Tick-tock. Tick-tock. In the weighty silence, the clock marked my own anguished pulse at the ghastly fates in store for these Muslims aligned with the French.
Monsieur Cavalier wrung out his rag and leaned his hands on top of the bar. “We’re all part of the equation with no say in its resolution. We are all expendable livestock.”
Papa pushed himself away from the bar and took a seat at the table where a new poker game was about to start.
A cigarette clinging to his lower lip, he shuffled the cards and flicked them, one at a time, toward the other players. In the process of fanning his own dealt hand, he closed an eye against the rising smoke and mused around his cigarette, “I’m wondering. We know that as a member of the United Nations, France will observe the letter of the treaty. Right?”
The other players studied their cards, nodding.
Papa went on. “But what guaranties do we have that the FLN’s Provisional Government, a self-anointed group, will observe the terms they agree to?”
“We all know the answer to this question, mon ami—” Monsieur Voisin threw a card on the table with a flourish. “Let’s hope history will prove us wrong. Let’s hope that both sides will observe the terms of the Accords.”
I mentally made the sign of the cross. Oh, God in Heaven, let him be right.
While clouds of our uncertain future gathered, a fantastic, breathtaking feat took place high above earth. Following Laika, the little Moscow mutt sent into orbit, the Soviet cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin, launched into outer space.
On a restless night, I stood at my balcony and peered into the sky, looking for Yuri’s capsule. A bright spot, which might be Sputnik 2, glided smoothly high across the sky—slow shooting star.
I imagined the first man in space, ever, in his tight pod, with a smile of incredible wonder and pride, looking down through hundreds of kilometers, beyond zones of gauze-like clouds, at the earth, its oceans, mountains, and rivers. Could he see the great metropolises’ lights, all at once? Could he see a balcony with my cutout shadow lit from behind?
Could he see me wave? Could he, like a god from Olympus, observe us, despicable humans, murdering each other in acts more vile than beasts would ever wreak upon each other? Would he, then, keep on smiling?
The far away light dimmed out of sight in a smooth arc and I returned to bed, dreaming I was up there, above the fray, dissolving into the firmament. Unaware that further events would bring me back to earth and its worsening conflicts.
The Putsch
April 22, 1961
“Riri, wake up, chéri.” Maman’s panicked voice reached from the kitchen, snatching me out of my serene dream. Zizou and I sat up in bed like wooden puppets with sagging strings. “What time is it?” Zizou moaned.
I glanced at the clock. “Seven.”
“It’s Saturday. Why can’t she let us sleep?”
Ma’s voice traveled from the kitchen to her bedroom. “Riri, there has been un coup d’état à Alger.”
My sister and I bolted out of bed, rushing barefoot and sans robe to the kitchen. Our parents had arrived first. They nearly hugged the radio, listening to a robot-like voice spill the sober message, “Last night, in an effort to overthrow President Charles De Gaulle and put an end to his policy of negotiations with the political branch of the FLN over Algeria’s independence, French armed forces under command of Generals Zeller, Salan, Challe, and Jouhaud, seized control of Algeria and the Sahara along with its Hassi Messaoud oil fields.”
“What’s going on?” Yves staggered in, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“Shut up,” Papa barked. Pale and bushy-haired, he pulled up a chair and sat.
Yves joined all of us at the table, chewing his lips while the announcer concluded, “We’ll return to the air with further reports.”
Static trailed the disembodied voice, followed by solemn military music. Maman moved to turn off the radio, but Pa slashed the air with his hand. “Leave it on.”
The bitter smell of scorched coffee filled the kitchen. The pot Ma started earlier before turning on the radio had run out of water. She distractedly picked it up barehanded and dropped it on the range with a yelp. Coffee grounds splashed about. “What are you doing, Lili?”
Ignoring Papa, Ma held her hand under the tap water.
My excitement over the generals’ rebellion—the hopes they raised for a French Algeria in spite of De Gaullle’s betrayal—transported me to heights of joy I had rarely known.
