The Battle of Algiers


1	VILLA HEADQUARTERS. INSIDE. NIGHT. 

	Inside a three-story villa, just built, with whitewashed walls. 
	An elevator shaft is empty, the large cables dangle. 

	On every landing two apartments. The front doors are wide open.
	Whitewash on the floor of the halls, swirls of whitewash on the 
	windowpanes, naked light bulbs hung from electric wires. The rooms 
	contain hardly any furnishings. 

	The kitchens are still without sinks and stoves.
  
	An agitated bustle, a rhythm of efficiency. Paratroopers go up and 
	down the stairs, pass along the halls, enter and leave the rooms.

	The sounds in the background are indecipherable.

	SHOUTED ORDERS, CRIES, HOWLS. 

	SHOUTS, HALF-SPOKEN REMARKS, LAUGHS.

	SOMEWHERE A GRAMOPHONE IS PLAYING AT FULL BLAST. 

	The scene is tense. No pauses.
 
	When the paras are tired, they move to another room. 

	They sit down, stretch out on the floor, drink coffee or beer, and 
	smoke cigarettes while awaiting the next shift. Suddenly, the rhythm 
	of this routine, the timing of these images is upset. A para rushes 
	down the stairs, and asks cheerfully while running:

				MARC
		The colonel. Where's the colonel? 

				PARAS
		Why? What's happening?

				MARC 
		We know where Ali la Pointe is. One of 
		them "spoke" ...

	His voice echoes through the corridors, on the landings, from one 
	floor to another. The excitement is contagious. Many crowd around 
	the door of the kitchen.
 
	The Algerian who has "spoken" is there. He is young with a thin face 
	and feverish eyes. The paras are all around him: they help him stand 
	up, dry him, clean his face with a rag, give him some coffee in a 
	thermos cover. They are full of attention, sincerely concerned. One 
	of them tries to push away the others.

				PARA 
		C'mon, let him breathe!

	Meanwhile others who are arriving ask if it is true. 

				OTHER PARAS
		So he spoke? Does he really know where 
		Ali is?
 
				MARC 
		It seems so. We'll go see. Give him a 
		little coffee. 

	Marc is tall and husky, his eyes young and cheerful. One of the others 
	asks him with a shade of admiration:
 
 				PARA 
		Hey Marc, you made him talk?
 
 				MARC 
			(smiling)
		Sure.
 
	He then begins to smoke again, and moves aside to rest a bit. The 
	Algerian is trying to drink, but his hands are trembling. Someone 
	helps him and holds still the cover of the thermos, drawing it to his 
	mouth:
 
				LAGLOY 
		C'mon Sadek ... Drink, you'll feel better. 

	The Algerian drinks, but his stomach can't take it, causing him to 
	double over and vomit again. 

	Colonel Mathieu enters, elegant and graceful.
 
				MATHIEU 
			(smiling)
		At ease. Is it true? 

				MARC 
		I think so. Rue des Abderames three ...
 
	The colonel turns to the para, who had gone to call him, and who is 
	holding a pair of camouflage fatigues in his hands. 

				MATHIEU 
		Dress him.

	Then he goes near the Algerian, lifts his chin, inspects him for a 
	moment with curiosity.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Chin up, it's all over. Nothing can happen 
		to you now, you'll see. Can you stand up?
 
	The Algerian nods yes. The colonel turns to the paras who are holding 
	him up. 

				MATHIEU 
		Let him go.

	He takes the camouflage fatigues and hands them to the Algerian.

				MATHIEU 
		Here, put them on.
 
	The Algerian mechanically takes the fatigues, but he doesn't 
	understand. The colonel explains to him:

				MATHIEU 
		We're trying to help you. We're going to 
		the Casbah. Dressed like this, they won't 
		be able to recognize you. Understand? 
		We're going to see the place, then you'll 
		be free ... and under our protection ...

	The Algerian shivers from the cold. He is completely naked. He 
	laboriously puts on the fatigues which are too big for him. 

				MATHIEU 
		Go on, give him the cap.

	They give him a wide belt and buckle it. The other paras, one on either 
	side of him, pull up his sleeves to the elbows. A third places the cap 
	on his head and cocks it. 

				LAGLOY 
		Nationalized!
      
	The colonel turn to him angrily: 

				MATHIEU 
		Don't be an idiot, Lagloy!
     
	The Algerian is ready. The paras look at him repressing their laughter. 
	The Algerian continues to tremble. His breath is short, his eyes 
	glossy. He is crying.
 
 				CAPTAIN 
		Let's go.
 
	The Algerian looks around. He breathes deeply. Then, suddenly, 
	unexpectedly, he lets out a hoarse cry:
 
 				SADEK 
		No!
 
 	and tries to jerk forward toward the window.

	Marc seizes him immediately, and with his right hand grabs him by the 
	chest, almost lifting him. With his left hand he gives him two quick 
	slaps, not very hard.
 
 				MARC 
			(persuadingly)
		What do you think you're doing, you fool? 
		Do you want us to start all over again? 
		C'mon, be good. Don't make me look like 
		an idiot in front of the others.
 
	He makes a reassuring sign to the colonel. Then, he takes the Algerian
 	by the arms, and they move off.
 

2	STREETS OF ALGIERS. OUTSIDE. DAWN. OCTOBER 7, 1957. 

	The city is gray and white, by the sea which looks like milk. The dawn
	outlines her features sharply.
 
	The streets and wide avenues of the European quarters are empty.
	Silence, until gradually is heard ...
 
	A HUMMING OF MOTORS.
 
	One truck after another. Their headlights on, with an opaque glow, by 
	now useless.
 
	A line of trucks follow one another along the sea-front, all at the 
	same speed.
 
	They turn right and go up toward Place du Gouvernement. 

	Here, without stopping, the columns divide in two. The two lines enter 
	each of the two roads that lead up to surround the Casbah.

	In the brighter light, the Casbah appears completely white, limestone. 
	Enclosed by the European city, it stands at a greater height and 
	overlooks it.
 
	Mosaic of terraces. White pavement, pavement interspersed by the black 
	outlays of narrow alleys. Only a jump from one terrace to another ...

	Agile and silent, the paras jump one by one from the trucks in a hurry.
 
	SOUND OF TRUCKS.
 
	They arrange themselves geometrically, their movements synchronized. 
	They disperse and disappear in the alleys. 

	They reappear together, then once again scatter. 

	They meet without looking at one another; each one takes his own 
	course.
 
	In like manner without a sound, they are above, even on the terraces, 
	in perfect geometry. Even up here, the paras tighten their grip ...
 

3	RUE DES ABDERAMES. COURTYARD OF HOUSE. INSIDE/OUTSIDE. DAWN.
 
	Every three yards, there is a para, even at all four corners of an 
	intersection.

	They are also in the side streets as well as the main streets. 

	And also above, against the sky, many other paras appear. 

	Number three. The doorway is the height of a man. A squadron stands 
	ready in a semicircle with machine guns in firing position.

	Marc continues to hold up the Algerian by his arm. 

	The captain glances at his watch, then looks up at the terrace and 
	gives a signal.
 
	In a lowered voice, without turning around, he speaks to the para who 
	is at his back:
 
 				CAPTAIN 
		Fire ...
 
	The para nears the front door, his legs wide open, his machine gun, 
	clenched at his side, and aims at the lock.
 
 	MACHINE GUN FIRE.
 
	He moves the gun barrel in a circular direction. 

	Immediately the others hurl themselves against the door. 

	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.
 

4	ALI'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.
 

5	ALI'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.
 

6	VIEWS 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 ..."
 

7	VIEWS 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 ...
 

8	STREET 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. 

	A POLICE SIREN IS HEARD.

	Ali pushes his way through the crowd. 

	He breaks into a run.
 
	The policeman also begins to run.
 

9	STREET. ALI'S FLIGHT. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	The street is sloping. Ali flees, pursued by the policeman. He dodges 
	passersby with agility. He gains ground. But nearby are heard ... 

	SIRENS 

	and also in front of him.

	Another two policemen; they too are running. 

	There is an intersection. At the corner, a cafe. 

	GAY MUSIC.

	Young Europeans leaning against a shop window stop chattering and look.

