‘Be careful, he might bite,’ Steven said. ‘I’ll get Amoud to help you while I check the house.’
Amoud picked up one of the bowls and filled it with water. He scooped some in his hand, then showed Nicolette how to drip it onto the dog’s mouth. The dog, which had been without water for some time, licked the drops with a swollen tongue. With the animal thus occupied, Amoud worked the buckle of the collar. The dog whined and snapped at Amoud’s hands, then looked at Nicolette and whined again, as if to apologise. Still Nicolette dripped water onto its mouth, all the while holding its head down on the ground with her other hand. Amoud worked at the buckle until he managed to undo it, and the dog yelped at the pain of release, but the collar was off. He disentangled the chain and the dog dragged itself away towards a shed, still whimpering, as Steven came back outside.
‘Someone got here before us. They’re all dead.’
Nicolette picked up the camera and bag she’d dropped by the dog and went into the house.
They had been killed during a meal. A middle-aged man was sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of stew and potato congealed before him. His arms hung by his side and his head was thrown back. Around the bullet wound in the centre of his forehead, from the centre of his eyebrows spreading outwards like a fan, were orange-red lesions tattooed by gunpowder grains. There was surprisingly little blood.
At Nicolette’s feet lay a woman. She, apparently, hadn’t died as quickly as the man. She had obviously been standing by the stove, for an iron pot with more of the stew was spilt there. A trail of blood, faeces and stew lead from the stove to the woman now face down at Nicolette’s feet. There was a bullet wound in the middle of her back, another at the back of her head, with fragments of bone and tissue sprayed on the blood pooled beneath her.
Nicolette felt bile rise in her throat and turned towards the window for some air. She didn’t want to take photos of these people. Felt she was intruding on the most private moment of all. But another part of her argued that she must, that it was her job, her responsibility, her duty. Her duty? What would her photos achieve, in the end? She had told herself that she wanted to become the sort of photographer whose images help change peoples’ opinion of war, of violence, of man’s inhumanity to man, like the photos she’d seen of the My Lai massacre in Vietnam, but was this the real reason? Or did she really just like the idea of being such a photographer? Would taking photos of these poor people here in this room really change anything?
‘Got all you want?’
Nicolette jumped – she hadn’t heard Steven enter the room. She shook her head. ‘I feel a bit sick.’
‘Well, get your shots and get out of here. It stinks to high heaven in here.’
Nicolette raised the viewfinder to her eye. She was trembling. She took a deep breath to steady herself and held it as she focussed on the woman. Took another shot of the spilt pot, then changed to a wide-angle lens and took a couple of shots of the room, encompassing both victims. She considered a close-up of the man’s face, focusing on the bullet hole centred on his forehead, but couldn’t bring herself to take such a shot. She put her camera back in her bag.
‘We have to call the police,’ she said.
‘I’ll do that. Go outside and get some air.’
She nodded and went back to the car. Amoud was behind the wheel.
‘I don’t suppose you’d have a cigarette?’
He smiled and reached into his pocket for a crumpled pack. Nicolette lit one and coughed. The tobacco was strong, rough, and the cigarette had no filter, but it stopped the nausea. Steven came out of the farmhouse.
‘Did you ring?’ she asked. ‘Are they coming?’
Steven shook his head. ‘The phone cord’s been cut. We’ll have to ring them from town.’
‘We can’t just leave.’
‘What do you want us to do? Wait here till someone drops by?’
‘Couldn’t we cover them up or something?’ What Steven said made sense, but it seemed wrong, somehow, to just leave them here.
‘I don’t think the police will be too happy if we start messing things around. We probably shouldn’t even have gone in. We’re supposed to be in Algiers, remember? Boumedienne? As it is, I’m going to have to do some discreet bribing if you want to be able to use those shots you just took. We’ll stop off in town, then we’re going back – no arguments.’
She could think of nothing to say; Constantine was quickly losing its attraction. She got in the car and opened the window wide as Amoud started the engine and turned the car around.