“Aren’t you going to help your mother?” Papa’s question called me back to a more down-to-earth present. I toweled away the coffee grounds and helped prepare breakfast.
While we ate, the radio whistled and the station identification reintroduced the lugubrious voice, “… now dubbed, ‘Le Putsch d’Alger’ or ‘Le Putsch des Généraux.’ The command of the coup d’état took control of government buildings and military installations in Algiers, with the further goal to seize Paris and depose President Charles De Gaulle ….”
The sound of rustling paper replaced the interrupted report, then the deep voice resumed. “We’ll return with the latest bulletins in a moment along with the names of the putsch’s co-conspirators.”
Brass instruments filled the ensuing silence and Papa twisted the tuner, but the needle gliding along the lighted dial produced more disjointed words interspersed with sputtering and whistling sounds. He returned to the initial radio station and toned down the volume on the martial music.
We were about to finish breakfast when the military trumpets and drums retreated, yielding the airwaves to a song that froze my spoon midway between my bowl and lips as I drank in the words.
C’est nous les Africains qui revenons de loin.
Nous venons des colonies
Pour défendre le pays ….
We are the Africans who hail from afar.
We come from the colonies
To defend the country ….
I jumped up and hurried to the radio. “Can I turn it up, Pa?” He nodded and I blasted the volume, swallowing hard at the patriotic words.
We left behind family and friends
And bear in our hearts an invincible ardor
For we mean to hold high and proud
The noble flag of our France.
Seated around the table, we communed in the absolute silence that attends the distribution of the Holy Ghost.
And if someone attempts to hurt Her,
We shall be there to die at her feet.
Roll-on the drums for our loves,
For the country, the Motherland,
Dying afar,
We are the Africans.
I could neither swallow nor breathe. This was much more than a song. It was a hymn that pierced my heart. A wake-up call. This was the love of country my father talked about. Pride in the flag. Courage to fight for my country’s freedom. Die with honor to safeguard the dignity of family and friends.
The love. Pride. Courage. Honor. Dignity that carried my forefathers through the historic battlefields of Malta, the Roussillon, Alsace-Lorraine, the Dardanelles—that drove them to toil and die of fever and malnourishment until orange and olive groves, fields of wheat, grape vines, and pastures replaced the North African swamps.
“What’s that song, Pa?”
“ ‘Le Chant des Africains.’ ”
Ardent patriotic fervor gripped me. “Now, it’s ‘Le chant des Pieds-Noirs.’ ”
From then on, radio became the focus of our lives. A magnet we were drawn to with bated breath. It slaked our thirst for promising news at the shallow pool of sporadic broadcasts, causing my heart to race in ardent hope that the coup would succeed. That La Grande Zohra and his deceitful policies had been defeated.
Sadly, the news began to spoil. The military commanders of the departments of Oran and Constantine had declined to join the insurrection. Anguish etched my parents’ faces and my heart sank.
The following day, my father and mother decided to join the downtown demonstrations suppor
ting the coup.
“Non, ma fille,” Maman said. “You cannot come with us.”
“Why? I’m seventeen. It’s my right to fight for my rights.”
“It might be your right, but I cannot let you play with your life. The army here is against the coup. There is no telling what might happen.”
For a moment, my mother’s unbending pronouncement shook me. She had never sounded so firm. Feeling betrayed, I turned to my father. “Pa?”
He stood feet apart, hands on hips, green eyes fastened to mine. He glanced at my mother then back at me. Weighing. Then he gave a curt nod.
Like an eager flea jumping on a passing dog, Zizou announced, “I want to go, too.”
Mireille and the boys parroted, “Me too.”
“The rest of you stay here.” Papa glared at Zizou. “You take care of your brothers and sister.”
Zizou stomped to our room and slammed the door. I rushed to get ready and galloped down the stairs, leaping into the car as the motor started.
My enthusiasm at being able to stand up for my beliefs made the silent eleven miles to Constantine seem like one hundred. We parked at the entrance of La Boule Tricolore and joined the meeting already in progress at the Place de la Brêche.
