For days Mohand spoke to no one. Long after the ache had subsided in that most tender of parts he could still feel the dirty, fat fingers probing.
It was with a start that one night he realised that he had barely given thought to his son. Such was the impact of this man that this most momentous of occasions had been almost forgotten.
What did he look like? Did he have the same dark skin as his wife? Did he keep her up all night, crying for her milk?
With his head in his hands he could feel himself sinking to a new level of despair. What would life be like for a fatherless child in this subjugated Algeria? His family had barely enough food to feed everyone else, let alone another child. He would be nothing more than a bastard.
It would be better for him if he died.
His cellmates tried to cajole him out of his black mood, but he was having none of it. He simply wrapped himself up in his threadbare blanket and turned to stare at the wall. This mood refused to lift itself for weeks. But then one day he noticed that he was shuffling rather than walking. Just like the young man that he himself had labelled as a victim.
Was that what he had become? A victim? If that was the case, he had best find himself a nice high wall and just jump off it. No. He was better than that. He would endure.
He would show Marton that this was one indigène he couldn’t intimidate.
The very next day he reported to the camp commandant. He was a Frenchman by the name of Arnaud Bettencourt, and he was just reaching retirement. He was clearly taken aback by the calm assurance of the young indigène who detailed his complaint against the chief guard. Not only did he calmly recite the detail of the theft and the assault on his person, but he did so most eloquently, in perfect French.
‘Am I not a man also?’ Mohand said. ‘If you prick me, do I not bleed?’
Bettencourt was stumped. An educated Algerian quoting from a great work of literature?
‘I will… I will look into this, young Saoudi,’ he said fixing his collar. To hell with this godforsaken corner of France, he was thinking. I’ve seen it all now.
‘Be sure you do, sir,’ Mohand said. ‘The men will be most displeased if you don’t.’
‘Are you threatening me, young man?’ Bettencourt rose to his feet.
‘Simply stating facts, sir. With the greatest of respect, the man you have placed in charge here is a bully of the worse kind and the men are close to revolt. I am only warning you in advance of any action they might take.’
Of course, Bettencourt did nothing. Retirement was mere months away and the last thing he wanted was to make any changes to his regime.
* * *
The revolt was subtle at first. Inmates were slow to behave, slow to act on instructions and quick to take offence. The atmosphere in his once calm jail was turning sour.
The number of guards covering the night shift had to be doubled when half of the inmates began to stay up all night singing and banging their tin cups on the prison bars.
Bettencourt was beside himself. This was supposed to be a cushy little number in a provincial prison before he retired to a gîte on the coast of Brittany. He called Marton to his office.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Saoudi is the ringleader, sir. You should transfer him to a bigger prison in Algiers. Let them take care of him.’
‘Are you telling me you can’t take care of slip of a lad, barely out of his teens?’ Bettencourt demanded.
‘We could request reinforcements, sir.’
Bettencourt sniffed. ‘We can barely pay the staff we have now, Marton.’ Which is why you and your staff are reduced to thieving from some of the poorest people on the planet, he almost added.
‘We’ve tried threat. The solitary cells are full. If we feed them any less, they’ll all starve. We’ve tried everything, sir. The only thing they say will work is if you sack me.’ Marton grinned at the pure cheek of such a thought. Sack him? Then the prison surely would go to the dogs. Bettencourt himself was worse than useless, a Parisian fop who struggled to cope with anything more demanding than trimming his toenails. They needed him and he knew it.
‘The best thing would be to transfer the three Saoudis to another jail. Let some other bastard deal with them.’
* * *
They were transferred to Serkadji prison in Algiers within the week and no sooner were they ensconced there than Mohand was ensuring that the inmates were being treated with respect. He had learned a valuable lesson in Bouira prison. Violence against the guards was only met with further violence, but subtle disobedience unnerved the establishment and, when used for the right reason, it could change the whole outlook of the institution and bring about small changes.
He found himself in an isolation cell on no less than twelve separate occasions. This was because he could not keep quiet. Whenever he saw a prisoner being treated inhumanely he was quick to complain, and no number of visits to solitary confinement could still the fire that burned in him at the maltreatment of his countrymen. While he was bound, frozen and naked in these dark cells, he would remind himself of the treatment he suffered under the hands of Marton, which fuelled the cold certainty that he and his people did not deserve to be treated in such a way.
* * *
One such time – where Mohand simply had to speak up – occurred when he realised that barbers were brought in only for the French prisoners. As soon as he noticed this, he asked to see the director immediately.
‘Sir, I have noticed that the hairdressers are brought in only for the French prisoners. Are Algerians not humans with hair, beards and moustaches like everyone else?
The director was a Frenchman of Jewish descent by the name of Gabriel Guignard. He was a strict man, but one with a strong core of decency. At times he was forced to look the other way or he would never get through a day, and he consistently felt a pull on his conscience by the demands of his job. He immediately took a liking to the young man standing ramrod straight in his office.
