Two Crosses (38 page)

Jean-Claude took bus 11 from the center of town to Castelnau. He chuckled to himself. After six weeks of hunting, surely this was it. The Church of St. Joseph must be where Ophélie Duchemin was living.

The town was small, its main road cobbled. The bus let him off in the middle of the village, across the street from a small square where a fountain sprayed. People were milling about in the late morning. Jean-Claude stopped a pedestrian and asked for directions to the church.

The woman nodded and pointed to her right. “It’s just down the street there. You can’t miss it.”

He turned a corner, and the stone church came into view. It was small, with a wrought-iron spire and bell on top of the steeple. The side door was unlocked, and he stepped down into the cold, deserted chapel. His shoes echoed on the stones. “
Allô?
” he said softly, but no one replied.

Leaving the chapel, he walked around the side to where another building joined the church. He knocked loudly on the door. No answer. He knocked again, banging his fist on the large wooden door. From within he heard a woman’s voice calling, “
J’arrive.
Just a moment.”

“Take your time,” Jean-Claude muttered to himself. “I’m in no hurry now.”

Mother Griolet opened the parsonage door, panting for breath. “Excuse me,” she huffed, greeting the young man who stood before her. “I’m sorry to make you wait. What may I do for you?”

The man looked about thirty. He was muscular and handsome, with thick brown hair and a disarming smile. Mother Griolet was sure she had never seen him before.

“
Bonjour, Soeur
,” he began, his voice soft and respectful. “I’m searching for my niece, a pied-noir orphan whose parents were killed in the war. Most recently we have heard that the child is being housed in a church in Montpellier. A priest in the city told me of your orphanage, and I have come hoping you will be able to help me. The child’s name is Ophélie Duchemin.” He pulled out a photograph from his shirt pocket and handed it to Mother Griolet.

The old nun had placed her hand on the door to steady her balance. A cold chill ran through her.
Compose yourself, Jeannette
, she rebuked herself silently, keeping the smile on her face.
Lord Jesus, help me. You have promised to give the words in the appropriate time.

She cleared her throat as she stared at the picture of Ophélie. “I’m sorry, but we are a very small orphanage. We only have room for thirty children. Most have been with us for several years. It is difficult to place them.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “The priest perhaps told you?”

The young man leaned forward to catch every word, eager anticipation on his face. “No, he only said it was an orphanage.”

“Ah, yes …” Mother Griolet paused and gazed up at the billowing clouds. “Sometimes they don’t like to mention it. The children are handicapped. You understand?” She tapped her head with her fingers. “Nothing inside. Poor ones.” Then she feigned a surprised look. “Oh dear, I have been rude. Is this child … handicapped?”

For a moment he stared at her stupefied. “Handicapped? Ophélie? No, no, of course not.”

Mother Griolet shook her head slowly. “Well, I’m afraid she will never be sent here then. We are, shall I say, selective. I would invite you in, sir, but I’m afraid the corridors smell rather bad. I was just cleaning up an accident.”

The man looked horrified. “Yes, how terrible for you.”

“It is so sad, so sad. But,
monsieur
, excuse me … I do not know your name.”

“It is … I’m called Philippe,” he replied nervously.

“Well, M. Philippe, there is another orphanage in a town farther out, past Assas. St. Bauzille-de-Montmel. You have heard of it?”

“No, no, never.” His eyes had narrowed. “And can you get to it by bus?”

“By bus?” Mother Griolet paused.
“Oui!”
She brightened. “Yes, the same bus that brought you here. Number 11, is it?”

He nodded.

“Yes, well, take it till you get to Teyran. There you must change. I’m not sure of the number, but the driver can tell you.”

The young man shifted his weight on the steps, his hands fidgeting in his pockets.

Perhaps he has a gun
, she thought.
He will shoot me right here and barge in and have a look for himself. And he will find the child.

But after a moment he slowly turned away. “
Merci
,” he said. “St. Bauzille-de-Montmel, you said.”

“Yes, exactly. Good luck, M. Philippe. God be with you.”

She waited until he was out of sight back in the village before she closed the door. Slowly she made her way to her office and sank into the large leather chair. Her hands were trembling uncontrollably, and she could hear the beating of her heart. She rested her head in her shaking hands. “Lord, he will be back. I know it. And what will I tell him then?”

