Tomorrow They Won't Dare to Murder Us

by Joseph Andras

  ~

  Oh, you know, it’s not that easy over there, whatever they say: even the southern sun forgets to keep up the act sometimes. His grandfather has made a mustard pork roast. The French authorities don’t want to listen to Muslim demands. To the “natives,” as they say. It’s absurd, in addition to being obscene. Going to drive us straight into a wall, believe me, without any turn or anything, nose against brick. Hélène listens closely while cutting her meat. I don’t remember the exact date, if you’ll forgive me, but what is certain is that the Arabs have been organizing for years to be heard, to win equality for all, between every community at home, in Algeria. But it’s like shouting in the desert. Nothing. Zero. We put them behind bars and abolish their parties, dissolved, reduced to silence and then we stand oh so tall, with Culture, Liberty, Civilization, those capital letters, paraded up and down, scrubbed and polished in front of the mirror, the shinier the better … Oh, you should see how much they love that stuff. The day France was liberated—I’m speaking of the mainland, of course, I’ll say it again: for me Algeria is Algeria, I don’t believe in their French department twaddle, that’s like parchment, like flint, it’s done for, over. Look at Indochina right now. Ho Chi Minh made it very clear when he told them that a new page had to be turned. No one listened, and now look where it’s got us … Well, so: the day France celebrated victory over the Germans, I don’t know how many Muslims, thousands, more, were being massacred in the country, at Sétif, at Guelma. Those names probably don’t mean a thing to you, they’re about 300 and 500 kilometers from Algiers. Anyway, the stories I’ve been told, I wouldn’t dare repeat them to you, I promise. Especially since we’re eating—and besides, grandpa, I’ve got to tell you: your roast, it’s not just delicious, oh no, even to say that would be an insult, it’s, it’s (Fernand waves his hands), there are no words to describe it. In short, I need to look into other alphabets to describe your roast (his grandfather laughs and looks at Hélène, then Fernand, hell of a guy this one, you’ll see, Miss, he’s quite a guy). Hélène smiles and wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Fernand hesitates: I’m not boring you with these stories, am I? Oh no, not at all, it’s really interesting, on the contrary. Fernand passes a finger over his mustache and resumes: I was born in ’26, wasn’t even twenty at the time but I remember those things very well, Arabs would tell me about them when we talked. The kind of stories that wreck your sleep. People burned alive with gasoline, crops pillaged, bodies thrown in wells, just like that, grabbed and tossed in, or burned in ovens, kids, women, everyone. The army shooting at everything that moves, to crush dissent. And not just the army, mind you, there were settlers and militiamen as well, hand in glove, all dancing the same damn jig. Death is one thing, but humiliation goes deeper, gets under the skin, it plants little seeds of anger and screws up whole generations; I remember a story someone told me, it happened in Melbou, there’s no blood but maybe it’s worse, blood dries faster than shame: they forced some Arabs to kneel before our flag and say We are dogs, Ferhat Abbas is a dog. Abbas is one of their leaders and still, he’s a moderate, wears a tie, doesn’t even demand complete independence, he just wants justice. Even the moderates are met with contempt. A French journalist saw it all, I’m not making it up.

  About Algeria, Hélène knows only what is reported in the French press. That is, nothing, apart from the state’s moralizing piffle. Fernand gets up to help clear the table and make room for the cheese platter. The grandfather begs Hélène to stay seated, it’s not every day he has guests, she should make the most of it. How does he see the future? she asks Fernand when they’re sitting down again. Fernand’s hand goes through his hair. He doesn’t really know. However, he has no doubt that things will go from bad to worse. The status quo doesn’t work anymore. Some people are talking about the Vietnamese model, to rise up by force of arms and join the guerrillas, but many more, he notes, don’t believe in it. Fernand, for his part, aspires to just one thing: that the Algeria of tomorrow end up, voluntarily or otherwise, recognizing all of its children, wherever they’re from, him or his parents and grandparents, doesn’t matter, Arabs, Berbers, Jews, Italians, Spaniards, Maltese, French, Germans … Millions were born in that land, and a handful of property-owners, barons who possess neither laws nor morals, have reigned over the country with the assent and even the backing of successive French governments: we must get rid of this system, clear Algeria of these kinglets and create a new regime with a popular base, made up of Arab and European workers together, humble people, the small and the unassuming of every race united to defeat the crooks who oppress us and hold us to ransom. His grandfather sniggers: here he goes with his communist fancies, don’t listen to him Mademoiselle Hélène, when he gets into his stride, the seas start swelling and the levees break!

