The director eventually moved his eyes from his work to the man before him. He peered over the top of his glasses.
‘You are smart today, Monsieur Saoudi. What’s up? Are you in a hurry to go back home?’
Mohand could not contain the smile or the hot wash of relief that rushed through him. With these words, the truth had been confirmed.
‘Of course, what do you think? I have been waiting for this day for a very long time.’
‘Please. Sit.’ The director motioned towards a chair.
Unable to contain his excitement, Mohand blurted out, ‘Thank you, sir. This is the best day of my life.’
The director stood up and pushed his hands into his pockets. He studied Mohand’s face for a moment, his own expression unreadable.
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.
‘I’ll rest for a few days and perhaps go and visit some friends in Cayenne.’
‘And then what?’
Mohand leaned forward, sure from the director’s expression that he had something in mind. ‘I’m thinking of getting a job to afford the ticket back home.’ He paused. ‘I have a family back home.’
The director smiled. ‘You have been a valuable resource to the colony, Mohand. You could stay here and work for us.’ He held his hands out as if he was paying Mohand the highest compliment he could offer. ‘You will be the first prisoner ever to do that.’
Mohand was so stunned he forgot for a moment that he was addressing a man who held the power of life and death over him.
‘You’ve lost me there. You want me to stay in a place where I have been imprisoned?’
The director laughed. He sat down and leaned forward on to his elbows.
‘We never considered you as a prisoner, Mohand.’
Mohand thought about this. There was some truth in what the man said. Apart from the hell of the first few years and the more recent investigation, his prison experience had been much smoother than most of his counterparts. He mellowed his tone and replied.
‘Sir, I understand what you are saying. And I thank you for your respect. However, I woke up every day with a number tattooed on my arm…’ at this, he presented his arm and rolled back his sleeve in order to display the ink that was worn into his skin, ‘and the worry that one wrong step could see me back in the jungle. You may not have treated me like a convict, but I surely feel like one.’
The director’s mouth hung open for a moment. He had clearly not considered that this might be Mohand’s reaction. He truly believed that he would get Mohand to work inside the prison again.
‘You will be well paid. You will have proper working hours with time off at the weekend…’ He paused and read from Mohand’s expression that he was of the firm opinion this was not going to happen.
‘Sir, I appreciate the offer, but I have to go back home. I would like to work long enough to earn enough to pay for my passage… but as far as staying in the colony’, Mohand felt he had to say something that would make this man understand him, ‘I would never lose that feeling of being something… something less than human.’
The director nodded. He took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. ‘Okay.’ He placed his hands before him on the desk as he considered what he should do next. ‘Given the service you have offered me over the years, I must respect your wishes. I will send you to the office in charge of the accounts of all prisons. There you will find no convicts and you will choose the room you like.’ He nodded and smiled. ‘We will provide you with all you need to start this next phase of your life.’ He held his hands out wide. ‘Who knows, you might like this good life and decide to stay.’
They shook hands.
‘Oh, before I forget, you need to sign your release form.’
With his pulse thundering in his ears, Mohand read, signed and dated the document. It was Wednesday 26th September, 1945, at 3pm. Exactly eighteen years and eighty-five days since he was torn from his loved ones.
FIFTEEN
Paid Work
Mohand had only three days of rest, during which he visited Cayenne with the permission of the prison authorities. Here he looked for some old friends, including Dr Vignon.
The doctor was delighted to see him.
‘You look good, Mohand. News of your freedom suits you.’ His expression was brightened with a huge smile.
‘You look good too, my friend,’ Mohand said and asked Allah’s forgiveness for the lie. His old friend was thin and worn down with his constant battle against death and disease over the years.
Vignon took him to his cramped office and together they shared a glass of cognac.
‘I can only afford one glass,’ Vignon shrugged.
‘Do you have no plans to return home?’ asked Mohand.
‘Where would I go? What would I do?’ Vignon replied. ‘This is my life, Mohand. Here with the sick and the dying.’ His smile was one of acceptance. ‘The men need me.’
Mohand could only nod, his throat thick with emotion. He was humbled that such a man could devote his life to help people that his countrymen had decided should die.
The two men spoke for a few hours, both delaying the moment when they would have to say goodbye. They were saved from this indecision by an orderly peering in through the door.
‘Doctor, we need you at…’
‘I’ll just be with you,’ Vignon said. Both men stood up. They hugged.
‘Not bad for a Frenchman,’ said Mohand with a smile and left.
* * *
On 30th September, 1945, Mohand visited his new office, which was located at the far end of the town, away from the prison camp. Once he was aware of this, some of his reservations melted away. He was still unsure of working for the authorities, but the location of his new workplace helped to assuage his concerns.
This was a means to an end, he kept telling himself. He was doing this out of choice. And he was being paid good money that would help him return home. Along with the money that he had saved over the years with Monsieur Chin, he might even have enough to set himself up in a little business when he got back to Maillot.