24

If ever there was a confused time and place on earth, Anne-Marie was sure it was Algiers in January 1962. A tangled web of terrorism and counterterrorism, espionage and counterespionage threatened to trip up every citizen, Arab, pied-noir, French soldier, and mercenary. While President de Gaulle worked on compromise with the FLN, three separate branches of the French secret service prowled about, seeking to stop the OAS’s brutality. Everyone belonged to some clandestine movement. Anne-Marie reminded herself that she too had belonged to several. But protecting children from a vengeful Ali Boudani was not recognized by anyone else.

She slipped out of Marcus Cirou’s apartment late in the afternoon of January 18. The real terror in Algiers occurred between dark and dawn when most of the bombings by the FLN, OAS, and now the new secret police took place. She needed to deliver information to two more families. For now they were the last ones Ali knew about.

Anne-Marie traced her way along the narrow streets. Every wall sported a painted slogan.
OAS
was painted one night, only to be covered the next morning with the French secret service initials,
MCP
. She walked past a shopkeeper who was sweeping out his store from the debris of a predawn bombing.

She found a dingy apartment building called La Fillette. Clothes hung from every balcony, refusing to dry in the cold, humid air. She entered the stairwell, which was littered with beer cans and cigarette butts. The stench of urine filled the air.

On the third floor, she searched for apartment 36. She waited to make sure no one was following her on the steps. Then she knocked lightly on the door.

“Who is there?” a woman’s voice called out.

“It’s Anne-Marie Duchemin.”

The door opened a crack, and a gray-haired woman peeped out. “Come in,” she whispered.

Anne-Marie stepped into the apartment, which smelled of couscous cooking on the stove. She greeted the older woman and quickly gave her the news: “On January 25 at eleven thirty I’ll pick up your grandchildren in the alleyway behind your building and take them to the dock. But that’s a week away, and it’s not safe for you to stay here, because Ali Boudani has your address. You heard about the bombing last week where the woman and children were killed?”

The grandmother nodded, her eyes showing fear and fatigue.

“Is there anywhere you can hide until the twenty-fifth?”

The woman thought. “Yes, we can go to my cousin’s home outside the city.”

“Very good. Be careful and have the children back on the twenty-fifth. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you, child. Thank you.” The aging woman glanced to the sky and crossed herself. “God be with us. God spare us.”

“Yes, it’s as you say.” Anne-Marie closed the door behind her, tiptoed down the stairs, and stepped back out into the streets of Algiers, heading back to meet Moustafa. Together they would warn one last family.

“Tomorrow we will discuss how the themes used by artists and writers of the late nineteenth century are linked,” David said, concluding his lecture. “And on Friday we’ll visit the Musée Fabre in Montpellier. There are many great works in the museum, most notably those of Frédéric Bazille, a contemporary of Monet. And please don’t forget that your papers on André Gide are also due Friday.”

Several girls groaned at the reminder.

“That is all. You’re dismissed,
mesdemoiselles
.”

He closed his briefcase. When the other students had left, he joined Gabriella, who was staring out the window. They watched the children playing in the courtyard, their high-pitched squeals reaching up to the classroom.

“Your Frenchman came to St. Joseph,” David said flatly.

Gabriella gasped and looked up at him. “Jean-Claude? When? Did he speak to anyone? Why didn’t you tell me before now?”

He ignored her questions. “I saw him from a second-story window, talking to Mother Griolet. I don’t know what she said to send him away, but I’m sure he was looking for you and the child. And I’ve no doubt he will be back. You must be ready.”

“What do you mean?” Gabriella’s voice was agitated.

“Never answer the door to the parsonage. Watch your step, and Ophélie’s. And find a place to hide with the child, in case he shows up. Neither of you must be seen. We will be receiving more orphans next week. He cannot know, or the whole plan will backfire. You must help me, Gabby.” Fatigue showed on his face.

“I’ve said I will help. But you’re worried about something else, David. What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Everything, Gabby. Everything and nothing. ‘The world is too much with us; late and soon.’”

Gabriella smiled. “Does quoting Wordsworth help you relax?”

“Perhaps,” he answered absently. “Perhaps it’s like reading the Scriptures for you.” He brushed a wisp of hair away from his eyes. “Will you come with me for a drink? Just here in town.”

“Of course.” She beamed up at him.

Dear Gabby
, he thought as they left the room.
What shall I tell you?

They trotted through the town to the old café-bar. Several older men were seated at the tables, enjoying a late-morning apéritif.

“Excuse the ambience,” David whispered. He led Gabriella to the same table where they had sat after the phone call to Jean-Claude in early December. The music was louder, the laughter more raucous, and a chilly gust of wind swept through the room each time the door was opened. Gabriella huddled over the table.