Café Wars

by David Lee Corley

  Aussaresses was disappointed but did not let his emotions get the best of him. He grunted and pulled out his notebook from his shirt pocket. He used a small pencil to make an annotation for later reference – Cut Off Female Prisoners’ Hair.

  Saadi stood on the rooftop of his bakery as the sun set. He was upset that he hadn’t heard from Marwa after the attempted assassination was reported in the newspapers. It could only mean one of two things; Marwa was dead or Marwa was captured. He hoped it was the former. She would become a martyr like her brother. If it was the latter he knew she would be tortured until she either told the French what they wanted to know or she died. Her intended target, Aussaresses, would see that she suffered greatly. The thought saddened Saadi.

  In a way he had fallen in love with each of the sirens he had trained and transformed. They had bravely carried out his orders and won great victories for Allah.

  Only Ludmila was left. She was the smartest of the three and the most ruthless. She was the ideal jihadist. A true warrior of God. Now she was more valuable than ever to the cause. She alone would need to carry on the campaign of terror he had so intricately planned. He had to be more cautious. He would not waste her life. He regretted that he had not trained more girls. He knew there would probably be casualties but he honestly thought the girls would last longer. He had not expected fate to intervene so quickly.

  He wondered how Ludmila would respond to Marwa’s fate once he knew what had become of her. Ludmila had not shed a tear when he told her about Nihad’s death. He wondered if it was because of her faith in an afterlife or if she saw Nihad as competition for his attention. She simply volunteered to deliver the bombs and carry out the assassinations that had been assigned to Nihad for the glory of Allah. Saadi considered her reaction and decided it really didn’t matter why she felt the way she felt as long as she advanced their mission. He was not her judge. Only Allah could judge one’s heart.

  Saadi knew that his bombings and assassinations were having an effect. The MNA leadership had been decimated and many of their members had already joined the FLN just as Bella had planned. He liked Bella and thought he was a good leader, especially when it came to strategy. He also felt that Bella would reward loyalty and that he was assured of a position in the new government once the war was over and Algeria was finally free of the French.

  SEVENTEEN

  A French coast guard boat approached an Algerian fishing boat. The boat’s crew pulled in their nets and sorted their catch. Brigitte sat with her back against the boat’s wheelhouse holding an Algerian baby. The child was crying from hunger. Brigitte’s skin was dark and her face covered with a head scarf. She tried rocking the child in her arms hoping it would stop crying and bringing attention to her as the French patrol boat drew closer. Nothing seemed to work and time was short. She pulled out her breast and placed her nipple in the baby’s mouth. She was surprised by how strongly the child sucked. She looked down and saw how white her breast was compared to the child’s face. She tried not to look too obvious as she covered the child’s face and her breast with the end of her head scarf.

  Damien had asked one of his Algerian freelance photographers to help Brigitte find survivors of the Philippeville massacre that she could interview for her story. He told the photographer that he would buy all his photos of the victims. The photographer was diligent in his quest.

  Brigitte was worried that nobody would come forward for fear of reprisal from their pied-noir neighbors or the French intelligence units. She could not have been more wrong. The photographer found dozens of survivors willing to be interviewed and have their photo taken. They wanted the story of Philippeville told. The survivors of Philippeville knew the French would try and cover up what happened. The Algerians saw it as their duty to Allah and the dead to reveal the truth.

  Brigitte decided it would be best if the interviews were conducted one at a time and in secret. She didn’t like the idea of dozens of survivors gathering at the same place, especially with martial law in affect and French paratroopers still patrolling the streets.

  Damien was concerned that it could be a trap and that Brigitte could be kidnapped – or worse. The photographer arranged for two Moroccan bodyguards to protect Brigitte while in Philippeville. The bodyguards were both former Foreign Legionnaires and knew how to fight. They were heavily armed and insisted that Brigitte wear a flak vest with steel plates in the front and back while traveling.

  Brigitte believed in what she was doing, but she also realized that she was entering the belly of the beast. She was French and that made her the enemy. She hoped that the Algerians in Philippeville would recognize that she was there to reveal the truth and would not harm her. She was relying on her fame and reputation as a fair journalist. She wondered if the people of Philippeville had read any of her articles. She wondered how many of them even knew how to read.

  The Philippeville airport had been closed since the massacre and all the roads leading into the city had French Army or pied-noir checkpoints. She knew she would be recognized. Her reporting of the siege at Dien Bien Phu was very popular among the French soldiers and her photo had accompanied each article. Any French Intelligence officer would know her purpose and place her under arrest.

  The photographer arranged for her to enter the city by fishing boat and hopefully avoid the French coast guard. She would dress as an Arab and wear the traditional head scarf that all Muslim women wore. She would darken her skin with makeup and avoid eye contact whenever possible. The fisherman that owned the boat brought his six-month-old son aboard and suggested Brigitte pretend like she was breastfeeding if they encountered the French patrol boats. Brigitte was not good with children and was especially uncomfortable with babies. She hoped the French patrols would stay away but kept the child at arm’s length in case they boarded the boat. Her photographer and the two bodyguards would meet her once the boat docked. It was a good plan. It just didn’t work the way she thought it would.

