That Devil's Madness

by Dominique Wilson

  There’s no shame in having old shoes, he often said to her, but there is shame in having shoes that never see polish.

  ‘Well?’ Louis asked again. ‘Are they polished?’

  Nicolette shook her head, ashamed.

  ‘Well, I guess you’ll have to walk by yourself then. I certainly don’t want to be seen with a girl whose boots look like that.’ He took a step backward. Nicolette’s face was red with shame and embarrassment. She walked on ahead, head bent, unaware of the smile that played on Louis’ lips. They turned a corner and painted on a high wall Louis notice some new graffiti, painted in blood red paint: The screams of the tortured have become the anthem of Algeria.

  He called to Nicolette.

  ‘I’ll walk with you,’ he said ‘if you promise to shine them well tonight.’ Nicolette nodded. Regaining her grandfather’s approval was more important to her than her dislike for polishing shoes. ‘All right then, let’s go find Imez.’

  #

  Imez was sitting on a park bench. Beside him Jamilah was feeding bread to the pigeons. Nearby Rafiq was skipping stones across a lake. When Louis and Nicolette came into view, Jamilah ran to Nicolette, and together they joined Rafiq by the lake.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Louis asked as he sat beside Imez.

  ‘It gets worse every day. Since Yacef’s girls set off those bombs in Algiers last September, your General Massu’s been having a field day.’

  ‘Those bombs killed innocent people. Most of those in the Cafétéria were teenagers – kids listening to the jukebox. And at the Milk Bar, mothers and children stopped there on the way home from the beach. No matter how hard I try, I can’t condone the reasons for those bombs.’

  ‘And the children in my village? In all the other villages that were bombed? Are still being bombed? You were there. You saw. Can you condone those?’

  Louis shook his head. Who knew who was right or wrong anymore? Since All Saint’s Day that November 1st three years ago, when the Front de Liberation National – or the FLN, as they were more commonly known – declared war on the French through simultaneous attacks on buildings, police stations and even communication facilities, the whole country had disintegrated into an arena of atrocities and counter-atrocities, where both the French and the Algerians sacrificed their youths and their hopes. The next year, near Phillipeville, the FLN massacred one hundred-and-twenty-three men, women and children in one day. In an orgy of bloodletting, the French army, police and civilian gangs retaliated by slaughtering more than ten times that many Muslims.

  Since then, the killing had continued. The FLN used the hit-and-run tactics of guerrilla warfare, as well as kidnapping and ritual mutilation to terrorise the French. The French responded by applying the principles of collective responsibility – whole villages were bombed, large segments of the Muslim population were kept in camps where, under the supervision of the military, torture was an everyday occurrence. Then, on the 30th of September 1956, just four months ago, three women of the FLN placed bombs in the downtown Air France office, the Milk Bar and the Cafétéria, starting the Battle of Algiers. By the end of the year, violence reached an unprecedented climax. When a bomb exploded at Mayor Froger’s funeral, any Muslim seen on the street was set upon by thugs, dragged out of their cars and lynched, and veiled women had their heads bashed in with iron bars. And so the carnage continued.

  ‘You know,’ Louis said at last, ‘there are times when I could easily hate every Muslim – even you…’

  Imez nodded. He too had experienced these conflicting feelings – there were times when he questioned whether his friendship with Louis was a form of betrayal to his own people. But on the other hand, denying the close bond they both shared would also be a betrayal, not only to Louis, but also to himself, to everything he believed in. He had tried, but in the end he’d known he had to follow what he believed in.

  The two men sat together, each lost in thought.

  Anyone passing the two old gentlemen sitting on the park bench would have assumed they were just two friends resting while their grandchildren played. But there was an undercurrent of tension surrounding them – both knew they were taking a tremendous risk meeting like this, even though Imez and his grandchildren were wearing Western clothes. But a lifetime of friendship could not be easily forsaken.

