“The D.S.T.,” Poiston replied, “but nothing would persuade them to make it available, least of all to you.”
“Where’s the card index kept?”
“State Police Headquarters, third floor of the Prefecture, Room 417. Is that all you want to know? You’d better be quick about it, the card index is liable to be moved at any moment.”
“Thanks for the information, Poiston.”
“But I haven’t given you any information!”
On the evening of 20 January, Marindelle had called on Christiane Bellinger. He did not have time to let her know he was coming and found her in company with a Moslem friend, whom she introduced to him by the name of Amar. She had known him, she told him, for a long time, for he had been her guide on her first expedition to the Mzab. He had managed to get her into certain Ibadite circles and into Melika, the holy city, and had introduced her to an old cof official who had given her valuable information on the Immamate of Tiaret in the tenth century.
Christiane seemed restless and uneasy; she kept launching into technical terms and historical references to make Amar’s presence there more plausible.
At first the captain wondered if she slept with this Arab when he was away, but quickly realized this was highly improbable. With Christiane, Marindelle had found peace and happiness, the pleasure of long conversations, and affection too; all that Jeanine had been unable to give him. Christiane was not the sort of woman to conceal from him that she had another liaison if such was the case. She had frankly admitted far more embarrassing things to him, in particular the passion she had once had for one of her young female pupils, of which she had never been completely cured.
Amar seemed a rather odd little chap, with eyes that sparkled with intelligence, a broad forehead above a rather commonplace face, and chubby little hands like a child’s.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Captain,” he said in his gentle voice, “Christiane has often spoken to me about you and your experiences out in Indo-China.
“Christiane’s a little uneasy because she thinks I’m not quite in order; I once spent five years in prison at Lambèse for . . . let’s call it nationalism . . . and there’s a rumour that you paratroops are soon going to be masters of Algiers, that you’re going to be invested with every power, including therefore the powers of the police.
“Don’t worry, though, my growing pains are over and there’s nothing that can be held against me now.”
“You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you, Yves?” Christiane asked. “We’ve all become rather on edge in Algiers. All this shooting in the streets, these bombs and searches . . . You see, I even ask you if you’ll stay to dinner when this house is just as much yours as mine! I’ve asked Amar to move in here. Up to now he’s been living in the Kasbah, where he’s exposed to all sorts of troubles. He’s like me, he has nothing to do with this war.”
After dinner Marindelle had a long conversation with Amar.
The uneasy atmosphere had lifted; Christiane had put Mozart’s Horn Concerto on the gramophone, which reminded Yves of their first awkward embraces. Amar sat with his eyes closed, puffing at his cigarette.
“How long were you a prisoner?” he asked the captain.
“Four years.”
“I was inside for five. What did you think about all that time? What enabled you . . . how shall I put it? . . . to remain yourself?”
“I made the best of it. The Vietminh taught me a number of things . . . among others, that the old world was doomed.”
“It’s doomed in Algeria just as much as in the Far East. Why are you fighting to preserve it?”
“My friend Boisfeuras would say: ‘To give the lie to History.’ History is on the side of the Nationalists, as it’s on the side of the Communists. Anyone who tries to turn man into a submissive robot is travelling with the flow of History. What I’m fighting against in Algeria is this mechanization of man.”
“If I were a rebel, I would say I was fighting for much the same reason. At one time I fought so that we Moslems should become French. It was a great mistake. It’s in themselves, in their history, that nations must seek their reasons for existing.”
“And when they haven’t any history?”
“They must invent it.”
“France is an offspring of Rome, but she’s not ashamed of it.”
“Algeria will also be an offspring of France. But the time has come to divorce, and one of the parents refuses to divorce, in the name of the past, in the name of moral rights, because her settlers cultivated the fallow land, built towns and apartment houses. The Vietminh must have taught you that History is ungrateful.”
“The Nationalists are going rather too far to obtain this divorce: outrages, arson, bombs, the massacre of children . . . culminating in Communism. If you think that History . . .”
“The weak have to use whatever weapons are at hand. The bomb may be the weapon of faith, and the just man (it was a Frenchman from Algeria who said this) may be the one who throws the bomb to destroy a tyranny, even if that bomb kills some innocent victims. If you granted us independence, perhaps we would come back to you.”
“You’re divided among yourselves by different languages and customs; the people of the mountains hate those of the plain . . . If we left you to your own devices, you’d be at each other’s throats. You’re not a nation.”
“I know. I’ve also said, like Ferhat Abbas: ‘I’ve looked for Algeria in books and cemeteries and I never found her.’ But since then you’ve filled our cemeteries sufficiently to create a history for us.”
“Do you believe the Algerian people will benefit from independence?”
“It’s too late to think about that. The Algerian people have been too scarred by war, their existence has been too disturbed to turn the clock back at this stage. You yourselves are creating Algeria through this war, by uniting all the races, Berbers, Arabs, Kabyles and Chaouias. The rebels should be almost grateful to you for the violent measures of repression you have taken.”