  On the floor like a flattened pigeon, his hair.

  The scissors expertly perform their task: Fernand’s head is soon bare. It is then tilted to the left, while a razor blade goes over his cheek and shaves a beard which, since his arrest ten days prior, has grown seriously long. Two armed guards are on hand to ensure the operation runs smoothly. Fernand looks at the brown tufts scattered at the feet of the man wielding the blades. It is seven in the morning.

  He is presented with a package his wife insisted they give him: clean clothes for his trial. He puts them on. The guards don’t even bother to turn their backs. A van awaits downstairs, outside the prison. He gets in, hands shackled behind his back, head bent forward. Not a word has come out of his mouth since he woke up. He distrusts words, now: he knows they can be torn from him by force and turned inside out like a glove. The military court is in rue Cavignac. Journalists and photographers are present en masse and there is much jostling in the crowd. Hélène came with Fernand’s father and his second wife. She cut her hair a little shorter last night—or a friendly neighbor cut it for her—without knowing why, just to think about something else, if only for thirty minutes. Pascal, the father, clenches his jaw. He has hardly slept. Grayish eyes, purple swellings. On the way, Hélène told her parents-in-law that they must absolutely not shed tears in public, must avoid the slightest show of weakness or fear. All of them, the press and the public, would love the chance to gloat at their torment.

  The doors to the court open and everyone rushes inside. A flock of birds of ill omen. That’s Iveton’s wife, that’s her, they’re shouting already. Who could have recognized her? Hélène does not turn around, she lets the calls grow louder, the gobs of spit and hatred roll off her back. She is shoved (too roughly for her to think it was an accident), and elbows out in response, still without turning around. She refuses to turn her head for those who would sever that of her beloved. The small courtroom is packed with curious onlookers. On a balcony, twenty or so armed soldiers. They sit in designated seats. Once the public have taken theirs, seven judges enter, all in military uniform, colonel, captain or second lieutenant. Granjean, Pallier, Longchampt, Nicoleau, Graverian, Valverde and Roynard—the names of those about to judge a traitor.

  Two gendarmes take Fernand to the dock. He makes his way with head bowed, cheeks more sunken than usual. It takes a few seconds for Hélène to realize that it is really him. What have they done to him, she asks herself, her stomach immediately twisted, clenched, smothered by grief and anguish. She recalls her own injunctions: never show feeling, never give up. And then she looks at him, her handsome love, with his nearly bald head and vague, vacant eyes. So vacant she cannot call them his, since those animal eyes do not reveal the man he is: beatendown eyes, absent. And his mouth, closed as if condemned to remain so. And that bony face, a corpse’s mask on a captive body … They’ve even shaved off his mustache, the scum. Fernand looks for her, his gaze wandering over the audience. He surveys each face, hoping to find the one without whom, he fears, he has nothing left. Hélène’s sole presence would allow him to face this squadron of uniformed inquisitors, even if they cannot talk to one another. He finally catches sight of her, flanked by his parents. He
smiles: she’s cut her hair a bit, he notices. Her blue eyes flicker in the distance, two tiny lanterns in the night of Justice. He sits down. She makes a sign for him to close the top button on his shirt, but he doesn’t understand. He frowns, she gestures with her hands. In vain. Journalists wonder: what kind of code is this?