	Ali reaches the corner, crosses the street, passes by the bar. 

	There is a blond youth, about eighteen, who seems to be a student who 
	stretches out his foot, and pushes a chair in front of him.

	Ali stumbles and falls.
 
	The youth attempts a laugh, and at the same time moves backward.

	Ali is lying face downward, but suddenly turns his head toward the 
	youth and stares at him. Then lifting himself by his arms, he turns to 
	look back. 

	The police are now twenty yards away.

	Ali gets to his feet. For a split second, he hesitates. He hurls 
	himself against the youth, headfirst.

	Using his head, Ali rams into the youth's face, striking him in the 
	nose and splurting blood everywhere.
 
	The youth is unable to shout. He opens his mouth in the attempt, but 
	the only result is a gurgling sound and blood. His friends intervene. 
	Ali is surrounded. The police arrive. A mass of people jump on Ali, 
	kicking him and striking him with their fists as long as they please. 
	Finally the police aid Ali and disperse the crowd.

	Ali is now in handcuffs and being led away.

	More people have arrived. They are yelling, shouting insults, and 
	spitting on Ali.
 
	Ali passes in their midst protected by the police. He pays no heed to 
	the fist blows, the shouts, the spits, but seems neither to see nor 
	hear, as if he were already resigned to having lost the battle this 
	time, and were preparing to wait patiently for a better chance.

	He is walking with an unfaltering step. His face is emotionless, oval, 
	swarthy. His hair black and wavy, his forehead low and wide; his eyes 
	large and slanted with eyelids somewhat lowered, his mouth firm and 
	proud.

				SPEAKER
		Omar Ali, known as "Ali la Pointe" born 
		in Miliana, March 1, 1930. Education: 
		Illiterate. Occupation: Manual laborer, 
		farm hand, boxer, presently unemployed.
		Former convictions: 1942 -- Oran Juvenile 
		Court, one year of reformatory school for 
		acts of vandalism. 1944 -- Two years of 
		reformatory school for theft. 1949 -- 
		Court of Algiers, eight months for 
		compulsory prostitution and resisting 
		arrest. Habitual offender.
 

10	PARIS 1955. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	The air is clear and springlike. A 4CV Citroen delivery van is parked 
	in front of the Minister of the Interior warehouses. The rear door is 
	open, the motor is running, a policeman is at the wheel. Two workers in 
	overalls exit from the warehouses.

	Each one is carrying a box, and places it inside the van. The boxes are 
	made of seasoned wood, both of them rectangular. They are each about 
	eight inches long; one and two yards high respectively. The two workers 
	sit down inside the van, toward the rear. They are facing toward the 
	exterior. Their feet are dangling and almost touch the ground.

	The jolting movement of the van in motion causes them to laugh.

	STREETS OF PARIS. Spring. Girls with lightweight clinging dresses. The 
	two workers call them, whistle, gesture, and then move off in the 
	distance.
 
	ORLY AIRPORT. The van stops in front of a warehouse. The two workers 
	jump to the ground, place the boxes on their shoulders, and enter the 
	warehouse.
 
	The boxes are moving on a mobile ramp. There is a large label on each 
	one which says: REPUBLIC OF FRANCE. MINISTER OF THE INTERIOR. 
	DESTINATION: BARBEROUSSE PRISON. ALGIERS.
 

11	ALGIERS. BARBEROUSSE PRISON. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
	Barberousse prison is situated on the outskirts of the Upper Casbah. It 
	is an ancient fortress with thick, high surrounding walls, which appear 
	to vanish in contrast with the central building which dominates them. 
	The whole structure is covered with limestone like the other houses of 
	the Casbah. Only the bars on the windows and the big gate are black. 

	The gate opens. A covered jeep enters the prison courtyard. In the 
	stronghold of the jeep are the two boxes sent from Paris. 

	Early morning. The sky is pale blue. In the prison courtyard, the 
	workers open the two chests and assemble the guillotine. It is possible 
	to see it from the cell windows that face the courtyard. Faces of 
	prisoners appear between the bars of some windows.
 
	The workers have disappeared. Only the delicate, makeshift structure of 
	the guillotine is visible, its slender outline lengthened.
 

12	PRISON CELL. INSIDE. MORNING.
 
	In one of the cells there are about twenty prisoners. The cell is huge; 
	there are two very high windows that almost reach the ceiling.
 
	A prisoner is standing on the urine bucket, and looks outside through 
	the barred window. On the ground there are some mats which serve as 
	beds. Nothing else.
 
	About ten prisoners are in a group, seated on the ground, and they are 
	speaking in whispers. 

	AD LIB DIALOGUE IN LOWERED VOICES.
 
	Two of them are playing with some stones on a chessboard drawn in the 
	dirt; others are speaking among themselves. One is reading a Mickey 
	Mouse comic book and laughing to himself. But all of them, in 
	appearance and behavior, are distinguished from those who make up the 
	more numerous group. These solitary men are different in some way, they 
	are not ordinary delinquents.

	Ali la Pointe is alone, withdrawn from the others, seated on the 
	ground, his shoulders propped against the wall, his knees raised. He is 
	barefoot. On his left ankle, directly above his foot, are tattooed two 
	words in print: TAIS-TOI. His shirt is unbuttoned and on his chest are 
	other tattoos in a strange design.

	Ali looks at the group and seems to listen to their murmured words 
	absent-mindedly. His expression is taciturn, reserved, and indifferent.

	Ali turns to the prisoner at the window.
 
				PRISONER AT WINDOW
		Look at them!

	Ali jumps to his feet. Everyone moves toward the two windows.
 
 	Ali moves away two yards at a quick pace, then runs toward the window, 
	and grabbing hold of the bars, heaves himself up to it.

	The condemned man turns and looks up toward the windows. He seems to 
	smile although his face is motionless. In a soft voice, he speaks to 
	those faces which appear behind the bars: 

				CONDEMNED MAN
		Tahia el Djez-air! [Long live Algeria!]

	The political prisoners take up the phrase and recite it gutturally, 
	keeping time to the steps of the condemned man. 

				POLITICAL PRISONERS
		Tahia el Djez-air!
 

13 	PRISON COURTYARD. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
 	The condemned man walks toward the guillotine accompanied by guards and 
	a priest reading the Koran. There is also the executioner wearing a 
	black hood. The executioner tries to appear indifferent. The priest 
	recites his prayers. The entire ceremony seems improvised and hasty. 
	The epilogue is reached quickly. 

	PRAYERS.

	The condemned man bends. The executioner places his neck in the right 
	position, adjusts it, turns his head a bit, then pushes his body 
	forward. He releases the mechanism.
 
	The blade falls, the head rolls. There is no longer a chorus. No one is 
	chanting.
 
	Ali's eyes have remained motionless.
 
	Then from above, as the dismembered body is being carried away in a 
	basket, as the priest, the guards, and the officer are leaving, as the 
	workers dismantle the guillotine, from above, from the balconies of the 
	Casbah, suddenly the "ju-jus" of the women are heard, dense like the 
	cries of birds, shrill, metallic, angry.
 
				WOMEN
		Ju-ju ... 
 
 
14	SMALL SQUARE. CASBAH. OUTSIDE. DAY. JANUARY 1956. 

	It is raining. The water runs along the gulleys of the narrow alleys. 
	The white houses have turned spongy gray. The children of the Casbah 
	are playing and spattering mud. Skinny and half-naked children with 
	bloated bellies and hair cropped because of sores.

	Their mothers call them in vain. They continue to run, play, and wallow 
	in the mud with a despairing gaiety. 

	CALLS. VOICES. SHOUTS.
 
	Petit Omar was then ten years old. He is slender, dressed in long pants 
	and a jacket which is too large for him and torn so that he seems 
	almost clownish. Calm and absorbed, he passes in the midst of the other 
	children, but doesn't notice them or their games.
 
	A small square on a sloping ascent.

	In the center, a fountain. On the elevated side of the square, on a 
	corner, there is a mosque. 

	SOUNDS OF CHURCH MUSIC.