  The captain of the French Coast Guard boat ordered the fishing vessel to heave to and prepare to be boarded. The fishermen continued their work as if this was a regular occurrence and nothing to worry about. The fishing boat captain slowed his boat to a stop as the French vessel pulled alongside. Four French soldiers jumped onto the fishing boat’s deck and inspected the boat. Two of the soldiers searched the cabin and engine room below while the other two inspected the crew and the deck. They were searching for weapons and contraband more than stowaways. Things were bad enough in Philippeville without giving the Muslims more arms.

  One of the soldiers moved toward Brigitte. She kept her head down and pretended to fuss with the baby in her arms. Brigitte hoped the soldier approaching her didn’t try to speak to her in Arabic. She won’t understand what he was saying and wouldn’t be able to answer his questions. She only knew one phrase in Arabic which a friend had taught how to pronounce with the correct accent and told her it could be used whenever a Arab man got too close.

  The soldier used the barrel of his submachine gun to brush away the end of her head scarf so he could see what she was holding. He exposed the sucking baby and Brigitte’s tit. Brigitte snapped, “aya nik kawed alya” with as much fury as she could muster in her voice. She hoped her attitude would sell it. It did. The soldier backed away and left her and the baby alone.

  The French were satisfied. They re-boarded their boat and sped off. As they left, the baby bit down hard trying to coax milk from the barren breast. Brigitte gasped. Strangely, she wasn’t mad and didn’t pull the child’s mouth away. It kept him quiet and was a new feeling for her.

  The sun hung low on the horizon as the fishing boat pulled into port at Philippeville. It was quiet. The people of Philippeville were still stunned by what had happened and nobody was in the mood to visit or make jokes. Almost everyone in the city knew someone that had died or been raped. It was not something easily forgotten.

  Brigitte thanked the captain and gave him an envelope holding the money he had been promised.
She took one last look at the baby in the captain’s arms before stepping onto the dock.

  She was met by the photographer and the two Moroccan bodyguards. They escorted her into a nearby car. One of the bodyguards sat in the passenger seat and the other in back with Brigitte. The photographer climbed in behind the wheel and drove off.

  The two bodyguards kept watch out the front windows of a house where Brigitte sat at a table across from a Muslim woman. Brigitte watched as the woman’s husband made tea for the visitors. It was unusual for an Algerian husband to make refreshments when his wife was in the home. The wife sat quietly and waited with her head down. Brigitte could see the cuts and bruises on her face.

  The tea was served as was the custom before the conversation began. Brigitte sipped from the glass and smiled. “It’s delicious. Thank you,” she said, as the photographer translated for her.

  Neither the husband nor wife spoke French. A toddler cried for his mother and the father picked him up and comforted him. “Can you tell me what happened?” said Brigitte.

  The woman began to cry. Brigitte was an experienced journalist and knew that it was best to give the woman time. Let her express her emotions. Don’t rush her. She would talk when she was ready. It took five minutes before she spoke in Arabic. “I was in the market when they took me. We had run out of food and my children were hungry,” said the photographer as he translated.

  Brigitte knew that most Algerian families could not afford refrigeration and shopping was a daily necessity. “Who took you?” said Brigitte and the photographer translated.

  “There were two of them. They were French soldiers,” translated the photographer.

  “French soldiers did this to you?”

  “No. The soldiers took me to a coffee house owned by a pied-noir family. There was a man there. I think he was Spanish. There was dried blood on the floor and the walls had been burned. The soldiers told me that the Muslims had killed this man’s family while he was away. The soldiers put me on a table and held me down. The man took his revenge.”

  “The soldiers held you down as the man raped you?”

  “She says ‘no’,” said the photographer.

  “What did he do?” said Brigitte almost afraid to ask.

  The woman sat silently as she considered. She looked over at her husband. He nodded his consent and ushered the toddler into the next room. The woman moved her head scarf to one side. She slid her robe off her shoulders and let it drop to her waist. There were bandages around the woman’s chest. “Oh my God,” said Brigitte.

  The woman gingerly unwrapped the bandages. The photographer stopped her and spoke to her in Arabic. “What did you say to her?” said Brigitte.

  “It is not necessary. We understand,” said the photographer.

  Brigitte looked in the woman’s eyes as they teared up. She seemed to be pleading as if she wanted Brigitte to see what had been done to her. It was her testament. “It is necessary. And make damn sure your camera is in focus,” said Brigitte.

  Brigitte nodded to the woman and the woman continued until her wounds were revealed. Brigitte struggled not to show emotion but couldn’t hold back the tears. A surgeon’s sutures bound together the skin where the woman’s breasts had once been. “I am so sorry,” said Brigitte crying openly. “This is not who we are. This is not France.”

  But it was.

