Two Testaments by Elizabeth Musser Page A

He saw the distrust in Moustafa’s eyes. “Please, Moustafa. It’s the least I can do for you. The least I can do for her.”
    Moustafa narrowed his eyes. “You really mean it, don’t you? You really are a crazy American.” He shook his head and cursed, but David saw a glimmer of hope in Moustafa’s eyes.

    It was almost dusk when Hussein saw her. He blinked twice to be sure. She was sitting on a small suitcase, her straight black hair thrown back as she talked animatedly to a short, plump woman holding a sleeping baby. Yes! The fine, thin face, the small nose and dark eyes, the thick brows. Ali was right. Once she must have been beautiful. Now she looked disheveled, out of place, like the rest of the pied-noirs.
    Nervously he inched toward her on the dock. She was only fifty feet away. His mouth went dry and his mind blank. Who was he? The story Ali had invented for him seemed trapped somewhere in the back of his throbbing head. He retrieved the note from his pocket.
    When he reached the two women, it was the other one who noticed him first and motioned with suspicious eyes to Anne-Marie. Even before she had turned around, Hussein was on his knees beside her.
    “ Mademoiselle Duchemin? It is you, non ?” He thought of his mother, and that brought the necessary tears to his eyes. “I’ve been searching for you all these weeks. Please, please, will you take me with you?” He leaned forward and whispered. “My father has been murdered, my mother too, and my cousin’s father. And last week, my cousin and his mother disappeared. They will kill me too if I stay. Please. I have heard you have a safe place in France for harki children.” He produced the note with its funny cross and cryptic message.
    The woman called Anne-Marie stared at Hussein, her mouth open. It took a moment for her to speak. “Where did you get this?”
    “From Mme el Gharbi, before she was killed. She said if I would only show it to you, you would understand.”
    “You knew Mme el Gharbi? You know her children?”
    For a brief moment Hussein panicked. He could not remember the names of the children. “I do not know them well.”
    The woman with the baby was staring pitifully at him. “Whatever is he talking about, Anne-Marie?”
    The young woman did not look at her friend. “It’s too long to explain right now. Perhaps later.” She took Hussein’s hand, and the gesture startled him. He pulled back in fright. “No, don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”
    “Hussein.”
    “I … I don’t know what to say to you, Hussein. Perhaps, yes, surely there would be room for you at the orphanage.”
    Hussein fell on his knees again, head bowed. “I will do anything. Only don’t leave me here. Please. They say you are a woman of great mercy. Prove it to me, I beg you. Prove it.” He buried his head in his hands and prayed to Allah that she would say yes.

    The giant paquebot huffed and steamed into port, crawling slowly to the dock. Its decks were completely empty, and it looked like a forlorn whale rising out of the sea in a children’s fairy tale. David was walking briskly in front of Moustafa and reached the docks first. Moustafa caught up with him and produced a bag full of sandwiches. One glance assured David that there would be no mention of the incident with the Arab youth. But at the right moment he would tell Anne-Marie of his decision.
    It was not like him to act impulsively. Something within was propelling him to do so. Something strong and final. Moustafa would get to France. He was convinced he could get Moustafa’s family on another boat soon. They would all flee within the next weeks, while there was still room, before the rest of the harkis turned on their heels and ran. Anne-Marie would have that. He did not dwell on the other part: the disappointment in Gabby’s eyes when only Anne-Marie descended from the train. The betrayal she might feel. Later he would have time to explain to Gabby.
    A young Arab who