Sirocco Read online

  Sirocco

  A French Girl Comes of Age in War-Torn Algeria

  by

  Danielle A. Dahl

  Seattle, WA

  Coffeetown Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.coffeetownpress.com

  www.dadahl.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Sirocco

  Copyright © 2014 by Danielle Dahl

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-194-1 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-195-8 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013952688

  Produced in the United States of America

  * * * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Sirocco wouldn’t have been successfully completed without the unrelenting dedication of my long-time critique partners, Donna Campbell, Howard Lewis, Linda Lovely, and Jean Robbins, who virtually looked over my shoulder, whispering on-target dos and don’ts as Nanna’s story came to life one word at a time.

  Heartfelt thanks to:

  Mary Buckham, whose keen evaluation encouraged me to cut out some twenty-five thousand words, resulting in a tighter story line.

  The Readers’ Feast Bookclub, my Beta readers, whose acute observations and encouraging comments kept me on the right track.

  My friends: Ernestine Norungolo, Annette Woodward, Ute Brady, Susie Thompson, Mary Ann Rice, my Clemson Ladies bowling league, the Greenville chapter of Sisters In Crime. My family. My husband and step family, and cousin Drew.

  Thank you all for your moral support, endless interest, and faith in Sirocco’s success.

  Amanda Wells, my agent, whose enthusiasm for Sirocco swiftly called Nanna’s story to the attention of Coffeetown Press.

  Catherine Treadgold, publisher at Coffeetown Press, Jennifer McCord, Associate Publisher, and Emily Hollingsworth, Assistant Editor, who cared and tirelessly buffed Nanna’s story to a shine.

  A special debt of gratitude to C.D.H.A, the Centre De Documentation Historique Sur L’Algérie, and its magazine, Mémoire Vive, for gracious authorizing the use of their documentation on historical facts, personal testimonies, and pictorial archives.

  To my brothers and sisters

  “Et qui donc a jamais guéri de son enfance?”

  “And who has ever recovered from his childhood?”

  Lucie Delarue-Madrus

  (“L’Odeur de mon pays …” Poem 1902)

  Prologue

  Constantine, Algeria, October 1954

  A tremor shook the soaring rock and its crowning city. A shudder as familiar to Constantine and its dwellers as the searing Sirocco wind that, in season, blew howling sand from the Sahara desert, hundreds of miles south.

  Then, as abruptly as it started, the quake rumbled away and the city settled in its limestone bed as if nothing had happened. Fooling no one.

  Everyone knew—the Berber boy herding his goats in the searing North African sun, the Muezzin in the Kasbah, calling the day’s prayers, the Synagogue’s Cantor striking his mournful chants and, certainly, ten-year-old Nanna riding in the back seat of the family car—everyone knew that “événements” had been set in motion.

  Events that would revive Constantine’s eons-old tradition of seesawing between peace and war, abundance and devastation.

  Numidians. Carthaginians. Romans. Vandals. Arab and Berber dynasties. All had ruled her. But she endured and, one hundred and sixteen years after the French wrestled her from the Turks, Constantine still commanded the vast western plain, the chasm of the Rhumel River, and the four eastern bridges that anchored her to the land across the gorges.

  The charcoal-gray Citroen crossed the Sidi Rached Bridge, driving Nanna and her family from their home in Sidi Mabrouk into the city.

  “Son of a bitch.” Nanna’s frustrated father slowed the car to match the pace of a caravan of donkeys carrying bundles of hides to leather artisans in the Kasbah’s souks. These Algerian beasts, the size of large dogs, plodded under the relentless sun. They dotted their passage with pungent dung—heedless of the insistent buzzing of flies and blasts of klaxons from the vehicles behind.

  The blaring horns and raucous braying of a reluctant ass filled the shimmering air, spilled into the gorges below, and bounced in rich echoes against their opposite walls, dislodging flocks of crows from the crags and grottos pocking the gray cliffs. The black birds swooped in muddled formations up and down the chasm—churning omens of doom that raised prickles of dread on Nanna’s forearms.

  Ever since Algeria had become the French province Nanna’s French forefathers had helped settle, propelling it into the twentieth century, restiveness on the part of some native Muslims seeking independence from France had become a ripening abscess. In fact, on the very day the French toasted the end of World War II on Constantine’s café terraces and danced in her streets, Muslims massacred European settlers in Sétif, fifty miles east of the rock and its city. As expected, the French army quelled the rebellion, but the unrest continued to flare on and off.

  Now, on the eve of All Saints Day, 1954, the abscess was ready to burst.

  Chapter One

  Sidi Mabrouk

  Suburb of Constantine, Algeria, October 30, 1954

  Papa spread his firearms across the kitchen table. First the shotgun, then the pistol, then the revolver. Maman said he started the routine of checking his weapons before taking road trips nine years ago on Armistice Day. I was a year old and mankind was celebrating the end of World War II.

  On this eve of our yearly All Saints Day trip to the home of my great-grandparents, Pépé and Mémé Roussillon, Maman put baby Yves and three-year-old Riri to bed. “Say good night, girls,” she called from the bedroom.

