Tomorrow They Won't Dare to Murder Us

by Joseph Andras

  Tomorrow They

  Won’t Dare to

  Murder Us

  by

  Joseph Andras

  Translated

  by Simon Leser

  This English-language edition first published by Verso 2021

  First published as De nos frères blessés

  © Actes Sud 2016

  Translation © Simon Leser 2021

  All rights reserved

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Verso

  UK: 6 Meard Street, London W1F 0EG

  US: 20 Jay Street, Suite 1010, Brooklyn, NY 11201

  versobooks.com

  Verso is the imprint of New Left Books

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-871-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-872-9 (US EBK)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78873-873-6 (UK EBK)

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Andras, Joseph, 1984– author. | Leser, Simon, translator.

  Title: Tomorrow they won’t dare to murder us / by Joseph Andras; translated by Simon Leser.

  Other titles: De nos frères blessés. English | Tomorrow they will not dare to murder us

  Description: First edition paperback. | London; New York: Verso, 2021. | First published as De nos frères blessés by Actes Sud, 2016. | Translated into English from French. | Summary: “Winner of the Prix Goncourt pour premier roman, this is the real-life story of Fernand Iveton, the only “European” executed by France during the Algerian War” – Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020041736 (print) | LCCN 2020041737 (ebook) | ISBN 9781788738712 (paperback) | ISBN 9781788738729 (US ebk) | ISBN 9781788738736 (UK ebk)

    Subjects: LCSH: Iveton, Fernand, 1926–1957 – Fiction. | Algeria – Fiction. | GSAFD: Biographical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PQ2701.N368 D413 2016 (print) | LCC PQ2701.N368 (ebook) | DDC 843/.92 – dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020041736

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020041737

  Typeset in Electra by Biblichor Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  Contents

  Tomorrow They Won’t Dare to Murder Us

  Tomorrow They

  Won’t Dare to

  Murder Us

  A NOVEL

  Joseph Andras

  Not a proud and forthright rain, no. A stingy rain. Mean. Playing dirty. Fernand waits two or three meters from the paved road, under the shelter of a cedar tree. They said half past one in the afternoon. Four minutes to go. That’s right, one thirty. It’s unbearable, this sly rain, no guts for real drops: just a petty drip, barely enough to wet the back of your neck and get away with it. Three minutes. Fernand’s eyes are focused on his watch. A car passes. Is that the one? The vehicle does not stop. Four minutes late. Nothing serious, let’s hope. Another car in the distance. A blue Panhard, registered in Oran. It pulls up on the shoulder—ramshackle grille, an old model. Jacqueline has come alone. She looks around as she gets out: left, then right, then left again. Here are the papers, the information’s all there, Taleb’s thought of everything, don’t worry. Two papers, one per bomb, with precise instructions. Between 19:25 and 19:30. Timer, 5 minutes … Between 19:23 and 19:30. Timer, 7 minutes … He isn’t worried: here she is in front of him, nothing else matters. Fernand slips the papers into the right-hand pocket of his work overalls. The first time he saw her, at a comrade’s, amid hushed conversations and soft lighting, of course he took her for an Arab, this Jacqueline. Her hair is certainly dark, very dark, she has a long arched nose and full lips, certainly, but still she’s not Arab, no. Rounded lids over large, dark—if hearty in laughter—eyes, black fruits now ringed by fatigue. A beautiful woman, no question. She takes two shoeboxes out of the trunk, sizes 42 and 44, it says on the side. Two? Impossible. I only brought this bag, look, it’s too small to carry more than one bomb. The foreman’s been watching me, he’ll notice if I return with a second bag. Yes, he really will, believe me. Fernand holds one of the boxes to his ear: makes a hell of a racket, this thing, tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock, are you sure it won’t … ? It’s the best Taleb could do, but everything will be fine, don’t worry, Jacqueline answers. I understand. Get in, I’ll drop you a little further down. Funny name, this place, don’t you think? We’ve gotta talk about something, Fernand tells himself, thinking that any topic will do so long as they haven’t yet … The Ravine of the Wild Woman, do you know the legend? she asks. Not really, I forget. It’s about a woman, last century—really puts the years on us, doesn’t it—a woman who lost her two children in the forest up there. It was after a meal, a picnic, little blanket on the grass, springtime … I’m not going to paint you a picture. The poor little mites disappeared in the ravine, they were never found and the woman lost her mind, she spent her whole life looking for them, so people called her feral, wild, and she refused to speak, only uttered little cries like a wounded animal, until one day they found her body somewhere, over there, maybe, on the very spot where you were waiting for me, who knows? Fernand smiles. Strange story, for sure.

