Kaci needed to hear his father speak and was uncaring of how mundane the conversation might be. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘No, son, I arrived just a few minutes ago.’
‘How is everything at home, Dad?’
‘Would you believe me if I said it was okay?’ His smile was weak. They each fell into silence. Then Hadj Yahia spoke.
‘Your little boy…’
‘Yes…’ Mohand read his father’s expression and with a sinking heart knew that what he was about to be told was bad news.
‘He became… ill. He didn’t suffer. It was only a few days. And then he died.’
Mohand simply nodded. This was Allah being merciful and answering his prayers. A harsh prayer but what life would a boy have in this Algeria without a father?
‘Saada. How is she?’ Mohand asked. He did not want to dwell on these things. He had made his decision and no amount of debating the issue would change anything.
‘She is like any mother. She grieves. For her son… and her husband.’
Silence stretched between them like a dark cloth that bound both their mouths and their minds, forbidding them speech. Words were nothing. Words could do nothing, yet words were all they had.
‘Dad, why did you come?’ Mohand forced his voice out into the quiet.
‘What do you mean, son? Why would I not come? I had news. I wanted to see you. I am sixty-five years old and cannot bear dying without seeing you for the last time.’
‘Why are you talking about death, Dad?’ Mohand felt the chill of an involuntary shiver.
‘Son, I wish death to come every day.’
Mohand observed his father and how dignified he was in his grief. He felt a tear slide down his cheek and, hoping that he father didn’t notice, wiped it from his face with his sleeve.
‘No, Dad, you can’t,’ he argued. ‘You need to be strong for the others. I am not the only son you have.
‘It is not easy. This is killing me slowly.’ Hadj Yahia allowed the words to stumble from his mouth. From his expression, Mohand read that he instantly regretted them.
‘Oh, Dad, I am sorry for putting you through all this. I wish with all my heart that I could put the clock back, but I cannot.’
‘I understand you, my son.’ Hadj Yahia’s voice grew louder. ‘Whatever I’m going through, it must be harder for you. It must be hell for you to go through this. I don’t want to…’
‘The future scares the hell out of me, Dad,’ Mohand interrupted. ‘I cannot accept the thought of never returning to my country and never seeing my loved ones again. But I take comfort knowing that you are there to take care of everyone.’
They were both silent for a time. Both allowing the tears to flow freely. Both wishing they could hold the other for one last time.
Mohand gripped the fence as if he could tear it from the earth.
‘Son, this is Allah’s will, we just have to pray for strength to go through this, everything will work out fine in the end.’
Now Kaci allowed full vent to his emotions. He was sobbing, struggling to breathe and speak at the same time. ‘There is no God. He left me the day he put me in this mess.’
‘Son, you should not think that. You should have faith and be strong. All the family is praying for you.’
‘I am trying, Dad. I just regret putting the family…’ Emotion robbed him of the remainder of his sentence.
Hadj Yahia ached at his son’s pain. ‘Don’t blame yourself. You should not worry about anything.’
Mohand’s laugh was like a bark of warning. ‘Dad, I am about to be sent to hell on the other side of the world with the guarantee that I will never be back and a very slim chance of surviving the first year. Off course I am worried.’
Now it was his father’s turn to give vent to his emotions. His eyes flooded with tears, his voice shaking, he spoke: ‘Son, I cannot bear losing you. Every night as I fight for sleep, I pray to God to take my life in your place.’
Both men were leaning against their portion of the fence, crying openly. Neither could do anything to change the situation, they could only pray for the courage to endure.
Mohand struggled to find the right words. It was not right that his father should have these thoughts.
‘No, Dad, you should not wish that on yourself. This is my doing and I will pay the price by myself. You have the rest of the family to think of.’
For a time the space that separated them was filled with a deep silence. They stood looking at each other, simply allowing the quiet to communicate the depths of their feelings. Kaci wanted to capture this last moment for the remainder of what was left of his life.
The guard coughed and his father’s visit was over. Neither of them moved. Neither of them could. They simply stood looking at each other until a guard took hold of Mohand’s arm and pulled him away.
As the guard escorted him back to his cell, Mohand’s strength almost gave in. His thigh muscles shook with every step, such was the guilt he felt. His family’s pain: this was his doing. His decision. Was it too late to approach the court with the name of the killer?
NINETEEN
A Burning
Some days later the prisoners were each supplied with the uniforms used by the convicts in the prison in Cayenne, French Guiana. The cloth was brightly coloured with red and white stripes. Their shoes were of a very basic construction with a wooden base and leather top. Mohand studied his, sure that after only minutes with these on, his feet would be covered in blisters. They were also given a bonnet, a pancake-shaped hat that fell down at either side of the head.
All this was an indication that their last day on Algerian soil was upon them and that they were officially convicts rather than prisoners. A subtle but vitally important distinction in the eyes of the French.
A notion went through the prison like fire that the men had nothing to lose and they should give vent to the desperation they were each feeling. One man dragged his mattress to the courtyard and set it alight, and soon every mattress in that part of the prison was on the pyre, sending flames and smoke high in the air. Everything the men could find that could be smashed was flung against a wall; everything that could burn was added to the fire.