  The presiding judge begins by reading the charges before he declares that Fernand may incur the death penalty, unless extenuating circumstances can be determined and therefore proved. Then he questions Fernand directly. Yes, I am a communist militant. Fernand has raised his head. They look at each other, and he continues, the clerk listening attentively: “I took the decision to become one because I think of myself as Algerian, and I am not indifferent to the struggle of the Algerian people. It seemed to me wrong for the French to stand apart from the struggle. I love France, I love France very much, I love France enormously, but I have no love for colonialists.” Whistles and exclamations in the audience. “Which is why I accepted.” The judge asks him if he had planned, within his militant cell, to use all means necessary. Fernand answers: “Not all. There are several ways to take action. For our group, it was never a matter of destruction by all possible means, or of making an attempt on anyone’s life. We were determined to draw the French government’s attention to the growing number of combatants fighting for greater social happiness in this land of Algeria.” Yesterday, Fernand prepared statements which he could recite with clarity and precision. He tidied up his thoughts so as not to be taken unawares. He determined to speak calmly, in a warm and serene voice (or so it must sound, at least), without tempering anything of his commitment or the strength of his convictions. He specifies that he chose to place the bomb in a spot he knew was deserted. Hélène looks at him, she sees him in profile, his square face, angular, his beautiful pointed nose. She feels pride, of course, but not just that: an irrepressible desire to take him in her arms and lift him out of this hellhole. His friendship with the traitor Maillot, Henri Maillot, is reported, and the presiding judge asks him whether he knows the damage that his bomb could have caused had it not been discovered in time. “It would’ve collapsed a partition or two. I would never have accepted, even under pressure, to act in a way that caused death. I am sincere in my political ideals and I believed that my actions would prove that not all European Algerians are anti-Arab, because this gulf keeps on growing …” Judge Roynard shrugs and makes a show of his astonishment at the idea of bringing people closer together by fomenting an attack. The laboratory director hands in his report: he explains that, sure enough, such an explosive device can only impact a radius of three to five meters, not enough to demolish a concrete wall. Roynard nonetheless affirms that the bombs of the Milk Bar and La Cafétéria recently provoked a great many innocent fatalities, and that Fernand’s undertaking cannot but remind us of those vile deeds. The accused strongly objects and demands to be judged on his own case, not on the actions of others to which he has no link. Oriol, the foreman, comes to the witness box. So it was him after all, the snitch, thinks Fernand. Oriol assures the court that the closet was by no means abandoned, and someone could easily have been there—someone like himself, to begin with, who patrols nearby at 17:45 every day. An engineer corroborates this, also claiming to stop by every day. Fernand interrupts him, almost brutally: “When did you ever have to go there at night?” Unsettled, the engineer replies that no one has ever done that, it’s true, in the four years he’s worked at the factory. A police officer and his chief follow him into the box. Then Fernand, on his feet, suddenly lifts his shirt, having quietly unbuttoned his jacket during the officer’s testimony, and raises his voice to denounce the atrocities committed against his person. “Ten days later, I still bear the marks! They tortured me!” he shouts. The audience simmers, grows agitated. Silence must be called for. His two lawyers, Laînné and Smadja, demand a doctor to examine the accused. The court grants their request—but stipulates the services of a military doctor …

  The hearing is adjourned.

  The room empties out, a slow trickle of souls in wait for drops of thick, living blood. Hélène blows a kiss to Fernand from her palm. The two gendarmes who took him to the court now push him into an adjacent room. Fernand sits on a bench. He thinks he spoke as well as he could, he hopes he was convincing. They cannot execute him for a bomb that didn’t explode and which, as even the laboratory director agreed, could hardly have harmed a large fly … Fernand is not too worried, therefore. France, even if it’s a colonial and capitalist republic, is no dictatorship; it will see what’s what, be able to disentangle truth from falsehood and read between the enemy’s lines. A man enters, he is the doctor. They greet one another, Fernand removes his shirt and the man—thickset, with particularly bushy eyebrows—examines his torso. Neck, stomach, shoulder blades. Fernand mentions that he was also tortured on the rest of his body and, without waiting for a response, unbuttons his pants. Well, well, remarks the doctor, who has from the start avoided meeting the prisoner’s eyes. I shall write my report at once so that the judges can read it before the court sits again, at three o’clock. Fernand thanks him.

