Chapter 1
March, 1962
Marseilles, France
David Hoffmann stood at the Bassin de Joliette in Marseilles where the ferries were coming in from Algeria. Somewhere amidst the huge ferries, the paquebots, and the steamships, he spied a comparatively small black and white sailboat called the Capitaine. It was empty now of the children, and a grisly old Frenchman named Jacques waited for what he doubtlessly hoped would be one of his last trips back to Algeria.
David watched, in a daze, as families debarked from the boats with their trunks and suitcases. The faces of adults and children alike looked confused, sad, hopeless. David shook his head. One little orphanage in the south of France that sheltered pied-noir and harki children was a drop in the bucket. These people were French citizens, but where would they go? Did France want them? David knew it did not.
He slipped onto the boat, greeting Jacques with a handshake.
"Bonjour," the rough sailor replied solemnly. "You sure you want to go back there now? Mighty bad situation. Mighty bad. Won't get any better either. Gonna get worse. Lots worse." He stared at David as one who had already seen the atrocities of war.
"Yes, I'm sure I must go."
Jacques looked at the ground, shuffling his feet. "I can't go back no more, Mr. Hoffmann. Too dangerous. Punaise! There's nowhere for me to dock my boat. The ferries taking up all the room. Thousands of them pieds-noirs are running away faster than the Mistral gusts down the Rhone Valley. I'm sorry for you. But if you're so sure you gotta go back, well, I advise you to take one of them ferries. I guarantee you there's nobody goin' on 'em to Algeria. The boats'll be completely empty. Take one of them back, if you want. It'll be safer than with me, Mr. Hoffmann. A lot safer."
David frowned, contemplating the sailor's words. Then he shrugged. "I understand, Jacques. Thanks for all your help. There are a lot of kids in Castelnau who are grateful to you." The two men shook hands. "
Bonne chance, Mr. Hoffmann. You be careful now. Raving crazy, that country is now. Raving crazy."
David stood on the deck of a huge empty ferry, his tall frame silhouetted against the night sky. Jacques had been right. No one was going to Algeria now. The wind whipped across the sea. His hair blew back, his eyes squinted against the wind and his jacket billowed and filled with air. David gripped the railing with his good hand, his other shoulder and arm bandaged and tucked inside his leather jacket.
The white caps of the waves rose up to touch the sky and a thousand stars blinked back, as if flirting with the water. The sea air smelled fresh and strong. He wished briefly that Gabriella were snuggled beside him, but then pushed the thought away.
He had twenty-four hours alone before he would step into a world of chaos. He wanted to spend this one night well. The scene before him reminded him of the night one month ago on the beach. The night of his surrender, he called it in his mind. His surrender to the God of Gabriella.
There was no doubt that something inside of him had changed. He had lived a strong, emotional moment. He had actually felt forgiven, and there had been too many coincidences lately even to deny intellectually that God seemed to be up to something in his life. The power. Gabriella talked about the power, God's power in the life of a man. He was twenty-five years old and yet he was somehow new. A new man. A new conscience. A presence that was with him. For the first time in his life, David was not alone. And he had a suspicious feeling that he would never be able to get rid of this God now, even if he wanted to.
From the back of his mind came the words of the psalmist. He closed his eyes and saw his mother kneeling beside him, holding his small hand, his sister Greta cuddled close. Mama was reciting a psalm, whispering it in the frosty night as David and Greta watched her with fear in their eyes.
The moans of others crammed around them in the dank, putrid dormitories in that death camp were momentarily forgotten as Mama whispered, "Whither shall I go from Thy spirit or whither shall I flee from Thy presence? ... If I say, 'Surely darkness shall cover me'; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from Thee, but the night shineth as the day. The darkness and the light are both alike to Thee..."
David was silently mouthing the words as he watched the sea water lap onto the sides of the ferry. He remembered suddenly the warmth he had felt next to his mother and sister. It was a hazy picture in his mind. His mother had bent over and kissed him on the forehead and he had fallen asleep. It was the last time she ever kissed him, for the next morning dawned to her death. But looking out at the sea, David did not relive the shooting. He held onto the kiss and the promise of the psalm.
"And so after all, You never have left me, have You?" He spoke out loud and was immediately silenced by the thought of the absolute omniscience of God. A God who knows the individual. Who cares. Who seeks him out wherever he goes.
