Sirocco Page 6

  He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, lit it, and took a long drag as he waved the match in the air.

  Knowing better than to rush him, I held my breath while he dropped the smoking match in the ashtray and picked up the thread of his monologue. “This is the beauty of the theory, you see ….” As an afterthought, he asked, “Do you know who Carlos Marighella is?”

  Eyes wide, I shook my head and shrugged.

  “He’s a Brazillian guerilla leader who advocates terrorism in order to get the support of the masses.”

  “How’s that, Pa?”

  “Simple. Imagine you’re the government of a given country, any country, and guerillas perform deliberate acts of sabotage that kill innocent people. What would you do?

  I raised my shoulders and opened my hands wide. “Obviously, I’d send troupes to catch the terrorists and make them pay for their crimes.”

  “At any cost?”

  “Et bien, oui. I think.”

  “But the guerillas hide among the general population or use them as shields. What then?”

  I exhaled deeply, trying to find my way. “If …. If I don’t go after the bad guys, they’re going to keep on killing people, so … maybe I … I’d go after the terrorists, even ….”

  Papa peered at me through slit lids. “Even if it means hurting innocent people?”

  I nodded with reluctance, my heart pounding as if I were one of the ones I had just condemned to die. Then I took a deep breath and absolved myself. “I’d die inside, but I think this is what I’d have to do.”

  “Yep,” Pa said. “And that’s exactly what Marighella’s counting on: the government retaliates, causing collateral damage, which in turn moves the general population to forget the terrorists were really the ones who started the bloodshed in which they were the victims and they side with the terrorists.”

  Feeling lost in a maze, I asked, “So, Papa, what’s the solution? What’s going to happen now?”

  He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen—and mark my words ….”

  I could tell, now, that I had his unreserved attention. I almost purred with satisfaction. Warming up to his subject, Pa flicked one finger at a time, counting.

  “One. After the French retaliations against the Philippeville massacre, most of the moderate Muslims will side with the FLN.

  “Two. The Governor General of Algeria, Jacques Soustelle—who until now was urging the integration of the Muslim community within French Algeria—will start promoting repression against supporters of independence.

  “Three. In Metropolitan France, this bloodshed against the Arab population will sicken our countrymen, who will turn against the government policies of Algérie Française, therefore against us, les Pieds-Noirs.” Pa lit a new cigarette, sucked on it, and exhaled gray smoke then continued, “And, remember this: les Pieds-Noirs will ultimately end up being the scapegoats for the French government’s bungling.”

  My father had always been right in his predictions and tonight he scared me. My face usually betrayed my inner feelings, but I wanted Papa to go on with his prophecies, so I kept a poker face as he spoke his mind.

  He flipped another finger. “Four. The United Nations—including the United States as well as the Communists around the globe and the Muslim countries—will dub us the villains.” He flicked a hand in a closing gesture and picked up his fork, for once not caring that his food was cold.

  I waited until he finished his dinner before daring another question. “But Papa, who is going to be on our side?”

  He raised his arm in a powerless gesture and left the table. “You mean, ‘Who’s going to be against us?’ The answer is, everyone.” In an afterthought, he turned and added, “Unless a couple of the generals like Salan and Massu decide enough is enough and side with us, but that’s another matter.”

  Not wanting to try his patience further, I kissed him. “Bonne nuit, Papa,” and began to stack dishes in the sink.

  “Bonne nuit, ma fille,” he said. I loved it when he called me his girl.

  As he started toward his bedroom, I pushed my luck and asked, “Papa, why do the Patos call us Pieds-Noirs?”

  He stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Because name-calling is human nature. It’s what people do to groups who are different from them.” He took his pack of Gauloises out of his breast pocket and stared at it. “We call the French born in Metropole, ‘Patos’ and they call Europeans born in Algeria, ‘Pieds-Noirs.’ ”

  “Yes, but what does that mean, Pa?”

  He pulled a cigarette halfway out then pushed it back in and returned the pack to his shirt. “Patos means ducks. By extension it means clumsy oaf, gauche; it refers to the way clog-wearing peasants walk—like ducks. And, as the majority of Metropolitan French live outside big cities, they are lumped together as peasants—therefore, Patos.