  Mireille approached Papa and, stretching as far as her six-year-old body allowed, kissed him on one cheek then the other. “Good night, Pa, good night, Pa,” then tugged Zizou’s sleeve. “You’re coming?”

  Zizou, two years my junior, shoved an elbow in my side. “Coming, Nanna?”

  “Aïe!” I yelped, massaging my ribs. “What did you do that for?”

  She arched her brows. “Are you coming to bed or not?”

  Planning to sneak in a few precious moments alone with Pa, I sighed, “In a minute.”

  Ma walked into the kitchen with the baby’s empty bottle. “It’s time for the news. Turn on the radio, Nanna.”

  I knew she wanted to hear that the roads would be open and safe from fellagha’s attacks. That we wouldn’t have to cancel our Toussaint’s trip to her grandparents’ at the last minute because of Arab rebel ambushes, like last year.

  While Ma washed Yves’ bottle, the news bulletin concluded with no special alert. “Does this mean we’re going to Saint Arnaud, Pa?” I asked.

  He peered into the breach of his shotgun. “We’ll see,” he muttered, dashing my excitement.

  Ma dried her hands on her apron. “I’ll finish packing, so we’ll be ready.”

  Snapping the gun barrel shut, Papa polished off his fingerprints with a chamois cloth, set the gun aside and picked up his revolver.

  Nose twitching at the sharp tang of gun oil, I hunched over the table, elbows propped on the flowered oilcloth, hands cupping my face. “Can’t we go, anyway, Pa? I really want to see Pépé and Mémé Roussillon.”

  “Are you deaf?” he spat. “I said, ‘We’ll see.’ ”

  I swallowed my hurt feelings and watched his long, tan elegant fingers load his weapons. One purposeful round at a time.

  Finally, desperate t
o make him commit to the trip, I prodded, “Aren’t you looking forward to seeing Pépé and Mémé, Pa?” I crossed my arms on the table, leaned toward him, and begged, “Allez, Pa. Say oui.”

  Only the riveting gleam of bluish gunmetal answered with the hypnotic effect of a gold ring swinging at the end of a string—conveying a vision of my great-grandparents’ farmhouse.

  During each visit there, I had fallen more in love with the walled-in compound. I could never have enough of exploring the farm’s wonders. The brilliant orange of loquats and vibrant purple of grapes popping up against the brownish gray of the garden’s adobe walls. The bumble bees humming in the shade of the mulberry tree, its sharp, winy smell competing with that of the tart, ripening figs.

  But the most thrilling time of each day at the farm was waking up to the sore-throated call of the rooster as I stretched lazily under the shimmering white cotton bedspread. I’d breathe in its subtle lavender scent and listen to the arm of the water pump in the yard, thunking against the pump’s bronze body, wishing I’d wake up here forever ….

  “Go to bed, Nanna, you’re falling asleep,” Maman broke in. “I’ll wake you if Papa decides to go.”

  I pushed away from the table and kissed my pa and Ma bonne nuit—to me, a never-ending night I spent tossing and turning, worrying we might not go to Saint Arnaud, after all.

  The glare of our bedroom light jolted me out of another restless doze. “Get ready, girls, we leave in one hour,” Maman announced.

  I jumped out of bed like a coiled spring, whipped into action by the smell of brewing coffee streaming from the kitchen. I pulled the blanket off my sister. “Get up Zizou. Let’s make the bed.”

  She sat up, glowering. “What’s wrong with you? Why’re you so cheery this morning?”

  “We’re going to Pépé and Mémé’s,” I beamed. “Get up. Quick.”

  An hour later, we loaded the car in the warming November dawn and started on the road to Saint Arnaud.

  Pépé and Mémé Roussillon.

  Saint Arnaud

  November 1, 1954

  Riri’s constant squirming on Zizou’s lap and the tight mountain road twists and turns didn’t result in the usual nausea or spoil my happiness. Only Papa’s cigarette smoke made breathing difficult. I cracked open my window. The forced air thrummed in my ears and made my short hair flutter against my cheeks.

  Squeezed between Mireille and the car door, I stretched my limbs as best I could. “Papa, how much longer?”

  “Two hours,” he exhaled between two puffs.

  Two hours! The little adobe shacks and tethered donkeys we just passed on the right had seemed much closer to Saint Arnaud, two years ago.

  Wedged between Zizou and me, Mireille squirmed. “I need to go pipi, Papa.”

  “I’m not stopping in the fucking middle of nowhere,” Pa growled. “You should’ve gone before we left.”

  I felt sorry for Mimi, but the thought of our car pausing on this lonely mountain road worried me. First, I envisioned the troops of frenzied baboons that, at times, roamed the landscape, assaulting travelers, and a sudden pain squeezed my throat as if it was in the grip of fangs. Then the feel of the long, sharp canines morphed into the familiar, indefinable sense of dread fanned by the news of sporadic fellagha attacks against cars and isolated farms. Attacks that kept the bloody memory of the Armistice Day Massacre alive, further feeding my fears with rumors of slashed throats, disemboweled bodies, raped women, and babies splattered against walls.

  I’d had trouble visualizing the human carnage until, three years earlier, when I was seven, our Arab neighbors across the street slaughtered sheep for their festival of Eid.

