The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  As if he could read Mohand’s mind, Captain Sancarve said, ‘I have known men to be murdered for less in this place. You have your freedom, Monsieur Saoudi, ensure that whatever you do, that situation does not change.’

  ‘I appreciate your counsel, Captain, and I appreciate your help.’ Mohand stood up. ‘You are a good man, Captain. The bagne is a better place for you being here.’

  The captain’s face twitched in a smile and Mohand could have sworn that he almost looked pleased.

  Next morning, Mohand walked straight into Bonnet’s office. He hoped that a night sitting quietly in his room would ensure he would stay calm, but at the sight of Bonnet, he lost his temper.

  Before he knew it, he had Bonnet’s shirt bunched in his hand and the man pushed up against the wall. When he heard the commotion, Serge ran into the room, quickly followed by Bruno.

  ‘How could you treat me like that, Louis?’ Mohand shouted. ‘I thought you were my friend.

  ‘Calm down, Mohand,’ shouted Serge. ‘You could get into serious trouble for this behaviour.’

  ‘You all have family here that you see whenever you want. You think I don’t have one, or maybe you don’t want me to have one?’

  ‘Louis, what is the man talking about?’ asked Serge. ‘Mohand must have good reason to go on like a madman.’ He tried to add a joking tone to his voice, hoping that this would calm Mohand down.

  ‘Go on, Louis, tell him.’ Mohand pushed Louis against the wall one more time.

  Louis stared at the far wall. He wasn’t able to look either man in the eye.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mohand. I’m really sorry.’ His eyes broke contact with the wall and met Mohand’s for a moment, before sliding away in shame.

  With this apology and the man’s lack of fight, Mohand’s anger quickly dissipated. He sat down, his legs giving way at the realisation of what he had just done. Such an action could have led him back to solitary confinement. But he was still determined to get an answer.

  ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper like that, Louis,’ he said. ‘But you have no idea what this means to me.’

  Feeling that he owed the man an explanation, he told Louis about the Berber people; how family loyalty meant everything and how his family needed him in Algeria during one of the worst famines in the country’s history.

  ‘Also, I am a proud man who has been reduced to nothing but a slave. I am categorised with thieves, rapists and murderers, and you would have me stay in a place that I am reminded of this every day?’

  ‘Mohand, I had no idea.’ Louis was eventually able to meet his eyes. ‘How could we have behaved so selfishly?’ He shook his head slowly.

  ‘We?’ asked Mohand.

  ‘You don’t think that the military would hold back someone’s application purely on my say-so, do you?’

  Mohand read into this that the request to retain him in the colony came from the very highest quarters: the director’s hand had been in this.

  ‘You are that rare beast, Mohand,’ said Louis. ‘Someone who is irreplaceable. You can deal with the French. You can deal with the Arabs. You know the system inside out… you will be a difficult man to do without.’

  ‘Nonetheless, Louis, I am needed at home,’ Mohand said, shaking his head.

  * * *

  His pass secured, Mohand organised his passage on the next available sailing. And then began the task of saying goodbye to everyone he knew.

  His work colleagues organised a party in his honour. Some notable people in the community were invited, including Judge Kathari and his wife. Even Sancarve and his wife turned up for a few hours.

  Lacroix appeared for about five minutes, with Armand by his side.

  ‘I have a bar to run,’ the big man said as he drew him into a hug.

  Armand kissed him on both cheeks and said, ‘I’ll never forget you, Mohand.’

  Lacroix ushered him out. ‘Before he embarrasses everyone.’

  Mohand laughed at his friend’s gruff comment, relieved that it checked his own emotion.

  As he did not want to take presents on such a long journey, his friends collected money for him instead. Queuing up to speak to him at the end of the night, they all wished him well in his new life and apologised for their attempts to keep him on at the bagne.

  The party went on until the early morning and Louis, Bruno, Didier and Serge were the last to leave. Louis was the last to say goodbye. He was very drunk, very apologetic and very emotional.

  ‘I know we have only known you for a few months, Mohand, but we will miss you terribly.’ He fought back a sob. ‘You are a good man, Mohand. One of the best.’

  Amazed at this outburst, Mohand could only let his mouth hang open.

  ‘C’mon, Louis,’ said Serge, leading his boss away. ‘You never know, Mohand might come back for a visit one day.’

  ‘You will?’ Louis made a comical full-circle turn to ask.

  ‘No,’ answered Mohand with a smile. ‘Not even if they promised a free trip, twenty wives and a bottomless cask of wine.’

  The next day, he went to town. He first visited the Chinese shop to pick up his savings. He was amazed when he saw what Monsieur Chin had done with the gold dust he had saved over the years. It was now a leather pouch full of jewellery and would be worth a small fortune once he was back in Algeria.

  Then he did his shopping for the journey. Monsieur Chin advised him to buy several boxes of cigarettes as they were a lot cheaper in French Guiana than they were in France. He could also sell them en route in Marseille for a substantial profit, he was assured. Mohand also bought some food for the journey because it was cheaper on land than buying it on the boat. Besides, the civilian boat he was sailing on was not going directly to Europe as it had several ports to stop at before crossing the Atlantic Ocean, so Mohand had to prepare thoroughly for so much time spent on board. On top of that, he bought a few other things for home. In all, he had something like two huge cases and a big bag to carry with him.