‘You have nothing to shave, young man. You are only a baby,’ he replied, to see how the prisoner would react.
‘Sir, I am talking about all Algerian prisoners, not about myself.’
Guignard drummed his fingers on his desk and considered his next move.
‘Please ask only what you claim and want for yourself and I will see that you get it, but leave others out.’
The prisoner before him cocked his head to the side in contemplation. ‘Sir, I am not looking for special treatment for myself. All I am asking is that my people be allowed the dignity of a trim appearance.’
From that day on, the hairdressers were brought in for all prisoners.
FOURTEEN
Return to Maillot
It seemed to Mohand and his cousins that the slow grind of the French penal system had passed them by. Surely, they whispered among themselves, such a grievous crime as the one they were suspected of could not be forgotten? But still another day would pass without the call to the courts.
Time donned a cloak of concrete for the three men and they allowed themselves the thought that Madame Guillotine would have to wait a good while longer for a taste of Saoudi blood.
The long hours and days of monotony they endured was at least punctuated for Mohand by his new task of public writer for Serkadji prison. Every evening he was called from his cell to listen to yet another of his countrymen dictate letters to wives, children and parents. In these letters the truth of prison life was given the sheen of normality for relatives who didn’t want to hear brutal truths. They wanted to hear that their men were well-fed and well-housed. That the worst thing they faced was boredom. And so the prisoners, with the collusion of the young Saoudi, fed this wish.
Day after day, week after week, Mohand continued this job and sometimes it felt that he was in a bizarre world of ink, paper and the rough voices of his fellow Algerians. Until the day he was called in to the director’s office. It was 2nd July, 1928, exactly one year after the murder.<
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‘Monsieur Saoudi.’ Guignard motioned for Mohand to come from the corridor and stand before his desk. ‘The courts have issued a demand for witnesses to your alleged crime.’ He scratched at his cheek with a manicured finger. ‘The wheels of the French penal system turn slowly, Mohand. But they do turn. In this…’ he considered his next word carefully, ‘twilight world we can sometimes forget that.’
Mohand shifted his feet and Guignard read the unspoken comment in that tiny movement. He offered a small smile. ‘Forgive my loquaciousness this morning. I don’t often have an audience with a vocabulary of more than ten words.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In any case, you and your cousins are required at Bouira. From there you will go to Maillot and walk the route that the murderer of Samson might have walked. It seems the courts will have its witnesses.’ He paused and injected a more serious tone in his next five words. ‘One way or the other.’
* * *
They wore heavy chains and were surrounded by armed guards. The place was full of people from the region. They come to see the lost sons of Maillot for the last time. For that was how they were considered. Everyone present believed that, guilty or not, these men were in the maw of the French system and nothing would get them out of it.
All of the Saoudi family were present that day, including Mohand’s wife. Saada held her baby high in her hands as if offering him to the heavens, hoping that Mohand would catch a glimpse of him through the crowds. She dreaded the thought of seeing her husband in such a situation but came in the hope that she could give him the gift of seeing his son.
His family were huddled together, offering each other comfort while trying to ignore the looks of pity from the others. Mohand was of course aware of all of this, but his eyes were fixed on his son; the little brown face with its button nose, crowned with a crop of black hair. He ignored as best he could the stares of his enemies. These people were given no choice by the French system. They were so used to being manipulated that they had largely lost the ability to think for themselves. He knew what they were seeing. Just last year he was the envy of most people and now he was one of the most despised, and being treated like a murderer.
He recognised that there was an element of human nature that looked at the downfall and anguish of others and took a certain pleasure in it, an angle of behaviour that the French were willing to manipulate.
Having committed the small face to memory, he tore his eyes from his son and searched for his father. There. He was surrounded by his lawyers, brothers and cousins, looking fifty years older and torn with suffering. Hadj Yahia approached his son, moving slowly through the crowd so as not to draw attention. Mohand could barely look at the pain in his eyes. When Hadj Yahia arrived within earshot he offered words of counsel.
‘Be a man, my son. May God protect you.’
Mohand turned around, looked his father in the eyes and offered him his strength and support through a confident smile.
‘Do not worry for me, dear father. I am like oil on water. I will always rise to the top of any situation.’
This answer was absorbed by his father. He was bolstered by the apparent serenity of his favourite son and happy to hear such words of wisdom.
‘Go, my son, may God facilitate your tasks.’ He paused, anxious to convey meaning. ‘I am like a man relieved of your suffering.’
Caid Mezaine was standing just behind his father and when his friend had finished he stepped forward and placed a hand on Mohand’s shoulder. There was a strange light in his eye when he praised Mohand’s courage and offered him support.
‘May your prison be like that of Joseph,’ Mezaine said, his words in the tone of a blessing. Like Joseph, thought Mohand. What does that mean? But before he could ask, the guards bustled them away on the march up the mountain while they called for witnesses to the murder of the Frenchman by the name of Samson.