	Standing still at the foot of the steps is an Algerian in white cloak, 
	and hood down to his eyes. Other people pass by. The Algerian is turned 
	to one side so as not to be seen. Petit Omar walks toward him and nears 
	his back. The Algerian turns; it is Ali la Pointe. He tells the boy 
	with a tone of boredom and curtness:
 
				ALI 
		Go away!
 
 				PETIT OMAR 
		Men have two faces: one that laughs and 
		one that cries ...
 
	Ali looks at him incredulously and asks:
 
				ALI 
		And they sent you!
 
	The child slips a hand under his sweater to his chest.
 
				PETIT OMAR 
		Sure, something wrong with that?
 
	Omar takes out a piece of paper folded in four, and hands it to Ali.
 
				PETIT OMAR 
		Take it. Everything's written here. 

	He turns away and begins to run. 

				ALI 
		Wait!

	Omar stops running and turns to Ali.

				ALI 
		Come here ... Come.
 
	Omar retraces his footsteps. Ali goes to meet him. 

				ALI 
			(in a brusque manner)
		Can you read? 

				PETIT OMAR 
		Sure ...

	Ali hands back the paper.
 
 				ALI 
		Read it.
 
 				PETIT OMAR 
		Here?
 
	Ali turns and looks around him. He squats on his heels in order to 
	reach Omar's height.
 
 				ALI 
		Here.
 
 	It is still drizzling. Omar unfolds the paper and begins to read it.
 

15 	RUE RANDOM. CAFE MEDJEBRI. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY.
 
	The following day at 5 p.m., rue Random. The street is fairly wide for 
	a street in the Arab quarter and at this hour it is crowded with 
	people. There are Algerians in traditional costumes and others in 
	European clothes. Noisy and tumultuous background ...
 
	VOICES, SOUNDS, WORDS -- ALL MIXED TOGETHER. 

	Veiled women with intent glances. Silent women who seem to float 
	through the crowds, untouchable.

	An Arab cafe filled with customers at the tables and bar. Through the 
	large shop window, a smoky, steamy interior is visible. The cafe is 
	located in rue Random, number 40.
 
				OMAR 
			(off)
		There is an Arab cafe at rue Random 40. 
		The owner's name is Medjebri. He is a 
		police informer ...
 
 	Medjebri is standing behind the cash register, smiling, very busy. He 
	is wearing a traditional costume. He is very clearly visible through 
	the shop window above the heads of the customers.
 
	In a doorway near the cafe there is a clock hanging from a signboard in 
	front of a store. It is five o'clock. A French policeman enters the 
	cafe.
 
 				OMAR 
			(off) 
		Every day at 5 p.m., a French policeman 
		goes to see him. He stops for a few 
		minutes to get information with the 
		excuse of drinking a cup of tea. You have 
		to kill the policeman ...
 
				ALI 
			(off) 
		Not Medjebri?
 
 	Medjebri moves away from the register, still standing behind the bar, 
	to where the policeman is seated. He greets him, and hands him a cup of 
	tea.
 
 				OMAR 
			(off)
		No. It says the policeman.
 
 	The policeman is leaning on the bar. He is tall and husky, and is 
	wearing a scruffy uniform with a kepi pushed back somewhat. Now his 
	thick lips are sipping the scalding mint tea.

				ALI
			(off)
		Okay ...
 
	The large clock and store signboard. Standing in front, there is a 
	slender girl, veiled, her eyes darting in contrast with the rigid form 
	of her motionless body. Her arms are raised to form an arch, her hands 
	supporting the edges of a large basket balanced on her head.
 
				OMAR 
			(off) 
		At the corner, right in front of the 
		large clock, there will be a girl 
		carrying a basket. When the policeman 
		comes out, you will follow him together. 
		At the right moment she will give you a 
		pistol. You have only to shoot ... 
		quickly and in the back. 

	Now the policeman has finished drinking his tea. He makes a sign to 
	pay. Smiling, Medjebri refuses the money, and says good-bye.

	Ali approaches the girl. They exchange glances. The girl puts down her 
	basket which is filled with corn, and rests it by her side.

	She moves slowly toward the cafe. Ali walks beside her.
 
	The policeman is coming out of the cafe. He rudely bumps into those who 
	are entering.
 
	He makes his way along the sidewalk, and moves further away, balancing 
	his heavy body at every step.
 
	Ali and the girl are about a yard away from him. They follow him, 
	pushed along with the many others who are crowded on the sidewalk.

	Then the girl plunges her hand into the corn. In a second, she places 
	the revolver in Ali's right hand.

	He holds it under his cloak. The policeman's back is a hand's-bredth 
	away. But Ali does not shoot. 

	He moves forward to pass by the policeman.
 
	Alarmed, the girl looks at him, and tries to hold him back. She shakes 
	her head as if to speak. 

	Ali smiles at her. His eyes have a hard glint.

	He moves a few steps past the policeman. Suddenly Ali turns, lifts his 
	arm as if to push his way through, and then stretches out his hand with 
	the revolver aimed.
 
	The policeman stops; his eyes are wide with fear. Instinctively he 
	lifts his arms and opens his palms. 

	Terror paralyzes him.
 
	Ali glances about him. Many people are moving away hastily, but others 
	stand still in a circle and watch fascinated. Ali speaks to all of 
	them, in a loud voice. His eyes are alight.
 
 				ALI 
		Don't move! Look at him. You're not 
		giving any orders now! Your hands are up, 
		eh! Do you see him, brothers? Our masters 
		aren't very special, are they?
 
	A sharp, metallic click. Ali tries a second time, presses the trigger 
	again.
 
	SEVERAL CLICKS. REVOLVER EMPTY. 

	Ali rolls the gun barrel; it is empty.

	The policeman slowly lowers his hands. His right hand rushes to his 
	holster.
 
	Ali is ready to jump, throws away the gun, and starts to move forward.

	He knocks down the policeman, who is overwhelmed, and falls backward.
 
	The crowd moves away quickly. Ali starts to throw himself on the 
	Frenchman lying on the ground, but stops halfway. 

	A thought restrains him. He turns and sees the girl who has picked up 
	the revolver and hidden it again in her basket. 

	Then she moves away hurriedly.
 
	Ali curses angrily, then, kicks the policeman's head twice, and runs 
	after the girl.

	He reaches her, grabs her shoulder so roughly that she shouts.
 
				ALI 
			(in a whisper) 
		Bastard! ... Bitch!
 
	The girl struggles free from his grip. At the same time, they hear 
	behind them ...
 
 	POLICE WHISTLES.
 
	The girl quickens her step.
 

16 	SIDE ALLEY WITH FRONT DOOR. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. SUNSET. 

	The girl arrives at a side street, enters it, and breaks into a run.

	Ali is again beside her, but unexpectedly the girl enters a front door.

	She bends, places the basket on the ground, removes the revolver, and 
	hides it in her breast beneath her shawl. She gets up again, and leaves 
	the basket. Ali blocks her way.
 
				ALI 
		Tell me what this joke is all about.
      
	The girl attempts to push past him toward the door.
 
				DJAMILA 
		Let's move now or they'll catch us.
 
	Ali grabs her by the arm, shakes her, and shouts uncontrollably:

				ALI 
		I want to know who sent me that letter. 
		What's his name? 

				DJAMILA 
		He's waiting for you! 

				ALI 
		Where?
 
				DJAMILA 
		We're going there ... if you don't get us 
		arrested first.

	The girl nods toward the street where two policemen are passing by 
	hastily.
 
	Ali moves backward into the shadow of the doorway. He regains control 
	of his nerves, loosens his cloak, and lets it fall on the basket. He is 
	dressed in European clothes, trousers and pullover.
 
				ALI 
			(pushing her ahead)
		Move ... go ahead. I'll follow you.
 
	The girl takes a look outside, then goes out. Ali follows her a few 
	steps behind. By now it is dusk.
 

17	TERRACE. KADER'S HOUSE. OUTSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	It is a starry night and there are few lights visible in the windows of 
	the Casbah. In the background, there is the triumphant neon of the 
	European city, the sea, the ships at anchor, the shining beams of a 
	lighthouse. Kader turns around gracefully, and goes to sit on the wall 
	of the terrace. 

				KADER 
		You could have been a spy. We had to put 
		you to the test.
 
	Ali looks at him sullenly. 

				ALI 
		With an unloaded pistol?
 