Casserole concerts and chants of Al-gé-rie Fran-çaise, Al-gé-rie Fran-çaise, intermingled with megaphone speeches.
From streets beyond the gathering, automobile klaxons underscored the beaten saucepans’ Algérie Française mantra. My zeal soared in tune with the chaotic rhythm.
Familiar faces dotted the festive crowd. Friends and families greeted each other with handshakes and hugs. The feeling of warmth and kinship gave me wings. Longing to reach the heart of the gathering, I forged ahead, but Papa pulled me back. “I want to be in the middle of things, Pa.” Almost drowned out in the racket, my words didn’t escape Ma’s well-tuned ear.
“We’ll stay right here, ma fille.” Her set features left no room for argument.
Jeeze, what’s gotten into her? Crestfallen, but not disheartened, I remained on the outskirts of the crowd, singing along and shouting along with the pack whenever exhortations to overthrow De Gaulle, the betrayer, the turncoat, whipped-up the crowd.
Resentment mounted like a wave riding a deep undertow. The saucepan banging shifted from playful to hostile. Enraged scowls replaced cordial smiles. The good-natured Algérie Française chant swelled into heated slogans then rose into passionnate clamors of “À bas De Gaulle!” Raised fists pounded the air.
A trumpet sounding the first bars of the Marseillaise cut into the fiery shouts of “Down with De Gaulle.” The national anthem rippled from mouth to mouth with amplifying fervor, engulfing the crowd, sweeping me in its wake.
contre nous de la tyrannie,
L’étandard sanglant est levé
L’étandard-ard san-anglant est levé.
Entendez-vous dans nos campa—
Against us from tyranny,
The bloody flag is raised.
The bloody flag is raised.
Do you hear in the countrysi—
In our corner, the mighty words froze on open lips as an older Arab man riding a Moped plowed into the crowd. No one other than those immediately around us noticed. The anthem carried on,
… roar the savage soldiers
Who come in our midst
To slit the throats of our daughters and companions ….
The terrified-looking rider dragged both feet on the ground to stop his mount while, in panic, he accelerated. Papa jerked me out of the way. A man toppled the bike, causing it to spin on its side until another switched off the engine and pulled the old Arab up by the scruff of his neck. The unsuspecting crowd roared on,
To arms, citizens
Form up your battalions
Let’s forge ahead, let’s forge ah— “
The hymn’s call to arms seemed to fire up several men. Fathomless anger distorted their features as they closed in on the biker—their purpose obvious. Horrifying.
Maman moved closer to my father. I couldn’t hear her amid the mayhem, but I read her lips, “Let’s take her out of here.” She pushed me ahead until we cleared the mob.
I glanced back in anguish at the spot where the angry men pummeled the old man. Hot tears dripped down my chin.
“Let’s go, Nanna.” Maman jerked me by the hand.
After a few paces I looked back. Through gaps between the milling bystanders, I saw several people push into the circle surrounding the old Arab. Their vehement body language conveyed their efforts to appease the angry men. Maman pointed me forward again. Steps later, I looked back again and spotted the old man limp his moped away while the throng gradually melted back into the demonstration.
“Ma, I need to pipi,” I whispered through tears of relief.
A light danced in her eyes. “You mean that after all those tears you still need to pee?”
I nodded with a giggle.
“We’ll stop at La Boule Tricolore.”
On the ride home, after a trip to the bathroom and a cold drink, I said, “I don’t understand why the old man ran into the crowd, Pa.”
“My guess is the poor bastard was trying to ride around the demonstration, but lost his wits and grip on his bike. When the crowd became restless, instead of stopping or turning around, he accelerated.”
“I didn’t realize nice people could become so mean. It was horrible,” I squeaked.
Maman shifted in her seat and glanced at me. “Do you understand, now, why I didn’t want you to go?”
