The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 17} AN ATTACK WITHIN AN ATTACK

Fire was still licking at the blackened remains of the automobiles, but the smoke screen was less dense. After a few hours, they could see through it, and saw the army troops preparing their attack. They could see endless Kalashnikovs and helmets glittering in the sun.

“And we don’t even have bulletproof vests,” thought Larochejaquelein bitterly. In the military depot, there were towelettes moistened with cologne, but no bulletproof vests.

“Now they’re going to swarm us,” said Sophia. “Everyone here is smart; everyone understands who we need to take out first?”

“The officers,” quickly answered a young man.

“That’s right. Without commanders, an army turns into cattle… All right. Henri, I’m relinquishing command to you, although I’ll stay for a while to shoot like an ordinary soldier. In an hour, darkness will set in. We need to prepare to eject the police from Notre Dame.”

Larochejaquelein silently nodded before he peered through the riflescope. The first shot was heard. The first shot is always the pebble that launches an avalanche. The avalanche began.

Abdullah did everything he could to push his way into the back rows, behind the bodies of the others. Only a few weeks ago he could not have imagined what his recently arranged life would turn into! Today, there was no philanthropist who could snatch him from the masses rushing head-on into machine gun fire!

“Charge, advance forward!” came the order. But to the left, Abdullah saw the open door of the strafed cabin of the excavator. It looked like the skull of a whale or a walrus. No one would peer in there now!

Looking left and right, he slipped into the cabin at just the right moment. Swearing and panting, the next soldier ran by him, jumping onto the asphalt in Abdullah’s place, while Abdullah waited in the cabin.

New attackers tripped over the bodies of those who had been killed. The greatest crowd of them was around the barricade, which was burning out.

Should I send in an excavator and push away the barricade? Kasim asked himself. A lot of men would die until they conquered it. But somehow he was reluctant to issue the order.

Thank God we have so much ammunition, thought Larochejaquelein. But why are there so many of them? Did they call out the army from all over France?

There were now wounded. The women dragged them into the catacombs and administered first aid.

Michelle was hurrying, sniffing as she walked and wiping her tears with the palm of her hand. The fingers of both her hands were swollen, and they hurt. For more than an hour, she had tended Philippe André Brisseville, whose lungs could not endure the smoke and the soot. How he had suffered, poor Monsieur Brisseville! Until he exhaled his last, unimaginably difficult breath—which turned his lips purple and made the engorged veins in his forehead go black—she had held his clenched hands in her own.

Michelle herself did not suffer for an instant. Her heels seemed to catch on something. She fell to her knees and then onto her back.

Fourteen year-old Arthur leaped to help her. “Perhaps there is something in her bag,” he said tersely to Jeanne as he searched it. “Do you know anything about medicine?”

“There’s nothing for me to know.” Jeanne carefully leaned Michelle’s curly head on the root of a plane tree. “Don’t worry about her. For her, it’s a feast day.”

The army’s first attack had failed. The Maquisards were already shooting at backs. None of the Muslim officers had survived.

“We’ve gained a few more hours.” Larochejaquelein wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand, which made him look like a Mardi Gras dancer.

“Saintville-piglet, stop throwing the reflection from your mirror my way, it’s better that you screw it in where it belongs. That’s where it’s needed. You know what, Maurice—send someone to bring cans of dog food from the depot. It wouldn’t be bad to line them up on that burning steel.”

“All right, Larochejaquelein,” said Maurice. Translating the order, he called, “Arthur, bring more mines from the depot, about five crates.”

Looking after the young man as he was leaving, Maurice decided not to lose time. It was difficult to plant mines on the black skeletons of the automobiles. Every wire was visible. He had to find a better place.

Maurice took his Kalashnikov just in case and headed across the barrier of sandbags. Here on the bridge, all the dead were Muslim.

Approaching the new pile of destroyed metal, Maurice strained to hear. There was some noise from inside, blue material moving in the depths. Someone was trying to get out, obviously, toward the riverbank.

“Listen!” Maurice said in lingua franca. “Now you’re going to come out, but not on that side. On this side. And don’t try to make a single move I won’t like. From in there, you can’t see me, but I can turn you into a pulp.”