  ‘I came to warn you,’ Imez finally said. ‘There’s going to be a general strike. In Algiers. Next week, on the twenty-eighth, the day of the opening of the United Nation session in New York. We have to make our struggle known – show them that the whole Algerian population supports the FLN. So for eight days, every Algerian worker will strike. Essential services will not be able to continue. Shops will be closed. Algerian children will be kept from school. For eight days, Algeria will be at a standstill.’

  ‘Here? In Constantine?’

  Imez shrugged. ‘You’d better be prepared…’

  Louis nodded. ‘Have you thought of the repercussions?’

  ‘If the United Nations hears us, we’ll have succeeded.’

  The two men looked at the children feeding the ducks with the bread that had been intended for the pigeons.

  ‘She doesn’t take after her mother,’ Imez noted, indicating Nicolette.

  ‘No. I’ve got that to be grateful for. I love her dearly, but I’m strict with her. I call her my little shadow – since Therèse died, she hasn’t left my side.’

  ‘And her mother?’

  ‘Odette’s found work – personal assistant to the director of a multi-national company here in Constantine. When she came back from Algiers, I bought her an apartment in the next street; she’s out of my hair, but close enough that I can look after Nicolette when needed. She’s happy.’

  ‘The father?’

  Louis shook his head. ‘She’s never named him. I’ve heard rumours, but… We don’t mention it anymore.’

  Imez nodded – some things were better left alone. Rafiq came back to his grandfather and stood beside him, frowning at Louis. Louis smiled at him.

  ‘You shouldn’t let Nicolette play with Jamilah anymore,’ Rafiq said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s not safe for her. She’s not one of us. Something could happen.’

  ‘But you’re here. I trust you to look after her.’

  Rafiq looked at Louis for a long moment, then nodded seriously.

  ‘Okay, I’ll look after her,’ he said, then returned to where the girls were playing.

  ‘He’s just a boy,’ Louis said, ‘but there’s something very old about him.’

  ‘He’s no longer a boy; he’s nearly twelve, and he’s seen too much already. Every day he begs to accompany his father.’

  ‘Surely he refuses?’ Louis knew Rafiq’s father was active in the rebellion.

  ‘Amayyas loves his son. He wants him safe for as long as possible, so he tells him he must go to school. But I don’t think Rafiq will obey him for much longer.’

  ‘In war, there are no children, really. People talk of the resiliency of the young, but I worry about what we’re doing to them. What sort of adults will they become?’

  ‘You still refuse to leave Algeria?’

  Louis nodded. ‘I love this country. I still hope for peace.’

  ‘You’re an old fool, my friend. I urge you to leave. Soon, there’ll be nothing left here. For you, or for me. But I must go; we’ve been here too long already.’

  #

  The general strike did not achieve what it set out to do. On the morning of the twenty-eighth the city of Algiers was like a ghost town. But General Massu had his orders – break the strike at all costs. Soon army jeeps with loudspeakers roamed the streets, urging Algerians to go back to work. When these were ignored, Massu sent his paratroopers out in armoured cars equipped with hawsers to rip the grills and steel shutters off shopfronts. Starving urchins and opportunistic paratroopers helped themselves to the exposed goods, so that the owners had no choice but to come and protect their shops. Fleets of trucks then colle
cted the strikers and arrested them. The next day, the same sweep collected Muslim children not attending school. Throughout the country, similar events were taking place. In Mitidja, a tank shell was fired at point-blank range into a shop to intimidate the strikers. Forty-eight hours after its onset, the strike was broken.

  In New York, the United Nations took little notice.

  And so the killing and torture continued.

  #

  It was in the middle of a hot night in May 1958 when Louis was awakened by a knock on the door of his apartment. He turned on the bedside lamp, put on his dressing gown and slipped the pistol his son Francois had given him for protection into the dressing gown pocket. The knocking became more urgent.

  As he crossed the lounge room, the door to Odette’s bedroom opened. She and Nicolette had moved back with him recently – they thought it safer.

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ Odette whispered.

  ‘Go back to bed. Shut your door and keep quiet. Don’t wake Nicolette.’

  Keeping on the safety chains he opened the door a crack. A man stood there, looking anxiously behind him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me. Amayyas. Let me in.’