The guards could do nothing against this wave of destruction and simply stood by. They knew that these men were about to go to a prison that was reputed to be the worst on the planet. If they suddenly decided to attack a guard, what other punishment could the authorities impose on them? Besides, this was not the first batch of men to be sent to French Guiana who had reacted in such a manner.
The fury of the convicts ran unchecked. They wanted to remember this day. This was a revolt against a system imposed on them by a nation from across the sea, a nation that had taken its men and its resources and raped them. They had taken everything and given nothing in return except for misery.
Once everything they could get their hands on was destroyed, the convicts looted the food and drink supplies. They would eat, drink and perhaps find some joy at the bottom of a wine barrel. This was their last day, their longest day. They did not want it to end and they each determined that they would stay awake all night, drinking and reminiscing about their loved ones and savouring their last moments on Algerian soil.
Mohand took pleasure in the release such violent action could bring. He joined in the destruction with relish. Everything he owned was thrown onto the pyre in the courtyard, even his cherished writing material, and for the first time in his young life he sought release in alcohol.
Again he considered his decision to remain silent. After his father’s last visit he had come close to seeking an audience with the prison authorities. The pain in Hadj Yahia’s eyes was there because of him and he could take it all away by uttering one word: Arab.
And the word remained still on his tongue.
He spotted a man who was about to throw a bottle of wine over the courtyard wall.
‘That’s good wine, my friend. Don’t let it go to waste.’
<
br /> ‘Ha, but it might hit some French bastard on the head,’ the man replied, his face wild with the expectation that he might be able to hurt one of the hated French. He leaned back, his arm behind his head; he overbalanced but managed to right himself before he fell. Mohand leaned forward and plucked the bottle from the man’s hands.
‘You little bastard,’ he roared, his face twisted with fury, and he swung at Mohand’s head. He dodged the blow easily and, with his foot, pushed the fellow on to his arse. ‘You little…’
‘Get some sleep, granddad,’ Mohand offered. ‘If you manage to do any more damage this night, it will only be to yourself.’
‘I’ll get… you little fucker… just you…’
Mohand shrugged the man’s anger off and moved around the courtyard, looking for a spot where he could sit and rest with his wine. Men were in disarray everywhere he looked. Some slept where they fell, some hung around in clumps, and pairs of men hid in the darkest corners seeking warmth and any form of comfort they could find. Mohand shuddered. This kind of love between men was anathema to the Berbers, and despite more than a few demonstrations of it since he had entered the prison system, it was something he could never quite get used to.
One man, having burned everything he possessed, even his new uniform, danced naked before the still-burning fire. He bent over every now and again, aimed his backside at the guards, and shouted, ‘Kiss my arse!’
Mohand found Arab and Ali with a couple of men from a neighbouring village. They hailed him over and he sat down beside them.
‘Ah, you have wine, cousin,’ said Arab, getting up from his crouch and stretching his arm out. ‘Stolen from Zaydane, I see.’
‘And it’s all for me,’ said Mohand with a dark expression that said, go on try and take it from me and you will suffer. Arab read Mohand’s expression and decided it was not worth the effort.
Ali winked at Mohand. ‘Good for you. He deserves nothing.’ Mohand smiled and then pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth. He had always been brought up to respect the effect that alcohol might have on a man, but now he was past caring about any of that. If it could make him forget everything that he was about to lose, even for a moment, then it was fine by him.
He drank determinedly from the wine until it was finished. Then he pitched the empty bottle into the fire, with a roar.
‘Bastards!’
The few men around him who still had any energy joined him in the chorus, all of them shouting the same word.
Mohand slumped to the ground and lay spread out, arms and legs wide, looking up at the bright night sky. As the wine took effect, the stars spun and wheeled across the sky on a drunken axis. The moon was a thin sliver of silver fingernail and Mohand remembered the story he had told his little cousins. Would the moon weep for him, he wondered? Or would it feel that he deserved everything he got?
Again, he questioned his actions. He was innocent. Another innocent man died and he could have ensured that his killer received the ultimate punishment. All he needed to do was tell the truth, and his father would have his son back, his wife would have her husband, his son might have lived.
Could he do it?
He looked across at Arab, who chose that moment to take a swallow of wine.
He could get his life back. Or was it too late? He felt a drop of wine on his cheek and wiped it with a sleeve.
Then the Berber code that fortified his veins stirred and his mind showed him an image of Arab kneeling under the blade of the guillotine. His neck bare and ready to be severed with the silent rush of sharp steel. He imagined the crowd. Faces naked with the need for blood. The flash of the blade. A gasp and celebratory cheer.
This he could not allow to happen. He had been handed a role in the story of Samson’s murder and he could have played no other part. In truth, it would have been easier for the moon to come down to the Earth and mop up the tears of every child made orphan by the actions of the French colonial power.
