The Battle of Algiers Page #2

At the same time, the door of the terrace is broken down, and the paras

burst into the house below.

The inner courtyard is square. In the center there is a well; above, a

patch of sky; on four sides, the arcades, columns, and majolica arches.

Beneath the porches, there is a door for every dwelling. And above, a

balcony with railings and other doors. The doors are wide open. The

paras quickly carry out their orders.

ORDERS, CURT AND BRIEF.

The people are used to all this and know how to obey. The scene takes

place exactly as if it were an arranged maneuver, a practice drill.

The rooms are emptied in a few seconds. The people are crowded together

in the courtyard.

Eyes wide with fright.

Men, women, and children with blankets and sheets thrown around their

shoulders. By now, it is almost day. A soft light is diffused from

above.

The Algerian walks with his head lowered, Marc on one side, the captain

on, the other.

They climb to the first floor and go along the balcony.

The Algerian stops in front of a door.

The captain murmurs softly:

CAPTAIN:

Here?

The Algerian nods yes. They enter.

4ALI'S ROOM. INSIDE. DAWN.

The room is badly lit. There is a mattress on the floor, and another on

the table, a cupboard against the wall, some chairs. Nothing else. At

the back of the room to the left, there is a dividing curtain hung by a

cord at medium height. The curtain is drawn and a large bed with brass

headboards is visible. The Algerian points in that direction; the

captain signals for him to go there.

They go forward silently, and push aside the curtain. There is a small

light bulb hung on the wall beneath a small shelf covered with

postcards and photos.

The baseboard all around is more than three feet tall and is covered by

majolica tiles.

The Algerian points to a spot in the brick structure, on the back

wall, between the headboard of the bed and a corner of the room.

Marc and the captain have their machine guns ready. The captain goes

near the wall, his breath drawn, and begins to examine it.

He runs the fingernail of his thumb along the wall horizontally,

between one row of tiles and another.

He taps the tiles at different places until he hears the plaster in the

interstices crumble. He looks at the bit of plaster that is left in his

nail.

He squeezes it in his fingertips; it is soft, newly laid.

Then he bends over, places his ear to the wall, and listens.

Suddenly he smiles.

5ALI'S HIDING PLACE. INSIDE.

There isn't enough air in the hiding place. The four are forced to

breathe deeply. And in that small space their laborious breaths

resound like splashes.

Ali la Pointe has his eyes fixed upon the square patch of wall that

seals the hiding place. His eyes are large, black, slanted, his eyelids

heavy, somewhat lowered, so that the black of the irises appears even

blacker in the shadows, deeper and more sullen.

Petit Omar is with him, a boy of twelve, and Mahmoud who is eighteen.

There is also Hassiba, a Kabyle girl, blond, blue-eyed, and fair

skinned.

The hiding place is only five feet high, and hardly holds them. They

are sitting or stretched out on the ground, close to one another.

The entrance to the hiding place is blocked by the small patch of wall

which matches exactly the rest. It is held firm by a bar through an

iron ring attached at the center. On the other side of the cell, above

them, there is a hole for air.

They are tense and do not move. Their lips are dry, half-open, and

their breasts rise and fall in a difficult attempt to breathe.

CAPTAIN:

(off)

Ali la Pointe ... the house is surrounded.

You haven't got a chance. Surrender. Let

the child and the girl come out, then you

and the other one. Leave your weapons

inside. It's useless to try anything. Our

machine guns are ready to fire -- you

wouldn't have time. Do you understand?

Ali's face is motionless and hasn't changed its expression.

CAPTAIN:

(off)

Ali, do you hear me? Listen! You are the

last one. The organization is finished.

All your friends are dead or in prison.

Come out. You'll have a fair trial. Come

out, surrender.

SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS, OTHER VOICES, CHEERFUL, INCOHERENT:

VOICES PARAS:

Why are they breathing so heavily?

Fear ...

Air ...

They haven't got enough air inside ...

And again the voice of the captain, clear and somewhat distant:

CAPTAIN:

(off)

Make up your mind, Ali? Do you want us to

wall you in, or do you prefer that we

blow you to pieces? ... Alright. So much

the worse for you.

Ali's expression is still firm; his stare is dark and sullen.

6VIEWS OF THE CASBAH. OUTSIDE. DAY. NOVEMBER 1, 1954.

The Casbah:
compressed humanity, swarming in the alleyways, on the

steps, in the cafes, in the Arab baths, in the mosques, and in the

markets; a tangle of voices, gestures, faces, veiled women, eyes.

Someone is putting up a handbill, another distributes them.

SPEAKER:

"National Liberation Front! Algerian

brothers! The time has come to break

loose at long last from the bonds of

misery in which one hundred and thirty

years of colonial oppression has kept us

chained. The moment of struggle is near;

our goal -- national independence ..."

7VIEWS OF THE EUROPEAN CITY. OUTSIDE. DAY.

The European city: reinforced concrete, asphalt, steel, lights, shop

windows, buildings, automobiles. A steady rhythm of efficiency, music,

cordiality, an apéritif.

SPEAKER:

"In order to avoid a fatal and bloody

conflict, we propose an honorable program

of discussion to the French authorities,

on condition that they recognize the right

of our people to self-government ..."

And the Algerians who work in the European city, the dockers, waiters,

laborers, street-cleaners, farm-hands, and gardeners.

SPEAKER:

"Algerians unite! Be ready for action!

The National Liberation Front calls you to

struggle."

Unemployed, peddlers, beggars, shoeshine boys ...

8STREET CARD GAME. OUTSIDE. DAY.

Two hands are moving; one over the other, they criss-cross with

incredible speed; at the same time, they are shifting three small

pieces of wood which appear to be identical. The hand movements are

marked by a kind of Algerian CHANT.

From time to time, the pieces of wood are overturned for a split second

so that the other sides are visible. Robust hands, thick, unusually

agile for their size. The hands of Ali la Pointe, younger then, twenty-

four years old.

A European quarter of Algiers. Coming and going of people, automobile

traffic. On the sidewalk a small group of European and two Algerian

boys.

Other passersby stop to watch. The group crowds around the stand where

Ali la Pointe is playing his game.

The entranced eyes of all present are staring at the pieces of wood.

Ali's hands seem to move by themselves.

His glance, always a bit sullen, apparently distracted, indifferent,

passes from one face to another, and then to the street, from one side

to another.

At fifty yards, a policeman. Two Europeans, a man and a woman, are

speaking to him in an excited manner, and nudging him along pointing to

Ali.

WOMAN:

Look! Yes, that's him!

Ali is no longer singing. His hands have stopped moving.

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