The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  ‘What have they done to you, son?’ His father traced his figure with his eyes. It was clear that he would willingly switch positions. His pride and joy was in danger and he would do anything to save him. That he was powerless to do so was evident in every line on his face.

  ‘Three weeks,’ answered the Caid.

  In only three weeks his father had been reduced to this? Kaci reached out to touch his father and the guard growled.

  ‘We only have brief moments, Mohand, so you must listen and answer my question,’ said the Caid. ‘Your father has gone to great lengths to arrange this meeting. He has sold nearly everything he owns to give you a chance at freedom, young man, and I suggest you grasp it with both hands.’ As he spoke, Hadj Yahia simply nodded his agreement, his eyes fixed on his son’s face. Imploring him.

  Kaci couldn’t stand the pain in them and turned away to look at the other man.

  ‘What is your… what do you want from me?’

  ‘The authorities arrested Ali weeks ago. And knowing how close the two brothers are, they are waiting for an excuse to arrest Arab. They are certain one of them murdered the Frenchman, but they can’t prove who it was.’

  As Kaci listened, he understood with clarity beyond his years what was being asked of him. While the words filled his ears, his mind traced the actions of the last few months, his friendship with Samson and the behaviour of his cousin.

  ‘We need you to tell us who fired the weapon.’

  ‘Kaci, you must tell us. They say they will let you go free.’ His father shuffled closer to him. ‘They will let you go free. You can come home to your wife and your family.’ Hope that this might happen seemed to add strength to his curved spine.

  ‘But what if I don’t know?’ Kaci asked.

  ‘Then you don’t know… and you will be charged with complicity in this murder,’ answered the Caid. ‘Monsieur Samson’s last words were quite damning. Witnesses say he said you knew the man who shot him. The authorities claim that this is enough to lock you up for the rest of your life.’ His eyes looked deep into Kaci’s, trying to impress on him the severity of the situation. ‘They are talking about Cayenne.’

  Kaci’s heart lurched. He heard his father gasp. Cayenne was the destination that every Algerian feared. It was the pride of the French penal system. It meant almost certain death in the worst prison on the planet: Devil’s Island.

  ‘Kaci tell us. Which of your cousins killed that man? Whoever it was is worthless scum and deserves the blade. You are young. Twenty years old with all of your life before you. You are more precious than ten men like him.’

  While his father pleaded and the Caid detailed the charges against him, Kaci measured his options with a calm that surprised him. The French wanted blood. They wanted a public spectacle they could use to frighten his people. He was surprised that they didn’t just go ahead and execute all three of them; after all, who was there to stop them? Presumably they were keen to be at least seen to be doing the right thing. And that meant certainty.

  It occurred to him that the French view might be that if all three of them were executed, there would be danger that they would become martyrs to the cause of Algeria. Whereas if one of them was accused and proven to have committed a cold-blooded murder that involved the theft of a great deal of money, then the lustre of martyrdom would not apply.

  He had a choice. On the one hand, he could name his cousin as the guilty party and go free. He would then see his son being born and work for the prosperity of his extended family. If he did give Arab’s name, his cousin would be taken to the place of public execution and guillotined; his head removed from his neck and France would win another battle in an ongoing war.

  If Kaci didn’t name his cousin, he would never be allowed to leave prison; whether that be in Algeria or Cayenne.

  ‘Who did it, son? Arab or Ali?’ His father’s voice grew stronger with the certainty that his son would choose death for his cousin and a life of freedom for himself.

  Kaci was mute. His mind cartwheeled between his choices. Spend the rest of his life in prison, or send his cousin to the guillotine?

  TEN

  The Arrest of Ali

  Arab ran like a man possessed. His mind had already moved from the killing of the Frenchman to avoiding capture and ensuring the money would remain his. To throw off the scent of any potential pursuers he traced a detour. He first headed north up the mountain then, after some distance, he changed direction south towards his house.