19
Louis listened to the radio and watched the city through his office window. So, it had finally happened – four days ago Nazi Germany had signed the unconditional surrender of its armed forces, and today, on the 8th of May 1945, the war in Europe was officially over. It had been obvious for some time that peace was coming, but now that it had, it was almost an anti-climax. Six years of misery and suffering across the world, and for what?
The voice over the radio described crowds that had been gathering since the night before under the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, where U.S., British, Russian, Chinese, and French flags were grouped. The whole of Europe was celebrating Victory in Europe Day. Louis wondered whether, in Vichy, they were celebrating or mourning – he guessed they had probably conveniently forgotten their collaboration with Nazi Germany. If it weren’t for the Resistance and the Free French army, the nation would be lowering its head in shame today.
He thought of the years since the Great War – his war. There had been so many changes, so many losses. First Theódore, Etienne and little Pierre during the first war. Then Gilbert, who had loved the land so, killed in ‘38 when a tractor overturned. Two years later, a package had arrived from Sablières. It had been from his brother Fernand, telling of Gustave’s death from pneumonia complications. Fernand had sent Louis all the postcards Gustave had collected over the years – it was all Gustave owned, and as most had been sent by Louis, Fernand thought it right that Louis should have them.
Then, in this war, Antoine. Of their seven children, only two, Francois and Odette, remained; that Francois was still alive seemed a miracle to Louis. He, unlike Gilbert, had not stayed long at Asif mellul. He had met Esther – a young Jewish girl – in Algiers, and married her a few months later. Always interested in politics, he’d foreseen this war back in ‘33 when he learned the then Chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler, had succeeded in bullying the Catholic Centre Party into passing the Enabling Act which, in effect, gave him total power. Francois had been considering a career in the Army for some time, so when Hitler instituted a boycott of all Jewish shops barely a month after the Enabling Act, he’d interpreted Hitler’s decree as a direct attack on Esther and enlisted that very week.
Once more Louis considered the ironies of fate. Francois, a soldier, had survived, whilst Antoine had been killed, not by a bullet or a grenade, but because he was a doctor. He’d been in a bombed building, amputating the leg of a trapped soldier, when the rest of the structure collapsed, killing both Antoine and the soldier. So now, at sixty-one years of age, Louis had more daughters-in-law than children, as well as a whole brood of grandchildren.
Louis sighed. He knew he wasn’t the only one who’d experienced losses these past years; who hadn’t, when the world was in such turmoil? Imez too had had his share, and had seen many changes. He too had lost two of his children to the flu epidemic, all those years ago. Then over time, one by one, his other children and their families had moved to the Berber quarter here in Constantine, and even Imez himself, so proud and independent, had finally admitted that the old ways were ending, so that he too moved to the city. Only Gwafa refused to leave his village on the edges of the desert, saying he was too old for change. Imez’s sons had fought with the Free French in this war, and the youngest, Amayyas, was still missing, believed a POW. Pray to God that he come back safely…
The voice on the radio described American and British soldiers and sailors dancing with civ
ilians in the streets of London and Paris. In Algiers, people were already celebrating.
The front door of his offices slammed and Yvette, the young woman he employed as his secretary, came bouncing in.
‘Now how did I know you’d be here?’ she said with a smile. ‘Surely you’re not going to work today, Monsieur de Dercou – you’d be the only one in all of Constantine.’
Louis smiled at her, happy to be distracted from his memories. ‘No, Yvette, not today. I just wanted to come in and sit for a while. But why are you here?’
‘I’d left some papers behind. But seeing you’re here – I’ve been meaning to ask you…’ She opened a drawer of her desk and took out a lipstick, which she handed to Louis. ‘Could you give this back to Odette, please. She lent it to me for when Henri was on leave.’
‘He’ll be coming home now, your Henri.’
‘I know, isn’t it wonderful? But I have to go…’ And with a wave, she ran out the door.
