The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  * * *

  The trial ran on for a few more days. On the last afternoon Monsieur Truck was ushered into the court to deliver the outcome of his deliberations.

  ‘A man died,’ he said, staring at the accused. ‘A god-fearing man. A man with nothing but good in his soul. A man who tried to help the poor indigène. And the three of you took this help and spat on it. You deprived two boys of the love and attention of their father. You have deprived a good Christian woman the love of her husband. For this you should each be sent to the guillotine.’ He stopped speaking and allowed his last word to echo through the room. ‘However…’ He allowed his frustration to boil over into this word. ‘There is great doubt of the role played by each one of you in this foul murder. Therefore on this day, 29th December, 1929, I sentence each of you to hard labour, doublage and perpetuity.’

  With this statement, The Butcher’s legend was strengthened. Deprived of the guillotine by a lack of cast-iron proof of the killer’s identity, he fell back on to the only other punishment he could tolerate… forced labour on Devil’s Island.

  As Truck spoke, Mohand fell into a trance-like state. He simply could not take in the enormity of what was going on. Truck mentioned each of them in turn, read out their personal history, the crime of which they were convicted and their sentence. His two cousins were convicted and given a sentence of forced labour for life. Then Truck turned his attention to Mohand.

  ‘Saoudi Kaci ben Yahia, twenty-two years old, born 26th January, 1907, in Mechedallah. For complicity in assassination and theft, 2nd July, 1927, you are sentenced to twenty years of forced labour. Doublage and perpetuity.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Maison Carrée

  Immediately after the sentencing the three men were chained and transported to prison. At first, Mohand railed at the thought he had not been given a chance to say goodbye to the men who shared his cell. In that brief intense time each of them had become like surrogate fathers and he desperately wanted to show some appreciation for their support.

  Eeee, it was one loss of dignity after another. How could he and his people bear this? How could they have suffered this for a hundred years?

  He screwed his eyes tight against such thoughts. There was nothing he could do. He was but a pimple on the giant French arse. If they wanted to sit on him and squeeze the life from his lungs, all he could do was bear the torture and pray.

  Liberty, equality, fraternity. Was this not what the French sang about? How could they promise such ideals and limit them only to their own peoples? Were all humans not brothers? Do they not all share the same need for love, food and shelter?

  These people had taken his liberty. They spat on any notion of equality and no Berber would ever treat his brother in such a manner. He ignored the thought that this is exactly what his Berber brothers had done to him. After all, they had colluded in his conviction… but that was only after decades of abuse and manipulation in which his people had lost their vision of themselves.

  * * *

  Maison Carrée was to prove to be a prison like no other they had been locked up in. Here the French were determined to make use of the Algerians under their ward, and they were worked like slaves. They were manufacturing all sorts of things for the prison to sell for its own benefit, and for the benefit of the French prisoners. Algerians were given impossible quotas to meet. When these were inevitably not met, the transgressors were punished severely. They were made to run barefoot in the courtyard all weekend, while others were enjoying time off. When they dropped with exhaustion, they were kicked and beaten back on to their feet. When the beatings failed to elicit a response, the bruised and battered man was dragged off to an isolation cell for days, weeks or even months, depending on the severity of the so-called crime.

  Most prisoners who entered the walls of Maison Carrée soon found that there was a good chance they would lose their health along with their freedom. Tuberculosis found a home in many victims, who were weakened by the rampant brutality. A favourite method of torture was to revive a battered prisoner by throwing him in a trough of ice-cold water.

  Another part of the de-humanisation process was to keep the amount of visitors to a strict minimum and when they were permitted, physical contact of any sort was forbidden.

  The prisoner and the visitor were separated by two fences. The fences were spaced a metre apart and a guard was always present in the middle, monitoring the conversation. Twenty minutes was the maximum allowed and the guard would bark out a cough to signal the end of the visit.

  Mohand had already learned that one of the most important jobs in the French-Algerian penal system was that of prison writer. It appeared to be a huge contradiction in the way his people were treated. Why torture them, keep them apart from their loved ones, and then allow them contact in this most personal of manner? It didn’t make any sense to him. Perhaps their Christian values dictated that the written word was sacrosanct? Whatever their notions were, this was one situation that Mohand could make use of.

  When he first started work for the prison, he was given a job in the shoe manufacturing area. Then, after a few weeks, he became prison writer. The benefits of this promotion were many. He was exempt from hard labour and any punishments that went with it. He was paid three francs per month and given a mattress to sleep on instead of the thin carpet on the floor used by other prisoners.

  At first this ‘promotion’ prayed on his mind. How he could accept this privilege when his fellow countrymen were treated so badly? When he realised that he could use this position to help his family, he was happier to take it on. He could attempt to save some of his pitiful wage and pass it back to his father. Although he was in prison he still had some months before he would be shipped across to Devil’s Island. He could save his earnings and do what he could to support his wife and his child.

