Two Crosses (57 page)

Mother Griolet was talking softly. “You see, Gabriella, when David sent in his references and wanted this job immediately, well, I was delighted. I needed a teacher, and it was obvious he was brilliant, even though he had just finished college and had never taught before. I never connected him with the child who had come to St. Joseph until recently.” She winked. “Perhaps if I had, I wouldn’t have disliked him so much.”

“It was better for a while that you disliked me. That you didn’t suspect a thing. So you see, Gabby, I came here almost two years ago. I had done my homework, and I knew there were those in the region who had been involved in the Resistance during World War II. It didn’t take me long to make the right connections.”

Gabriella smiled. “M. Vidal, right?”

David nodded. “Yes. He helped me set up this little project with Mother Griolet and several boulangers in the region. We called it Operation Hugo—short for Huguenot. I had often seen Anne-Marie’s cross. It was my idea to have the cross be the symbol of the operation. Those escaping had the paper with the cross and the date and time of departure only. Moustafa sent other information to different boulangers in France—never the same one twice in a row—in case there was ever a leak. It was like in the Resistance,
n’est-ce pas
, Mother Griolet?”

The old nun frowned. “Ah yes. Confusing everyone—keeping everyone guessing. Never knowing who was good and who was bad.”

“Anyway,” David continued, “the boulangers received messages including not only the cross and the date and time but also how many children were coming. Then they baked these messages into the bread, and at certain times I was to pick them up.

“Which is where you fit in, my dear.” He squeezed her hand. “You kept me quite protected from Jean-Claude for a while. The first child who was to come over from Algeria in September never showed up. Something happened to him. I knew then that someone was onto the operation. So when I met you, I felt you could help me keep my cover without having to be in on the whole thing.” He sighed. “It was foolish of me. I’m sorry, Gabby. I don’t think I ever asked you to forgive me.”

Gabriella kissed him tenderly on the forehead. “I can’t complain. It has worked out so differently … but I can’t complain. And yes, I forgive you.” She paused, then continued, “But what was Anne-Marie doing? And how did she and Ophélie get to Paris? Weren’t they in Algeria?”

“I didn’t know until Ophélie told me this morning. Anne-Marie and Moustafa and Ophélie fled Algeria—from the ‘bad men,’ as Ophélie puts it. They were in Paris for eight months. Then Ophélie escaped out the window of her apartment and went to live with M. Gady, an old shopkeeper whom I later found dead the night of the riot in Paris. Apparently he was a friend of Anne-Marie’s who had promised to care for Ophélie should there be trouble.” David paused for a breath.

“It’s all quite confusing,” said Mother Griolet. “I’m glad I didn’t know any of this. It would have been too overwhelming.”

“You’re right, it’s complicated,” David agreed. “Ophélie said she was supposed to give M. Gady her little blue bag, but she was too afraid. So that’s when all communication with us broke down. And Anne-Marie and Moustafa ended up back in Algeria. I doubt they went back of their own free will.

“In mid-October I received word that something was happening in Paris. When I went up there to find out, of course I had no idea I would return with Ophélie. Or how she fit into the puzzle. It appears that the man I was supposed to meet there was a double spy. Perhaps he was going to use Ophélie as bait, to trap me. But the whole plan fell apart when the riot broke out. And, miraculously, I ended up with Ophélie. The informant ended up in the obituaries, although I doubt very much he’s dead. Spies have interesting ways of ‘disappearing.’”

Gabriella interrupted him. “And when I got the wrong bread in Aix, were orphans supposed to be coming? I’ve been worrying about that.”

“No. I checked with the boulangeries fairly often if I had not received any news. That time there would have been no message in the bread even if you had gotten the pain de seigle. But I didn’t know it at the time. That’s why I was so angry. I treated you badly, Gabby. I’m so sorry.” David squeezed her hand.

“You were pretty awful several times. But I just knew there was something in you worth exploring.” Gabriella smiled. “It was a selfless act, a huge sacrifice of your time—not to mention the danger—for you to set up this operation.”

David reddened. “I suppose there were some decent intentions mixed in with the bad. But don’t flatter me, Gabby. I have much to learn about selflessness.” He turned to gaze out the window and spoke with a catch in his voice. “There was something appealing, satisfying about saving innocent children who were being targeted for no crime of their own—they just happened to be the wrong race.” His eyes were misty as he turned to face the women. “I could understand their suffering. I had to help.

“But I’ve strayed from the story,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “For the longest time I had no word from Moustafa, after Hakim came—he was the one you brought news of in Aigues-Mortes.”

“And Aigues-Mortes is where Jean-Claude first saw me and made the connection,” Gabriella interjected. “Did he follow me to the bread store?”

“I don’t think so. I think it was just your cross. He somehow knew of the symbol of our operation, and he saw your cross.”

Gabriella held the cross gently in her hand. “Mother could never have imagined how much trouble this cross would get me into.” She gave Mother Griolet a smile. “I suppose it all goes back to you. You bought the cross. You gave it to Mother. You were even the reason David came back to St. Joseph.”

The nun raised her eyebrows. “I’m quite sure it does not all come back to me, but to God. He is the Master Weaver. He saw it all before. The cross draws us to Him first, and then it draws us together.”

David met Gabriella’s eyes and touched her cheek with his hand.

“And if I hadn’t worn the Huguenot cross, who knows if Ophélie would have opened up to me?” Gabriella said, wonder in her voice. “And now what, David?”