Louis looked at the lipstick. L’Oréal. He knew, from Odette’s complaints, that the brand had been unavailable, except on the black market, for most of the war years. He opened it and saw it was barely used. Obviously new. He wondered how many of his wines, or which piece of Therèse’s jewellery, his daughter had stolen this time, to barter with for this little stick of colour. Odette was fussy about which brand of makeup she used, war or no war. Not for the first time he regretted not having been stricter with her when she was younger. At twenty-eight she had already married and divorced twice, and was actively looking for husband number three. Definitely looking, he knew – she was living with him and Therèse between husbands, and he was not blind to her behaviour.
Outside in the streets, celebrations were beginning. He could hear music and laughter, and car horns honking. The radio announced they would air General De Gaulle’s speech after a news broadcast.
The tensions between Muslims and colons exploded a short while ago when, at around 9 a.m., a crowd chanting ‘Vive l’independence!’ marched into the centre of Sétif. Police had told the Friends of the Manifesto and Liberty, commonly known as the AML, they could march in the planned Sétif celebrations only if they did not display nationalist flags or placards. When Saal Bouzid, a young Algerian, unfurled the Algerian flag, French commander General Duval gave the order to fire on the largely unarmed crowd. A number of police and demonstrators were killed. Marchers rampaged, leading to the killing of many Europeans. Many arrests have been made.
Idiots, thought Louis, what have they done? Would it have been so bad to let them fly their flag, just for one day? Even after all these years he couldn’t understand the mentality of some of his countrymen. Thousands of Algerians had been fighting beside the Free French Forces against Nazi Germany, and even before that, in the Great War, thousands came when France had called. They had a right to their flag, today of all days – they’d been here long before the French.
At the same time, he could understand that a lot of colons viewed Algeria as their homeland. He certainly did, even though he’d come here as a boy. But many of these people, some of whom had never even set foot in France, considered themselves more French than the French, and thought Algeria to be simply another French Department. To them, the Muslims were nothing but an inferior race, and there were times when Louis felt both the French and Muslims were playing a dangerous game of tug-of-war for the very soul of Algeria. He tried to ring Sétif to get more details, but the lines were busy. On the radio, De Gaulle had started his speech:
… as rays of glory once again lend brilliance to our flags, the country turns its thoughts and affection first of all toward those who died for her and then toward those who in her service struggled and suffered so much. Not one single life—
Louis turned the radio off in disgust. He felt a sudden urge to be home with Therèse.
#
‘You heard?’ Therèse asked as soon as he walked through the door.
Louis nodded and pulled her to him, needing to hold her close, hold her safe. He had a feeling of foreboding that he couldn’t shake. ‘Where’s Father?’ he asked.
When they’d bought this apartment back in 1926, they’d also bought the other one on this floor for Marius. As he grew older, they’d joined the two apartments into one, so that Marius – now eighty-eight – had both the privacy of his own rooms and the convenience of Therèse’s care and attention.
‘He’s been in the kitchen all morning, listening to the radio. Come, I’ve made us some lunch.’
‘Odette?’
‘She’s here.’
They picked at their food. There were reports of more violence; many Europeans had been killed, as well as many Algerians. Groups of Algerians were rushing to the countryside to tell all that a general jihad had begun. Villagers were attacking colon settlements and government buildings, and French landowners were attacked by employees that had been with them all their lives. All afternoon Louis, Therèse and Marius stayed glued to the radio. Odette joined them for a while, complained these events were spoiling the celebrations she’d planned with her friends, and returned to her room. Occasionally Louis would try to ring Butterlin, the sub-prefect of Sétif, to get more authoritative information, but the phone lines remained jammed. People were advised to stay in their homes as news came of attacks at Chevreul, Guelma, Périgotville and Djidjelli. What had begun as a day of celebration turned into a day of terror.
