Two Testaments by Elizabeth Musser

and teased with Ophélie, and the little girl relished their attention and chattered along with them.
    “May I see your room?” Anne-Marie asked Gabriella softly.
    “Why … yes,” Gabriella stammered, caught off guard. “Yes, of course.”
    Leaving the table, she led Anne-Marie down the hall into her bedroom.
    “Oh!” Anne-Marie exclaimed. “It’s perfect. Cozy, simple.” She leaned against the window. “You have a view of the town. And your very own olive tree to brush the window.”
    She sat on the bed lightly, bringing her feet under her so that she resembled a fine, shining black cat, regal and sure, yet unassuming.
    “And are you ever homesick, Gabriella?” she asked.
    Gabriella pulled herself onto the bed beside Anne-Marie, and somewhere a board creaked and groaned. The young women caught each other’s eyes and burst into laughter.
    “I hope it will hold us,” Gabriella said. “After all, we are both quite hefty women.”
    This sent them, for some reason, into hysterical laughter as they looked at their almost-emaciated shapes.
    Gabriella realized, to her astonishment, that this woman, who was the last person she had wanted to get to know, was somehow becoming her friend. It was as if, for that one brief interlude of laughter, the Lord had pulled back the curtain and revealed a future scene. Sisters. Soul sisters. Mother Griolet must have been praying very hard indeed from that hospital bed.

8
    The last two weeks had crawled by for Hussein. He was staying with Moustafa Dramchini and the tall man, the American called David. He was proud at how smoothly it had flowed, how easily they had believed his story and accepted him into the apartment in Bab el-Oued. The men had waited till dark to return to their home that first night after the ferry left. They were afraid of the FLN, Hussein thought with satisfaction.
    The men did not talk freely in front of him, but Hussein had eyes and a good brain. He noted every detail for Ali. After two weeks, he decided he had enough information to risk his life and climb back through the winding labyrinth of the Casbah. Still, his heart raced. What if Ali slit his throat before he had a chance to explain? The fear made him hesitate and turn instead toward his mother’s apartment. He walked into the kitchen where she worked and wished at once that he had not come.
    She turned and saw him, and her face went pale. For a few seconds she did not move. Then she engulfed him, moaning, “My son,” while he suffocated against her large bosom. She cried and rocked him, and he never said a word.
    When she finally let him speak, all he could say was, “Mama, I have been working. I must go again, and I don’t know when I will see you. Pray for me, Mama. Allah will protect me. He has, you see. Don’t worry. Only pray.”
    He left her standing with her back to the sink, wadding her apron between tightly clutched fists, tears running down her face like water from a spigot. Her cry of My son followed him out the door.
    It was almost time for curfew when Hussein, watching from his hiding place, saw Ali return to his apartment. His stride was quick and angry, and again Hussein hesitated. Finally he pulled his shoulders up, took a deep breath, and knocked on the half-open door.
    “Who is it?” Ali asked.
    “It is I,” Hussein replied, stepping into the dim light of the room.
    “Hussein!” His name was pronounced almost with warmth. Then Ali’s tone grew angry. “Why are you here? You are supposed to be in France!”
    “I am going ve-very soon,” the boy stuttered. He blinked hard, squared his shoulders, and looked Ali in the eye. “But I have been busy here. I have found out where Moustafa lives, with an American who has been helping him in France. M. Hoffmann. David Hoffmann. He is here too.”
    At the mention of the two names, Ali’s face broke into a smile.
    Hussein hurried on. “Anne-Marie Duchemin has escaped to France. The guard would not let me on the ferry. But