  ‘Amayyas? What is it? What’s happened?’ Louis unlatched the door and Amayyas hurried in. ‘You took a risk – the curfew… They don’t arrest anymore; they just shoot.’

  ‘I promised my father.’

  ‘Imez? What—’

  ‘My father is dead. He was shot a short while ago. Before he died, he made me promise to come and warn you. He said to tell you the time has come to get out of Algeria.’

  ‘But what happened?’

  ‘They raided a house. One of many. He and three others were meeting there. They’re all dead.’

  ‘And Bahac?’

  ‘My mother wasn’t with him tonight.’

  ‘Amayyas, I’m so sorry. Imez was—’

  ‘I must go. I’ve done what I promised. But there’s one thing you must know. The promise my father made to you the day your fathers died together no longer stands. To me, you and yours are just like every other French – my sworn enemies.’ He opened the door and melted into the night.

  #

  As soon as the curfew lifted next morning Francois, Esther and their boys arrived. The mood was sombre. The children were given a block of chocolate to share amongst themselves, and told to go play on the balcony and not bother the adults. Louis moved from room to room in a daze of pain, his skin grey, his eyes frequently moist. Odette and Francois bustled about – there were plans to be made.

  On the balcony that led off the dining room, Nicolette and her cousins, David and Samuel, looked into the street below. The day was already hot, the air heavy with the smell of flowers. Pierre – their elder brother – leaned against the wall, angry. At fourteen he believed he should be with the adults, not out here with his cousin and brothers.

  Parked directly under their balcony were two army jeeps. David broke off a piece of chocolate from the block and looked at his twin, who smiled and nodded.

  ‘Nicolette, look,’ and he carefully dropped the square of chocolate over the balcony. Nicolette stretched over the balustrade.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘There, look. On the back seat.’

  Nicolette smiled. It was something they’d done before – a square of chocolate dropped on a hot dark seat, an unsuspecting backside …

  ‘Maybe it’ll be a Sergeant this time.’

  ‘Or a General.’

  Occasionally a car driving past would sound its horn in the now familiar report: Al-gé-rie Fran-ςaise, and other cars would respond: Al-gé-rie Fran-ςaise, Al-gé-rie Fran-ςaise. Raised voices came from the kitchen. Pierre sneaked back inside and stood by the half open door, eavesdropping. Nicolette joined him.

  ‘Go back on the balcony.’ Nicolette shook her head and stayed behind the door. ‘Don’t make a noise then.’

  Around the kitchen table the conversation was impassioned. Francois kept insisting Louis and Odette should go to France, as he was planning. Odette insisted she wanted to go to Australia. Her boss was being transferred there and had promised her the same position if she followed. Louis insisted Nicolette would need him more than ever in a strange country – he would follow Odette, wherever she went. There was talk of dirty Arabs and slaughtering people in their beds and Louis raised his voice but the others seemed not to hear him.

  Jamilah’s not dirty, Nicolette thought, and she wanted to go into the kitchen to tell them so, but Pierre held her back.

  ‘If they see you, they’ll remember we’re supposed to be in school,’ he whispered. He took her back to the balcony. The day dragged on. When it became too hot outside the children moved into the dining room, and Nicolette amused herself by drawing on the underside of the big dining table with a piece of chalk until she became bored. She went to her room and came back with a shoe box filled with old postcards her grandfather had given her, and spent some time putting them into two piles – those that were a photograph, and those that were drawn. Then she put the drawn ones back in the box and picked up the ones made from photographs – those were the ones that interested her the most. Pierre went to the kitchen and came back with bread and jam for them all. They ate, then spread themselves on the carpet and dozed. In the kitchen, discussions continued.

  That night the children were put to bed on mattresses in the dining room. They were awakened in the night by firecracker-like noises, and through the parted curtains they watched, for hours on end, the flashes of gunfire in the hills nearby.

  The next day they were woken early and told they were to go to school.