 				KADER 
		I'll explain.
 
	Kader is a few years older than Ali, but not so tall. He is slender 
	with a slight yet sturdy bone structure. The shape of his face is 
	triangular, aristocratic, his lips thin, his eyes burning with hatred, 
	but at the same time, cunning. He continues to speak in a calm tone 
	which has an ironic touch to it.
 
				KADER 
		Let's suppose you were a spy. In prison, 
		when the NLF contacts you, you pretend to 
		support the revolution, and then the 
		French help you to escape ...

				ALI 
		Sure. By shooting at me.

				KADER 
		Even that could be a trick. You escape, 
		then show up at the address which the 
		brothers in prison gave to you, and so 
		you are able to contact me ...
 
				ALI
		I don't even know your name yet ...
 
				KADER 
		My name is Kader, Ali ... Saari Kader ... 
		In other words, in order to join the 
		organization, you had to undergo a test. 
		I could have told you to murder the 
		barman, but he's an Algerian ... and the 
		police would let you kill him, even 
		though he is one of theirs. By obeying 
		such an order, you still could have 
		been a double agent. And that's why I 
		told you to kill the French policeman: 
		because the French wouldn't have let 
		you do it. If you were with the police 
		you wouldn't have done it.
 
	Ali has followed Kader's logic a bit laboriously, and he is fascinated 
	by it. But not everything is clear yet. 

				ALI 
		But I haven't shot him.
 
 				KADER 
			(smiling)
		You weren't able to. But what's important 
		is that you tried.
 
				ALI 
		What's important for me is that you let me 
		risk my life for nothing.
 
 				KADER 
		C'mon ... you're exaggerating. The orders 
		were to shoot him in the back.
 
				ALI 
		I don't do that kind of thing. 

				KADER 
		Then don't complain.
 
				ALI 
		You still haven't told me why you didn't 
		let me kill him.
 
				KADER 
		Because we aren't ready yet for the 
		French. Before attacking, we must have 
		safe places from which to depart and find 
		refuge. Of course, there is the Casbah. 
		But even the Casbah isn't safe yet. There 
		are too many drunks, pushers, whores, 
		addicts, spies ... people who talk too 
		much ... people who are ready to sell 
		themselves, undecided people. We must 
		either convince them or eliminate them. 
		We must think of ourselves first. We must 
		clean out the Casbah first. Only then 
		will we be able to deal with the French. 
		Do you understand, Ali? 

	Ali doesn't answer.
 
	Kader has come down from the wall and looks toward the Casbah. Ali too 
	looks toward the Casbah, immersed in the night.
 
				ALI 
		And how many are we? 

				KADER 
		Not enough.
 

18 	AREAS OF CASBAH UNDERWORLD. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY. MARCH 1956.
 
	A warm spring wind, large white clouds. At the western edge of the 
	Casbah, from the Upper to Lower Casbah, the street of the Algerian 
	underworld descends to the brothel quarter.
 
				SPEAKER
		"National Liberation Front, bulletin 
		number 24. Brothers of the Casbah! The 
		colonial administration is responsible not 
		only for our people's great misery, but 
		also for the degrading vices of many of 
		our brothers who have forgotten their own 
		dignity ..."
 
	Shady bars for gamblers and opium smokers, shops filled with tourist 
	trinkets, merchants, fences, pimps, children with adult faces, ghastly 
	old women, and young girls, whores standing in the doorways of their 
	houses.  The girls having their faces uncovered have put scarves on 
	their heads, knotted at the nape.
 
 				SPEAKER
		"Corruption and brutality have always 
		been the most dangerous weapons of 
		colonialism. The National Liberation 
		Front calls all the people to struggle 
		for their own physical and moral 
		redemption -- indispensable conditions 
		for the reconquest of independence. 
		Therefore beginning today, the 
		clandestine authority of the NLF 
		prohibits the following activities: 
		gambling, the sale and usage of all types 
		of drugs, the sale and usage of alcoholic 
		beverages, prostitution and its 
		solicitation. Transgressors will be 
		punished. Habitual transgressors will be 
		punished by death."
 

19	BAR. EUROPEAN CITY FACING CASBAH. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. SUNSET.
 
	It is dusk. In the European city, the first lights are visible. People 
	begin to crowd the bars for an apéritif.

	An Algerian shoeshine man leaves his workbox at the entrance of the 
	bar. He goes to the counter. He is tall and thin as a reed. He takes 
	from his pocket a handful of change; his hands tremble slightly as he 
	counts it.
 
	The barman recognizes him, fills a glass of wine, and places it in 
	front of him. The Algerian pays and takes the glass. It's probably not 
	his first; the trembling of his hands increases. The Algerian drinks 
	the wine in one gulp, then goes to the door. He waits patiently while 
	some Europeans enter. He goes out, picks up his workbox, and moves 
	away.
 

20 	RUE MARENGO AND STEPS. OUTSIDE. SUNSET.
 
	The Algerian is standing at the top of some steep, almost vertical 
	steps that lead from the European quarters to the Casbah.

	Now he is in rue Marengo. There is still some daylight. The street is 
	crowded. The Algerian is unsteady on his legs. He stops and mutters 
	something to himself. It is obvious that he is trying to hide his 
	drunkenness.
 
	He begins to walk, his hand against the wall for support. He stumbles.
 
	The workbox falls, scattering brushes and cans of shoe polish on the 
	ground. The Algerian bends down, and begins to pick up his tools. He is 
	swearing.
 
	Others have seen him. A peddler points him out to a child of about ten. 
	It is Petit Omar, who nods yes, then whistles. 

	Another whistle answers him, then another and another. 

	There are other children, at every corner of the street. 

	They arrive in a run and gather together.

	Omar points to the drunk who is now moving away, and gives the order to 
	attack. It is evident that this is not a game for them, but a duty.

	There is a chorus of brief shouting, of insults, and whistles. 

	The drunk sees them approaching. He is terrified. 

	He tries to quicken his step.
 
	They reach him quickly and surround him. They attack him and then flee, 
	small yet elusive. They do not laugh even once; their faces are hard 
	and cruel.
 
	The drunk swings around holding his workbox by its strap. 

	Some children are hit; some fall.
 
	The drunk avails himself of this chance to escape, and retraces his 
	steps to the staircase.
 
	He begins to descend toward the European quarters. But the children are 
	again upon him.
 
	They are shouting more loudly now, and pushing him. He quickens his 
	step, and staggering jumps the steps two by two. 

	The children trip him and he falls.
 
	He is crying. He shields himself with his hands. 

	The workbox has fallen and is rolling down the steps. The children are 
	now on top of him, like small beasts on a carrion. They smother him, 
	push him and pull him. They are no longer shouting.

	All of them are intent upon their efforts. Only the drunk is shouting 
	despairingly.
 
	They succeed in moving him, and hurl him down the steps. He rolls 
	downward, trying in vain to grab something with his hands.
 

21	BAR CASBAH. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY.
 
	Outside the sun's light is blinding. Inside the small bar there is 
	fresh air and shade.
 
	A young Algerian, with lifeless eyes and an idle expression, is rolling 
	an opium cigarette. He lights it. Two slaps cause the cigarette to fall 
	from his lips.

	Ali la Pointe is wearing a djellabah, a type of cloak without buttoning 
	which slips on over the head. There is an opening of about eight inches
 	at the waist.
 
	Ali has stretched his arm through the opening to slap the opium addict, 
	who recognizes Ali, smiles, and makes a dazed grimace.
 
 				OPIUM-ADDICT
		Ali la Pointe ...

				ALI 
		Wake up! Have you seen Hacene le Bonois?
 
				OPIUM-ADDICT 
			(shaking his head) 
		Not today ...
 
	Then he gets up laboriously, bends down, and looks for the cigarette 
	that had fallen from his hand.

	He doesn't reach it. Ali quickly crushes the cigarette with his foot. 
	He is wearing a pair of sneakers. He moves away and leaves the bar.
 

22 	STREET BAR. CASBAH. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	Ali continues to scour the streets. From time to time, without 
	lingering, he asks someone:
 
 				ALI 
		Seen Hacene le Bonois?
 