His reservations shrunk even further when he was taken to his new accommodation. He had a room very close to the town centre. His room had space for a bed, a table and chair and a small trunk for his belongings. The curtained window looked out onto a small courtyard that was bursting with flowers. The room even had a shower. This was a luxury he had never experienced in his life. He felt like a little boy opening his first Christmas present. This was a new world for him and one he could easily get attached to.
The next day, he reported early for work. His new boss shook him warmly by the hand.
‘Louis Bonnet at your service.’ He was a tall, slim man with a brush of dark, untidy hair and a pair of ears that would not have looked out of place on a baby elephant. ‘Delighted to have you on board. You come with a very strong recommendation, Monsieur Saoudi.’
Astounded at such a warm reception, Mohand could only nod his thanks.
He was shown around the office, introduced to the men he would be working with and had his duties explained to him. Each of the three men he would now be working with stood up to shake his hand.
‘Hi, I’m Bruno.’
‘Didier.’
‘Serge, and I am the brains of the outfit, as you will come to see. The other two are merely waiting out their retirement.’ Didier and Bruno, who both looked like they were mere months past their first shave, simply laughed at their colleague and called him a rude name.
The rest of his first day passed in an atmosphere of good humour and hard work. Everything was done with maximum courtesy and respect. At one point he almost told the men to stop being so pleasant. He felt unworthy of this manner of treatment.
He fought down this emotion with all his energy. He was a free man. This was how free men talked to each other.
The job was more or less similar to what he was doing before and he slipped into his work pattern as if he had been working there
for most of his life. Within a week, he knew the ins and outs of the job, knew his way around the building and could remember most of the names of his workmates.
His new colleagues were a sociable group and he quickly opened up to them. In turn, they took to him and invited him to every function available and even to their homes.
* * *
On New Year’s Eve, 1945, Mohand was surprised when his manager awarded him a promotion. That evening, he was invited to attend the New Year celebration for the first time in his life. He was surrounded mainly by French people, and he managed to integrate seamlessly with them. This, however, became like a worm that buried itself into his conscience. He was so comfortable in his new job and new environment that he feared going back home.
He could have a good life here: he had friends, he was earning decent money and he was in a position of respect. What would he have if he returned home? Would his family even want him?
His guilty conscience was troubled even more when fresh news arrived from Algeria. This letter was written in a different hand than normal. From this, he assumed that his old friend Caid Mezaine had died. As he read, he wondered who had penned this letter. Whoever it was, they didn’t share the same delicate penmanship of Mezaine. Instead, it was like a series of scratches across the paper; the words were so poorly chosen that he struggled to make sense of them.
In essence, what he managed to learn was that the war had only made things more difficult for the indigènes. The world was in bad shape and the French were taking whatever they could from the fields of Algeria to feed her population in France. This left the Algerians with what amounted to famine conditions.
Also, the colons were up to their usual tricks. Dahmane had been charged with theft and sent to prison.
This meant that the family was under the stewardship of Amar, who was half-blind and weakened by years of illness and deprivation. As to his wife, Saada, Mohand still had no idea what his family had done with her.
After a few sleepless nights, he came to his senses; his place was with his people, to help them during this time of need. Nonetheless, he worried that they might not want him. After all, the family land would have been split between Dahmane and Amar, and he was nothing but a stranger to them now. Why bother having him back when they could split the land between only two of them?
Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, he came up with an idea that would prove whether his family still wanted him. If they were able and, more importantly, willing to send him some money, then he could be certain of his place within his tribe. He had no wish for land or money, nor did he wish to upset anyone. All he wanted to know was that he still had their love.
He jumped from his bed, turned on the light switch and sat at the chair by the table. He addressed his letter to Amar.
My dearest brother, I write with good news. After all these years as a prisoner of the French, I have been given my freedom.
I am anxious to return home to you all, but I may have to wait years before I can earn enough to afford the passage.
I hate to ask this of you, particularly during these hardest of times, but if you are in a position to send me some money I will be able to return home sooner.
Your humble servant and loving brother,
Kaci.
Addressing himself as Kaci so automatically came as something of a shock. For so long he had thought of himself as Mohand, the convict. Now he was about to return home, he had slipped so easily into his old self.
The wait for a reply was agonising. Having decided what his course of action should be, he was impatient to return to Algerian soil.
At last he held the reply in his hand. With trepidation he opened it and when he realised what the response was, his eyes filled with tears. So much so that he could barely read the letter to the end.
It was written in the same poor French as the last one and in the same scratchy style.
Kaci,
The news of your early release has filled us with joy. Every one of the neighbours came to celebrate with us. Sadly, Dahmane was unable to join us for the celebrations as he is in El Harrach prison in Algiers. Our neighbour, Ou Rabah, was murdered. You remember him? A good man. Why he was killed we don’t know, but the enemy pointed the finger at our family and Dahmane and four cousins were sent to prison.