Abdullah came out slowly, very slowly, trying to put off the inevitable. He was afraid the Maquisard would trick him. Finally, his boots touched the asphalt, and his secure shelter was behind him.

Maurice had to turn him over to command headquarters for interrogation, although he would have liked to simply shoot him. In the old days, if he remembered correctly, this prisoner would be called a “squealer.” A necessary thing.

“M-M-Maurice!” The voice of the “squealer” trembled sadly, then joyfully.

Loder’s face turned gray in a split second. Trembling with his whole body, he stared at his prisoner.

“I was a driver, Maurice,” explained Abdullah gladly. “A driver! And then suddenly they pushed me into the army, and they sent me here. I didn’t want to go. You know me—I never would have chosen something like this myself, Maurice!”

“I know. You value your own skin too much.” Loder’s voice was lifeless. “But your skin will have to pay. They drove our mother to the cemetery when you joined the pigs.”

“But what could I do? She refused, she refused! She refused to accept Islam! Maurice, you can’t kill me, you’re my brother!”

“There are different kinds of brothers. Did it occur to you that Abel should have killed Cain?”

“Don’t, Maurice. Maurice, don’t! We’re brothers!”

“Brothers…” Maurice’s gray face was terrible, but he spoke slowly and calmly, as if he were thinking through a philosophical problem. “Perhaps Cain and Abel don’t have anything to do with this… I never had a brother named Abdullah. No, we’re not brothers.”

“Don’t kill me!”

“I won’t. If you were my brother, I would kill you. But since you’re not, I won’t. I’ll take you where you need to go. Just don’t be too happy about that. In the end, it’s unlikely that anyone will grant you a reprieve. But it’s better that things follow their due course. I don’t care. Let’s go!” Maurice pushed the prisoner with his Kalashnikov.

With the trophy rifle on his shoulder, Eugène-Olivier descended the winding stone steps into what seemed like an abyss. Grandfather Patrice must have passed here hundreds of times, he thought, a little enviously. And did Grandfather know how to ring the bells? In his place, he could not have resisted learning.

“They’re attacking, they’re going to attack us!” In the last few hours, imam Mosvar Ali had lost his voice. “They’re attacking, the Maquisards are attacking, the kafirs are attacking! And those children of the devil there, in the headquarters, in our own government, have done nothing yet!”

“But our side is also attacking, most respected Mosvar Ali,” a young man from the religious guard dared to correct him. “Do you hear that there is a battle being fought over there?”

“Attacking? They gave up as soon as night began to fall. Since then, there hasn’t been a single shot fired! And that’s exactly when the kafirs turned to attack us!” It was good that the imam of the Al Franconi Mosque was not disposed to listen to words of consolation.

“I’d like to know where that sniper disappeared to, the one with the infrared rifle,” exclaimed Paul Guermi cheerfully.

Bullets were bouncing off the cobblestones, and the danger from ricochet was far greater than that of actually being shot. The enemy was shooting blind in the dark.

“What’s the matter, are you complaining?

“Not especially!” Paul didn’t even know whom he was answering but it didn’t matter.

“I’m going toward the façade alone!” Roger Moulinier pulled a grenade from his pocket. “I’m going to open the door for you in a dignified manner, more dignified than an English butler!”

Roger arrived at the end of the staircase. Now everything depended on just one thing—luck. The latches on the door were old, cast in bronze. The oak panels were so thick that he would have to open the door with an explosion.

Roger Moulinier placed the grenade on the door and dived to the side.

The explosion was felt inside. Mosvar Ali, convulsed on the couch in the guest room, watched with horror as a pile of books being used to block the window toppled over. It seemed that only moments ago, it had served as a shield for a policeman with a rifle. But now there were far fewer rifles and policemen in the mosque than windows.

The books did not fall by themselves. Immediately afterwards a Maquisard appeared in the window. He paid no attention to the imam ; he turned to pull up the colleague behind him—the man whose shoulders he had been standing on. And look, Maquisards were already jumping onto the floor of the residence!

Here and there shots could be heard.

Hearing an explosion, Eugène-Olivier jumped back from the stairs. The door of the Portal of Final Judgment fell toward him.

“Lévêque! How did you get here?” Roger Moulinier was standing in the door.

“Look at this!” Eugène-Olivier showed him the trophy.