  “And the Pieds-Noirs, Pa?”

  The most probable explanation for ‘Pied-Noir’ is that the Napoleonic armies who conquered Algeria wore black ankle boots while the inhabitants of Algeria went barefoot or wore babouches. In that they are a culture that expresses itself through imagery, the Arabs equated the color of the boots to the people who wore them, ergo, ‘Black Feet.’ ”

  I sighed with relief. “So ‘Pied-Noir’ isn’t an insult?”

  “Not unless it is used in the connotation of ‘dirty or unwashed feet,’ which is, most likely, what the Patos mean.”

  “So, they are insulting us?”

  “No. They are unifying us.”

  “How’s that, Pa?”

  “When you reduce different categories of people—like the French, Italians, Germans, Spaniards, Jews, and many others who have settled here—to a single group by calling them pejorative names, they’ll close rank and fight back as one, no matter what their ethnic and religious differences.” Papa turned on his heels. “Let me go to bed now, Nanna,” he said, and left the kitchen and a daughter pleased by his special attention and armed with loads of information to process.

  Like most children, I gleaned my information about Les Événements by asking questions from adults, eavesdropping on their conversations, or paying attention to radio and newspaper reports of random shootings of Europeans by the FLN. Of grenades thrown in restaurants, movie theaters, cafés, and buses with no mind paid to collateral damage to their fellow Arabs.

  “Le Téléphone Arabe,” or word-of-mouth, was another channel the Pieds-Noirs and Arab population used to spread news of butchered farmers and their families, their cattle slaughtered, their farms, crops and schools burned, their vines and fruit trees chopped down.

  Eyes wide, partly from fear, partly from fascination with the ghoulish, we children relayed among ourselves whispered tidbits about the fellagha cutting off tongues, ears, heads, and visiting unspeakable horrors upon Muslim officials working for the French, upon their families, and upon those who sided with the French, like the Harkis—the Arab soldiers serving in the French army.

  Zizou whispered in my ear, “Nanna, do you think they cut the throats of the soldiers they catch before they cut off their balls and stuff them in their mouths or,” she made a face, “do they cut their throats after?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to quell the horrid images and, at the same time, sound learned and wise to my younger sister. “I hope they cut their throats first, but it would be meaner to cut them after.”

  Zizou gulped. “And when they take unborn babies out of their mothers’ stomachs, do you think the babies feel anything?”

  “I don’t think so, but it has to be really horrible for their mothers.”

  It felt as if each tale of needless violence decreased my ability to feel other people’s pain. I feared that my heart was drying up a little bit at a time. “You know,” I said, “I read that, a long time ago, some Indian tribes in America did things like this. They’d make a hole in a prisoner’s belly, pull a piece of their guts out, tie the end to a tree and force the
prisoner to run around the tree until all his guts were wrapped around it.”

  Zizou’s eyes dilated. “You mean like Maman unravels an old sweater and makes a ball out of it?”

  “Just like it.”

  While our history was being written in blood, we went about our business, believing it possible that we and our families might not see the end of each day. Then came a time when violence, mourning, and uncertainty became ordinary fare. Nevertheless, our lives went on like carts lumbering on square wheels.

  Chapter Seven

  Djebel Ouach. Nanna is the little girl with short hair. Maman on her right. Pépé Honninger in front with bottle of champagne. Debbah with hat, third from left.

  Djebel Ouach

  April, 1956

  One of these bumpy, square-wheeled rides led us along to Easter celebrations. Following the yearly tradition, and in spite of the war, Europeans who lived in or nearby Constantine continued to spend Easter Monday at Djebel Ouach—a breezy plateau crowned with stands of oaks, pines, and eucalypti that hugged five artificial lakes supplying water to the plains region.