 	Then adds:
 
 				ALI 
		Tell him I'm looking for him ...
 

23 	BROTHEL QUARTERS. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	OFF LIMITS 
	Entrance to the brothel quarters. The street widens, the alleys branch 
	off and seem to broaden. There are one or two Europeans, not only 
	tourists in search of adventure, but also elements of the international 
	criminal underworld who mingle here with the Algerians.

	Almost all the buildings house a brothel or other place of ill-repute. 
	On some doorways signs are hanging which read: 

			THIS IS AN HONEST HOUSE.
 

24	BROTHEL. INSIDE. DAY. 

	Ali has entered a brothel. It is morning and there are few clients. The 
	whores are Algerian and European. Some of them are pretty.

	The madam is an Algerian, dressed in European clothes. She is about 
	forty, heavily made up. When she spots Ali, she interrupts her usual 
	professional chant. She seems curious, yet glad.
 
				MADAM 
			(shouting) 
		Ali la Pointe!
 
 	She stops herself, already sorry for having spoken so quickly and 
	imprudently. Ali doesn't answer her, but approaches with a steady and 
	serious glance.
 
 				MADAM 
			(changing tone)
		Haven't seen you around for some time. I 
		thought you were still in prison.
 
	Ali leans against the counter, never once taking his eyes off her.

				ALI 
		Is Hacene le Bonois here?
 
				MADAM
		No. He left early this morning. You know 
		how it is with the boss ...

				ALI 
		I want to see him. If he shows up, tell 
		him that I'm around. 

	Ali moves away from the counter and turns. He leaves without a word. 
	The woman tries to understand what has happened, and follows him with a 
	worried glance.
 

25	SMALL STREET. HACENE. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 				HACENE 
		Ali, my son ... Where have you been 
		hiding? 

	Ali turns suddenly, then pulls back so that his back is against the 
	wall of the alley.
 
				ALI 
			(in sharp voice)
		Don't move! 

	Then he glances at the others. 

				ALI 
		Hands still.
 
	The others are three young Algerians, Hacene's bodyguards. Hacene le 
	Bonois is tall with short legs out of proportion with his enormous 
	chest. He is somewhat corpulent. He has a wide face, a cheerful and 
	self-confident expression. His clothing is a strange combination of 
	Algerian and European which does not, however, appear ridiculous, but 
	imposing. At Ali's remark, his expression changes, becomes amazed and 
	baffled. But at the same time, his eyes give away the brain's attempt 
	to find an explanation and a solution.
 
 				HACENE 
			(astonished)
		You know I never carry weapons ...

	Ali keeps his arms and hands hidden under his djellabah.
 
				ALI 
		I know.
 
	Hacene laughs warmly, and stretches out his hands which are enormous, 
	thick and rough.
 
 				HACENE 
		You afraid of these ...?
 
 				ALI 
		Don't move, Hacene.

				HACENE 
		Why are you afraid? We've always been 
		friends. One might even say that I brought 
		you up ... Isn't it true, Ali? 

				ALI 
		It's true.
 
 				HACENE 
		What's happened to you? 

				ALI 
		The NLF has condemned you to death.

	Hacene is stunned. He speaks aloud his thoughts in a soft voice.
 
				HACENE 
		Ah, so its come to this ...
 
	Then he bursts into loud laughter, and seems to turn to the three 
	guards at his back.
 
				HACENE 
		I'm dying of laughter! Ha ... ha ... 
		ha ...
 
 	Ali doesn't speak. He continues to stare at Hacene. Hacene suddenly 
	stops laughing. His tone of voice changes, becomes brusque and hurried.
 
				HACENE 
		How much are they paying you?

				ALI 
		They're not paying me anything. They've 
		already warned you twice; this is the 
		last warning. Decide. 

				HACENE 
		What ... What must I decide?
 
 				ALI 
		You've got to change occupations, Hacene. 
		Right away! 

	Hacene makes a gesture as if to emphasize what he is going to say.
 
				HACENE 
			(with irony) 
		Okay, you convince me.
 
 	Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he lets out a SHRILL SCREAM, like fencers 
	who before plunging their swords, try to frighten their adversaries.
 
	Simultaneously, he hurls himself forward, head lowered and arms 
	outstretched.

	Ali steps aside, and releases a BLAST OF MACHINE-GUN FIRE.

	Hacene falls flat on his face. There is movement. Some passersby 
	approach. The three boys try to escape.
 
				ALI 
			(shouting)
		Stop!
 
	The barrel of the machine gun is visible through the opening in his 
	djellabah. Ali's voice is quivering angrily:
 
 				ALI 
		Look at him well! Now nobody can do 
		whatever he wants in the Casbah. Not even 
		Hacene ... least of all you three pieces 
		of shit! Go away now ... go away and 
		spread the word ... Go on!


26	WEDDING. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	Summer. There is a garland of flowers strung across an alley. A front 
	door is open, and the guests continue to arrive.
 

27	WEDDING HOUSE. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	In the inner courtyard, there are benches and chairs arranged in rows. 
	In front of all of them, there are two chairs separated from the rest, 
	one next to the other. In front of them, there is a small table with a 
	pen and inkstand on top. The people remain standing, about twenty 
	Algerians, of all ages. They are speaking among themselves in thick 
	whispers. There is an expectant and ceremonious atmosphere. 

	BUZZING.

	Mahmoud was seventeen then. He has soft down on his cheeks, his first 
	beard. He is thin, his neck long and tense, his glance nervous. He 
	appears to be the protagonist of what is about to take place. His hair 
	is combed with care and covered with much hair cream. He is wearing a 
	clean and newly bought white costume.

	Many of the others come to speak with him; the younger ones are joking 
	and trying to provoke him. 

	AD LIB REMARKS.
 
	Mahmoud reacts comically with a grim frown with which he tries in vain 
	to hide his shyness. At the same time, he glances secretly, anxiously, 
	up to the empty balcony on the first floor. Much gay and lively 
	chattering can be heard from an open door above.
 

28	WEDDING ROOM. INSIDE. DAY.
 
 	In the room, a group of girls are busy preparing trays with cups of 
	coffee. They are little more than children, twelve or thirteen years 
	old, with soft complexions, white teeth, and shining eyes. They seem
	children who are playing, but beneath that veneer of gaiety, some 
	anxiety is noticeable, emotions in suspense. The faltering voice of an 
	old woman calls from the adjoining room.

	A girl leaves the group, lifts the dividing curtain, and nearing the 
	bed where the old woman is lying, she kneels beside her. The old woman 
	lifts her hand and places it on the girl's hair, caressing her 
	tenderly. She speaks in a wavering voice, and her small yet kind eyes 
	fill with tears. 

	OLD WOMAN'S SPEECH IN ARABIC.

	The girl nods yes, then she gets up and goes to rejoin her companions. 
	Passing before a mirror, she stops a minute to tidy her hair.
 

29	WEDDING HOUSE. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	They appear on the balcony, then descend to the courtyard. The nervous 
	glance of Mahmoud scans their faces, then rests upon that girl who, 
	with lowered eyelids, also glances quickly at him. Meanwhile the trays 
	are being passed among the guests.

	Now the people turn to face the front door. A young man has entered 
	carrying a briefcase under his arm. Behind him are two boys who seem to 
	be his bodyguards, and are the only ones dressed in European clothes. 
	Both of them have their right hands under their jackets, which are old 
	and torn. They seem to be armed. They close the door, and remain 
	standing on either side of it.

	The man with the briefcase walks toward the table. All present look at 
	him respectfully. He smiles, responds to their greetings, shakes hands 
	with all. But he refuses coffee and seems to be in a hurry.

	He sits down, places his briefcase on the table, opens it, and takes 
	out a large notebook. From the open briefcase, the metallic butt of a 
	sub-machine gun appears.

	On the cover of the notebook is written: NLF -- ALGERIAN  AUTONOMOUS 
	ZONE. CIVIL RECORDS.
 
	He turns the pages of the notebook until he reaches the last written 
	page. Then he glances up toward the people who, in the meantime, have 
	taken their seats. He smiles, says a few words, then calls two names.
 
	Mahmoud walks forward stiffly, erect, his eyes staring straight ahead 
	of him.
 