“I was wondering where the sniper was!” As Roger pulled up his Kalashnikov, a group of five policemen fled into the side gallery.

Notre Dame filled with Maquisards, but things went much more slowly than they should have. There were too many convenient places to hide that were difficult to search. The Muslims hid on the second, “women’s” floor, in the imam’s apartment, in the altar section, in the crypt.

It was easiest to deal with those who revealed their position by shooting—those were taken care of in seconds. But in order for the Mass to be successfully held, the whole space had to be combed. Individual screams and shots were heard for a long time, between pauses as long as half an hour.

“It’s the first time I’m standing here freely,” Father Lothaire smiled at Sophia.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, your reverence. Don’t forget that we have no one who can replace you.”

“The most dangerous thing is when a man knows he’s irreplaceable, while around him, others are risking their lives. Don’t worry about me, Sophie. I think the Lord wants this Mass. If that’s the case, He’ll protect me.”

“You know, they say one should count on God, but keep the powder dry.”

“Protestant hypocrisy—a mask for a lack of faith.”

The conflict finally ended: The Maquisards led the last six hold-outs from the inner hallway. They were three men—the imam and two young men without beards—and three women in chadors, one of whom carried a child in her arms.

“We didn’t want to kill these, Sophie. I know your opinion, but perhaps we should make an exception,” said a young Maquisard whom Father Lothaire did not know.

“You wouldn’t dare kill me, kafirs!” Imam Mosvar Ali appeared to have suddenly collected his courage. “I am the imam of Al Franconi Mosque…”

“You’re wrong in both respects,” said Sophia, pulling a pistol from her pocket and pressing the barrel to the imam’s temple. She held it there a while, watching his confidence fade into horror.

“Who are you talking to, son of a bitch? I’m Sophia Sevazmios. No need to fall to your knees. Although I see they’ve buckled on their own. All right, look, I’m putting away the pistol. You can try standing on your feet again assuming, of course, that you want to. So, son of a bitch, you’ve understood your first mistake. We certainly would dare to kill you. But you made another mistake. You’re not the imam of Al Franconi Mosque.”

“Yes, I am the imam, the imam of Al Franconi Mosque, these are my witnesses! I’m the one! Who would dare to falsely present himself as a man—”

“Shut up and listen.” Sophia raised the pistol. “You’re not the imam of Al Franconi Mosque because from this day forward, Al Franconi Mosque no longer exists. You’re just an unemployed imam of no consequence.”

“What? But how?” The imam gaped as if he saw a skeleton dancing in front of him—although he was in fact looking at Father Lothaire in his black cassock.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Sophia. “From this day forward and forever, this is once more the Church of Notre Dame.”

“That’s where you are wrong, woman!” insisted the imam. Strangely, Mosvar Ali had grown tired of being afraid at the very moment when he had most to fear. “You’re very wrong! You might stay here for a week or even a month! But all around you is France under sharia law! Do you really think they’ll let your hornet’s nest stay here? Really, women have no brains—and those who listen to women, even less!… And this building will again become the Al Franconi Mosque. There is no other way possible!”

“But of course there is.” Sophia pushed her pistol into her pocket. “Notre Dame will never be a mosque again. How we are going to ensure that, it’s too soon for you to know. And that’s why, unless your mind explodes trying to figure it out, it’s not your time to die. We’re letting you go.”

“You’re releasing me?” The imam suddenly turned green, swaying on knees that had again grown weak.

“Yes, you and your whole entourage. You’ll have an escort as far as the barricade and they will release you. You will bring them interesting news. That there will never be a mosque here again. That Holy Mass is being offered here. That the crescent has been defeated. Defeated by the Cross.”

Sophia waved her hand. Three Maquisards took the prisoners toward the exit. The imam walked with a stagger. On one side he was supported by one of the women, on the other, by one of his sons.

“Go, you’re free!” Eugène-Olivier urged the woman with the child, pointing the way for her to follow the others. She obviously didn’t understand lingua franca, or was too frightened to move. “No one will touch you. You can go with the others.”

“Listen, kafirs…” The woman spoke with a strange accent. “Can I stay? You won’t kill us? I have heard that you do not kill women and children. I hear this, not from one man, but from many. I do not know anything else about you, kafirs. I did not go to school, I do not know how to read. But I can work for you. I know how to do various tasks that are done by servants. I swear I am a good housewife.”