  * * *

  For his last night in St Laurent, Mohand booked a room in a guest-house near to the port. He wanted some time on his own to contemplate the next part of his life, and he wanted to have a short journey in the morning.

  All night long he expected a sharp burst of knocking on his door and an army of soldiers to burst into his room. Every time he looked out of the window, it was with the full expectancy that someone would be watching him, waiting for him to come out so that they could then tell him it had all been a horrible joke.

  At first light, he got out of the softest bed he had ever slept in, washed, shaved and dressed and then carried his luggage down to the embarkation point.

  He looked at his watch. It was only 6am. His instructions had been to be here for 8.30am.

  An old libéré was slumped in a corner, nursing a bottle of water like it was a cure for all of the world’s problems. Mohand gave him ten francs to watch over his luggage, which the fellow accepted greedily.

  Morning was Mohand’s favourite time of the day. At this hour, while the world remained under the fog of sleep, there was still a promise of better things to come before the heat from the sun began to evaporate it.

  The sky was wearing a pink blush, the morning bright with the cries of gulls and parrots as Mohand walked a short way into town. The air was already warm off the river to the left of him, the soft light shining on the white walls of the ranks of buildings that stood to attention before him.

  Here and there, gardeners took advantage of the relative cool to water the trees and the grass. Plants burst in a tangle of colour wherever he looked: roses, bougainvillea and azaleas.

  If he had just arrived here off a boat, he would have been forgiven for thinking he had landed in a tropical paradise. How deceptive appearances can be, he thought.

  It wasn’t all a living work of art. There was another reality here, a darker reality: the tang of urine and the musk of unwashed bodies of the libérés who had nowhere to go.

  Then there was the blood
of thousands of men who had been brought here by the administration and worked into an early grave.

  He tried to remember the young man who had been escorted off Le Martinière all those years ago. At that point he had already experienced some of the worst than mankind could offer, but had he learned anything?

  He had learned that evil does not wear a specific skin colour, or own a designated nationality. He had been witness to some of the best that man could do and the very worst that he was capable of.

  He had written a note to his family some time ago. It contained only a few words. On vit et on espère. We live and hope. Yet hope had been his enemy. He had never allowed himself the luxury of hope. But now he was going home.

  He thought of his loved ones. A family much depleted. They needed him. He thought of Saada, his wife. She was so young when he was imprisoned. How much would she have changed? Would she be there waiting for him?

  He cursed himself for a fool. His words to his family all those years ago came back to him in a rush. I am dead, he had said. Consider me as dead, for I will never return.

  The Berber way meant that she had to be kept as part of the family. That meant she should have married one of his brothers. Would either of them welcome such an arrangement? Did they have a choice?

  He saw her smile. Her large, beautiful eyes. He heard the song of her laughter and his throat tightened. What had happened to his wife?

  Patience, he counseled himself. Patience. The important thing was that he was free. He was going home.

  He searched the sky. Watched a white-tipped dove as it swooped and soared on thermals across the sky, he felt his chest swell with the realisation that he had survived. He was still his father’s son. With courage and acceptance, and by concentrating on the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other, he had won the long and hard battle for his own soul.

  Now, standing at the pier’s edge, he looked down at the water as it lapped at the wooden struts. From there, he lifted his eyes to the far distance. The sun was growing in strength. The sky was clear, apart from a stretch of cloud touching the horizon, curved and slender like the wing of a giant hawk.

  Somewhere across that vast distance, a family waited for its son to return.

  SIXTEEN

  The Man in the White Suit

  The sky arched overhead. A cloudless blue so bright it hurt his eyes. Mohand had forgotten how much brighter it could be at home. How much drier the air was as it filled his lungs.

  Weeks of travel. Boats of many sizes. Ports almost too many to count and this final train. He was almost home.

  His stomach churned. His eyes moistened. His hands trembled.

  Home.

  He took a breath. And another. And asked himself why he was so nervous. He was almost there.

  What if the French were waiting for him and he had to finish the remainder of his sentence here in Algeria? He’d lost count of the times on this trip that he had encountered a French uniform and quailed. A prisoner mentality was all he’d known for years. He had a fear of the authorities that he was sure would never leave him. But each time he felt it, he fought it. They would not win. But still, each time, certainty sliced his gut: he was about to be placed in handcuffs and delivered to the nearest prison.

  He breathed again and willed his trembling to stop.

  He had left home as a boy and now he was a man. A very different man to the one he might have grown into had he stayed.

  He pulled back his sleeve and looked down at the tattoo on his forearm and noted how stubbornly the ink still clung to his skin. He laughed in recognition at the silliness of this thought. Did he imagine the numbers would fade when he crossed the ocean?

  With his index finger, he traced the numbers 51240. How deep did that ink run, he wondered. He had been conditioned over the years and had formed the thought processes of a convict. He remembered how uncomfortable he had felt when the men he worked with treated him as an equal. That was an attitude he would have to learn to overcome if he was to make a success of his new life. Did the ink run through layers of skin and muscle to taint his psyche?