"You are even bigger than I bargained for. I'm glad. I am glad that I cannot understand You. But I will try and I will fight against what does not make sense. It is in my nature. I cannot do otherwise. Sometimes, God, I will wish I could get away from You and do things my way. I will try that too. I figure I might as well be honest with You from the start, if this relationship is going to last for eternity. I've been on my own for so long now."
He paused, watching the endless sky. "But tonight I am asking You to please help me. I hate to admit it, but I'm afraid. Help me to know how to hear You. I've only been listening to me for such a long time now. Amen."
The wind blew through his hair and the salt air stung his face. He tasted it. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to open another corner of his memory. A young family was laughing. A toddler looked up from her plate, with cake smeared over her face. A towering, strong father kissed his beaming wife and laughed heartily. Then he patted his young son on his back and said, "You've got quite a little sister, there, Son." The father's eyes narrowed and he spoke only to the boy. "I'm going to have to leave for a few days. But I'm not worried. You're a big boy now. You take care of your mother and sister for me, okay?" The child nodded and the scene blurred before his eyes.
In that brief memory, David had read trust and love in the eyes of his father. It had been there at one time. At one time before his father had abandoned them and placed a man's role on David's small shoulders. That burden had been too heavy to bear.
A rush of wind burst against the boat and at the same moment, David felt a power course through him. He could not explain it. He stood for a long time staring out into blackness. "Even darkness is not dark to Thee," he whispered and turned to walk to his cabin.
A ricochet of bullets sounded in the street below as Anne-Marie Duchemin watched Moustafa Dramchini from the window. He hurried a young man into the apartment building. Anne-Marie felt a quickening in her heart. She stood quickly and limped to the mirror that hung on the flaking wall. She felt a pang of despair as her reflection stared back at her. Her black hair hung limp without sheen. Her eyes were deep-set in the hollows of their sockets and her cheekbones protruded much too sharply. Her skin was pale and almost yellowish. There was nothing attractive about herself, and she turned away quickly.
A thick gray sweater from Marcus Cirou hung impossibly over her thin frame, but she felt completely naked. David Hoffmann was about to walk back into her life, and she was not ready. She was not sure what she wanted to be ready for. Her heart belonged to Moustafa. With him, she was not afraid to be sick and disheveled. With him, she read devotion in his eyes. But David! Her lover when they were but adolescents. She had not seen him in so very long.
She felt suddenly afraid. He was risking his life and wasting his time to help her. Why? Would he be angry to see what she had become? A pitiful, withered flower.
The door swung open and David Hoffmann filled it completely. Anne-Marie swallowed hard and met his eyes. His six-foot-one inch frame had filled out so that he looked every bit the twenty-five-year-old man he was. His black eyes were softer than she remembered, and the tenderness she saw in them scared her even more. His coarse black hair was swept back away from his face in a sophisticated style, but one wisp hung forward tickling his forehead. A black leather jacket was swung over his shoulders. He leaned down and set a suitcase on the floor. She saw then that the other arm was bandaged. He straightened up, not moving forward, as if waiting for her invitation. His mouth whispered "Anne-Marie," without a sound.
My God, you are a beautiful man, she thought, fighting to stand her ground, willing herself against running into his arms, forcing herself to forget that last embrace seven years ago when he had kissed her good-bye even as the tiny seed of Ophélie was forming in her womb.
David cleared his throat and interrupted her thoughts. "Anne-Marie." He said it almost reverently and then he moved toward her, slowly, with his long strides. He reached out to her and touched her frail hand. She could not look at him. His hand brushed her face. "My dear Anne-Marie," and she detected the sorrow, the groan of pain in his voice, the hurt for her suffering.
She bit her lip and closed her eyes, but she could not keep the tears from flowing. She rested her head against his chest and let his strong arm enclose her. And she sobbed. It was a hysterical cry, like that of a terrified child who has been rescued at last and now falls in the arms of her father.
Somewhere inside Anne-Marie she watched the years of horror and death, killing and running for life, the years that had followed her happiest moments with David. If only...if only... The questions of a lifetime swam before her in liquid reality until they ran down her cheeks. Her feeble energy was spent. And though she had not uttered a word, she had the feeling that David Hoffmann understood everything she felt perfectly well.