“But why?” Eugène-Olivier managed to mumble in his confusion. “You’re the imam’s youngest wife, aren’t you?”

The woman’s entire body trembled.

“Yes…”

“You know what, daughter?” said Sophia in an unexpectedly gentle voice. “For a start, take off that rag.”

The young woman jumped in fright and sighed out loud; then suddenly, as if she were afraid Sophia would reconsider, she tore off the chador. It turned out she was not only young, but very young, slender, with blue eyes, light-colored lashes, and almost colorless hair.

“Now why did you have to hide such a beautiful face? What is your story? But tell it quickly, we don’t have time to waste.”

“I’m certain that my life cannot be worse with the kafirs than with those of the true faith. They gave me to the imam because my parents wanted a family relationship with an influential man. But he…You see, Madame, this is my son! You see that he has light-colored hair… My husband wanted… He wanted—”

“He wanted to present him as a child from the ghetto?” Sophia suggested. “He wanted to sacrifice him in order to save himself?”

The young woman barely nodded, clutching the child to her breast more firmly.

“It’s an old game.” Sophia appeared not to notice the looks exchanged by her associates. “Yes, of course, no one will force you to go after him. Lévêque, take her to the metro. Put her in one of the groups for evacuation. Right away, please.”

“Let’s go!” said Eugène-Olivier to the young woman. He knew that he must not catch her by the hand, lest he scare her to death. “Come on, don’t shake like that. So what? You gave your husband talak.”

“A wife cannot give her husband talak ; only the husband can do that.”

“But you’ve done it anyway!” Eugène-Olivier said, chuckling. “We have to hurry. Do you want me to carry the boy?… Oooo! He’s not so light!… Don’t cry. Maman didn’t go anywhere—she’s right next to us. After this, you can consider yourself baptized, petit bonhomme.”

The Maquisards slowly left the church, returning to their positions. There were only six or seven young people and de Lescure left. Sophia had not noticed de Lescure when he entered.

“There is no reason to turn this back into a bishop’s throne.” Father Lothaire’s voice could be heard. “There is no bishop here today, anyway! Simply take it out of here, as far as you can—so it’s not in the way during the procession. Richard, Denis, take those idiotic microphones and shove them… May God forgive me… De Lescure, do we have enough charcoal?”

“Why insult me, your reverence? Did I ask you if you forgot the chalice at home? Thank God, the old altar is almost intact. It was used by some neo-Catholics as a flower stand. Here they simply made it a bookshelf! They probably did not know what it was, or they would have destroyed it.”

Another voice asked, “Your reverence, what shall we do with this? Come and look!”

Meanwhile, Sophia could not deny herself the pleasure of climbing up the circular stairs to see the panorama of Paris. The view really justified the effort, as they always said in the tourist guides of her youth. It took her breath away even now, when the city was still wrapped in darkness—although the night was beginning to fade. Summer nights in Paris are short. In the black skies, one could already discern the silhouettes of buildings and Paris streets, resembling the beds of dry rivers, soon to be filled with rivers of people.

But there already seemed to be a lot of people in the streets for such an early hour. Sophia leaned on the balustrade and strained her eyes into the distance.

Last night, the Muslims had dug in with a large army. But compared to this, it had been tiny! Let it be as it may! What else can they do to us?

They were afraid, the sons of bitches. They were afraid to use artillery, but didn’t mind using cannon fodder. That’s how they want to defeat us, and to do so as soon as possible. She understood them now. They were nervous, jumpy, threatening…

Something glittered at her feet. Good, someone had dropped his cell phone. She had wanted one several times in the past twenty-four hours, but she hadn’t had the opportunity. If she hadn’t found this one, she would have had to run down the stairs.

“I’m glad that it’s you, Sophie!” Larochejaquelein answered immediately. “What is your situation?”

“I’m not calling to tell you about our business, but about yours. Henri, it’s time for you to take out the machine guns, missile launchers, artillery; there’s no point in hiding our arsenal any longer.”

“Sophie, they’ll answer with cannons.”

“They won’t. They didn’t even think to bring them.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Where do you think I am now, Henri? On the roof of Notre Dame.”