  That he could not allow. Would not allow.

  He had endured everything the system had thrown at him and he had wandered from the maze of suffering with his spirit intact.

  He closed his eyes and allowed this thought to seep into every inch of him.

  The train chuffed along the line. He craned his neck to see out of the window. In the distance, a vista he recognised. A shoulder of mountain, the Djurdjura.

  Almost there. And joy sang its song in his heart.

  This part of the journey was the shortest, but felt like it was taking much longer. A variety of boats had carried him from French Guiana to a number of Caribbean ports, before he eventually caught a ship bound for Marseille. There, Monsieur Chin’s recommendation to buy cigarettes for sale had proved to be a wise one. He spent three nights in town before the next ship would carry him across the Mediterranean to Algiers and he made full use of that time, selling the cigarettes at the market for a handsome profit.

  Near the port, he had happened across a tailor’s shop. A dummy in the window wore a white suit and Mohand was gripped by an idea.

  It was clear from the moment he stepped inside the building that the owner dismissed him as yet another bagnard. The man took in his cheap, dirty clothes at a glance. His tone was sharp, his greeting perfunctory.

  ‘Good day. How may I be of service?’ he said, with a sub-text of, Please just leave and save us all the embarrassment of me turning you away.

  Mohand peeled some notes from his plump pile. Normally, he would never consider being so showy with his funds, but this was an altogether different situation. ‘How much for the suit in the window?’

  Immediately, the owner’s demeanour changed. ‘Monsieur Bisset at your service.’

  ‘The white suit. I would like to try it on,’ said Mohand.

  ‘It is very expensive,’ said Bisset with a shake of his head. ‘The best cloth from Paris.’

  ‘Monsieur Bisset, I am no fool from the provinces.’ Mohand stood strong, feet planted, shoulders wide. He had dealt with enough suppliers over the years to know how to present himself in the best way possible. ‘Please don’t insult us both. Give me a fair price or I will take my business elsewhere.’

  Bisset shrugged and named a price while trying to disguise his surprise at the turn of the conversation. Mohand halved it.

  ‘Mon dieu, you are taking food from the mouth of my babies.’ Bisset reduced the sum.

  Mohand thought that the man looked old enough to have grandchildren. He named a figure in between the two numbers.

  ‘D’accord.’

  ‘Do any required alterations by tomorrow.’ Mohand spotted a hat behind the counter. ‘And throw in a hat and I’ll give you another ten francs.’

  ‘Done.’

  That afternoon he had booked his seat on the boat for Algiers and sent a telegram home informing them of his arrival date and asking them to book him the best room in the best hotel of Algiers in his name.

  * * *

  It was the morning of Friday 17th August, 1946, when Mohand saw the low line of his motherland fill the horizon. At first light, he had climbed to the deck and stayed there till well past noon, watching Algeria grow in the distance. Each moment was one to savour.

  Then the dazzling white buildings that filled the crescent-shaped bay of Algiers had hoved into view and Mohand’s heart pounded harder.

  Before disembarking, he changed into his new, white suit and donned his hat. He had a message to convey. He would step on to his motherland’s soil a free man. A man unbroken by all he had gone through.

  People jostled for position, shuffled forward with their luggage, impatient to see family and friends. For Mohand, what did one more minute here or there matter? He had waited years for this moment, so he waited patiently and followed the crowd through the passport control gates.

  Once his papers had been stamped, he
walked through the gates and paused. He was on home soil. He was actually standing in Algeria. His eyes filled with tears. He could feel his bottom lip tremble. He sank to his knees and, leaning forward, kissed the ground.

  Home, he thought, as a tear spilled to land on the earth.

  * * *

  Smoking had become a strong habit while he was in the prison colony, and Mohand now had a large Havana cigar he had been saving for this moment. He pulled it from his pocket and lit it. He took a deep puff. Expanded his chest. Now he was ready to go home.

  The port building had two exit doors. He chose the one on the left and walked through into a large waiting area. The first face his eyes lit on was his cousin, Mohand Ameziane, who so strongly resembled his father that he couldn’t fail to recognise him. This man was only a child when he had been transported; now he was an adult. That simple fact brought it sharply back to Mohand just how long he had been away. The years away were long and slow in his memory, but here they sped up with physical, visible proof.

  His cousin was holding a large piece of card with the word ‘Saoudi’ written on it. His eyes hadn’t settled on Mohand in his keen search, moving quickly past.

  Didn’t he recognise him? Had he changed that much?

  Then he remembered the suit. The hat, the cigar. He would be expecting a beaten wretch of a man, not someone who was tall, well-built and with an air of prosperity about him. With a smile, Mohand realised that at this moment he must look more like Al Capone than a released convict.

  He walked towards the younger man and stood in front of him to disturb his view. But still his cousin didn’t look at him, moving to the side and straining his vision to find his returning relative.

  Mohand addressed him like a stranger. ‘Excuse me. Where are you from, son?’

  His cousin moved his eyes from his search and faced the man before him, thinking he was lost and looking for information. ‘From Maillot, sir.’