David Hoffmann was not used to dealing with the emotions that surfaced in him as he held Anne-Marie in his arms. It was as if he had been playing happily in his little university world while this young woman lived in true hell. He had not really known. He had cared, and yet... Even the operation in France, with all its dangers, could not be compared with what he saw in Anne-Marie: true human suffering. The weight of guilt pulled on his shoulders and bound him more tightly than the sling in which his arm rested. There was a sick, painful anger welling in his soul as he held this woman who was no more than a dried twig, fallen from a branch.
God, forgive me, he prayed as she sobbed into his shirt. God, forgive me. I had no idea. She looked more like an aging grandmother than a twenty-four-year-old woman. An aging grandmother or a malnourished child. She did not want pity, David was sure. But pity overwhelmed him. A fleeting thought crossed his mind. If only... If only you had left with me for America. Ophélie would have been born. We would have made it, somehow. If only...
And then the angry why? Why? Why did life twist and turn and torture?
He stepped back from Anne-Marie and let his good arm fall to his side. A searing pain shot through his shoulder. He grimaced.
"You are hurt?" Anne-Marie whispered and touched his bandaged arm.
"It is nothing," he replied awkwardly.
Silence engulfed them.
Anne-Marie wiped her eyes with the sleeve of the sweater. She sniffled. "I'm sorry." She ran her hand through her hair. She looked exhausted.
"Perhaps we could sit down for a minute?" David asked.
"Yes, of course," Anne-Marie shot him a weak smile. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I, I... I'm so glad to see you, David. Thank you. Thank you for coming. It is the worst time." She sighed again heavily and looked as if she might collapse right in front of him.
David grasped her arm and led her out of the room. "Moustafa is waiting for us in the kitchen, I believe."
"Oh, yes. Moustafa." Anne-Marie blushed. "Yes, you must be so tired after your trip. Let me fix you some mint tea. You remember the mint tea, don't you?" As she looked at him, he saw she was reminiscing. Algeria seven years ago. Algeria a lifetime back.
The small kitchen was dark as they entered. Moustafa stood with his back toward them, already preparing the tea. He turned and greeted them with sullen eyes. David helped Anne-Marie to her seat as Moustafa set a tray with a pot of steaming tea on the table. He rested his hand on Anne-Marie's back and eyed David suspiciously.
"When do you plan to leave?"
"It's your call, Moustafa. As soon as you can arrange it."
Anne-Marie looked up suddenly. "Ophélie? Tell me of Ophélie. How is she?"
David relaxed and smiled. "She is fine. She is a beautiful, happy child who misses her mother very much." He reached into his pocket. "She sent this for you." He held out the drawing of the rainbow with the words "I love you, Mama." written in the cursive of a six-year-old. Anne-Marie's eyes filled with tears. She ran her fingers lovingly over the picture and then pressed it to her breast. She closed her eyes and tears trickled down her cheeks. "Ophélie."
The men watched her in silence. Finally Anne-Marie spoke, her voice catching. "I have clung to the hope for these months. I have forced myself to believe, to be strong. But to know, for sure, she is safe. To dream of holding her in my arms again soon. Now I can cry. Now I can cry, and I don't know if it is joy or fear or sorrow. Now I can believe that we are going to be okay."
David put his hand inside his leather coat and felt for a gold chain. Finding it, he handed it to Anne-Marie. "Ophélie sent this with me. She wanted me to have it, as you gave it to her. To keep me safe. Take it. She said it has kept her safe and now it will bring you back to her, safe aussi."
Anne-Marie held the chain with the small Huguenot cross on it as if it were a priceless jewel. "I'd forgotten how beautiful it was. My father's cross. Thank you." She traced its outline with her finger and then slipped it around her neck. "Ophélie never realized the real significance of it?"
David smiled, "I don't know if I would say that. She has learned an awful lot about the cross and what it stands for in the time she has been at the orphanage." He narrowed his eyes, "But she never understood why it was so important for us." He closed his eyes, picturing his daughter. "She is a secretive child. Do you know she kept your letter hidden and learned to read so she could know what you were telling her?"
Anne-Marie smiled briefly, "And how did you find it?"
"It wasn't me at all. It was Mother Griolet, the head nun at the orphanage. I had no idea. Ophélie suddenly appeared in my life and I never once thought she was someone of utmost importance to me."
Slowly he began to explain how he had found her, terrified and wounded in Paris, of his discovery of Mr. Gady and of his decision to bring Ophélie to the orphanage.
"I had no idea what to do with a small child. But I knew Gabby would."
"Gabby?" Anne-Marie questioned.
