Two Crosses (46 page)

Mother Griolet nodded. “Yes, he calls himself Philippe. I’m afraid I may have been unwise. I didn’t know how to keep him away. Thank the Lord I received a note—from you, perhaps?—warning me of him.”

“Yes. You have done well. Gabriella told me about the incident. The man is determined, so I must become more visible—so he will chase me instead.” Now David regarded Mother Griolet, pleading with his eyes. “I need you to watch over my daughter … and Gabby. You’ll have to keep them hidden with the harki children until I know that it’s safe. Until I can convince Ali and his friends that they have no use for them.”

“You will sign your own death warrant then.”

“I hope not, dear Mother Griolet. I have made a mistake in letting the suspicion fall on innocent shoulders. I can’t let it continue. You will help?”

“Yes, I will help. But be careful, David. And God be with you.”

The afternoon sun was low in the sky, but Ali didn’t turn on the light as he entered his basement apartment. Yesterday’s paper still lay across the desk, with the date visible: Tuesday, February 13.

Ali smiled as he read of the eight victims who had been killed as anti-OAS demonstrators clashed with police in a metro station in Paris. Today hundreds of thousands of working-class Parisians had gone to mourn them, the largest turnout of the public since the Liberation. The French were killing the French. This was good.

But Ali was most pleased by the news his turbanned friend Mahmud had brought him earlier that day. Mme Jacqueline Bousquet was buried Thursday after her apartment burned to the ground. No other bodies were found.

“Fool woman!” Ali snarled. “You didn’t think you would join your grandchildren in France.” He spat on the floor, then glanced at the list of names on the wall. He drew an X through the name of M. et Mme Guy Bousquet. Then he scribbled beside their names:
grandchildren escaped to France
.

Ali had received no word from his young terrorist. He knew what that meant. Somewhere amid the boats in the port, a body sank down to touch the bottom of the sea. And somewhere in the south of France, five children were free. Their freedom angered him more than the news of the French slayings brought him pleasure.

He had heard from Jean-Claude, the bumbling idiot. He’d lost the child and the red-haired woman, and David Hoffmann as well. But it was only a matter of time.
Algérie indépendante! Death to pied-noirs, death to harkis, death to you, M. Hoffmann.
It was only a matter of time.

28

Gabriella stopped to admire a large chocolate heart in the window of the pâtisserie across the street from Mme Leclerc’s apartment. It sat, rich and inviting, on a bright-red doily that sparkled and shimmered as the afternoon sun caught its reflection in the window. February 14. The day for lovers. The holiday was unknown in Senegal, yet every year her parents had celebrated. Gabriella remembered helping her mother confect some elaborate chocolate heart to present to her father by the light of a candle after she and her sisters had been shooed out of the hut.

But there would be no valentine from the self-assured American teacher. He was off on another adventure, leaving her once again to straighten out the details of his life.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the window of the pâtisserie. She was pale and thin, tucked inside her peacoat. Her eyes stared back at her with an emptiness that angered her. Her eyes had always been her favorite feature. Not the unruly hair that everyone either hated or loved, but her eyes. She liked their bright-blue color. But today they looked dull.

For only a moment she imagined what it would be like to get a valentine from David. How many times had she reread the poem he had penned for her? How many times had she stared at the print of the poppies that hung on the wall of her room and wondered? And that last little phrase he had spoken to her, as he held her hand in the crowded little café.
Dear Gabby, don’t you know that I have already found the one I’m looking for?

What did it mean?
Please, please tell me, David.
She was afraid to guess. He loved her. Was that it?
He loves me. He can’t say the words, but he wants me to know.

And yet his silent response after that brief awakening brought waves of doubt to her mind. At first they lapped gently at her feet like the lazy tide of the Mediterranean. But gradually the doubts rose and swelled in magnitude, crashing into every part of her thoughts and destroying her concentration.

Exams were still two weeks away. Surely he would return for exams. Until then, she was left to play the childish game of “He loves me—he loves me not” as she silently picked off the petals of her memories of the past six months.

She turned away from the store and dragged her feet along the cobblestones, ignoring the barking of a small gray poodle that pulled furiously on its leash beside the heels of its owner. She didn’t want to reach the church too quickly. There was no bounce to her step as she descended the staircase into the basement and walked down the hall and out into the courtyard where the children ran and played.

Ophélie squealed with delight as she caught up with André, tagged him, and turned to flee in the other direction. “You’re it!” she called after him, laughing.

Waiting until the little girl had stopped running and stood watching the other children, Gabriella approached her. “Ophélie,” she said.

“Bribri!” exclaimed Ophélie. “I didn’t see you. Come play with us!”

Gabriella smiled. “Actually I was wondering if I might borrow you for a moment. Do you think the others can get along without you?”

Ophélie giggled. “Of course.” She grabbed her teacher’s hand, and together they entered the girls’ dormitory.

Gabriella sat down on Ophélie’s bed and motioned for the child to join her. Then, carefully, she opened the second drawer of Ophélie’s chest and removed a dark-blue pair of tights.