#
One day of terror turned into five days of madness. Over a hundred Europeans were slaughtered, many more were wounded. There were reports of women being raped, amongst them an eighty-four-year-old grandmother. Mutilated bodies were found in the streets, in their own homes, women with their breasts cut off, men with their penis and scrotum stuffed in their mouths. No one dared go out, no one answered a knock on the door. Finally on the fifth day news came that the army, including the ferocious Senegalese units, were restoring order. The army and police were responding to the violence by conducting what they called a ratissage – literally a raking over – of all centres they suspected of harbouring insurgents. Military airplanes and ships attacked Muslim population centres. The Friends of the Manifesto and Liberty – that political movement founded barely a year ago to fight for equal rights for the Muslim population – was officially outlawed and thousands were being arrested. Many Muslims were executed on the spot. In one village alone, over two hundred were shot in less than an hour. By the end of it all, more than forty thousand Muslims had been killed.
When the phone rang in Louis’ apartment late on the afternoon of the sixth day, Therèse answered it.
‘It’s Bahac,’ she told Louis. ‘Imez went to Sétif early this morning. He was supposed to be back by noon. She’s worried something’s happened.’
Louis went to the phone. ‘I’m going to look for him,’ he said when he returned. ‘She’s right, he should be back by now.’
‘Be careful.’
‘I will be. Where’s Odette?’
‘She went out earlier. I tried to stop her, but…’
‘When she comes back, don’t let her go out again. Keep her here. Tell her I insist.’
#
It was night by the time Louis returned with Imez. He was barely through the door before Odette assailed him.
‘Maman says you’ve forbidden me to go out tonight. I’m a grown woman, Papa. Old enough to do as I want. I’ve arranged to meet friends.’
‘You will not go out tonight.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not safe. Haven’t you been listening to the news? Don’t you know what’s been happening?’
‘Of course I know. But the army’s in charge now. They’ll keep the rabble in line.’
The unexpectedness of Louis’ slap rendered Odette immobile – never before had her father raised a hand against her. She stood there, eyes wide, mouth open, while the imprint of his hand reddened on her cheek. Then, without a word, she turned and went back to her room.
‘She’s had that co
ming for a long time,’ Therèse said. ‘But Imez, I’m glad to see you’re all right. I was so worried.’
‘They’d arrested him,’ Louis explained as they went into the kitchen.
‘But why?’
‘No reason, other than his race. They’ve gone crazy. The jails of Sétif are already overflowing, but they’re still stopping anyone who even looks Algerian. Imez is lucky they didn’t shoot him. I had to use all my authority and contacts to get him out.’
‘I’d like to ring Bahac,’ Imez said. ‘Let her know I’m here. That I’ll be home soon.’
‘Of course,’ Therèse answered, ‘but I’m not sure it’s safe for you to go home tonight. They might stop you again.’
Louis put his arm around Therèse’s shoulder. ‘Let him ring, then we can sort out what to do. Where’s Father?’
‘He’s gone to bed.’
When Imez returned, he seemed less worried. ‘The children are with her. Everyone’s safe.’ He joined them at the kitchen table. ‘She was relieved to hear my voice.’
‘I can well imagine.’ Therèse handed him a cup of coffee. ‘Louis and I have been talking – we think you should stay here tonight. Then in the morning, Louis can accompany you.’
‘So this is what it’s come to, is it? Like a little child, I have to be escorted home?’
‘No, not at all! It’s only until things calm down. Please, Imez, think of Bahac.’
#
But things didn’t calm down. It was barely dawn the next morning when they were awakened by the sound of planes overhead. In the kitchen Louis turned on the radio while Therèse put coffee to percolate. The news was worse – as part of its pacifying operations, from the Gulf of Bougie, the cruiser Duguay-Trouin was bombarding the Kerrata area.
‘They’ve gone mad,’ Therèse said, unable to believe these extremes.
Imez joined them and poured himself a coffee ‘They mean to murder us all. But we’ve been such fools; we all hoped our participation in the liberation of France would result in some equality between the Algerian and the French. Or at least some amount of independence. But instead, we’re going to be more repressed than ever.’ From the radio came news that the Army was sending Douglass dive-bombers to obliterate less accessible Muslim villages. Imez quickly drained his cup. ‘My father,’ he said, giving Therèse the empty cup, ‘I must go to him.’
That Devil's Madness Page 19