  He stopped at a spring to get his breath back and to rest his exhausted limbs. He washed his face, removed the scarf and hid the gun in a cloth. Then he continued south, where he met a shepherd. His expression was one of surprise. It was not a regular occurrence to see a mature man running in the mountains at the early hours of the morning.

  Arab simply waved and smiled and carried on his way. When he arrived home, he went straight to the asaghour, the storage building to the right of the main house where hay was kept for the animals. This has a round platform with the pole in the middle, used for grinding wheat and barley. There he had earlier hidden a pile of clothing. He changed his clothes and hid the money and the gun under the hay. From there, breathing now back to normal, he walked over to the house and pulled his wife outside. There he spoke quietly to her. She nodded, fully understanding his instructions. Without another word he turned on his heels and ran down the hills towards Maillot.

  His wife, Saadia, moved quickly to follow his instructions. She built a small fire and fed it with the clothes her husband had been wearing. The gun she moved inside their home and hid under their bedding. Then she went about her normal duties – cleaning out the animals before feeding them, preparing couscous for the evening meal – biding her time before completing her next set of instructions.

  * * *

  Under the scorching heat of the midday sun, while everyone was asleep, Saadia crept from the house to the asaghour. Rummaging under the hay she located the money, just as Arab described it to her. She moved it into her husband’s gandora and buried everything in a safe place in the courtyard.

  So quickly did she move that she missed a two-franc note in a bottom corner of the bag.

  Just as her heartbeat was getting back to normal she realised that if ever the gendarmes were to search her house, they would find the gun with ease. She looked around her, wondering where was the best place to hide it. There, under that tree. So she crept back into the house, wrapped it in some old cloths and buried it in the spot she had chosen.

  * * *

  On hearing of Samson’s death, the French action was swift. Reinforcements were sent from the nearest large town, Bouira, and the investigation began. When they arrived in the mountains they started questioning everyone they could find. No one was safe from their questions. The French tactics of sowing discord among the indigènes had been so successful over the years that people were always willing to inform on their enemies. However, in times like this, it became counterproductive. Locals used this crime to even old scores and fingered the wrong people. As a result many people who had absolutely nothing to do with the shooting were taken away for further questioning.

  A group of gendarmes was sent to the scene. They had with them an Algerian traitor used as an interpreter, and one who was more than happy to do their dirty work. These people were given the worst name you could give an Algerian: Harki. On their way up the hill they met Arab walking at speed through Saharidj, a village about ten miles from Maillot. The Harki was a local, from a family that was jealous of the Saoudi’s relative success, and he recognised Arab as being a relative of their only suspect thus far.

  ‘You there, Saoudi!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you going?’

  Arab was relaxed and confident. He entered the part of a humble farmer out working for his family, allowing a little fake humility to leak into his act so that his questioners wouldn’t suspect him.

  A gendarme spoke. The Harki translated. They took details of his movements. While they sp
oke Arab fought to remember the man’s name. Once this was all over he would make sure he would rue the day he collaborated against a Saoudi. He picked out a word among the stream of French. Minouche.

  ‘I’ve just left my home to go into town on an errand. My wife can verify this if you want.’ He shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

  ‘Is this errand so important that you have to rush?’ asked Minouche.

  ‘A farmer’s life is a busy one.’ Arab allowed his humility to slip a little. ‘As you would know if you weren’t so busy kissing French arses.’ He knew he was taking a risk by speaking like this, but if he didn’t show the customary hate that the typical Algerian felt for traitors then the Harki would know something was wrong.

  Minouche spat at Arab’s feet. Arab clenched a fist and then regarded the gendarmes that surrounded him.

  ‘Can I carry on with my work, or do you have other reasons to pester a poor farmer?’ he asked.

  The Harki translated for the French. They spoke in turn.

  ‘Take us to your home. We will check out your story.’

  Arab could do nothing but comply.