“From that, I conclude that everything there is fine.”

“Yes, more than fine.” Sophia brushed aside a lock of hair that the breeze had blown into her face. “I think the church is already taken care of, to the extent that is possible. We need no more than three hours for everything. Henri, we are counting on the fact that they don’t know how little time we need. I don’t know if we’ll be able to talk again. In two and a half hours you’ll have to give the sign to withdraw.”

“All right. In two and a half hours we’ll begin to move the defensive line.”

“No, start to move it in two hours. Henri, it’s going to be a mess.”

“We’ll hold the bridges. Don’t worry, Sophie.”

“I know. And one more thing, Henri…”

“Yes?” His voice over the telephone became tense.

“Don’t remember me for the bad things.”

Sophia hung up.

The worst thing was that in such a short time they couldn’t do anything with the Muslim foot-washing basins. It was good that they were upstairs, hidden from view, where the organ once stood.

“For true Gregorian chant, an organ is not necessary,” Father Lothaire told de Lescure. “As I recall, organs were invented much later.”

“Like the round notes you don’t know how to read?” De Lescure asked, unpacking boxes of candles.

“Why would I need them, when everything is so clear with square notes?” answered Father Lothaire. “And why do you need five lines? No, don’t even try to explain it to me, I won’t understand. Did you have a chance to admire the city, Sophie? We’re going to begin soon.”

“A moment!” Sophia raised her hand. There was something in her voice that made everyone stop—like the moment in Sleeping Beauty when the Princess pricks her finger on the spindle and time stops in the kingdom. The cook’s helper stops with his hand extended toward the hen, the cook with his ladle above the hearth, the servant beating the carpet. The hand of de Lescure with a candle just taken out of the box stopped in mid-air. Yves Montoux paused at the door with a pile of small prayer rugs he was taking out to throw away.

“In a few minutes, the enemy will begin to attack the bridges,” continued Sophia. “The ensuing battle will make yesterday’s look like a fender bender. I know, I know very well, that many people would like to be at Mass today, at the Mass in Notre Dame, at the Mass that testifies to our victory. Another pair of hands may not mean much on the barricades. But… Father Lothaire, what is the minimum number of people you need to serve the Mass?”

“I need the altar server. And it would be good if at least one member of the laity were present. That is the minimum minimorum.”

“We also need someone who will blow everything up. I will manage that without assistants. Today I will receive Communion and that is why I will be at the service; I will thus represent two people. Furthermore, an extra pair of hands will not significantly influence the course of the fight. I have no right to demand anything, and I am not demanding anything. Everyone must decide for himself whether he has a right to attend Mass at a moment when others may be dying. Everyone must decide for himself, and everyone will decide alone. Please begin, your reverence.”

Thomas Bourdelle’s eyes filled with tears.

Yves Montoux gritted his teeth.

“I’m going back to the barricades. Three here is enough.”

“I’m going, too.”

“Me, too, of course. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Roger,” said Sophia, “Take one man and hurry to the depot in the metro. We didn’t dare risk bringing the plastic explosives here in advance. But now we have to bring them quickly. The person on duty in the depot knows how much to give you. Try to come back in half an hour.”

“D’accord!”

After handing the imam’ s former wife to the evacuation command, Eugène-Olivier hurried to get out of the metro. Shooting had broken out on the bridges. Now it could be heard all around; apparently, the order had been given to use machine guns. He had to hurry. On the stairs he met Roger Moulinier, who was descending with another boy.

“Hi! Has Mass started?”

“Not yet. Imagine, it will be a Requiem Mass!” exclaimed the freckled boy.

“I’d like to attend,” said Eugène-Olivier, “But how?… I have to go to the Little Bridge. I wanted to wait for Father Lothaire to come down into the metro. Does anyone know when he’s coming out of the church?”

The others looked at each other strangely.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Lévêque, withdraw when you’re ordered,” said Roger.

“And Father Lothaire?” Eugène-Olivier gripped his elbow like a vise. “Moulinier, answer me!”

“Haven’t you heard? Father Lothaire and… Sophia Sevazmios. They’re going to stay in Notre Dame to the end. To the very end. That’s what they decided. Now let me go, Lévêque, I have a lot of things to do.”