  * * *

  Ten months after their arrival in Maison Carrée, on Thursday 30th October, 1930, the director called Arab, Ali and Mohand to his office. When the three men stood before his desk he looked up from his papers, removed the spectacles from the perch on his nose and passed on the verdict of their appeal.

  ‘The court has reviewed your convictions and decided that the original decision was a sound one. You are to be kept here until the next transportation of prisoners can be arranged for French Guiana.’

  Arab swore, Ali hid his face in his hands and Mohand stared at an indeterminate space above the director’s head. Aware of the profound nature of the words he had just issued, the director then appeared to be at a loss as to what to say next. ‘I… eh… I would remind you that you have the right to write home once per week. Thursdays or Sundays only.’

  * * *

  That evening, Mohand asked for some writing materials and, ignoring the requests of other prisoners to write letters for them, he concentrated on his own family. But what to say? How could he form shapes on to the page from the emotions that churned in his gut or the thoughts that careered around in his head?

  The blank paper seemed to mock him. He who had written countless letters for other men could only feel the pen slip on the oil-slick of sweat shining on his fingers. What to say and how to say it?

  When he was writing for others the scratch of the pen across the paper was automatic. The words were effective and functional. Perhaps that would be the best way to communicate, to pretend he was writing on another’s behalf.

  He took a deep breath and wrote two words – Dear Father – and then the letter took care of itself.

  Dear Father,

  It is with a heavy heart that I have just learned our appeal has failed. Your very best efforts and the work of our lawyers have crashed against the brick wall that is the Frenchman’s determination to see someone punished for the murder of my good friend.

  That we have been spared the guillotine is thanks to your determination to see that the French would not get it all their own way. Although I confess that, in my darkest moments, I crave the fall of the blade instead of
the lingering death that waits for me on Devil’s Island.

  The prisoners talk of little else. It seems I am to be sent to a prison that is the worst man can come up with. Very few who go there survive to complete their sentence, apparently.

  Sorry, Father, I shouldn’t have written this last part. I’m sure it is an exaggeration. Why would the French go to the trouble of sending prisoners to the furthest shores of their world only to work them to death? They could do that here in Algeria.

  Words fill my mind, Father, but when I reach out to grasp them they scatter like rabbits before a hound. I know that I will soon never see you, my brothers, my wife or my son ever again and the importance of that is simply beyond my grasp.

  Despite the uncertainty of what lies before me I can see how Allah has smiled on me in the past. To have been given a father such as you. To be given your example of how a man should play his part in the world is a gift beyond any and I humbly thank you and Allah for it.

  There are also my brothers, good men both. They are the future of our family and I rest assured that such a future is in capable hands.

  Hana. What did I do to deserve such a mother? Many motherless children are cared for by female relatives, but who among them has been as fortunate as I to be favoured and truly loved?

  My wife, my Senegal, my Saada. We only had a brief time together. Even now, even here, as I write this I find a smile warms my face. Every man should have such a wife. To feel that I have let her down, let all of you down, is almost more than I can bear.

  Please find it in your heart to forgive me for the pain I have caused you. Perhaps you can find peace in the fact that I was true to the man you raised me to be.

  God blessed me with a son for which I thank him. However in my absence I fear for a child without its father, better that he had never been born and I therefore pray to God to take back this gift.

  * * *

  Switching from French to his native tongue, he wrote at the bottom of the letter, ‘Sadkaath isithi abdelkader ouldjillali,’ meaning he was offering his son as an omen to Allah.

  He read the letter over and over. He considered tearing it up and then ignored this impulse as one born of the fear of displaying his vulnerability. Now was not the time for such a small-minded action. His family deserved more of him. They deserved whatever he could give them by way of an offering of peace.

  He folded the thick paper over on itself. Sealed it and pressed it to his lips. He breathed in the smell of the ink and hoped that the love squeezing the air from his chest would find its way on to the page and from there to his father’s heart.

  * * *

  The next day Mohand was working on a machine, making shoes under the watch of one of the guards, an acne-scarred barrel of a man called Gauthier. All the bitterness and despair he had been feeling over the last few months welled up in him and it was all he could do to hold the leather to be stitched.

  Before he knew it the guard was in his face.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’ Gauthier demanded.

  ‘I… I…’ Amazed at the guard’s outburst, Mohand couldn’t speak. The guard had a hold of his tunic and was pulling him towards his face as if he was about to take a bite out of his nose. Suddenly bitterness and despair changed to barely controlled anger. Go on, thought Mohand. Go on, give me an excuse and I swear I’ll tear your heart from your chest. He shook with the force of his fury.

  ‘For your information I have cross-eyes from the Great War.’ The guard pushed Mohand away as if cowed by the rage he saw in the younger man’s eyes. Then he stood tall and spoke loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. ‘If you step out of line one more time, I will make you pay.’

  Mohand bent over his workstation, fighting to hide the force of the anger that caused his limbs to tremble. He had been so close to letting the dark beast in his soul loose, and that could have ended in only one way.

  The guard, seeing Mohand bent in such a way, thought the prisoner was bowing before him.

