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. How ironic that M. Hoffmann had quoted the very psalm she had claimed for herself upon leaving Senegal for France.
    She didn’t fall asleep until long after the moon had risen to its full height. The warm wind of September teased the olive tree outside her window, causing its leaves to brush against the windowpane and taunt her with a whisper of love and hope.

5
    The boat rocked wildly on the waves of the Mediterranean. Dawn had not yet come, and the wind blew cool. Far off, Anne-Marie could see the flickering lights of the shore. Her eyes gazed out from a face swollen and bruised.
    “Oh, Ophélie,” she murmured. “I’m glad you can’t see Mama now. It’s better that you think I’m dead. God be with you, Ophélie. The God of Papy be with you!”
    The sheets rustled on the bunk above, where Moustafa sat in a crouched position, his head skimming the ceiling of the tiny compartment.
    “We’ll be there soon.” His voice was gruff, and Anne-Marie felt the anger and bitterness in his words. Moustafa would not help her now. He had been beaten into submission. He was theirs.
    She didn’t blame him. It was her life or his. Only for love did one give his life for another, and there was no love in this war. Only wild extremists who sacrificed everything for the cause of independence. And a crazy man who sought a terrifying revenge.
    What had happened to the Algeria she had known and loved? The joyful days of her childhood when she played in the street with friends, French and Algerian, Muslim and Catholic, Protestant and Jew, now seemed like a dream.
    “Get up, Anne-Marie! We’re going to debark.” Moustafa climbed down the ladder and waited for her to rise.
    She stood shakily and for a moment thought she would faint, but Moustafa’s hand steadied her and firmly led her through the door and down the dark corridor. Ali and Rachid waited impatiently by the door.
    “Here, put this on,” Ali hissed, thrusting a white lace scarf into her hands. “Welcome home, little tramp!” He pushed her forward toward the railing as the boat lurched and made its way into the port.
    Anne-Marie stepped from the crowded bus into the streets of Algiers. Before her loomed rows and rows of buildings stacked up like a deck of cards on a hill. No one needed to tell her where she was; they were entering the Casbah. This was the old part of the city, named for the Turkish-built sixteenth-century fortress that dominated the quarter. It was also the headquarters for the FLN.
    They walked past stalls where merchants were selling fruits, vegetables, and other wares in front of a row of low arches. Anne-Marie pulled the scarf tightly around her face so that only her eyes were visible. It was a death sentence for a pied-noir to be spotted in this neighborhood. Even in France she had heard of the young pied-noir girl raped and beaten to death here a few months earlier.
    Keep walking or they will kill you right here , she told herself. Her skin was not as dark as that of the Algerians, but her black hair and dark eyes and the traditional Algerian scarf covering her face helped to conceal her identity.
    Moustafa was by her side, pushing her along in front of Ali and Rachid. They started up the hill toward the mountain of apartments that stretched out before them in haphazard fashion. It was true what people said: the Casbah was a labyrinth. Once you were inside, it was impossible to find the way out unless you lived there.
    Anne-Marie wished desperately for a drink of water, but she dared not ask. The sound of her dry cough echoed again and again as they continued up the road. She glanced over at Moustafa and pitied him. Her danger in the Casbah was great, but what about his? He was twice a traitor, and nowhere would be safe for him. Yet he didn’t look afraid. His face was set in determination and hate—so different from the face of the trusted friend she had known almost all her life.
    Just eight months earlier she and Ophélie had crossed the