	The girl also walks forward, with a perplexed expression. They sit down 
	next to each other, but without looking at each other. The ceremony 
	consists of a few words. Finally the two youths look at each other. 
	Mahmoud tries to smile, but he cannot.
 
	The girl's expression softens somewhat. Her glance is tender; she 
	lowers her face quickly. Meanwhile the others recite the verses of the 
	Koran in low voices. 

	CHORUS.
 

30	RUE D'ISLY. OUTSIDE. DAY. JUNE 20, 1956. 8:05 A.M.
 
	There is a French guard, no more than thirty years old. He has a blond 
	mustache, his beard recently shaved. There are few people in the 
	street. The guard walks slowly, glancing in the shop windows from time 
	to time to admire his reflection. He stops, adjusts his cap, and 
	smiles.
 
	An Algerian appears beside him; he is also young. The guard pretends to 
	be interested in the photographic equipment which is on display, then
	moves on.
 
	The Algerian's arm springs forward and returns quickly to its place. He 
	plunges the knife into the guard's neck.
 
	The guard opens his mouth wide to shout, but he cannot. The blood 
	gurgles in his gashed throat. None of the few passersby has seen what 
	happened. The guard falls flat on his face. Someone sees him and 
	screams.
 
	The Algerian hurls himself on top of the soldier, opens his holster, 
	takes his pistol, then gets up pulling the gun with him. The gun is 
	fastened by a leather cord. The cord gets tangled in the gashed neck of 
	the guard.

	The Algerian pulls in vain. He panics. He looks about him with 
	terrified eyes.
 
	People approach hurriedly. They are shouting. The Algerian pulls the 
	cord a second time, desperately.

	He regains his control, picks up the knife which is lying on the 
	ground, and cuts the leather cord, thus freeing the pistol. The others 
	have almost reached him and he is surrounded, but he manages to dodge 
	them, and escapes.
 

31	BOULEVARD BRU. OUTSIDE. DAY. 8:40 A.M.
 
	A group of zouaves on patrol, three soldiers and an officer. The street 
	is sloping; on the right there is a high fence covered with advertising 
	signs and cinematographic posters, all of them torn and full of holes; 
	the emptiness on the other side is visible through the holes.

	The soldiers are chatting among themselves and looking at the posters.

	A soldier stops because he sees something moving on the other side of 
	the fence.
 
	He points to it and shouts, but not in time. 

	MACHINE-GUN FIRE INTERRUPTED BY SINGLE SHOTS. 

	The soldier falls, the others remain motionless, unbelieving. They 
	begin to run and scatter and look for cover. 

	An Algerian appears on top of the fence. He moves like a cat, and jumps 
	from the other side.
 
	His invisible companions continue to shoot. He is unarmed, and runs to 
	the dead soldier. He grabs the machine gun and retraces his steps. The 
	action takes place in a second. 

	By now the soldiers too are shooting, but it is too late.
 

32	POLICE STATION. CHEMIN AIN-ZEBOUDJA. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY. 9:10 A.M.
 
	A police station in the Casbah, a small prefabricated one-story
	building.
 
	At the main door there is a police guard. A group of five Algerians is 
	approaching. They are talking among themselves, and gesticulating.

	BUZZING.
 
	The policeman enjoys watching them, then asks what it's about. All five 
	of them answer him at once, trying to outdo one another.

	The policeman has to shout to make them keep quiet. Then, assuming a 
	very humble behavior, they enter silently. The oldest among them speaks 
	in a mournful voice. He seems to be crying and asks the sergeant 
	something.
 
	The policeman calls a colleague, and tells him to accompany the 
	Algerians. Four of them go with the policeman, while another remains in
 	the waiting room, saying that it is better because he is afraid of 
	losing his control.
 
	Then he begins to explain the reasons for the quarrel: it concerns a 
	will. The old man is his grandfather, but he has recently remarried. 
	Then from inside is heard ...
 
	MACHINE-GUN FIRE.
 
	The policeman reacts quickly and tries to draw his gun. But the 
	Algerian is faster and fires point-blank.

	The four reappear. One of them is wounded. All of them are armed with 
	revolvers, and carry at their sides a machine gun and two sub-machine 
	guns that they have taken from the armory. Other cries and shots are 
	heard behind them. 

	All five of them run out in haste.
 

33	RUE MARENGO. OUTSIDE. DAY. 9:45 A.M.
 
	Another police station. Two policemen are chatting in front of the 
	entrance.
 
	A black Renault is passing by at a walking speed, then slows down 
	almost to the point of halting completely.
 
	The right door opens and there is a burst of machine-gun fire. One of 
	the policemen has been, hit, and grabs the other so as not to fall.

	Another burst of ...
 
	MACHINE-GUN FIRE.
 
	The two policemen fall down together. The car motor is accelerated, the 
	tires screech and the Renault shoots forward.
 
	A military jeep arrives from the opposite direction, crashes into the 
	car and blocks its escape.
 
	An Algerian flees and is pursued. Another descends from the auto with 
	his hands raised. 

	The soldiers shoot and kill him.


34	AVENUE DU 8 NOVEMBRE. OUTSIDE. DAY. 1:10 P.M.
 
	A large garage with workshop and filling station. In front are some 
	automobiles and a military truck.

	A scooter with two Algerian boys passes by, rumbling noisily along the 
	road. Then at full speed, it makes a sharp turn, retraces its steps and 
	turns again. The boys seem to be showing off for fun.

	Meanwhile, the employees of the garage are leaving their work since it 
	is lunchtime. The attendant at the gasoline pumps is left alone.

	The scooter stops in front of the high-test gasoline pump. The attendant 
	is a European, an elderly man, who approaches them holding in one hand 
	some bread he has just unwrapped. He detaches the pump handle of high-
	test, and asks how many gallons.

	One of the Algerians points a revolver at the attendant, and tells him 
	to pour out the gasoline on the ground all around. The other, 
	meanwhile, goes to the other two gasoline pumps, detaches the handles, 
	and fastens them in an open position in order to empty them of
	gasoline. He uses two pieces of iron that he has brought with him to 
	clamp the handles open. He stretches the pump hoses as far as they can 
	go toward the garage and the parked cars.
 
	The gasoline flows all over the large square. The two youths are again 
	on the scooter; they tell the European to move away. They have soaked a 
	rag in gasoline and they light it. 

	The gasoline continues to flow from the two open pumps. The European is 
	by now far away, the scooter is already moving away, and at the same 
	time, the boys hurl the lit rag into the square. It immediately bursts 
	into flames.
 

35	COMMISSIONER's OFFICE. INSIDE. NIGHT. 

	The night of the same day, in an office of the police commissioner's 
	headquarters. On the desk, photos of the day's terroristic attempts are 
	piled in a heap. An employee is in front of his typewriter.

	The Assistant Commissioner is about forty years old, very robust. His 
	face is somewhat wide, ordinary, and with heavy features. He leafs 
	through the photos while speaking on the telephone. It is a very warm 
	night, and the window of the office is open. From outside is heard 
	the SOUND OF TRAFFIC.
 
 				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
			(on telephone) 
		Yes, sir, but they haven't received a 
		search-warrant yet. Rue d'Isly? We 
		followed them for a while, but then we 
		lost track ... Yes, sir, but it is in 
		another precinct. No, it wasn't in 
		theirs ... There are some suspects for 
		rue Marengo ... No ... the judge hasn't 
		given permission yet. He is requesting a 
		formal investigation first. Yes, sir, 
		yes ... Yes, sir, yes -- But we haven't 
		enough men. Of course, I understand ...
		If it were possible, sir, you should ... 
		but the Commissioner can't ... in ... But 
		couldn't you ... Alright, sir ...  We'll 
		let them cut our throats then!
 