  She pulls up. Get out here, this car shouldn’t be seen near the factory. Good luck. He gets out of the car and waves. Jacqueline waves back and steps on the gas. Fernand adjusts his sports bag on his shoulder. Pale green, the strap lighter in color next to the drawstring opening, borrowed from a friend who uses it when he plays basketball on Sundays. Look as natural as possible. Like nothing’s going on, nothing at all. For the past few days he’s been taking it to work, to get the security guards used to it. Think about something else. The wild woman from the ravine, strange story that. Mo is here, ponderous nose overhanging his mustache. Everything alright? Yeah, sure, went out a bit to stretch my legs. Work wiped me out this morning. Nah, a little rain doesn’t bother me, Mo, it’s nothing, just a little drizzle, gonna pass any minute now, I’m telling you … Mo pats him on the shoulder: nothin’, nothin’, is this really Frenchie talkin’? Fernand is thinking about the bomb at the bottom of the bag, the bomb and its tick-tock tick-tock. It’s two o’clock, the time has come to return to the machines. I’m coming, just putting my bag down, be right there, Mo, yes, see you in a sec.

  Fernand glances around the yard, keeping his head still as he does so. As natural as possible. No sudden movements. He walks slowly toward the abandoned shed he scoped out three weeks ago. The factory’s gas holder was inaccessible: you’d need to get past barbed wire and security guards, posted at three different points along the way. Worse than a city-center bank or a presidential palace (not to mention that you have to strip off all, or almost all, your clothes before they let you through). Impossible, in short. And dangerous, much too dangerous, he had said to comrade Hachelaf. No deaths, that was the main thing: no deaths. Better that little storeroom where nobody ever goes. The old worker, Matahar, his mustard-colored head the texture of crumpled paper, gave him the key without the slightest suspicion—just need to take a nap, Matahar, I’ll give it back to you tomorrow, don’t tell the others, promise? The old man was as good as his word, , I’ll never say anything to anyone, Fernand, you can sleep tight. He takes the key out of his pocket, turns it in the lock, glances behind him, no one, he enters, opens the cupboard, puts the sports bag on the middle shelf, closes the door and turns the key again. Then goes around to the factory’s main entrance, greets the security guard as usual, and approaches his machine tool. It’s stopped raining, did you see, Mo? He di
d indeed, awful weather, this, been gray and doing whatever all November.

  Fernand sits at his station and puts on his gloves, worn out at the seams. A contact, whose first and last names he does not know, will be waiting for him when the factory closes at seven, that is, just before the bomb goes off. That person will take him to a hideout in the Casbah somewhere, he doesn’t know where exactly, and from there he will hook up with the guerrillas … The next day, maybe, or in a few days—not his decision. He has to wait patiently for his turn to leave, every day, at the same time as everyone else, put down his worn-out green gloves, every day, joke a little with his friends and see you tomorrow, that’s right, g’night guys, say hello to the family for me. Don’t raise any suspicions: that’s what Hachelaf kept telling him. Much as he tries not to, he keeps thinking about Hélène. He’s not doing anything else, in fact—his brain, that three-pound brat, has a taste for melodrama. How will she react when she finds out that her husband has left Algiers and gone underground? Does she suspect? Was it such a good idea to keep this a secret? His comrades certainly thought so. The struggle forces love to keep a low profile, ideals require sacrifices, no room for soft hearts in this fight … Yes, it was for the best, for the smooth running of the operation.

  It is almost four o’clock when someone calls him from behind. Fernand turns around in response to the question mark punctuating his name. Cops. Damn.