Papa cut in, “It was time she got her head off her ass and learned the facts of life.” His sharp eyes held mine in the rearview mirror until he needed to focus on the road again.
Twenty minutes later Zizou said, “You’re home early. What happened?”
While I changed clothes, I described the morning’s events, the replay helping me organize my thoughts and feelings.
“It was like at Jeanne d’Arc beach, in Philippeville, when undertows pull at people’s legs, suck them into the sea—”
“What’re you talking about, Nanna?” Zizou scoffed. “I thought you went to a demonstration, not the seaside.”
“That’s what I’m trying to explain.” I took a long breath to sort out my thoughts, to explain to my sister as much as to myself. “The demonstrators were like a calm, shining sea that suddenly turned treacherous. Like the sea, Zizou, people switched from peaceful and pleasant humans beings to vicious, mindless brutes just like”—I snapped my fingers—“that.”
“So?”
“So, it felt like I lost my footing. Like the world turned upside down, never to be put right again. I was terrified.” I took another long breath. “Thank God some people kept a cool head and saved the poor man.”
“So,” Zizou crossed her arms, “things turned out all right. Not all people are bullies.”
“Yaa. But I’m thinking that, maybe, the brute in these people lives in me too. That, maybe, I could lose my head and hurt, maybe kill someone in blind anger.”
Zizou shook her head. “You think too much, Nanna. You’re going to get a headache.”
The rest of the day went by with radio news of civilian anti-De Gaulle demonstrations in Constantine, Algiers, Oran, and numerous small towns. La Marseillaise and martial tunes filled the airwaves, but Le Chant des Africains filled my heart, made it beat with a pride that linked me in spirit to my fellow Pieds-Noirs and the hope that we would prevail and save our fathers’ patrimony.
La Grande Zohra, though, shared none of my lofty expectations. In a radio and television address, he called on French military and civilians to oppose the putsch and declared a state of emergency in Algeria. A forty-eight hour curfew ensued.
Previous curfews had been manageably short. This one felt like total isolation from the rest of the world. As a police officer, Papa reported to headquarters. Not allowed outdoors, the boys became unbearable, with their running, screeching, and fighting. Mireille and Zizou helped Maman unravel ol
d sweaters, wash and wind the wool into balls.
Unable to focus on so much as a book, I leaned on my balcony, choked with sadness at the sight of vacant streets—a frigid world devoid of living souls.
In the universal hush, eucalyptus leaves declined to exude their perfume into the still air. No dog barks echoed from farms beyond the fields. No laughter drifted from the compound across the street. The end of the world was at hand.
Broadcasters became more verbose as hours upon long hours crawled by.
Most conscripts fighting in Algeria hailed from France. Having no horse in the Algérie Française’s struggle, they heeded their General in Chief’s call to resist the coup. One broadcast reported, “The President’s successful appeal to the military not to join the insurrection is largely due to the use by troops of the newly invented transistor radio.” Soon, the media reported that De Gaulle’s successful call against the rebellion was dubbed, “La Bataille des Transistors.”
Meanwhile, we huddled around our old radio as if competing to suck tiny sips of air from a fissure in the wall of a sealed cavern. In the end, one after another, the insurgent troops capitulated like dying comets falling out of the sky.
On April 25th, the radio announced, “In order to prevent the French atomic bomb from falling into the rebel generals’ hands, Paris ordered the explosion of Gerboise Verte in the Sahara.”
The next day, General Challe’s surrender to French authorities stabbed the rebellion with the coup de grâce, bursting the last bubble of our hopes.
With his customary arrogance, La Grande Zohra’s smug voice declared, “C’est la fin de l’Algérie de Papa.”
“Daddy’s Algeria,” might be “over,” as De Gaulle bragged, but I didn’t understand why the Pieds-Noirs couldn’t remain and help the new Algeria grow and prosper as they had the old one. This was our home. We had just as much claim to it as any of the previous conquerors who’d stayed put when the land had changed hands. And be they good times or bad times, Algeria remained our country.
Sirocco Page 23