The Storyteller of Casablanca (42)
She gave a big sniff and it sounded like she was blowing her nose. Then she said, ‘I’m scared, Guillaume. I know you’ve become involved with . . . things. I know you’re helping Stafford. But it’s dangerous. What if they arrest you again? Do you understand what you’re risking?’
Papa’s voice grew very low and very serious then and he said, ‘Delphine, you and I have spoken about how horrifying this war is. I can’t just sit here and let it happen around us. If we don’t take a stand then who will? But I promise you, ma chérie, I’m being careful. I wouldn’t do anything that would put you and the girls at risk.’
I was quite surprised that Papa was making all those promises, especially the one about not putting us at risk because he already had done that when he got arrested and when we went on the trip to the mountains (except Annette and I still haven’t said anything to anybody about Monsieur Guigner coming to the bedroom and grabbing Annette). But I understood that Papa just wanted to make Maman feel better and that sometimes that sort of kindness is more important than telling the absolute truth.
Despite him trying to reassure her, I heard Maman begin to cry again and this time she was sobbing quite loudly, which pretty much broke my heart. Then I heard her say, ‘I’m so sorry, Guillaume. This is all my fault. It’s because of me that it’s come to this. You and the girls would be better off without me.’ I nearly ran down the stairs to throw my arms around her then and tell her that wasn’t true at all, but Papa said it instead before I could do so:
‘Don’t ever say that, Delphine,’ he said, very loudly, and it sounded like he was nearly crying too. ‘Don’t ever apologise for who you are. You know we love you and we’d be nothing without you.’
Then he said, a bit more calmly, ‘Stafford has a plan. I can’t say any more, but it is part of something much bigger. I can play a part in it and in return we will get our visas for America when the time is right. Can you trust me, Delphine, just for a bit longer? I’m only trying to do what I think is best for all of us.’
After that there was silence for a while. They were probably hugging and kissing, I imagine. So I crept back upstairs to my room to write all of this down in my journal.
It’s awful that Maman feels that way – I’m guessing it’s because of her being Jewish. But at the same time it’s very interesting to know that Maman has guessed what Papa is up to. And also to have confirmation that my deductions so far have been correct. Lord Peter Wimsey would be proud of me.
Zoe – 2010
Somewhat reluctantly, I think, Monsieur Habib has finally arranged to take me to the centre for refugees where his wife works. He shuts his shop at midday every Friday to go to the mosque for prayers and doesn’t reopen afterwards, so we agree that he and his wife will come and pick me up from home in the afternoon. I decide I won’t bring Grace with me on this occasion, until I’ve seen what the centre is like.
Madame Habib is a little shy at first – and surely she must wonder who this pushy expat woman is who has intruded in their lives this way – but she thaws a little as I ask her more questions, gradually becoming less reticent as she talks about the centre and the work she does there. Thankfully, I discover, her English is even more fluent than her husband’s.
‘It was set up to try to protect the women and children who get stranded in Morocco. They come from countries like Nigeria and Mali and Senegal, following the old salt routes across the desert – an unimaginable journey in itself. Some are migrants, deciding to leave their homes to try and find a better life for themselves. But many are refugees, fleeing from persecution, starvation and war. Mostly they enter Morocco through Algeria, in the north, trying to get as close to the Spanish territory of Melilla as they can. It’s a little corner of Morocco that’s still owned by Spain, and the neighbouring towns of Oujda and Nador are swamped. But it’s hard to get into Melilla, which is surrounded by a triple barrier of high fences topped with barbed wire, and it’s dangerous too. They either have to try to jump the fences or to swim round. Those who fail become trapped here in Morocco and eventually make their way to the big cities like Rabat and Casablanca in the hope of making a living here until they can pay to be trafficked into Europe.’
‘Do they not try to go home again, once they realise they can’t get through?’ Even as I say it, I realise how na?ve the question is and I feel myself blushing.
Madame Habib shakes her head, her eyes filled with sadness. ‘There is nothing for them to go back to, only the danger and deprivation that they were running from in the first place. The journey itself is dangerous, too. They become so vulnerable when they are homeless. They lose their family, their friends, their culture and their language. Pretty much all the main things that make up someone’s identity. Can you imagine how isolating that is? What it means to lose every landmark that has helped you find your way in this world?’
We’re driving towards the lighthouse on the furthest outskirts of the city, past the breakwater that protects the port from the ocean’s currents, through clusters of shanties and cramped slums.
Monsieur Habib swerves to avoid a goat tugging at the brittle leaves of a bush that’s been uprooted by the side of the road. ‘They become like that.’ Madame Habib points at the dead shrub. ‘When their roots are torn from the ground of their home, there is nothing to nourish and protect them. They fall prey to all kinds of abuse and hardship. It’s worst of all for the women and children, they are the most vulnerable.’