 	He slams the receiver angrily and begins to dictate his report. His 
	voice is harsh, filled with rancor.
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER
		Time: 3 P.M. Attempt at homicide against a 
		Patrol of the 3rd B.P.C. Place: Luciani 
		street at El Biar. Weapon: Revolver 7.75.
		Victim: A soldier wounded in the right leg 
		and groin. Hospitalized. Assailants: 
		Unknown. ... Time: 3:35 P.M. Homicide. 
		Place: Chopin Street, opposite number 20. 
		Weapon: P.M. 38. Victim: Private 
		second-class Dare Jackie, born March 12, 
		1931. Deceased. Assailant: A moslem.
		Height: five feet and seven/eights 
		inches. Light colored clothing. Probably 
		escaped in Simca. License plates unknown.
 		Time: Four minutes past 4 P.M. Homicide 
		and attempt at homicide against patrol of 
		border guards. Place: Intersection between 
		Consular Street and General Laquiere ...
		Wait a minute ...
 
	The officer stops speaking, takes a glass from his desk, and goes near 
	the window. On the ledge, there is a bottle of beer, left there 
	evidently to keep it a bit cool. He takes it, fills his glass and 
	drinks.

	Then he speaks in a lowered voice, while looking outside, without even 
	giving any directions to the employee who waits with his hands poised 
	about the keyboard of his typewriter.
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER
		I want to see the newspapers tomorrow. If 
		they're still talking about pacification 
		of our Moslem brothers!
 
	He returns to his desk.
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER
		Where were we?

				EMPLOYEE
		Intersection, between Consular Street and 
		General Laquiere Avenue ...
 

36	VARIED FLASHES. POLICE STATIONS. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	In front of police stations: Ain-Zeboudja ... rue Marengo ... and all 
	the others ... in the Casbah ... in the European quarters ... sandbag 
	entrenchments are being prepared, barbed wire is being stretched, 
	metallic lookout turrets are being set up. It is very hot. Workers and 
	policemen work in silence. There is an oppressive atmosphere.
 
				SPEAKER
		"Ordinance of the Prefecture of Algiers: 
		All police stations in Algiers, without 
		exception and until further notice, are 
		required to prepare and maintain external 
		protection devices. The shifting of guards 
		outside must continue uninterrupted 
		twenty-four hours a day. Sentinels must 
		be equipped with automatic weapons ..."
 

37	EUROPEAN AND CASBAH PHARMACIES. MUSTAPHA HOSPITAL. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY.

	View of pharmacies in the European quarters and in the Casbah.

 	The shelves, medicines; people who are buying. The Mustapha hospital, 
	reserved for Algerians. The wards: hospitalized Algerians.

				SPEAKER
		"The Governor-General of Algiers decrees: 
		Article No. 1 -- The sale of medicinal 
		and pharmaceutical products, effective 
		for the cures of gunshot wounds, can be 
		made only to those who present written 
		authorization from the Commissioner of 
		Police.

		Article No. 2 -- Directors of all 
		hospitals and clinics must produce to the 
		police authorities an immediate listing 
		of all patients admitted to their 
		institutions for the care and treatment 
		of gunshot wounds."
 

38	CASBAH ROAD BLOCKS. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	The Casbah is being closed off. Every point of entrance, every alley, 
	every street that joins the Casbah and the European quarters has been 
	blocked off with wooden horses and with barbed wire nine feet high.

	There are also workers, policemen, and soldiers who are working at the 
	barricades.
 
	Beyond them, on the other side of the barbed wire, the Algerians seem 
	to be encaged.
 
 				SPEAKER
		"The Prefecture of Algiers states: In 
		the course of these last few days, dozens 
		of assaults have been committed in this 
		city. We have reason to believe that the 
		assailants originate in the Casbah, and 
		that they have always found a speedy and 
		easy refuge in the alleys of the Arab 
		quarters. As a result, and in order to
		alleviate without delay the insecurity 
		that now reigns in the city, the 
		Prefecture of Algiers has decided that 
		entrance to the Casbah can only he 
		permitted at those points in the blockade
		under military control, where citizens in 
		transit must exhibit their documents at 
		request, and submit to eventual searches."
 
	The Casbah is imprisoned, like a huge concentration camp. Only five 
	streets have been left open, the widest streets. There are five exits 
	where the wooden horses serve to restrict passage, and where some 
	wooden posts for the guards are being built.

	Every exit is marked by a sign with large lettering.
 

39 	BLOCKADE MARENGO. OUTSIDE. DAY. AUGUST 10, 1956.
 
	At each blockade, there are two ramps, an entrance and an exit to the 
	Casbah. The Algerians and some Europeans crowd around in both 
	directions. The soldiers are wearing fatigues with helmets and machine 
	guns. The Europeans are not requested to show identity papers.

	The Algerians are often frisked, and accept this fact silently, 
	patiently, without any sign of intolerance. But if the soldiers attempt 
	to search a woman, then, it is different.
 
	A woman begins to shout, while waving her arms wildly, and pushes away 
	the soldier who had tried to search her. A stream of incoherent words.
 
	Other Algerians intervene; they push forward threateningly. The soldier 
	is young; he is timid and frightened. He looks over his back for help.

 	A police officer approaches. He has a different tone, and a very self-
	assured manner. He shouts at the Algerians to calm down.
 
				OFFICER
		Are you mad, touching one of their women? 
		Go on, go on, alright ... Go ahead, keep 
		moving!
 
 	The woman passes the blockade, but still continues her protest with a 
	shrill and unbearable voice.
 

40	RUE PHILIPPE. OUTSIDE. DAY. 8:35 A.M.
 
 	An Algerian woman walks along the sidewalk. She is elderly, fat, and is 
	wearing a traditional costume with her face veiled. She walks slowly 
	toward a bar, which has its tables outside, and already some customers.

	Near the bar, leaning against a wall, there is an Algerian who now 
	begins to move and goes to meet the old woman. They greet one another 
	with much warmth, like a mother and son who haven't seen each other for 
	a long time.
 
	They embrace, and the man searches at her breast among the folds of her 
	veil. He finds a revolver which is hung by a cord, and grabs it. They 
	are at ten or twelve feet distance from the bar. At a table, there is a 
	French soldier having coffee with cream, croissant, and an open 
	newspaper.
 
	The Algerian continues to embrace the old woman, and aims from above 
	her shoulders. Only one shot; the newspaper rips, the soldier tries to 
	get up again, his face full of blood. Then he collapses on the table.
 
	The Algerian has hidden the revolver in the woman's veil. The two 
	separate from their embrace. They seem terrified and surprised, and 
	move away from each other in different directions while the people are 
	rushing about and SHOUTING.
 

41	DE LA LYRE MARKET. OUTSIDE. DAY. 9:10 A.M.
 
 	The cries of the peddlers are loud and incoherent. An Algerian is 
	squatting on his heels in front of his wares scattered on the ground:
	clusters of aromatic herbs, jars of spices. A youth is in front of him, 
	and from time to time, he looks around him. He seems to be waiting.

	Now he bends down and begins to rummage through the herbs. He selects a 
	bunch of mint, weighs it in his hand, and argues the price with the 
	peddler.
 
	A policeman in the market passes nearby and watches. The youth waits a 
	second, then turns toward the back of the policeman, and stretches out 
	his arm.
 
	He has in his hand the bunch of mint; a revolver is hidden among the 
	greens. He shoots twice.
 
	The French policeman falls down. The youth drops the mint with the 
	revolver among the other herbs, and moves away in the midst of the
	crowd.
 

42 	RUE DE BAR-EL-QUED. OUTSIDE. DAY. 10:15 A.M.
 
	In front of the police station there are sandbags and a police guard at 
	duty with helmet and machine gun. The policeman jumps to attention and 
	salutes. An officer has come out of the station and returns his salute. 
	He moves away and walks along the sidewalk.
 
	There are few people. An Algerian seems to appear from nowhere, and 
	walks behind him. He is very young, is wearing a short-sleeved shirt 
	and blue jeans.
 
	The officer turns at the first corner. Further on, there is a row of 
	cars and a metallic sign which warns that the parking space is reserved 
	for police vehicles only.
 
	The officer hears the steps of the boy behind him, and summons him in a 
	brusque manner.
 
 				OFFICER
		What are you doing here? Where are you 
		going?
 
	The boy shrugs his thin, shoulders and lowers his head.
 
				BOY 
			(in servile tone)
		I'm going for a swim; my friends are 
		waiting for me.
 
	The officer curses under his breath and proceeds. He stops in front of 
	a Dyna-Panhard, parked not too far away. 