  Before he can even think of running they seize and immobilize him. There are four of them, maybe five—the idea of counting does not cross his mind. Oriol, the foreman, stands further back. He pretends not to notice, but still, the bastard’s mouth is trying not to smile, not to reveal anything, you never know, they say communists are past masters at reprisal. Three soldiers appear, airmen first class. Called to the rescue, no doubt. The factory is sealed off, we’ve looked everywhere and only found one bomb so far, in a green bag inside a closet, says one of them. Beardless. A kid. An infant. Asshole under a round helmet. All three have machine guns hanging from their shoulders. Fernand says nothing. What’s the point? His failure is complete and his tongue, at least, has the modesty to recognize it. One of the officers goes through his pockets and finds Taleb’s papers. So there’s another bomb. All hands on deck inside their military heads. Where is it? they ask Fernand. There’s only one, it’s a mistake, you already have it. The leader gives an order, take him to the Algiers central station right away. Oriol has not moved, would be a shame to miss the show. Fernand, now handcuffed, eyes him scornfully as he passes: he was hoping for a smirk at least, a mark of avowal, but there is nothing, not even an involuntary pucker. The foreman is impassive, outwardly collected, ramrod in the boots he lets the soldiers wear on his behalf. Did he rat him out? Did he see him enter the storeroom and leave without his bag? Or is it Matahar? No, the old man wouldn’t. Not just for a nap, at any rate.

  The van makes its way through the city. The sky is like a wet dog, puffy with clouds. Metallic winter. We know who you are, Iveton, we’ve got files on you, you communist fuck, you won’t be so high and mighty anymore with your little kisser, Iveton, your little Arab mustache, you’ll see, we’re going to make you talk at the station, you better believe it, we’re talented, we are, we always get our way, and believe me we’re going to do whatever the fuck we want with your piece of shit communist mouth, we could force a mute to belt out an opera. Fernand doesn’t respond. His hands are cuffed behind his back. He stares at the floor; a stained, worn-out gray. Look at us when we’re talking to you, Iveton, you’re a big boy you know, you’re going to have to take responsibility for your little hobbies, you hear, Iveton? One of the officers smacks the top of his head (not the kind of violent smack that makes a cracking sound, no, a light smack, meant to humiliate rather than to hurt). Boulevard Baudin. Its archways. They take him to the station, second floor. A square room, twelve by twelve, no windows.

  The shoebox is on the kitchen table. No, it’s much too dangerous, don’t touch it, says Jacqueline. The timer is relentless, liable to drive a person crazy in the most literal way, tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. Are you sure? asks Djilali (known to the state as Abdelkader, whereas certain militants—it can get confusing—call him Lucien). Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. Quite sure, actually. Jacqueline opens one of three cabinets and takes out a metallic sugar canister. Empties it and tries to fit the bomb inside. Too small—Djilali could tell just by looking.

  Where’s the bomb, you son of a bitch? Fernand is blindfolded with a thick piece of torn cloth. His shirt lies on the floor, shorn of most of its buttons. One of his nostrils is bleeding. A cop punches him as hard as he can; his jaw makes a faint cracking sound. Where’s the bomb?

  Jacqueline has wrapped the explosive device in white paper. She peels the label off the sugar canister and sticks it delicately onto the package. This should fool them if we get checked. Djilali clenches his teeth. Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. She buries the package in a big shopping bag, along with a few chocolate bars and some cheap soap.

  Fernand is curled up on the linoleum, the back of his head cradled in his hands. A shoe kicks his right ear. Strip him naked if he doesn’t want to talk. Two officers hold him up by the arms, a third undoes his belt before pulling down his pants and navy-blue briefs. Lay him on the bench there. His hands and feet are bound. I have to hold on, he tells himself, I have to hold firm. For Hélène, for Henri, for my country, for my comrades. Fernand shivers. He is ashamed of how little control he has over his body. His own body, which could betray, abandon, sell him to the enemy. It’s going to blow in two hours, that’s what it says on those papers you had: so, where did you stash the bomb?