  ‘Look at you, you sorry little Berber bastard. Wait until we get you out to Cayenne. Then you’ll know what a prison is really like. Pah, we pamper you people here. On Devil’s Island they really know how to treat a prisoner. A handsome young boy like you, you’ll be some ugly old lifer’s whore in no time. Well, that’s if you survive the logging camps in the jungle. In the meantime, little Berber boy, just pray that you don’t cross me again. For I’ll make your life even more miserable.’

  * * *

  In the letter to his father, Mohand made reference to his fear that he would not last long in Cayenne. He had dismissed it then, but the other prisoners were convinced that it was a real danger. Once all the appeals had been attempted and all of them failed, the prisoners could all get on with the business of debating their sentences and their likelihood of survival.

  When passing sentence on him and his cousins, Truck had spoken several words that until now had been a mystery. Terms like ‘doublage’ and ‘perpetuity’. No one had bothered to explain these terms and their implications.

  ‘Are you aware of the doublage?’ an older fellow asked while Mohand scribed a letter for him.

  ‘Doublage?’ said Mohand. ‘Truck mentioned it when he passed sentence.’ He shrugged his non-concern, displaying that sanity-saving ability that successful prisoners had to learn: show no weakness.

  His friend smiled at Mohand’s naivety. ‘Doublage? Simple. If you get to the end of your twenty years, you have the additional satisfaction of doing another twenty.’ He paused and picked at his teeth. ‘However, the French are not complete monsters; they know that almost no one will ever do this.’

  ‘What’s the point of this doublage if not many do it? Why don’t they do it… and what does perpetuity mean?’

  ‘It is simple, my friend,’ he said. ‘The French send each fresh batch of prisoners out into the jungle to work in the logging camps. Apparently few survive their first year.’ He was silent for a moment to allow the words to sink in. ‘And those unlucky few who can manage their doublage, have to face perpetuity in the penal colony. For they are never allowed to leave the island.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Preparation for the Voyage

  Three weeks before the date set for their voyage, Arab, Ali and Mohand were transferred to the 1st Quarter, which was an area of the prison reserved only for those prisoners destined for long sentences. In the 1st Quarter, they benefitted from a few liberties: they were allowed to smoke and spend their savings on things like cigarettes, chocolates, sweets and other foodstuffs they might need.

  Naturally, they were suspicious. Why would their guards suddenly decide to treat them like humans? It took some time for the men to relax into this new regime. Little did they know that there was reason behind the authority’s apparent madness. They were given meat four times a week and a quart of wine, but this was simply to fatten them up so that they would have enough strength to face the fearsome ocean crossing that was waiting for them.

  They were even allowed to talk between themselves during the two daily half-hour promenades in the courtyard. They could also continue to write a letter every Thursday or Sunday and a relative was allowed to visit for twenty minutes, also on Thursday or Sunday.

  Mohand was gaining weight and strength from the extra food they were given, but his will was becoming weaker by the day. He could sense that the end approached. There was no hope of a better tomorrow. The guards took grim pleasure in constantly reminding them of what was waiting for them, the living hell at the other side of an ocean.

  This was further enforced when he and his fellow inmates were lined up outside a room on the ground floor of the prison. One by one they were each pushed into a small room and forced onto a chair. When it was Mohand’s turn, standing before him was a fellow prisoner with a tattoo kit in his hand and a bottle of black ink. A guard pushed up his sleeve and shaved the hair from his forearm. Then the prisoner got to work.

  ‘What…?’ he tried to ask.

/>   ‘Silence,’ the guard ordered.

  A series of numbers began to grow on his skin: 5… 1… 2… 4… 0.

  When the tattooist finished, Mohand was ordered to stand up.

  ‘You have no name,’ the guard said. ‘You are now prisoner 51240, nothing but a number.’

  Such was the prison’s adherence to this system of numbers that when prisoners died before the voyage to Cayenne they were buried in a reserved cemetery. There was no name allowed to mark the man who had just died. If he was a Christian, a simple cross was stuck in the earth. If he was a Muslim, a stone was laid. There was no name inscribed on the cross or the stone.

  * * *

  Time was approaching for the voyage and his father made his last visit. When a guard called for 51240 to tell him that a visitor was waiting for him, Mohand started walking towards the visitor’s area. He knew that it could only be his father and he was not sure if it was a good idea to meet at all. He wanted his father to forget about him quickly. He wanted him to think of Mohand as being dead.

  When he entered the visitor’s area, he saw him standing, deep in thought on the far side of the fence. A guard was standing between the two fences, monitoring a few visitors at a time.

  He looked older again, more stooped, more wrinkled even since their last meeting. Mohand sat on the chair and forced his features into a smile. He put his fingers through the fence while his father did the same. They each imagined the press of the other’s fingers on their own. After a long silence, looking at each other through this forbidden fence, Mohand was the first to speak.

  ‘Hello, Dad.’

  His father responded with a nod, not able to trust that his voice could work while such strong emotions clogged in his throat and chest.