  Extended families, neighbors, and friends gathered in small groups seated on blankets spread over patchy grass. After the midday meal, the picnickers doused the coals, wrapped up the leftover food, exchanged news, played cards or Boules, fished, or took a nap. The best time was after siesta, at about four, when people danced to the music of accordions, drums, and trumpets. Pépé Honninger pulled out castanets from his pocket and accompanied the band with a gusto he’d never show otherwise. My enthusiasm was such that I’d grab Zizou’s or Mimi’s hands and we’d shuffle or hop as we mimicked the dancing adults.

  At the close of one of these Easter lunches, Pépé Honninger grabbed his fishing pole, lures and worms and Maman clapped her hands. “It is time for a nap, les enfants.”

  Under Papa’s rule, we took our siestas when he took his. Being almost twelve and the oldest, I had to set the example. So I lay flat on my back, arms along my body, and breathed slowly, willing my lids to become heavy with sleep. However, the air vibrated with repressed energy.

  Flying insects wove darts of light as they flitted from sun to shade. I inhaled the bitter tang of crushed weeds, the sharp essence of pines, and the eucalypti’s delicate fragrance. I had slipped into a cozy half doze—low-droned bits of conversations dissolving into the breeze off the lakes—when a bug landed on my cheek. I slapped it, sat up, and no longer willing to remain still, slipped on my sandals, taking care not to wake my father. I adjusted my shorts and sleeveless top and strolled toward the trees. Tall grasses of pale gold tickled my legs. Small animals scurried away. Buzzing insects dashed from dots of sun to spots of shade, looking like fireflies. Grasshoppers hopped, revealing dark red wings, and cicadas played like violins nursing a cold. A thrilling sense of freedom put a spring in my step, taking me farther into the trees.

  A gnarled pine tree rose in my way, its trunk blanketed in dark-brown moss with long thin stems crowned with tiny pods. In one spot, the bark oozed sap that congealed into beads of translucent amber. I pinched a blob between index and thumb and brought it to my nose. It was sticky and smelled of the gumdrops Pépé Honninger gave us for our sore throats. I put my tongue to it and tasted turpentine.

  While I wiped my fingers on a tuft of grass at the foot of the tree, my eyes followed the moss-covered trunk to its bristled crown. What fun it would be to look down at people from high up.

  The trunk’s slight incline made it easy to scale, and soon I clung to it several feet above the ground. The moss felt soft against my skin.

  We had just studied moss at school, and I wondered what type it was.

  Strange. Shouldn’t it be growing on the north side of the tree, like lichen? Why was it growing all around?

  Another thought followed. Isn’t this place too dry for moss to be growing?

  Curious, I hugged the trunk with both my legs and left hand and, with my other hand, plucked a tuft of moss by the pods. The pinched stems stirred. I took a closer look. They look like legs!

  LEGS?

  My heart thumped once. I stopped breathing. This wasn’t moss I was hugging. These were hundreds, no, THOUSANDS, no, MILLIONS of spiders with long legs and tiny bodies.

  I yelped, let go of the tree, and fell to the ground. Scuttling to my feet, I sprinted to the picnic area. While I raced, BILLIONS of spiders scurried over my feet, my legs, my hands, and my lower arms. The faster I ran, the more spiders covered my skin.

  At the camp, I flung myself onto the blanket, shrieking, rocking back and forth to shake them off. Papa uncoiled like a snake from his blanket. He bore down on me and brought me to my feet. “What’s wrong with you?” He turned to Maman. “Is she hysterical or what?”

  I squealed. Batted at his hands and the spiders. He shook me. “Get hold of yourself.”

  Maman threw a mug-full of water at my face.

  Suddenly, the spiders were gone and everyone at Djebel Ouach stared.

  Maman came close and brushed wet hair from my face. “What happened, ma fille?”

  “Didn’t you see the spiders?”

  “What spiders?”

  “The spiders that were ALL over me?”

  “I did not see any spiders.”

  “Oui, oui, they were HERE and HERE and HERE, they were ALL OVER me.” With each word, I hit a part of my body—hard.

  “I am sorry, ma fille, there were no spiders.”

  “Yes there were, and I’ll show you where I got them.”

  I grabbed her hand and pulled hard. Zizou and Mireille hung close. Papa and the onlookers followed. Far behind, trying to keep up, Yves hung on to a grinning Riri.