  Someone knocks on the door. Pounds, even. Police! Open up! Hélène instantly guesses they’ve come for Fernand. If they’re here, though, they probably don’t have him. Has he fled? What did he do? She rushes into the bedroom, grabs the dozen sheets of paper hidden in the nightstand and tears them into little pieces. Police! Open up! Sounds like drumming now. Fernand was clear: if anything ever happens to me, get rid of all of this immediately, you understand? She runs to the toilet, throws them in and flushes. A few pieces float to the surface. She flushes again.

  The bomb, motherfucker, talk! Electrodes were placed on his neck, near the sternocleidomastoid muscles. Fernand shrieks out. He does not recognize his own cries. Talk! The electric current is in his flesh, burning its way down to the dermis. We’ll stop when you tell us.

  Djilali and Jacqueline reach the square. A group of nuns are walking past an old bearded man in a turban who is now crossing the street, slowly, trembling with all his years down to his wooden cane while a younger Arab, wearing a soot-brown suit, helps him along. A cacophony of cars and trolleybuses; a driver swears and strikes his door with the flat of his hand; kids are playing ball under a palm tree; a woman in a haik is carrying a small child, buried in her arms. Djilali and Jacqueline may not mention it, but they take note: the streets are crawling with CRS security vehicles. The first attacks claimed by the National Liberation Front have put the city on edge recently, to say the least. People don’t yet call it by its name, but it is well and truly here, the war, the one concealed from the public under the dull word events. Late September, there were explosions at the Milk Bar and La Cafétéria on rue Michelet. And then again, two days ago, at the Hussein Dey station, the Monoprix supermarket at Maison-Carrée, on a bus, on a train on the Oujda–Oran line, and at two cafés in Mascara and Bougie … Jean lives on rue Burdeau. Djilali whispers in Jacqueline’s ear that it would be better if she went in first, alone, so he can keep a lookout behind them. She pushes the door open with her grocery bag. He looks around, nothing
suspicious, no police.

  Open up! Hélène musses her hair and unmakes the bed. She opens the bedroom window and, pretending to yawn, apologizes to the officers down on the street, she was sleeping, she only just heard them, I’m sorry. Three Traction Avant police cars are parked in front of their house. Disdain in shining metal. There are a dozen men. What do you want? she asks. Can’t you see? We have orders to search the premises, open up immediately! I’m all alone here, I don’t have to open anything, I don’t know you, besides, how do I know you’re the police? Hélène reckons that if something’s happened to Fernand she’s better off playing for time, to keep them here as long as possible. One of the officers, clearly irritated, raises his voice and orders her to open the door, otherwise they’ll smash it in. What do you want? My husband? He’s at the factory, go look for him there. Hélène does not budge from the window. We’ll smash the door down!

  Why are you covering for the fellaghas, what are they to you? Cut that shit, Iveton, come on! The electrodes are now on his testicles. A police officer, sitting on a stool, activates the generator. Fernand, still blindfolded, screams again. I have to hold, hold on. Not say anything, not let go. At least give the comrades time to hide when they realize what’s happened, if they don’t already know, but how could they (and what time is it anyway?), if they don’t already know I’ve been arrested. Yes, what time could it possibly be? Why did you betray your people, Iveton?

  Jean bends over the bomb. The room is dark, the lighting inadequate. Jacqueline sits on the room’s only chair while Djilali returns from the kitchen with two glasses of water. Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock. You know how to disarm it? Jean indicates his hesitation with a grimace. He’s done it before, yes, but on a different model. This time he’s not sure he knows the mechanism. He assesses the wires which connect the device to the timer, a Jaz brand alarm clock. Jacqueline’s name is on the bomb, written in white: Taleb’s homage to a militant, a sister in battle, who’s been risking her life for Algeria despite being neither Muslim nor Arab—Jacqueline is Jewish. If you’re not sure, don’t touch anything, we don’t want it to blow up in our faces. Jean offers to get rid of it far away, outside the city, somewhere deserted where it won’t hurt anyone. Why not the Terrin Coalworks? suggests Djilali. Yes, that could work, it’s safe over there.