  Brigitte interviewed twenty-one women and girls over the next two days. There was only one male survivor but he could not speak. His tongue, eyes and ears had been removed. His photo would be his testimony. While many of the atrocities in Philippeville were committed by the pied-noir, many had been committed directly by the French soldiers, especially the paratroopers. Brigitte was thankful that nobody implicated Bruno in the massacre. She knew he had participated in the battle on the hillside but had been ordered away before the massacre in the city began.

  It was the night of her last interview when the French Intelligence unit raided the house and arrested Brigitte, the photographer and the two bodyguards. The French officer claimed they had all broken curfew by traveling after sundown. Brigitte questioned how the officer knew they had traveled after dark and hadn’t just stayed over after a late lunch with their Muslim friends. The officer didn’t respond.

  Her notes and the film from the photographer’s camera were confiscated. Brigitte was separated from the others and whisked away in a jeep. She thought it laughable that two paratroopers were assigned to guard her as she rode in the jeep. Did they really think she was dangerous enough to warrant two of France’s elite?

  Brigitte was taken to a building near the port and placed in a windowless room. Even through the thick walls she could hear the heavy horns of ships as they made their way out to sea. She was more concerned about her photographer than she was about herself. She was pretty sure the two bodyguards would be deported back to Morocco as punishment for breaking curfew.

  The photographer was a different story. He was Algerian. He could be accused of collaborating with the enemy or of being an FLN agent. The French did not need much of a reason to lock him up for an extended period of time. Algerians were treated as second class citizens in their own country and had few rights.

  Brigitte waited three hours in the windowless room before being removed and escorted to Trinquier’s office. Trinquier stood as she entered and was placed in chair. “Mademoiselle Friang, so good to see you again,” said Trinquier as he waved the guards out of the room.

  “I wish I could say the same, Colonel,” said Brigitte.

  “I wish you would have told me you were coming. We could have avoided all of this unpleasantness.”

  “Where is my photographer?”

  “Your photographer? I was under the understanding that he was freelance.”

  “Either way. Where is he?”

  “I believe he is being questioned at another facility.”

  “Questioned?”

  “Yes. It seems there was a problem with some of his identification papers. I am sure they will get to the bottom of it… in time.”

  “And the two bodyguards that were with me?”

  “On a truck bound for Morocco. The Algerian governor elected to revoke their visas. They will be dropped unharmed at the border.”

  “Have you informed my editor that I am in custody?”

  “No. I don’t believe so. I just found out myself a few hours ago. These things take time. The bureaucratic wheels grind slowly.”

  “I demand to be released immediately. You have no right to hold me.”

  “Oh, but I do. Philippeville is under martial law and I am currently the authority in charge. That gives me quite a lot of leeway to do what I deem necessary to keep the peace. Including holding those that plan to stir up trouble.”

  “Like me?”

  “Your reputation precedes you. Why are you here, Brigitte? May I call you Brigitte?”

  “It’s none of damn business and no you may not, Colonel,” said Brigitte.

  “Everything is my business in Philippeville.”

  “I have seen your business, Colonel. And frankly, I am appalled.”

  “I am not surprised. War is a messy affair. I am often appalled myself at the things that are necessary.”

  “Necessary?”

  “You didn’t think the Algerians would just snap to after our loss in Vietnam, did you? Dien Bien Phu made all things possible. We must show them otherwise. We must show them that France is still powerful and determined.”

  “And massacring twelve thousand civilians is how we are going to show them?”

  “Where do you get these numbers? You have been grossly misinformed.”

  “Pardon me. Would you care to set the record straight? I’m sure you’ve counted the bodies by now, haven’t you?”

  Trinquier did not respond and chose to change the subject. “I’ve read many of your articles, especially those on the jumps you made with the paratroopers. Very well written. You should be commended.”

  �
��Save your flattery, Colonel.”

  “Very well. I have been told you are a patriot.”

  “I am.”

  “Then why do you insist on focusing your attention on France’s most guarded secrets?”

  “Guarded secrets? When has France considered torture and murder of civilians a guarded secret?”

  “Since Philippeville.”

  “This was not France’s doing. You are not France, Colonel.”

  “Oh but I am. Do you honestly believe that I would embark on such a mission without express permission or that my commander would give such an order without the support of Paris?”

  “You are saying the government ordered you to massacre civilians?”

  “I am not saying anything. It is merely a supposition.”

  “Stop playing games, Colonel. Who ordered the massacre?”

  “Which one?”

  “Which one? What are you talking about?”

  “Ask your friend Colonel Bigeard. Ask Bruno about El-Halia.”

  “What happened at El-Halia?” said Brigitte.

  “You are free to go, Mademoiselle Friang,” said Trinquier buzzing his receptionist on the phone. “See that Mademoiselle Friang is driven to the closest airport and placed on a plane back to Paris. Her time in Philippeville as at an end.”

  “What about my photographer?” said Brigitte.

  “He is no longer your concern,” said Trinquier.