TWENTY
The Day of Departure
At 4am on 5th May, 1932, the bell rang and men began to stir. The guards, knowing that their charges were exhausted and hungover, were no longer worried about maintaining control. Shouts filled the air as the convicts were harassed and bullied back into line. This was the day that they would be taken on the voyage to their new home and the guards were on a strict schedule in order to make the men prepare and pack.
They were given meat, cheese and a length of baguette for breakfast. Then they were stripped of all their belongings. Small personal items like jewellery were catalogued and would follow the convict to his destination. It was too risky to allow them to travel with small portable valuables on their person, for many men had been murdered during the crossing for the tiniest piece of gold. The authorities knew of the convict habit of keeping some cash or even gold in a ‘plan’, which would then be inserted in the anus.
Other items belonging to the convicts were placed in a store and would remain there for a period of one year to allow the convicted man’s family to claim them back. After a year, anything not claimed was destroyed. This was an issue mainly for the French prisoners, most of the Algerians were as poor as the day they were born and had nothing that their families might wish to claim.
After breakfast the convicts were provided with special items. These would be their only belongings from now on. They had already been given uniforms, and a pair of shoes; to this was added a haversack, or musette, containing a mess tin, a tin quart for their drinks, a fork, a spoon and a cloth.
Those who were fortunate to have some cash were allowed to stock up with supplies for the lengthy voyage. These lucky ones filled their bags with things like olives, cakes, chocolate and cigarettes.
After washing and changing into their new uniforms, they were called out by number. Then they were aligned in the courtyard and chained into groups of four prisoners. Four of these groups were then chained together again, forming a big group of sixteen prisoners, with four columns and four rows.
The chains were locked and assembled with cold efficiency. Hands and feet tied together in all directions, making it impossible for any one individual to free themselves from the group. They were given just enough slack in the chains to enable them to walk.
For further security, four gendarmes were placed at the four corners of each group of sixteen prisoners.
Mohand, being the youngest, was offered the chance to be chained with his cousins Ali and Arab, and another Berber. He tried not to show any of the fear that coursed through his veins when, with an awful finality, his chains were locked together.
His limbs trembled, his heart raced, his stomach threatened to throw up every scrap of his breakfast. He felt himself weaken, stumble and almost fall until a firm hand righted him. He looked up to see Arab reaching out to gain a hold of him. The expression on Arab’s face revealed a riot of emotion. Yes, the old anger was there, but etched into the deep lines of his face was fear, trepidation… and sorrow. In the only way he knew how, Arab was finally admitting that his actions had rid his cousin of his future, and he was filled with remorse.
Mohand shaped his mouth into an attempt at a smile. His muscles were frozen and wouldn’t obey the message he sent from his brain. He managed to make his head move on his neck, which was more of a wobble than a nod. A movement meant to convey understanding. Arab nodded back and slid his hand under Mohand’s arm, helping him to meet the rhythm of the other condemned men.
With their shoes made of wood and canvas it was almost impossible to walk without pain, blisters formed on the feet of every man seemingly within moments. And so with a slow, forced shuffle, the men followed the direction of their guards and moved towards their fate.
The convicts were forced to march from the prison to the railway station. Pairs of armed soldiers were positioned every twenty metres along the route, one on each side of the road. These soldiers had the darkest faces of any men Mohand had ever seen.
‘Senegalese,’ Arab whispere
d to him. ‘See how the French use other slaves to keep us in line.’
This display of force wasn’t really to stop people escaping, for who could free themselves from such an arrangement of men and chains? It was, in fact, to demonstrate the power that the French held over the Algerians. Such a potent symbol of dominance by the French army helped them maintain their position as it intimidated Algerians into thinking that any uprising against the oppressor would be assuredly doomed to failure.
When the gates of the prison opened, the convicts could see that many people were waiting to see them off. Silence was imposed on the convicts and, strangely, this seemed to carry itself across to the watching relatives. At first. When the men started walking, the only noise was the stamp of many feet and the clanking of their chains.
To allow the convoy of convicts to pass, the roads were cleared of traffic. People stood on the pavement waiting for the train of doomed men to pass by.
The event was advertised well in advance. People were encouraged to come and support France’s effort to subjugate the Algerians and, with a tragic complicity, the indigènes submitted. Locals were paid or bullied to witness the march; brainwashed or forced by the enemy, they soon started screaming at the men in chains.
‘Murderers.’
‘Animals.’
‘Bastards.’
Fierce insults were thrown at them by their own people, and the prisoners could do nothing other than endure this abuse.
There were also people who stood quietly, allowing the silent flow of tears to do their shouting for them. From time to time the insults were threaded through with words of support.
‘Animals are treated better than these poor souls.’
‘This is not justice.’
‘May God go with you.’
Mohand allowed nothing of the fear that filled his mind to show on his expression. He was more terrified at that moment than in any other of his life, but he would not give the guards the satisfaction of knowing it. He kept his face to the ground and his footfall just behind the feet in front of him. He felt a blob of spit land in his hair; he clenched his jaws and ignored it. The poor fools who acted in such a way were every bit the victim he was.
The Guillotine Choice Page 13