“Bye, Maman,” said Periclito at last.

“What were you saying?” She heard the echoing click at the end of the world. “Bye, Periclito.”

And now, sitting on her upturned seat, Marie Amaral thought, Perhaps it wasn’t the tunnel after all. Perhaps that’s what it was – an earthquake. She looked into the square, not daring to move in case she released the noise trapped beneath her bucket. Oh, Marie Amaral, why did you come here? she asked, feeling the billowing mushroom of her fear. Here of all places?

But her question expected no answer. Thirty-one years ago, she had been left with few alternatives.

One by one the French left Oran. Everyone slept on the quay, waiting for boats. They slept on their suitcases. They learned not to say, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Marie Amaral remained. She didn’t want to go to France. Or even to Portugal, where David’s sister lived. (She had sent Rosita back. She could no longer keep the child.) She didn’t want anything more to do with Europe. With Rosita and her baby, she moved out of her house in the Rue Balzac, into a fourth floor walk-up behind the casbah. The other occupants had deserted the block, except for some young men two floors below. They were whispered by the concierge to be OAS, but she ignored the woman, who soon left.

She had lived there two months when those in the flat beneath opened fire on crowds celebrating Independence.

Moments after the young Arab had shot the mirror, three FLN soldiers appeared. They found Marie Amaral wrapping Periclito’s head with a towel. Zohra, the maid, had fled and Rosita sat crying in a corner. One soldier collected Silkleigh’s money, scattered among glass on the stone floor; another searched the rooms. They drove her in a truck to an austere building near the port. The tarpaulin was torn and everywhere she could see white, green and red flags.

The building was crowded with women and children, and a doctor dashed between rooms. One of the soldiers found a fresh bandage for Periclito’s head and gave Rosita a bar of chocolate, making her a paper dart with the wrapper

Marie Amaral was led into a bare room, brightly lit. There was a man holding a camera to his shoulder and another who twisted her head towards it.

“Look there,” he told her.

She would be seen that night on the televised news. She was described as the daughter of a gros colon, no different from the other fascists sharing her building, who had fired into the peaceful crowd. The only difference was, she lived.

They taunted her. “Why didn’t you follow the others, madame? Why don’t you go to France?” But they were puzzled. After three days they released her. She signed a paper, agreeing her two children had been well treated by the new authorities. However, she would not be permitted to live in her flat. Her flat had been appropriated for relatives of the victims. She must seek accommodation elsewhere. A hotel was suggested.