  ‘Your uncle’s going to take you,’ Odette told Nicolette. ‘He’ll pick you up after school as well, so wait for him. You’re not to leave the school unless you’re with him, understand? Not under any circumstances.’ She handed Nicolette a paper bag. ‘Your lunch,’ she said, ‘you’re to have it at school today.’

  Nicolette was surprised, she never had lunch at school. ‘But why? What’s going on?’ But her mother had already left the room.

  Outside the streets were more crowded with military vehicles than usual. Overhead a helicopter circled.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked her uncle who, unlike her mother, never avoided her questions.

  ‘Lagaillarde – the leader of the Students’ Association and his mob – they stormed the Government buildings in Algiers yesterday. They think wrecking the place will convince the parliament of the will of the pieds noirs to keep Algeria French. Instead, I think there’s going to be more trouble than ever. It’s already started.’

  When Nicolette reached school the courtyard where children normally played, in the shadow of the high brick walls topped with rolls of barbed wire, was empty. She climbed the steps into the building. In all classrooms the children were already seated.

  In her class half the seats were empty. And where before French and Muslim children had sat together, now they were divided at opposite ends of the room. Nicolette assumed the teacher had divided them, and she looked across to Jamilah, but Jamilah was whispering to the girl next to her, and didn’t look her way.

  When recess finally came Nicolette sought out Jamilah, eager for the normality of their friendship. Jamilah glanced at Nicolette, then, without a word, turned her back to her, and with an arm around a Muslim girl’s shoulder, walked off. Nicolette was shattered. Jamilah was her best friend – what could she have done to deserve this treatment? As she watched her friend walk away, she decided she’d disobey her mother; when school finished, she’d go to the Berber quarter and confront Jamilah. Find out why her friend refused to talk to her. The bell signalled the end of recess.

  #

  Nicolette knew she was in trouble. That her uncle was probably looking for her and would be furious when he finally found her. But she had to do this. She had to find Jamilah.

  She crossed the Avenue d’Angleterre, dodging cars and scooters and buses, and entered the Berber
quarter, its whitewashed houses blushing in the late afternoon sun. Across narrow cobbled streets where men in flowy white burnouses or indigo robes conducted their business over tiny cups of strong black coffee. One called to her but she ran on. Into the Street of Camels, oblivious to her surroundings.

  ‘Nicolette. Nicolette, wait!’ She ignored the call. ‘Nicolette! In the name of Allah, stop.’

  Sighing, she turned. Hassan the Silversmith greeted her.

  ‘As-salâmu calaykum, Nicolette. Hello, peace upon you.’

  Nicolette was annoyed at the interruption, but she knew the importance of manners and tradition. ‘cAlaykumu s-salâm. Peace upon you too,’ she answered.

  ‘You must go home, little one. The soldiers are here.’

  Nicolette shrugged. Her uncle was a soldier, they didn’t frighten her.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. It’s not—’

  A scream reverberated through the narrow laneways and hung in the air awaiting the next. A skinny dog cowered to her, tail tucked tight between its legs.

  ‘Come, come quickly.’ Hassan signalled to her to follow him.

  Nicolette shook her head and ran. Another scream. In an instant the street emptied. She heard footsteps pounding. A shutter slammed shut. She turned, afraid. Between two houses the sun glowed red and all she could see was a silhouette running towards her.

  ‘Rafiq, I was—’ But Rafiq grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards large baskets filled with fruit, in the deep shadows outside a shop. He squatted behind one and pulled her down beside him. ‘What—’

  ‘Be quiet.’ He sounded angry, and this frightened her more than the screams or the deserted street. She crouched behind the baskets, the clean fresh tang of lemons contrasting with the prevailing stench of fear. She heard heavy boots on cobblestones and peered into the street.

  Two French soldiers were pulling a young Berber woman between them. She was naked and her body glowed pink against the olive of the soldiers’ uniforms, her long black hair and the dark areolas of her breasts a sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. Her hands were tied behind her back, and she tucked her head into her shoulder, her eyes scrunched tight in an attempt to hide her shame. The soldiers laughed and joked amongst themselves, confident in their supremacy.