Mohand bit his lips at this news, feeling his moment of happiness wither. Would this ever end? He knew Dahmane would be innocent; that this was simply another way the French kept the indigènes fighting among themselves. To make it less likely they would turn on their oppressors.
But good news. You are coming home. Your dear mother, she told us. With her last breath, she said you would be coming home and to make you promise that the first thing you do is to visit her grave. We wanted to tell her she was a crazy woman. But you can’t speak to the dying like that.
But Allah be praised, she was right.
Dearest Hana Addidi. Mohand held a hand to his lips and felt his throat tighten with emotion. He would never see her again. He braced himself to read the rest of the letter, in case there was any more bad news.
There is nothing so important than you come back to your family. These difficult times mean we are struggling, but we have sold our last two bulls to help you.
Please forgive us the little this brings. It is all we have.
Your loving brother and faithful servant,
Amar
The letter contained what would have been a fortune to his family: fifty francs. He held it in his hands as if it would turn to dust at the merest touch of his skin.
He cried. Tears slid down his cheeks. Dahmane was in prison. Poor weak Amar was in charge of the family’s affairs. His mother was dead.
Such news.
Dear Hana Addidi was dead. The woman who looked after him better than her own children. He recalled her smile. The love in her eyes every time she looked his way. She was dead. Of course she was. Few Algerians lived deep into old age.
He cried some more. And promised. Mouthing the words, he sent a silent message to his dead stepmother. He would visit her grave as soon as he arrived home.
Mohand plucked out the fifty-franc note. He understood how difficult it would have been for his family to spare this money. Emotion swamped him anew. He knew then that the family was desperate for his return, and from that moment onwards, his impatience increased, he wanted to be with them as soon as possible.
* * *
When Mohand heard that the first civilians’ boat had arrived, he started getting ready for travelling. He had to raise an application to ask for permission to leave the colony. In those days, the entire region was still under the control of the French military, and so an official pass from the army was needed in order to travel between the islands or away from the area.
At the earliest opportunity following the reply from his family, Mohand submitted his application. Give it a week, he was told. Perhaps two, and he would have the permission he sought.
His boss, Louis Bonnet, and the rest of his colleagues did not want to see him go. From the moment he heard of Mohand’s plans, Louis tried at every opportunity to change his mind.
One Friday night, everyone was at Louis’ house for some drinks. Once they were sure he had drank enough wine to soften his mood, Louis and Serge had a word with him.
‘Mohand, what can we do to make you stay?’
‘I’m flattered, Louis. Really I am. But I must go back to my family.’
‘Do you have a wife? Children?’ asked Serge.
‘My son died,’ answered Mohand. ‘My wife…’ He shrugged.
‘That’s what you need,’ said Louis. ‘The love of a good woman.’
‘I’m sure my family could arrange one of those within days of my return,’ said Mohand. If that was even necessary, he thought to himself. Perhaps his Saada was still waiting for him?
‘Please think about staying, Mohand. We need someone like you to keep us right.’
This was something Mohand didn’
t expect and he was immensely flattered. Until only weeks ago he was the lowest of the low. He was nothing but a convict, and now these men were practically begging him to stay.
* * *
Weeks later, his travel pass had still not arrived. Surely this was a simple request, he thought to himself. It should have taken no more than a week to come through and here he was almost a month later and still no sign of it.
He spent the next week like someone walking on hot sand. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t settle, and jumped from one task to the next before the first was finished. At the end of the week, there was still no word and he made contact with an old friend: Captain Sancarve.
Two days later he was summoned to the captain’s office.
‘Coffee, Monsieur Saoudi?’ Sancarve asked, his bearing every bit as militaristic as Mohand remembered it to be. As usual, despite the heat and humidity, the captain was immaculately presented.
‘Yes please, Captain.’ Mohand knew better to rush the man and allowed the coffee to be poured and pleasantries to be exchanged.
‘Your application’, Sancarve changed the subject as abruptly as a bluebottle might change the pattern of its flight, ‘has been removed from the bottom drawer and placed at the top of the pile.’ His mouth moved into a shape that might have been a smile on anyone else. ‘I don’t hold with such underhand tricks, Monsieur Saoudi. You have been a good friend to this administration and you should be treated as such.’
‘Thank you, Captain,’ Mohand said, his mind in a whirl. ‘Underhand tricks? Who would try to keep me…?’ As he uttered the words, the answer came to him.
‘The military were quietly requested, by Monsieur Bonnet, to postpone or perhaps even ignore your request for a travel permit. Now that this has come to my attention, I shall see that it is expedited with haste.’
Bonnet.
His boss had conspired to keep him here against his will? How could he? He thought of the man as his friend. It was all he could do to stay in the chair and not run straight to the office and strangle Bonnet with his bare hands.
The Guillotine Choice Page 35