélie is eager for information about her mother.”

She felt annoyed at his persistence, afraid he was more interested in pursuing her than helping Ophélie. Why couldn’t he just give her the information over the phone?

“No, that isn’t possible. I’m going to be in Les Baux-de-Provence on Saturday. But I’ll call you on Sunday.” She quickly thanked him, said au revoir, and hung up before he could reply.

Gabriella left the phone booth with an uneasy feeling. He seemed nice enough. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to go out with a green-eyed Frenchman. For Ophélie. But halfway back to Mme Leclerc’s house, it was not the young Frenchman she was thinking of, but David Hoffmann and their brief embrace that morning.

19

“I’m glad you decided to come with me, Gabby.”

“I only agreed because you promised no more secrets, David. You’re sure there’s nothing to tell me?”

“
Au contraire
, there’s so much to tell you! We’re driving through a scene from Van Gogh or Cézanne or Gauguin. This is where they painted, throughout this rich region of Provence. There is nothing else like it anywhere on earth, Gabby.” He reached over and squeezed her hand.

“David Hoffmann, you’re so hard to resist! A walking history book, the king of culture. Tell me then, please. Tell me about this magical land of Provence. I only hope your faithful little
bagnole
will get us there.” She lovingly patted the car’s ripped upholstery.

“You can’t get to Les Baux by train. But it’s only a hundred kilometers from Montpellier, and we’ve already come eighty. We’ll make it. But I’m afraid we’ll have a bit of wind up on the mountain. December isn’t the ideal time to see Les Baux, but …”

“But you have business in town.” Gabriella said with a mocking tone.

He laughed. “Yes, something like that.”

The sun was bright on the road, but as they drove, Gabriella watched the wind whipping through the fields, checked only by rows of tall, pointed cypress trees outlining the fields, leaning at a forty-five degree angle to the ground.

David noticed Gabriella staring at them. “Those trees are there precisely to protect the fields from the wind. Even on a calm day, they remain perpetually bent in adoration to the mistral.

“Here, we’re coming closer. See the small chain of miniature mountains in the distance? They’re called the Alpilles, the little Alps. This entire region used to be marshes, from Arles to the Alpilles, until one of your Protestants, a M. Van Eys from Amsterdam, figured out how to drain them and turn them into cornfields. Unfortunately he had to rush back home for safety when the Edict of Nantes was revoked. Now let me see, what have I told you about Les Baux?”

Gabriella knitted her brow and reflected. “I think you said there are now only ruins of the village and castle. It was built into the mountain, right?”

“Yes, into the southern side of the Alpilles. There used to be over four thousand inhabitants in the city. Now you have at best three hundred, most of whom gain their livelihood from the tourist industry.”