  At the foot of the tree, I pointed at the trunk. Triumphant. “Here they are.”

  Papa and two other men picked curiously at the “moss,” agreeing that these were indeed spiders. “However,” they wondered, “what made her believe she was crawling with them?”

  Papa slipped into the role of “Inspecteur Vincent,” as he called himself whenever he was in an inquiring mood. He ordered me to reenact my story from the time I reached the foot of the tree.

  I clutched Maman’s arm. “NON. I don’t want to go up that tree again.”

  “All right. Let’s say, you are climbing the tree, what happens?” Papa asked.

  “My legs and my arms are around the tree, and I see that the moss on the trunk is not moss but TRILLIONS of spiders.”

  Zizou chuckled. Mireille swatted at invisible spiders crawling up her arms. The boys were still trying to catch up with us. Ma took my hand. Papa’s mouth twitched at one corner. “Let’s not lay it on too thick now, shall we? What do you do then?”

  “I fall down and then I get up real quick and I run real fast and then spiders run ALL OVER me.”

  “Alors, do it,” Pa said.

  I watched him, puzzled. He stood tall, feet apart, cigarette loosely dangling from his lips, one eye half-closed against the rising thread of blue smoke, hands on hips. “Get,” he barked.

  I sprinted toward the campsite. Waist-high grasses lashed at my skin. I screeched, then stopped. The thin golden stalks bore crowns of maturing hairy seeds that tickled as I waded through them. Mortified, I walked back and confessed, “I thought the weeds were spiders.”

  Papa walked away, shaking his head, scowling, one hand in his pants pocket, the other, holding the cigarette, flung into the air as if to say, “My poor girl, you are such an asshole. What am I to do with you?”

  The onlookers followed, talking and laughing. I tagged along, the boys, finally caught up, by my side.

  Back at the picnic ground, humiliated and exhausted, I dropped down on our blanket, my brothers on each side of me.

  “Spider,” Riri warned, as he cast a dry leaf at my face and laughed.

  I scooted backward with a whimper.

  Papa picked up his boules for a game of pétanque and walked away. “When will you learn to get your head out of your ass and start living among us?” he snar
led over his shoulder.

  I sat on the blanket, shivering in the warm air, as the first beats of an accordion and the clacking of Pépé’s castanets announced dancing time.

  A Dream

  That very night, after I finally managed to fall asleep, I woke up in the center of a greenhouse. The glass-paneled ceiling and walls muffled outdoor sounds. A heavy coat of grime and dust filtered the bright daylight.

  I brushed aside the drapes of thick muslin surrounding me. Their ripples revealed more folds. I spun slowly, looking for an exit. But there was none.

  TRAPPED!

  I held my breath and charged through the hanging layers. Arms extended. Head low. Eyes slitted. The drapes tore in swatches of tacky dust and stuck to my head. My arms. My clothes. I plucked them off my face. They clung to my fingers. I moaned. What’s this stuff?

  Like a caged bird, my heart banged against my ribs. I screeched, “Wake up, Nanna!” But this was not a dream. I thrashed and spun in a mindless whirl. The webs pinned my arms against my sides. Swathed me in a cocoon. Eyes sealed open. I moaned. Panted for air. A lump of dusty muslin plugged my mouth ….

  “Hush, ma fille, hush. It’s only a nightmare.”

  I gulped a lungful of air and opened my eyes. Saw Ma bending over me, holding my bloodied hands. “You scratched your ears.” She dabbed ether on the lobes of my newly pierced ears. “They look all right. We can leave the earrings in.” She bathed my face and hands with cold towels, gave me water mixed with sugar and Aspirin, and then stayed with me until I fell asleep.

  The next morning, she asked, “Do your earlobes hurt, ma fille? Do you need to take your earrings off?”

  I shook my head. The small gold earrings had been Mémé Honninger’s then Maman’s, given to them at their Communion Solennelle. Now they were mine for my own First Communion. The prettiest things I’d ever owned. “They sting a little, Ma, but I’ll keep them on.”