Ophélie watched Gabriella wide-eyed. She let out a small whimper of protest as Gabriella reached into the tights and pulled out a little blue velvet bag.

“How did you find it?” Ophélie whispered.

“Quite by accident,” Gabriella assured her with a hug. “You are very smart, Ophélie. It was a very clever hiding place. Sister Rosaline found it when she was preparing for the new orphans. It was Mother Griolet who read the letters and showed them to me.”

Ophélie stretched out on the bed, away from Gabriella, and buried her head in her arms.

Gabriella pretended not to notice. “I was so surprised to learn that M. Hoffmann is your father. I could hardly believe it! But you know who was even more surprised than I was?”

Ophélie shook her head but didn’t look around.

“M. Hoffmann! I … I told him a few days ago, and well, he was just speechless.” Gabriella stretched out on her stomach beside Ophélie. She laid her head on the bed and caught Ophélie’s eye. “He was overwhelmed. And very, very happy.”

A hint of a smile curled onto Ophélie’s lips. Then at once she frowned again. “Then why doesn’t he come to see me?”

“Oh, he will! It’s only that he has had to go away for a few days. But when he gets back, we’ll have a party. A celebration.”

The child rolled over onto her back, letting her long brown hair trail over the side of the bed. Gabriella imitated the child’s move, sweeping her curly mane behind her. She met Ophélie’s eyes, and they giggled.

“Bribri, why did my father not know about me? Why was Mama afraid to tell him that he was my papa?”

Gabriella grimaced, searching for the right words. “That’s a good question. I can’t say for sure. But your mama was very young when you were born. And your papa was living far away in America. He was going to school. I think she didn’t want to make him come back to Algeria. She knew he would want to see you, but somehow she thought that it wouldn’t be fair.”

Ophélie furrowed her brow. “But wouldn’t he want to be with my mama and me? Why did he leave her in the first place?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Someday your mama will tell you. All I know is that both your mama and your papa love you very much. And your papa does want to see you now.”

“He saved me once, you know, Bribri. He told me to tell no one about it, but since you know he’s my father, and since he likes you so much, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” She was staring at the wooden slats on the top bunk. “It was when we lived in another city. Paris. And I went with Malika to march for freedom. That’s what she told me. Only it wasn’t like that at all. The police shot people, and everyone was running and screaming. And Malika fell, and then something hurt my leg. I was so scared.

“And then this nice man picked me up and took me to his room and helped me get better.” Ophélie’s words were tumbling out faster than she could talk. “I begged him not to take me to the police because they were killing people. And I couldn’t go to see M. Gady anymore because … because he was … dead.” She scrunched up her nose and looked at Gabriella with sorrowful eyes.

“So M. Hoffmann, I mean, my papa, brought me on a train and left me, and another man came and got me. You know, the fat man with the red eyes who comes to St. Joseph. And then … and then I met Mother Griolet, and then you had the same cross.”

Gabriella placed her arm around Ophélie and squeezed her tight. “That’s a very remarkable story. Your papa saved you, and he didn’t even know that you were his daughter.”

“And now he must love me even more, right?”

“You’re right. Yes, you’re right.”

Ophélie said nothing for a moment. Then she asked, “What will happen to me, Bribri, if my father marries you?”

Gabriella laughed. “M. Hoffmann is not going to marry me, Ophélie.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “But he likes you.”

“Yes, but we are only friends.”

“Then will he marry my mama? Will she come back, and will he marry her?”

Gabriella’s voice caught. “Would you like for that to happen, Ophélie?”

“Oh yes! Then I’d have a mama and a papa together. I’d like that very much!”

“Yes, that would be very good for you, Ophélie.”

Gabriella turned onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. The Huguenot cross slipped out from her blouse and dangled in the air from her neck.

“It’s such a beautiful cross, Bribri,” said Ophélie, pulling her own cross out and holding it in her small hand. “Mama was right. She said that I would be safe if I wore this cross. Soon everything is going to be just right.”

She leaned over and kissed Gabriella on the cheek. Gabriella brushed Ophélie’s hair with her fingers and smiled through the mist in her eyes.

“You’re a wonderful little girl, Ophélie. A very brave, wonderful little girl.” She replaced the velvet bag and the tights in the drawer.

Hands intertwined, the two walked back out into the sunshine together.

The slums of Marseille sat, squalid and run-down, in the heart of the city by the Vieux Port. Cement apartment buildings rose into the sky. The view of the Mediterranean was no compensation for the stench in the corridors, David reflected, as he climbed to the fourth floor of a dingy gray building. He sat down on the steps of the top floor and waited.

Doors slammed, dogs barked, babies screamed. Occasionally he could make out the sounds of a fight in the street below. The repugnant smells of urine and trash mingled and clashed. David rubbed his eyes, which were red from lack of sleep. Two days of waiting, and Jean-Claude had still not shown up at his apartment.