David's face reddened against his will. "Gabriella Madison. She is a young woman on the exchange program who helps out with the orphanage."
"The woman with the red hair," Moustafa volunteered.
"Precisely," David answered. He did not want to talk about Gabriella now. There would be time to tell Anne-Marie and time to understand what he was reading in the angry eyes of Moustafa. But the time had not yet come.
Darkness blanketed the streets of Algiers as Moustafa slipped out the kitchen door of Marcus Cirou's apartment. "I will be back shortly," he mumbled and his soft brown eyes met David's, filled with distrust.
"Good," David nodded. "Then we will discuss the plans for leaving."
"Yes, then."
David watched him go into the street and shuddered unconsciously. He was eager to get Anne-Marie to the port and out of the war-ridden city. They would cross the Mediterranean and then life would resume. Anne-Marie would be with Ophélie. Her health would improve. And he would be back with Gabriella...
The sound of a chair being dragged across the floor startled David. He turned from the window. Anne-Marie stood by the kitchen table, a thick robe now pulled around her thin frame.
"I didn't mean to surprise you. Would you like some more tea?" she offered.
He pulled out a chair and they both sat down. "No, I'm fine." The silence was heavy. He studied her carefully. A hundred questions raced through his mind. He did not know where to begin.
Anne-Marie played with the ties on her robe, twisting them and twirling them around her hands. He watched her carefully, dazed by her movement. Her head was bent, and for a brief moment, he remembered her as the radiant, rebellious adolescent. His heart ached.
"Are you feeling strong enough to leave on the boat soon?" he asked, breaking the quiet of the evening.
She did not look up, still twisting the ties between her fingers. "I'm sorry I never answered your letters," she began. "How could I answer? How could I write you back and keep silent about what was happening to me?"
David reached over and took her hand. "What did your parents say when they found out you were pregnant?" He spoke softly, hesitantly.
Anne-Marie looked up for the first time. "They did all the right things. They got mad. Daddy ranted for a while. Then they apologized. They listened. We talked. We cried a lot. They asked me to let you know. But I couldn't. I couldn't put that on you." She frowned and her eyes wore the saddest of expressions. "I knew you would come back. You would come back just to hurt your father. I was afraid you would come back for all the wrong reasons."
David stiffened and set his jaw. She was right. Perhaps. Perhaps he would have come back to Algeria out of rebellion and not love. Intellectually he had loved her. Physically he had loved her. But emotionally? He could not say.
"I cared deeply about you, Anne-Marie."
"I know."
Sweat was beading on his forehead. A stabbing guilt made him wince involuntarily.
"They helped me with the baby. With Ophélie. Mother was a saint about it. You know, I broke their hearts and they forgave me." She laughed. "I thought they were weak. It angered me that they kept going. But somewhere inside, I admired them.
"And oh, how they loved Ophélie. Captain Duchemin, the staunch, strong military man! I wish you could have seen him cooing at his granddaughter." She smiled at the memory. "He rocked her to bed every night that he was home, and sang her the most beautiful songs. We were a happy, odd family for awhile. Until Ali Boudani ripped everything apart." She slapped the table and stared at him. Her facial expression shifted, hard and determined. "You know the rest."
"Perhaps not everything," he whispered. "Tell me about Moustafa."
Anne-Marie looked angry, then she smiled. "Yes, Moustafa. Dear Moustafa. My childhood friend, the one who helped me escape to France. The one who betrayed me." Her voice was barely audible. "The one who loves me."
"And do you love him?"
She closed her eyes and withdrew her hand from his. He was sorry that he had asked her so quickly. Softly she answered, "I love him, David. I love him and yet every time he leaves this filthy apartment, I am terrified I will lose him. I am so afraid that he will be found in some back alley with his throat slit. Like the other harkis. Like his dad. These Arabs have remained loyal to France, fought alongside the French soldiers. But they are not French--and," she said it sadly. "They are seen as traitors by their own people. What hope is there for the harki families?"
She stood up and held onto the back of the chair. "I love him and I wish I didn't. What is there for us? What future? An ostracized Arab and a pied-noir. And he will stay. He will stay for his people. He won't come to France. I know it. I am so afraid that in a few days he will walk out of my life forever. And it hurts so much. It hurts like...it hurts like when..."
She let the phrase dangle, but David knew the next words. It hurts like... when you walked out of my life seven years ago.