He had wanted to tell her alone, to break the news gently and kiss away the worry lines that he knew would appear on her forehead. But he had no choice. Now was the moment to say it.

With difficulty he straightened up in the bed. “There is Anne-Marie. I’ve received word about her from this man, Moustafa. She’s very ill, and he fears she will die.” He cleared his throat. “She can’t travel alone. Moustafa has to stay in Algeria to help other families escape. Not just those threatened by Ali, but other harki families. He’s asked me to return to Algiers to bring Anne-Marie back.”

At once Gabriella pulled her hand away from his and gave a soft whimper.

David fought to remain calm. He wanted to say the right words. “Gabby, my dear. I have to go. For Ophélie. If I can bring her mother back to her, surely this is right.”

Gabriella was twisting her hands together, staring at the floor.

Mother Griolet stood and looked at David. “I’ll leave you now. God be with you, David.” She paused for a moment, resting her hand on the bent head of Gabriella. “And with you, my child.” She left the room.

David motioned for Gabriella to come closer. Carefully she sat down on the edge of the bed as he put his good arm around her. He kissed her tenderly as she cried.

“Please, Gabby … please try to understand.”

She laid her head on his chest. “I’m trying, David, but I can’t understand why you must leave now, when things are … are so good. We’re safe, we’re together. Ophélie is here.” Her blue eyes were shining with tears as she looked up at him. “Don’t leave me now.”

He breathed out slowly. “I have to go. But don’t be afraid, Gabby. Don’t be afraid of her. That was so long ago, and you are now. And you know for sure that I love you.”

She didn’t answer.

David grappled for something to say. “What was it you told me, Gabby? Something your mother said. Our God does not make mistakes.”

34

The news of the cease-fire agreements coming from Évian spread quickly across the city of Algiers on the morning of March 19. Effective at noon. The gray skies echoed the mood that many felt: the cease-fire was necessary, but there was no victory. A war that started with a handful of extremists on All Saints’ Day in 1954 had cost the French and Algerians hundreds of thousands of lives over the past seven years. In three months the Algerians would hold a referendum to vote for independence. The agreement written up between the FLN and de Gaulle’s men specified plenty of precautions for the pied-noirs, but Anne-Marie knew what would happen. The pied-noirs would leave—leave their homes, their land, their cities to go to an unfamiliar and perhaps even hostile country where legally they were citizens.

It would not be easy. But she didn’t care. Nothing could be worse than the nightmare she had lived through over the past two years. And she would be with Ophélie. Tomorrow, perhaps, David Hoffmann would walk back into her life and carry her to France. She forced herself to stand and limped across the room. At least she was walking. The bandages that had surrounded her legs for six weeks were finally off.

Moustafa came into the room and fell onto the bed with a sigh. He shook his curly hair, eyes solemn. “Cease-fire, Anne-Marie. Thank God the last children are gone. Because now is when the trouble really begins.”

“Don’t say it, Moustafa. Please. Surely now there will be peace!”

“And you think those French terrorists in the OAS will sit placidly by and not lift a finger? Fireworks are coming. Plenty of them. And not in celebration.…” He stood up and grabbed Anne-Marie’s hands. “But you will be gone from this mess, my
habibti
. You and Ophélie will be safe.”

Anne-Marie frowned. “Tell me when you will come to France, so I can hope. I can’t leave without knowing.”

His eyes looked dull, the chocolate brown without sheen. He kissed her tenderly, and Anne-Marie closed her eyes. The kiss gave her strength. She felt a flash of passion, but suddenly Moustafa was holding her away.

“We have known all along it was impossible. For these months I have had you, and knowing that, I have hoped. But, Anne-Marie, I can’t tell you when or if I’ll come back to France. I know things.… And I am needed.”

He pulled her close to him, and Anne-Marie could feel his heart beating.

“We have made it this far,” he said. “We’ve shared a love I only hoped for months ago. Surely, somehow, it will carry us through. But I won’t ask you to wait for me. I only ask that you call out to the heavens and pray that the harkis be spared further loss.”

“Kiss me again, Moustafa,” she whispered. “As if for the last time, something I can remember and hold on to.” When he released her, she touched her lips as if to seal in the wonder—wonder that a war and another man she had once loved wouldn’t erase.

“Ophélie,” she said out loud. “Wait only a little longer. Mama is coming home.”

Papa was leaving tomorrow to get Mama in Algeria. Ophélie could not decipher her feelings. Fear, excitement, love, anger. They were all colliding in her mind. She opened her chest of drawers and took out the blue bag. She cradled it in her hands, then carefully pulled apart the strings. Her small hand reached inside, as it had done so many times before, and pulled out the contents. Everything was there. She picked up Mama’s letter and read it again.
I never wanted for us to be apart. But for now, my love, it’s necessary.

Mama had said it, and now Papa was saying it too. Just for a while. Then Papa would bring her back and they would be a family, like other families. Papa, Mama, Gabriella, and her.

Ophélie frowned. No, somehow that would never work. She sighed as she stared at the tiny photo of her with her mother. Why couldn’t Papa love Mama
and
Gabriella? Why did he have to choose?

She kissed her mother’s picture and whispered, “Mama, I can read and write, and I have found Papa. Everything is almost perfect. When you get back, then it will be like a fairy tale and we will live happily ever after.”

She pulled out the top drawer, where she had stored a few blank sheets of paper and colored pencils. Mama needed to know she was waiting for her. Leaning on the top of the chest of drawers, she wrote slowly in her best cursive.
Je t’eme, Mama. Vien me voir vite. Je t’attend. Ophélie.