Eugène-Olivier’s fingers were already loosened. He started toward the Little Bridge, slowly at first, then picking up speed.

Something unbelievable was happening there. Neither the burned barricade nor the pathway on the bridge was visible, because of all the bodies in blue uniforms. Other blue uniforms were clambering over them. It looked like someone had used kerosene to set an enormous anthill on fire.

“Are they drugged? The devil take them!” exclaimed Georges Pernoud. “They’re still pushing forward! God have mercy, how they are dying! Hey, Bertaud!”

Bertaud put aside his Kalashnikov and took Pernoud’s place behind the machine gun.

“Hello, Paul, hello!” shouted Pernoud. “Do we have any more grenades? Give us more, half my people have been killed, more than half, two thirds. I need reinforcements.”

Yes, two thirds and in just half an hour, thought Eugène-Olivier, looking at the crushed head of Yves Montoux. They were no longer able to move the bodies aside.

“Lévêque, go get grenades while they’re still giving them out!” George ordered, smiling desperately. A lock of someone’s hair, black with coagulated blood, fell on his forehead.

Eugène-Olivier jumped up and ran. He paid no more attention to the whistling of the bullets than to the chirping of the May crickets.

Kasim moved his company along the Little Bridge as the advance guard. He was casual about staying behind his Kevlar shield. Here he was, leading the attack, even though he could have been sitting peacefully in Shakespeare’s library instead. He wondered whether anyone would notice that he himself was not firing. He didn’t understand why he wasn’t. He didn’t want to know what force was drawing him toward the bullets.

“Bertaud, I’ll replace you!” shouted Georges Pernoud before he understood why the machine gun with Roger behind it was not firing.

He didn’t even move the body; he simply moved his shoulder a little and lay down next to his dead friend. He fired for about five minutes until the machine gun fell silent again.

Larochejaquelein had succeeded: Eugène-Olivier brought back not only grenades, but a reinforcement of seven people from a quieter location, St. Ludovic.

There we go! Kasim easily jumped up onto the embankment of the second barricade. Another second more and he was on the other side. They had arrived in the Cité!… They? He looked behind him and noted that he had arrived alone. The dead who now lay before him had managed, before they fell, to kill all the attackers—all except Kasim.

Now, time began flowing more slowly than the waters of the Seine down below. He was alone with the dead, the only one still alive. A Maquisard with a baseball cap, small and skinny, was in fact a young woman. Not even a young woman—a girl, a child not older than thirteen. Next to her lay a middle-aged man. Kasim knew him from the cheap auto mechanic’s shop where he got his car repaired. He had worked there, there was no doubt. I would never have guessed he was a Maquisard. And the one behind the machine gun looked a lot like Antoine. Antoine? No, it must be someone else, it was just a resemblance.

How many years did those few seconds last?

As Kasim settled in behind the machine gun and began to fire it, time again began to race forward. Strangers wearing blue uniforms were already rushing over the bridge. He was able to cut them down methodically, drawing on his years of training, until the survivors fled back to the other side in panic.

Eugène-Olivier raced so fast he thought his heart would jump out of his throat onto the cobblestones. Was it his imagination, or had the shooting from the Little Bridge stopped? It was his imagination.

Out of two machine guns and a dozen Kalashnikovs, only a machine gun was still firing. Someone had apparently managed to climb over and take the place of a wounded gunner. It had been enough to stop the attackers from crossing the barricade. The shots had become intermittent. Eugène-Olivier ran up to see if he could help. A strange sight confronted him.

“What the hell..?”

“Shit!” swore the gunner. “They can go… up the devil’s ass.” The badly wounded man, who was wearing the uniform of a Muslim officer, spoke with difficulty. He had little time left to live. “I am not Kasim!” he growled. “I am… Xavier!”

It was good that they were bringing people from St. Ludovic to the Little Bridge, thought Jeanne. On the other island you couldn’t even turn around. They attacked constantly. Here, even two men were enough. And a third was due to arrive at any second.

“We repelled them,” said Slobodan to himself. “I can even have a cigarette. A cigar. Anything, even these disgusting Galoises.” Slobodan opened a new box. He would not have refused one of the Belomorkanals Sophia was smoking, but he could not ask the woman to share her expensive smuggled cigarettes.