* * *
During their first six months in Algiers there had been neither investigation nor judgement, but now it was relentless. They each spent hour after hour being questioned by the various elements of the justice system.
It seemed now that the French had woken up and they demanded the truth. Or, a truth that would serve their purposes best.
Following on from the reconstruction at the murder site, witness reports flowed in to the authorities. It seemed that people were out-doing themselves to offer wild versions of events. Before they committed these fantasies to the court stenographers, they each solicited from the French administration an assurance for their protection before testifying. People tripped over themselves to contradict their neighbours. Mohand shot him. No, it was Ali. It was Ali and Arab holding the gun while Mohand held the Frenchman down. The Saoudis had obviously been leeching from Samson for years, they crowed. How else could they afford all that land? It seemed the family’s success had won them many enemies and they were all demanding their day in court.
Now that the wheels were in motion they were all transferred to another prison while awaiting trial. One day in September 1929, they were escorted to the director’s office by a group of guards.
He wasted no time in explaining the situation.
‘Your files with all details have been returned. The hearing by the judge, Monsieur Truck, is set up to take place by the end of September 1929. Please take a copy of your files.’ He pushed a fat, brown folder at them from across his desk.
As soon as they heard the name ‘Truck’, their faces grew pale. This was a man who was infamous throughout the penal system. They came out from the office shaking and without saying a word they headed straight to the exercise courtyard.
Monsieur Truck was the most feared judge of all. His name caused fear even in the hearts of the French prisoners. He had the firm and unwavering conviction that he had only two verdicts to choose from; the guillotine or forced labour for life on Devil’s Island. His nickname was ‘The Butcher’.
In the courtyard, Arab and Ali crowded Mohand with questions.
‘What does the file say?’
‘What does all that paper mean?’
Mohand shushed them as he flipped through the file, which contained every minute detail of the investigations. This included details of the murder, information extracted from people who had clearly been tortured, and many false statements by the so-called witnesses. The only thing it did not contain was the official reports by the gendarmes. With a sinking heart Mohand read out the information to his cousins. Once he finished reading, all three of them slumped against the wall, lost in their own thoughts. Each certain that their time on this planet was about to run out.
* * *
It was a matter of course that when any lawyers worthy of their fees heard that Monsieur Truck would be presiding over their client’s hearings, they would advise the defendant to apply for an appeal. The hope was that the appeal would delay the trial, Truck’s visit to the colony would come to an end and it would then receive a date when a more lenient court officer was in residence.
Hearing this advice, Mohand applied for his appeal immediately and helped his cousins to do so, too. He claimed that something was missing from their files. How could they possibly be placed in front of the court without a full and proper investigation?
As a result of these appeals, the files were returned to court for further verification. Until they heard further they spent every waking moment in prayer, hoping this would enable them to escape the nightmare of standing in front of The Butcher.
Unfortunately, all of the lawyers with clients awaiting trial had the same idea, and there were no hearings taking place at all during that particular visit of Monsieur Truck. As a result of this, Truck sent a wire to the French authorities in Paris requesting an extension of his residency in the province. They extended his stay by a further three months in order to catch up on the backlog.
Late in November 1929 their appeal was rejected and they were called once again to the director’s office to be informed of events. Knowing that he would stand in front o
f The Butcher after all, Mohand shuffled back to his cell in a daze of worry. He knew very well that his time was running out and that he may never see his loved ones again.
With almost machine-like precision, prisoners started queuing before The Butcher, who, true to his legend, started handing out his usual harsh sentences. The news went around the prison like wildfire. The lowest sentence handed out during this particular session so far was a grim twenty years’ forced labour on Devil’s Island.
* * *
When their files finally returned, the trial date had been set. On 24th December, 1929, Mohand, Ali and Arab would face the full weight of the French penal system.
FIFTEEN
A Last Intervention
Two days before the hearing, his lawyer came to see Hadj Yahia one last time. His warning was a dire one.
‘The whole French system, the judge, the lawyers and the procurer are against them. The outcome is more or less decided. They are guilty even before the hearing. You must speak to your son, Monsieur Saoudi. Mohand must tell the truth. Only then can we be assured of his freedom. We believe your son is innocent and would be freed if only he would tell the truth and point the finger at Arab.’
Feeling in his heart that this had long been a lost cause, Hadj Yahia decided to give this approach one last try. With heavy limbs and the weight of the French system on his shoulders, he made one last journey to the prison before his son was placed on trial.
It was clear that Mohand loved to see his father during his regular visits. Hadj Yahia would always find him in good humour and he in turn always came away buoyed by the strength of his son and his capacity to endure.
On this occasion he carried with him a small packet of couscous with tender lamb, which had been cooked by his wife.
Mohand plucked a small piece of meat and popped it in his mouth. He chewed slowly with his eyes closed tight. He finished chewing, smacked his lips and asked, ‘How are my son and my wife?’
The Guillotine Choice Page 10