  When they reached his house in Boufanzar they told Arab to call the family out of the house. This he did and all the family was lined up along the wall at gunpoint.

  The Algerian fired questions at the family. He started with Arab’s wife.

  ‘Did your husband stay the night with you?’

  ‘What was he doing this morning?’

  ‘What time did he leave for Maillot?’

  Her answers succeeded in moving suspicion from Arab so he continued with the rest of the family for some time.

  After taking all the details, the gendarmes entered the house. They threw everything out into the courtyard while the family could do nothing but watch and allow their resentment to burn in the quiet storm of their minds. After an hour of searching they found the soldiers had found nothing.

  The family were still lined up against the wall. The collaborator walked along them as if searching their faces for a clue.

  ‘Someone is missing.’ He paused and smiled with wicked intent. ‘Correction. Two people are missing. Mohand we have in custody. He was found covered in the Frenchman’s blood.’ His eyes sought those of Hadj Yahia, all but crowing at the worry he found there. ‘A guilty man if ever there was one. But one more of you miserable Saoudis is missing. Where is Ali?’

  They were told that Ali and his wife were in the grazing area with their animals. They mentioned the name of the place and the traitor nodded. He knew of this place and he could guide the gendarmes. He hawked up some phlegm and aimed at the feet of Hadj Yahia.

  ‘I knew you Saoudis were no good.’ He looked over at Arab, who appeared unconcerned and was crouched against the wall picking at the dirt in his fingernails with a small blade.

  ‘Don’t think you are in the clear, Arab. The French think that there’s no way you could have made that distance in time to shoot the man, steal the gold and return home in time for us to meet you.’

  Steadily, Arab met his gaze as if challenging him.

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Minouche continued. ‘I will pick a fast man to run that way and we’ll see.’

  The gendarmes left the house and headed towards the grazing area. When they arrived in front of the platform where many huts were erected, the Harki began shouting.

  ‘Ali OulHadj show yourself.’

  His wife come out from one of the huts and, seeing the group of grim-faced soldiers all bearing arms, she almost collapsed with fear.

  ‘What do you want with my husband?’ she managed to ask.

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Minouche.

  She could only point and with a shaking voice tell them that her husband had been out all night protecting the herd from jackals. He was now fast asleep on the big rock just a hundred yards away. Without another word the soldiers marched over to him and prodded him awake with their guns.

  Ali awoke with a start. His brain struggled to make sense of the fact that he was surrounded by some very angry looking French soldiers, all carrying rifles that were pointed at him.

  ‘What… who?’ He sat up wild-haired and bleary-eyed. He rubbed at his face.

  ‘What is going on? What have I done wrong?’

  Minouche moved to the front of the gendarmes and asked him, ‘Did you visit Kaci at the dam the other day?’

  ‘Yes, I did, as always. Why?’ Aware that everyone was towering over him he leapt to his feet.

  ‘Why did you visit Kaci?’

  ‘I took him some fresh sour milk and butter.’ He rubbed at his head trying to work out where this was all going.

  ‘What else did you do?’

  ‘Nothing… I did nothing. What is this all about?’

  Ali’s wife was standing to the side, holding her baby. When the French turn up with guns and start asking questions, this is a time to worry. She was shaking from fear and rocking the baby in an attempt to keep herself calm.

  ‘Have you done something, Ali?’ she asked. ‘What does the enemy of God want this time?’

  Minouche, trying to calm her, said, ‘Nothing to worry about, it is just a routine check.’

  A couple of gendarmes were sent to search inside their hut. Their meagre belongings began to sail out the door and onto the ground in front of them. Only minutes later, one of them come out shouting, ‘I found it.’

  He was holding a gun in the air.

  This was not a registered weapon and Ali’s wife, weak with worry, sank to her knees thinking that this was the reason for this visit.

  ‘I told you to take the gun to the town hall. Why didn’t you register it, Ali? You are getting into trouble for something that is so stupid. Why, Ali? Why?’