  He is given something to eat, and then the trial resumes. The government commissioner declares that whatever Fernand’s intentions—to kill or not to kill innocent people—the crime remains the same. The medical report is read out: the accused has “superficial scars on his torso and his limbs” but, due to their age, “the exact cause of these marks is impossible to ascertain.” Fernand asks to speak, permission is refused, and the commissioner continues: in the name of those little children who were sacrificed in cafés, it is important to punish criminals. Solemn, and with History ensconced on the tip of his tongue, he concludes: “You must also think of France, whose prestige and influence in the world are blemished by these monstrous acts.” The death penalty is therefore, in his view, required. Smadja protests against the little time—and that’s an understatement, your honors!—the court lawyers had to prepare their client’s defense. The pernicious atmosphere, he continues, this cold atmosphere, drunk on resentment and fury, is not conducive to a proper review of the case: we must judge Iveton not for attacks committed by others but for his personal actions, and those alone. Smadja speaks in a clear, high voice, without moving his body. It’s been shown that the room was abandoned, proved by several witnesses, and it is only fair to perceive my client’s sincerity when he forcefully affirms that he did not, that he could not, in logistical terms, mount an attack upon the life of anyone. Laînné endorses this and, with his bullish body, rams the defense’s point home: “For once, I agree entirely with the prosecution. As the government commissioner said: ‘the prestige of France hangs in the balance.’ France is the land of the rule of law! The mood surrounding the case assigned to you is heavy, sorrowful, bereaved by appalling acts which call for the utmost severity. And yet, precisely because of that, justice requires that you do not let yourselves run aground on the shoals that may await you.” Rustling in the court. A few boos. Now Laînné improvises an attack on the Communist Party, which would appear to have manipulated his client, a nice, ingenuous boy, armed only with good intentions. The lawyer knows that this argument, in view of the rabid anti-communism of the authorities and of the court, could advocate for mitigating circumstances. Fernand is surprised by his line of defense. He has never met this Charles Laînné, but Smadja told him that he was known and respected by his peers. No doubt he knows what he’s doing … And Laînné now calls for the judges’ leniency: yes, Iveton must be punished but, in order for this to happen, he must remain alive to atone for his mistakes (when Fernand hears the verb atone, he remembers that Smadja also presented him as a devout Christian). All the same, it might be detrimental to imply that he acted under the influence of others; Fernand speaks for the last time and, calmly, explains once again that he could not remain indifferent to the evolution of his people, that of the Arabs and Europeans united together. “I had to join in with its action. But never, I repeat, never would I have wished to
take part in an action which would have led to someone’s death, even if I had been forced to.”

  The court announces that it will now withdraw in order to deliberate and reach a decision.

  His grandfather probably thought they were a couple: just the one bed, no mattress on the floor. Hélène and Fernand make no mention of it but the thought is on their minds. She undoes her hair while he unlaces his shoes. If you want, he says, I can sleep on the floor: it’s not that uncomfortable and I’ve got a good back. I don’t know, do as you like, but I’d feel guilty if you were to have a bad night … No, don’t worry about me, really, I’ve been through worse. Hélène responds with a smile. She dares not admit that she would prefer to have him by her side, under this coarse blanket—maybe he’d take it amiss? Maybe she’s jumping the gun, since he still won’t address her informally, with the familiar tu? Fernand keeps his sweater on, afraid of seeming too forward. He does however claim one of the bed’s two pillows, and then a quilt from the wardrobe. He lies down in it after cushioning the floor with one half. Hélène goes past him, through to the hallway to brush her teeth. The light in the room is turned off. She comes back, slips inside the bed. Good night, Hélène, sleep well. You too.