Two Testaments by Elizabeth Musser Page A

Moustafa promised to get me there soon. They believe I am a harki’s son. I have done nothing to lose their trust. You can find them. As soon as I am safely away to France, you can go and take care of them. It will be easy. And I will … will finish the work in France.”
    Ali rubbed his chin, then lit a cigarette and offered one to Hussein, who accepted, steadying his shaking hand while Ali bent close to him with the fire of the match. Ali took a long draw before speaking.
    “This is good, Hussein. Not as I planned, but good. Perhaps better.” He twirled around and slapped Hussein hard across the face, so that the cigarette flew out of his mouth, landing on the dirt floor. Ali crushed it with his foot.
    Hussein stared at the floor as blood oozed from his lip and dripped down. He moved his foot forward, so that the blood landed on his shoe. His whole body was trembling. He did not want to see the knife. Let it be over quickly, Allah. Quickly.
    “That is only to remind you who is in charge.” Ali laughed, and Hussein looked up in surprise and saw the mad gleam in his eyes. “You have done good work, boy. Tell me more.”
    Hussein spoke quickly. “Moustafa is trying to convince his mother and sisters to come with him to France, and this David is staying to help him. It was not planned at first. David came to bring Anne-Marie back, because she was so … so ill. But she met a woman at the port, an old neighbor, and they left together. They would have taken me, I tell you, but for the guard.
    “And now the two men wait and plan. They’re afraid, I can tell. And M. Cirou—that is where they stay, in his apartment. He works for the OAS. They plan to send me on the ferry first, because I am small and easy to conceal. Later they will come, with Moustafa’s family. You’ll have time to do whatever you want. I’m not sure when I will leave … it may still be a few weeks. I try not to be too eager. I listen and do what I am asked.”
    Ali nodded, and there was a cruel satisfaction in his eyes. “Stay with these men. Keep their confidence. And when you are getting ready to leave, come see me. I will finish the work here, as you say.” He dropped his cigarette on the ground, and as he crushed it, he pointed to Hussein’s shoe. “Be sure to wipe off the blood before you go back there.” He tossed him a dirty bandanna. “Take care of yourself, boy,” he said, slapping him hard on the back. “I’m a very busy man these days. Don’t bother me again until it is time.”
    Hussein stepped into the alleyway and fled down the street. Pray for me, Mama , he cried in his head. Pray for me.

    One small spot of blood remained on the floor, and Ali wiped it clean with a piece of tissue. The surprise of seeing Hussein with his interesting news brought another quick smile to his face. He ran his tongue over his teeth, crooked and stained from tobacco, and thought through the plan.
    On the warped wooden desk piled high with documents, he found a file labeled US Aid . From it he pulled out a list of material supplied by the United States to the FLN during the years of the war.
    It had not been free aid, humanitarian though it might have seemed. Oh no. The US wasn’t stupid. They were bargaining for oil when Algeria was finally independent. Oil! And he had instructions from the top of the FLN to continue clandestine negotiations. He laughed. It was perfect! Ironic and perfect. He read the names of the men he could call on in the States. Five names. He took a pencil and circled the third one. M. Roger Hoffmann, former ambassador to Algeria, residing now in Washington, DC.
    “Come for a visit, M. Roger Hoffmann. See what surprises await you. Then your son’s punishment will be complete. And after he has known, as I have, the agony of losing a father, I will be finished with him, too.”

    David grew more and more impatient. Didn’t Moustafa want to be out of here? The waits were growing longer by the day as more and more