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Mediterranean with him, escaping from Algeria. A pied-noir woman, her fatherless child, and the son of a harki. Harki! It was an explosive word in these days of war.
    Moustafa had come to her, eyes wide with fear. “The FLN killed my father, Anne-Marie. They slit his throat. I must leave or they’ll kill me. You must go too. It’s much too dangerous for Ophélie … and for you.”
    She had known he was right. Life in Algeria was dangerous enough for a son of a harki and a pied-noir who at one time had given information to the FLN. If only their crime stopped there. But it was much worse. So they had fled from their homeland in the middle of a bitter night in January in search of safety in France.
    “In here.” Ali’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “This is where you’ll stay.”
    Rachid shoved Anne-Marie into the darkness of a drab cement building, and Moustafa followed.
    “Touching, isn’t it, to see these friends reunited in their lovely Algeria,” Ali crooned. He entered the dark room and grabbed Moustafa’s shirt, pulling him around. “Explain the rules to her carefully. Remind her what happens to beautiful women who do not talk! To disgusting pied-noir trash! Though I would be surprised if she has forgotten so soon.” He pushed Moustafa back into the darkness. “We’ll be back shortly.”
    Ali and Rachid left. Anne-Marie, sobbing, felt about in the blackness and found a chair.
    Moustafa paced back and forth in the small room. “Stop crying!” he whispered angrily. “I can’t think if you cry.”
    She turned toward him. “You won’t betray Ophélie, Moustafa?”
    “You are foolish, Anne-Marie. They’ll find Ophélie and bring her back here with the information. There is hope that you may both live, if you will only talk. Otherwise you will die. And they’ll still find Ophélie, and it will be much worse for her.”
    Anne-Marie held her head in her hands. She didn’t believe him. She felt certain that he too would be eliminated as soon as Ali had gotten all the information he wanted.
    At least by now M. Gady had the little blue bag, and Ophélie was safe, hidden away. All Anne-Marie had to do was reveal a part of the truth. They would go to M. Gady’s shop and search, but no one would be there.
    She turned to Moustafa, a hopeful tone in her voice. “Don’t worry, Moustafa. I’ll talk.” But in spite of her resolve, she touched the tiny bottle sewn into her sleeve and smiled to herself. Ophélie would be safe.

    Ophélie sat on a mattress in the upstairs office of M. Gady’s shop. She could hear the old man breathing deeply in the bedroom next door. She was glad he was asleep. Twice that day he had questioned her.
    “You are sure you have nothing for me, little one? Nothing from your mother?”
    Each time Ophélie had shaken her head. How could she trust him? There was no one to trust.
    The old man had looked disappointed and concerned. He had hovered by the radio all day, cursing and repeating, “Crazy war, crazy war.”
    Now, in the quiet of night, Ophélie carefully switched on the desk lamp and again emptied out the contents of the blue bag. The cross fell lightly onto the desk, along with a worn photograph and two small sealed envelopes. On one envelope was a simple word written in Mama’s hand. She knew what it said. Ophélie. Silently she unsealed the envelope and spread out the letter before her.
    Three pink pages written in Mama’s smooth script. At the top of the first page she again read her name. She turned to the last piece of paper and saw the word Mama . These two words she knew. But the rest of the letter was a mysterious blend of lines falling up and down.
    How could she ever know what Mama wished to tell her if she couldn’t read? She began to cry. She couldn’t tell M. Gady. Please don’t be mad, Mama, but I cannot give him the bag.
    She reached for the cross and slipped it around her neck and fastened it in the back. Mama had said the cross was good luck. Ophélie