“And the million French?”
“Why do you think that we, who number eight million, should be forced to become like them, which they have always refused to allow in any case?”
“Very soon all men will be alike all over the world.”
“What interests us is today and not tomorrow.”
“And you, Christiane, what do you think?” Marindelle asked.
“All I want is peace,” she said, “and that the masses should have the right to account for themselves.”
“It’s always a mere handful of men who account for the masses, and nothing great, alas, has ever emerged from peace, neither a nation—as Amar has just pointed out—nor a great work. Peace has always been the reign of mediocrities, and pacificism the bleating of a herd of sheep which allow themselves to be led to the slaughter-house without defending themselves.”
“I never pictured you as an apostle of war, Yves, but then I keep forgetting you’re an officer.”
“You’ve just said,” Amar went on, “that it’s always a mere handful of men who account for the masses; that’s true. But these men still have to follow the basic direction of the masses. The handful of men that make up the F.L.N., either here or in Cairo, are moving, in my opinion, in that direction.”
“The side who’ll win, my dear Amar, is the one who’ll take the masses in hand: us . . . I’m referring to our own little army out here, which is numerically inferior to the fellaghas’ or to you.”
“I’m not a rebel. Can you see an impractical little intellectual like me at the head of a rebellion? But let’s pretend, for the sake of argument; let’s assume I am a rebel, a leader of the rebellion.”
Amar’s eyes sparkled with mischief. He went on:
“There’s only one word for me: Istiqlal, independence. It’s a deep, fine-sounding word and rings in the ears of the poor fellahin
more loudly than poverty, social security or free medical assistance. We Algerians, steeped as we are in Islam, are in greater need of dreams and dignity than practical care. And you? What word have you got to offer? If it’s better than mine, then you’ve won.”
“We haven’t any, but we’re now going to start thinking seriously of one. Thanks for the advice.”
“Not at all, but you won’t be able to find it, for this word is unique and belongs to us. Let’s go on pretending, if you don’t mind, Captain. You’re just back from Egypt, I gather?”
“Yes.”
“You were beaten by the Egyptians.”
“Yet they ran pretty fast at the sight of us, leaving their weapons and sometimes their trousers behind.”
“That bunch of runaways, that tin-pot army incapable of using the arms which the Russians had given them, those officers with splendid moustaches who stripped down to their under-pants so as to run all the faster, nevertheless defeated you—you, the paratroops, who are said to be the finest force in the whole of free Europe—and they defeated you by taking to their heels! The whole world rose up against France and England, the Russians and Americans alike, because in Egypt you tried to play a game that is no longer in current usage. You’ve been allowed to play that game again in Algeria, but it won’t last much longer. Maybe within the next few days the general strike will ring the death knoll of French imperialism in the Maghreb.”
“If we break that strike . . .”
“We’ll start another one later, until the whole world supports us against you.”
“Is there no means of coming to an understanding?”
“Get out of the country, embark your soldiers as you did in Port Said. We’ll protect your settlers provided they observe our laws.”
“Get out of the country, leaving a million hostages behind . . .”
“The four hundred thousand Moslems living in France would also be hostages.”
“What régime would you like to establish in Algeria?”
“A democracy which wouldn’t have the blemishes of yours, with an infinitely stronger executive body, a collective administration operating within the framework of all the leading elements . . .”
“As I said before, the final outcome is bound to be Communism. Perhaps we are defending an out-of-date system, but your revolution is also out of date; it’s middle-class, and if it wants to succeed it will have to employ the only methods which are up to date, that is Communist methods—your collective administration is one example of this—unless your military get the upper hand . . .”
“We shall know how to protect ourselves against our military as well as against your Communists. But let’s stop this game. I’m only an unimportant little man called Amar. I’m going up to bed.”
“Just one more question: I’d like to know if you’re still a Moslem.”
“The only aspect of Islam that I’ve retained is a belief in baraka, that beneficent force which is enjoyed by those who have a destiny unlike that of others.”
Later on, when they were in bed, Yves Marindelle asked Christiane:
“I’m fascinated by Amar; he plays the role of the rebel leader with absolute conviction, he seems to be abreast of international politics. Where does he come from? What’s his background?”
“A police interrogation already?”
“There’s no need to be so touchy; I’m merely doing my duty to the best of my ability. I’d like to help Amar if he’s in any trouble, provided of course you give me your word that he’s not a member of the F.L.N.”
“Amar is from the Ksour Mountains and his family, who are extremely rich, send him enough money to live on. He reads and studies a great deal; his only interest in politics is theoretical. But it’s quite possible he sympathizes with the F.L.N.
“Yves, let’s forget the whole business, Amar and bombs and all the rest of it. Hold me in your arms. I’d be miserable if anything happened to separate us . . .”
