October 1970 Read Online Free PDF

cabin. Godefroid stood at the door with the shotgun. Blinded, he raised his open hand and shielded his eyes. The voice of a man came at him through the explosion of light.
    â€œHey, guys, don’t shoot! It’s us  . . . ”
    Bernard Saint-Laurent and another young man, their arms full of provisions, came toward the cabin, breathing heavily in the darkness. Behind them was a woman from one of the support groups. Brown hair, late thirties, almost old, compared to them. In his glasses, Saint-Laurent looked like an intellectual. He had a vaguely displeasing mug, with a kind of horse-like jaw that seemed to dislocate itself when he spoke. He was the liaison between the two cells. The other was thin and bearded. For a few moments all they could hear was the heavy sound of their footsteps on the frozen leaves.
    Gode backed up to let the newcomers in and leaned the rifle against the cabin wall. Soon the space was filled with tense faces, their fantastical silhouettes projected against the brutally lit walls.
    The Beard set down the cardboard box he’d been carrying. Drapeau, not pleased, hunched his back and with an impressive clatter of quills sought refuge in the darkest corner of the cabin.
    â€œHave you tamed that thing?”
    â€œIt wasn’t too hard.”
    Jean-Paul regarded the newcomers with a worried look.
    â€œYou were careful, I hope?”
    Saint-Laurent spoke quickly before the other two could: “We took the back roads. No one followed us, we would’ve seen them  . . . ”
    Jean-Paul seemed to think about it.
    â€œWe’ve brought you some newspapers,” the Beard said, holding up a Montréal-Matin .
    â€œAnything new?”
    â€œYeah. De Gaulle died  . . . ”
    â€œIs this where you sleep?” the woman asked.
    â€œYes, ma’am. Curled up in the straw. The Lafleur boys are the bread, and I’m the baloney.”
    â€œI mean news about the others,” said Jean-Paul.
    Saint-Laurent assumed an air of importance, of being in the know.
    â€œThe guys have issued a new communiqué. With a picture of Travers sitting on a case of dynamite  . . . ”
    â€œBullshit.”
    â€œBut guess what: the next communiqué is going to be addressed to U Thant and sent directly to the UN.”
    Gode gave an incredulous guffaw.
    â€œWhy not send it to the Pope?”
    René aimed a thin stream of spit at the floor.
    â€œWhat else?” asked Jean-Paul.
    â€œWe brought you a can opener.”
    â€œHave you guys considered my proposition?” asked Saint-Laurent.
    They turned to face him. Jean-Paul stared at him intently for a moment.
    â€œYou can’t stay here,” Saint-Laurent said. “You’ll freeze to death for one thing, and you’ve burned your bridges in Quebec. There’s people waiting for you in the United States. I can get you across the border whenever you like  . . . There’s people in New York and Algiers. Black Panthers. You could be in Algiers in no time.”
    â€œBefore thinking about sending us to Algeria, you should have started by giving us better instructions on how to get here. We spent the first night between a woodlot and a fence, freezing our asses off.”
    â€œEverything’s all set,” Saint-Laurent went on as though Jean-Paul hadn’t spoken. “I can get you across the border any time.”
    â€œYou can tell our ‘American friends,’” Jean-Paul cut in, “that there’s no way we’re leaving Quebec. This is where the struggle is, not in Algeria. We aren’t going to abandon our friends. We aren’t going to abandon the political prisoners.”
    â€œOur girlfriends are in prison  . . . You can tell them that,” added René.
    After making arrangements for another mission to top up supplies the following week, the visitors were about to leave, to slip back into the night, when Jean-Paul