  Ali, however, could see from the reaction of the French that the gun was a bonus. It was unexpected. He whispered to her, ‘This is not about the gun. These enemies of God are after my head for some reason.’

  As the gendarme looked over the gun Ali gave them a reason for his failure to register it.

  ‘I’m busy up here in the hills with my animals. If I’m not here to look after them, the jackals will eat them. I don’t have time to run down to Maillot and register it.’ This was all true, but nonetheless it was not a reason the authorities would accept.

  A gendarme sniffed at the barrel. He opened it and looked over at the traitor and said something. He indicated Ali with a violent nod of his head. Ali looked around him. The atmosphere had suddenly changed. The gendarmes all brought their weapons to bear on him.

  Ali fell to his knees in fear. ‘What is going on? What is wrong?’

  ‘This gun has been fired recently. What did you use the gun for?’ The collaborator translated.

  ‘I had to kill a jackal that came for my herd.’

  Many more questions were fired in anger. Then they turned to Ali’s wife and started questioning her. She looked her husband in the face and whispered, ‘What shall I tell them now?’

  He replied softly, ‘Just tell them what they want to know, I have no idea of what is going on.’

  ‘We are taking the gun for tests. We need to prove that this is the weapon that killed him,’ said Minouche.

  ‘Weapon? Killed? Killed who?’ Ali demanded. ‘What are you talking about? I have killed no one. I fired at a jackal.’ In his panic he was shouting. Something terrible had happened and he was caught up in it. ‘Tell me what is going on.’

  The traitor was delighted with this outcome. He knew the Saoudis were involved in this up to their armpits and now he had proof. It didn’t matter if this gun was used to fire the lethal shot. It was a gun. It was in the hands of a suspect and the courts would see that was enough.

  With delight he aimed a blow at Ali’s head. ‘You are under arrest.’

  ‘What did I do? What am I guilty of? Protecting my herd? This is ridiculous.’

  His stream of questions was cut off with a blow to his stomach with the butt of a rifle. He fell t
o his knees coughing.

  Minouche smiled. ‘I can tell you nothing. All I can say is that the authorities want you.’ He got hold of Ali’s hands and pulled some handcuffs from a pocket in his robes.

  ‘At least let me get some clothes on and my sandals.’

  The traitor was enjoying himself too much to allow Ali any comfort. He shouted into his face. ‘No need, we will take you just as you are.’

  They dragged him half-naked down the hill like an animal to the slaughter while his wife, powerless, stood watching. There was her provider, the father of her children shrinking, then vanishing in the distance. The thought occurred to her with cold certainty, that this was the last time she would see him alive.

  * * *

  Hadj Yahia was reeling from the news. This was the worst day in the family’s history. His favoured son was in prison, about to be tried for a murder he had nothing to do with, and the man who he was certain had fired the gun was walking about as if all this commotion to the family was the most natural thing in the world.

  He couldn’t go to the authorities with his suspicions, based on nothing but gossip. Yes, Arab had talked about nothing else for the last few weeks leading up to the murder, but the gendarmes would never believe what he was saying based on their nightly djamaa meetings.

  His mind was consumed with thoughts of revenge. He could knife Arab while he slept. He could tie him up and drag him out into the fields. There they could cover him in honey and leave him for the ants. Only when he was crying from the torture of being eaten alive would he relent and admit to his sins. Then they could see about freeing Mohand.

  This, of course, was utter folly. Arab was too cunning by far to allow himself to fall prey to such actions.

  He stumbled about in a daze. He was a man of action. A man who built this family up to great success despite everything and now it was all as worthless as the dust at his feet.

  A proud man, Hadj Yahia resorted to begging.

  ‘You have to give yourself up, Arab. You are leaving an innocent boy to rot in jail. And what about your brother, Ali? Can you really allow your brother to be tried for a crime that you committed?’