• • •
It was on the night of the 25th that Boisfeuras managed to get hold of the card index system of the D.S.T. He had had to overcome Raspéguy’s scruples, but won him over by maintaining that if the 10th Parachute Regiment did not do the job, another regiment would pull it off and get all the credit. Escorted by a dozen paratroopers in battle dress, he went and “requested” the collaboration of the heads of that police branch, which in fact, acted as an intelligence service.
“If we refuse to let you have this card index system, what will happen?” asked the director of the D.S.T.
“We shall be forced to conclude that you’re covering up for the rebels, that you are their accomplices; by the same token we might be forced to regard you as traitors and, in order to avoid any scandal . . .”
He drew his attention to the submachine-guns.
“. . . wipe you out.”
“I submit in the face of force.”
“Please, let’s say in the face of reason.”
Boisfeuras took the card index system away with him and promptly sent back a letter signed by Raspéguy, thanking the D.S.T. for having so promptly displayed such a spirit of co-operation with the units responsible for the security of Algiers.
On 26 January, when they woke up in the morning, the people of Algiers discovered they were living in a new town.
6
RUE DE LA BOMBE
When Pasfeuro and Villèle tried, in their articles, to explain the paratroops’ success in the battle of Algiers and the failure of the strike, the reason they gave was the over-confidence of the F.L.N. Believing that victory was in sight, it had omitted to take the usual precautions of clandestine activity, in particular the security measure of keeping the various cells and networks apart. In evidence they quoted the arrest of Si Millial, followed by that of Ben M’Hidi and the hasty flight of all the members of the C.C.E.* who had settled in Algiers as though the town was already the seat of government of the Algerian Republic.
In actual fact, the audacity with which Boisfeuras had seized the card index system from the D.S.T., his contacts with Arcinade, the burlesque turn which fate had taken and the speed which the paratroops displayed were the factors which determined their success. This speed resulted both from the paratroopers’ ignorance of police methods and their habit of always relying on surprise for the successful conduct of an operation.
The 10th Parachute Regiment had established its headquarters at the gates of the Kasbah, in an old Arab palace which had long been abandoned. During the night the paratroops installed a field telephone network and an electric light system operating on a portable power plant. In the middle of the town they therefore still had the impression of campaigning “in the field,” of remaining soldiers and not being transformed into policemen.
The companies were billeted within the unit perimeter, the men living in the outhouses or in requisitioned villas. Boisfeuras and Marindelle had moved into a big empty room opening on to a gallery on the first floor which encircled the patio. The roof was flaking and the sky-blue paint on the walls had turned a dirty grey as a result of the damp.
In the basement of the old palace, which was used by a neighbouring school as a store-room, they had found some tables, desks and a big blackboard on its wooden stand. Since they did not have a stick of furniture themselves, and their own stores had not yet arrived, they appropriated this makeshift material.
Boisfeuras had brought in the D.S.T. card index system, a massive cabinet of polished wood with a stout lock. He broke it open with his knife; the cabinet contained a hundred and fifty cards.
At three o’clock in the morning Sergeant Bucelier came and brought the two captains some coffee, which they laced with two small bottles of rum they had extracted from some ration boxes.
The power plant droning away below them faltered every now and then and the naked bulbs hanging on their lengths of wire would begin to dim; once or
twice they went out altogether.
Because of the cold they wore blue duffel-coats over their uniform. Every now and then, to warm themselves up, they would stride up and down the room slapping their thighs, looking like two Grands Meaulnes against this schoolroom background.
Boisfeuras started going through the cards. The same names kept cropping up: Mohammed abd el Kassem, Ahmed ben Djaouli, Youssef ben Kichrani . . . Most of them had no address; a few of them lived in the streets and lanes of the Kasbah, the shanty-towns of the Clos Salembier or the Ravine of the Femme Sauvage.
The records mentioned that Mohammed abd el Kassem had belonged to the Étoile Nord-Africaine, then to the U.M.D.A.; that Djaouli was a member of the M.T.L.D., after having first joined the P.P.A.
All these initials and descriptive signs of anti-French activity meant nothing to the captain who was completely ignorant of the political history of Algeria.
Marindelle glanced through the pamphlet which had been distributed to the intelligence officers of the parachute units. It was marked in red with the word: “Confidential,” and in its content and layout resembled one of those brochures that are handed out to tourists on arrival at an airport or frontier.
Bucelier sat on his bench reading an old magazine which had a fascinating article on the love life of some minor royalty.
At five in the morning, utterly worn out, they fell asleep at their desks, their heads pillowed in their arms.
They were woken up with a start by Raspéguy’s voice:
“Nothing has been done about the tap water, I see. Everyone is dozing in this regiment, as though we were at ease.”
The colonel was already washed and shaved; he had just doubled round the old palace to get some exercise. He was longing for immediate action but, like his officers, did not know in which direction to expend his energy.
He began thumbing through the card index system, glancing at the names inscribed in regulation block capitals by some conscientious clerk.
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