“Hey, have you heard the news?” announced a young Maquisard Jeanne didn’t recognize. Nor did Slobodan.

“No, what?”

“They’ve stopped attacking. They don’t want to die anymore. We managed to intercept the telephone conversation of one of them. We listened to his voicemail. They’re not doing anything for at least a whole hour! They want to prepare an artillery attack in response. That means they’ll probably come from the river. I almost regret to say they won’t have anyone to attack in an hour! We’ve been ordered to withdraw.”

“Great!” Jeanne jumped up. “Great, we’ve beat them! Oh, I’m going to dance a passage from Giselle!”

Slobodan smiled reluctantly and continued to enjoy his cigarette. He also stood up, leaning his leg on a bag; it felt so good to be able to straighten his back. He threw away his cigarette butt, carefully following where it would land. It fell on enemy territory, on the asphalt next to the hand of a dead man gripping a pistol. The hand slowly began to rise; the man looked at Jeanne jumping around on the barricade next to Slobodan.

The pistol recoiled, a shot rang out. The body on the asphalt jerked in its final convulsion.

But Slobodan had managed to half push away, half-protect Jeanne with his chest. “This is bad,” thought Slobodan calmly, as if nothing had happened. “It’s stupid.”

“Wounded? Hey, the creep really got you good…”

“I don’t know yet. When you run to the metro, send me back… medical… help.” At first, his words came easily, and then with greater difficulty. He slipped down to his knees. He didn’t fall, no, he was simply leaning his back on the bags. His consciousness, which until now had been clear, was suddenly foggy, as if someone had breathed on translucent glass.

“You heard… the… order. You can’t stay here. Run!”

“Like hell!”

Slobodan felt the cobblestones moving under him like a bumpy ride on a sled. Then the stones stopped moving and his vision became clear. He understood that he was lying at the entrance of the metro with Jeanne bending over him. He hadn’t recognized her right away. Jeanne’s usually pale face shone from within with an unnatural ruddiness. It was like a bright bulb, while her soft bangs were now dark and shiny, lying smoothly on her forehead as if they were wet. Ah, that was from the rain that was falling on his face.

But there was no rain. Jeanne wiped her face with the sleeve of her denim shirt. Slobodan finally understood with horror that the girl had dragged him from the bridge of St. Ludovic all the way to the entrance of the metro. How had she even managed to move him, when he weighed more than 200 pounds?

“Why… are you doing this?” His words tasted somehow salty.

“Be quiet!” Jeanne could barely breathe. “You can’t talk… the blood… But why did you do that?”

Slobodan looked at her young face and could not take his eyes off her. The French girl was angry with him for protecting her with his body, and now that he was wounded, she refused to let him die.

Suddenly everything became easy for him, incredibly easy, his heart filled with an almost unbearable sense of happiness that he had thought he had forgotten, the happiness of a child as he watched them pouring wine on the Yule log in the hearth.

He understood. He understood everything.

His soul was far smarter than he was himself. No, he had not come here to seek revenge against the Muslims, although that was what he had fantasized about for years. Sophia was right, a normal person could not derive any satisfaction from revenge. He hadn’t known that before, but his soul knew. He had come here to share the difficulties of rebellion with this people, a people that had once done wrong to his own people, but now suffered just as much, inasmuch as suffering could be compared. He had come here to be together with a people whom he had forgiven.

In order to understand that he had forgiven, in order to feel the blessing and joy of Christian forgiveness, he needed but little. He had needed only to see before him the angry, tear-stained face of a young French girl.

He said to her, “You must live… please…” His words seemed unbelievably loud. The blood rushed from his mouth like water from a broken fountain.

“No!” cried Jeanne desperately. But Slobodan heard the cry as if it were coming from a very great distance, and he stopped hearing it before Jeanne stopped crying out.

“Did you hear me, Lévêque? We’ve been ordered to withdraw. We’ve lasted as long as we needed to! They have a whole hour left in the church, which is far more than they need!”

Eugène-Olivier nodded and took a bottle of water someone passed to him. He understood only one thing: He did not have to fight or shoot, at least for a while. He closed his eyes. It was dark. He didn’t sleep; he simply enjoyed his relaxed muscles and empty head.

A minute passed. Five minutes. Then Eugène-Olivier gave a sudden start.

He remembered.