  * * *

  It was the summer of 1951. My fingers gripped our yard’s fence, and my forehead was pressed against the cold wire. I stared as the men forced the bleating animal down onto its side, tied its legs together and, pulling its head backward, slashed its neck with a flick of the wrist.

  The spurting blood was nothing new to me; I was used to Pépé Honninger, Ma’s Pa, killing and trussing chickens and rabbits. Here, however, the sheep thrashed forever and bleated like a baby in agonizing pain.

  Repulsed by the sight of blood soaking the poor beast’s wool and the sound of its weakening cries, I pushed away from the fence and ran to the backyard, my hands clasped over my ears. In the end, the bleating, thrashing, and spurting blood had given horrifying substance to my mental pictures of slashed throats and gore.

  I now linked the sheep’s slaughter to that of butchered humans and understood Papa’s need to protect his family. Why he never set off on a road trip without his weapons.

  * * *

  The fangs of the imaginary baboon had loosened their hold on my throat. Now I quelled my dread of a possible fellagha attack by reassuring myself that Pa was the best shot ever. I was safe with him. I took a relaxing breath and let the rushing wind bring memories of the summer winds that fanned Mémé’s fig trees.

  I couldn’t wait to see her and Pépé Roussillon again. I never tired of playing and replaying their story in my mind.

  * * *

  One hundred and sixteen years ago, along with hundreds of other families, Pépé and Mémé’s parents emigrated from France to the brand-new French province of Algeria. Living in abject poverty, they settled the land with backbreaking work. Multitudes died from malnutrition and fever contracted from the swamps they drained and, in due course, transformed into gardens of Eden.

  When Pépé and Mémé married, he practiced his trade as a saddler and she worked their tiny farm, raising poultry, a cow, a horse, a goat, a couple of pigs, and thirteen children.

  Now in their late eighties, they lived in their own dwelling, on one edge of the yard across from their son Tonton Antoine, his wife, Tata Olga, and their four sons.

  The air carried through my window made me drowsy. I closed my eyes and smiled at the images of my great-grandparents playing against my lids.

  Mémé was a white pebble at the side of a spring, Pépé, the forest’s mightiest oak.

  She wore gray housecoats reaching down to black ankle-shoes, and bore a hump—wide and proud—on her left shoulder.

  His smile glowed amid grizzled cheeks like embers under ash.

  She smelled of violets and warm peach jam; he, of leather and saddler’s wax.

  She embraced with fierce strength and her clear blue eyes pierced your thoughts.

  He clasped you to his solid belly and patted your back so hard it nearly stilled your heart.

  I leaned against my seat to ease the tightness in my chest. For how many more Toussaints will my great-grandparents be alive? For how many more trips will I be able to feel their hugs?

  La Toussaint Rouge

  I awoke to the sound of tires crunching over the farm’s graveled yard. But instead of the usual festive welcome, the entire family greeted us as if we had come back from the grave. Tata Olga even wiped a tear off her face with the corner of her apron.

  Had someone died?

  Maman took Tata Olga’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

  Tata said, “We’ll talk later,” and guided us through her front door.

  After we settled in at the long kitchen table, Mémé Roussillon and Tata Olga served homemade lemonade to Maman and us children, and Pastis to the men.

  Thin-lipped, Mémé suddenly slammed a glass in front of Papa. “Why did you come?”

  We all stared at her, wide-eyed.

  Always prickly when dealing with Mémé, Papa uncoiled like a released spring. “Get your things, children, we’re leaving.”

  Tonton Antoine put a calming hand on Papa’s arm, inviting him to return to his seat. “Wait, Richard, what Mémé means is why would you travel on that road after what happened last night?”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Don’t you know? Le Front de Libération Nationale’s guerillas attacked government and military installations, police stations, and public utilities across the country.”

/>   I knew that the Front de Libération Nationale was a group of Muslims who wanted to free Algeria from French control, but never felt they were a direct menace to me and my family. Now, the sudden and widespread FLN attacks on the French government caused my forearms to bristle with apprehension.

  Before Papa could reply to Tonton Antoine, a neighbor rushed through the open door. “Excuse me, Antoine, for crashing in on you like this, but I saw your family from Constantine is here, and I wondered if you knew what happened.”

  Tonton Antoine said, “Yes, we know what happened last night.”

  “No, not last night. Today.”

  “What happened?”

  “The FLN ambushed the car of pro-French government Muslim officials outside Philippeville. They shot the occupants, including two school teachers newly arrived from France. One of them, a woman, is barely alive.”

  Tonton Antoine half turned on his bench seat and turned on the radio, catching a voice in mid sentence. “… outrage has already been dubbed ‘La Toussaint Rouge.’ ”

  The Red All Saints Day—like La Saint Bartelemy de 1572 en France? I remembered a painting I had seen of La Toussaint Rouge. Angry Catholics carrying torches and weapons, forcing open the doors of Protestant dwellings. Dragging sleepy men, women, and children onto the cobbled streets and slaughtering them. Faces flickered under the dancing flames of torches while they died; mouths open in soundless pleas for mercy ….