	The boy moves on a few yards past the automobile until he reaches a 
	metallic wastebasket which is fastened to the pole of a street lamp. He 
	stops there, then glances around. 

	The officer is not far behind him; he has taken his car keys from his 
	pocket, and is about to open the car door. The boy plunges his hand 
	into the basket, rummages among the torn papers, then suddenly turns, 
	points a revolver at the officer's back, and shoots.
 
	The man tries to clutch something, but slips and falls down. The boy 
	shoots again at the man on the ground, then plunges his hand again into 
	the wastebasket, drops the revolver, and glances around him. He breaks 
	into a run.
 
	The policemen come out of the police station hurriedly. 

	WHISTLES, ORDERS, EXCITED CRIES.
 
	They turn the corner. Some rush to the man lying on the ground. Others 
	jump into a jeep. Four of them jump on motorcycles that are lined up in
 	the rack. They move off in two directions.

	At the same time, wails of police sirens moving nearer are heard in the 
	distance. The street is deserted. There is no trace of the boy. 

	People are seen at their windows. The officer is lifted by his arms.
 
	An ambulance arrives and stops, its siren at full blast, its doors wide 
	open. The officer is placed inside.
 
	The motorcycles are racing through the sidestreets. The jeep converges 
	on them, then reverses its direction, moving while balanced on two 
	wheels.
 
	Passersby stop to watch, all of them Europeans. The siren's wail is at 
	a high pitch.
 

43	ADJACENT STREETS. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	A deserted street, recently covered with wet asphalt. 

	A Moslem road worker is sitting on the ground next to a steamroller. 
	He is eating his lunch. The combined sounds of the siren's wail and the 
	rumbling of the motorcycles are heard approaching.
 
	Two motorcyclists appear in the street, passing by the road worker.

	One of them stops and turns around.
 
	The road worker moves backward to the street corner. He breaks into a 
	run. His eyes are burning with fear, his face is anxious, undecided.

	From the windows, the people point to him, and shout after him.

	A jeep appears in the street in front of him. 

	The motorcyclist approaches from the opposite direction. 

	The Algerian stops running; he doesn't know what to do. 

	From the windows, continuous SHOUTING.
 
	The Algerian leans against the wall, watches the scene, and begins to 
	cry. The policemen jump down from the jeep and leap at him. The 
	Algerian isn't able to speak, but only shakes his head.
 

44	POLICE STATION. INSIDE. DAY. 

	A room inside the police station. The Algerian's face is beaten from 
	right and left by a series of slaps.

	The room is filled with policemen. All of them are practically on top 
	of the Algerian; all of them are shouting. In the confusion can be 
	heard SHOUTS.
 
				VARIED VOICES
		Do you know he's dead, you bastard? Do you 
		know you killed him?

	They try to reach him, pushing against one another in order to get 
	closer and hit him. The Algerian is crying and speaks in broken-off 
	phrases, half Arabic and half French. His continual efforts to repeat 
	certain words are heard: 

				ALGERIAN
		No, no, no, no, ... me no ... Viva 
		France ...

	An officer arrives making his way.

				OFFICER
		Get out, go on, outside ... Get out of 
		the way! Go away ...

	They make way for him; he reaches the Algerian who tries to smile at 
	him, continually shaking his head: 

				ALGERIAN
		Sir ... sir ... sir ...
 
 				OFFICER 
		What's your name?
 
	The Algerian's mouth is dry; he tries to swallow.
 
				ALGERIAN 
		Sir ... sir ... sir ...
 
				OFFICER 
		What's your name?

				ALGERIAN 
			(straining, still 
			trying to swallow)
		Lardjane Boualem, sir ...
 

45	COMMISSIONER'S OFFICE. INSIDE. NIGHT.
 
 	In the Commissioner's office, the Assistant Commissioner dictates:
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		Guilty: Lardjane Boualem, manual worker, 
		married with three children. Resident in 
		rue de Thèbes, number eight ... So? How 
		many today?

	The employee removes the copies from the typewriter and begins to put 
	them in order. 

				EMPLOYEE
		Seven assaults, three dead.
 
	Then he moves to the desk, and hands over the various copies for 
	signature.
 
				EMPLOYEE
		Here, one for the Commissioner ... the 
		press offices ... the archives ... and 
		one for you, sir. 

	The Assistant Commissioner signs.

				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		Good, thank you, Corbiere... . See you 
		tomorrow.
 
				EMPLOYEE
		Good evening, sir.

	The employee salutes, then moves toward the door. He is about to go out 
	when the Assistant Commissioner stops him. 

				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		Tell me ... Where is this rue de Thèbes?
 
				EMPLOYEE
		Rue de Thèbes? In the Upper Casbah, I 
		think ...
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		All right. See you tomorrow, Corbiere.
 
				EMPLOYEE
		Good evening, sir.

	The employee leaves and closes the door. The Assistant Commissioner 
	crosses the room to the large map of Algiers which covers the entire 
	wall. He moves his finger along the Casbah zone; as he moves it, he 
	follows it with his glance in that tangle of streets.

				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
			(to himself)
		Rue de Thèbes ... de Thèbes ... 

	He has found it. He observes it for a minute, then moves his finger 
	along the road leading to the European quarters. He finds the right 
	route, then concentrates in order to memorize it.

	He returns to the desk, lifts the receiver, and dials a number.

				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
    			(on the phone) 
		Hello, Engineer Henry Amaud, please ... 
		He's already left? Alright, yes, yes, 
		alright ... I have the number.
 
	He clicks the receiver, then dials another number. At the other end of 
	the line, a feminine voice is heard. The Assistant Commissioner 
	abandons his usual peremptory tone.
 
 				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER
		Hello, Bernadette...Yes, right away. I'm 
		going to change my clothes first, and I'll 
		be right there. My wife is already there, 
		right? No, it's not important. But call 
		Henry for me. Just for a minute ... 
		Alright ... thanks ...
 
	He places the receiver on the desk, then puts on his jacket which is on 
	the back of his chair. He straightens his tie. Now from the receiver a 
	muffled voice is heard; the Assistant Commissioner picks up the 
	receiver.
 
 				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER
		Hello, Henry? ... Everything's okay. 
		Good. What are we going to tell our 
		wives? The club? Good idea, yes. I'll be 
		there right away. Just give me time to 
		change my clothes ... Ah, I've found the 
		address. No, it's better to talk in 
		person. Yes, it's the right place ... 
		Okay. Bye.
 
	He puts down the receiver, then goes to the coat-hanger and takes his 
	beret. He goes out after glancing again at the photos of the day's 
	assaults.
 

46	HENRY ARNAUD'S HOME. INSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	Two small children are kneeling in front of their beds.
 
				CHILDREN
		Notre Père, dans le ciel ...

	Two children, five or six years old, blond, charming, but not affected. 
	They seem to be twins, and are wearing identical pajamas.

	At the same time, a servant is preparing their beds for the night. She 
	is about fifty years old, her apron clean and ironed; she has gray 
	hair, her face that of a good woman. She is Algerian.  When the 
	children falter in their prayers, she helps them. When they have 
	finished she says with an Algerian accent:

				SERVANT
		Now, let's go to say good night.
 
 	In the dining room, there is a large open window. The beach, the sea, 
	and the sound of the surf are outside, not too distant. It is a starry 
	night. At a table, there are four men and four women, all of them well 
	dressed and tanned. It is the home of Henry and Bernadette Arnaud. The 
	Assistant Commissioner is in plain clothes. He and his wife seem ill at 
	ease, somewhat out of place.
 
	The maid and children have entered the room.
 
				BERNADETTE
		Come here, children. Say hello ...

				CHILDREN 
		Good evening ...

	The others smile. The servant accompanies the children to their 
	parents.

				CHILDREN
		Good night, daddy. Good night, mommy. 

				BERNADETTE 
		Good night, dear.
 
	They kiss. At the same time the women make the usual delighted 
	exclamations. One of the men attracts the Assistant Commissioner's 
	attention, points to his watch, and makes a sign.

	The Assistant Commissioner nods his head affirmatively.
 

47	ALGERIAN STREETS. OUTSIDE. NIGHT.
 
 	A DS Citroen is crossing the city at high speed.

	The four men are inside. Arnaud is at the wheel. The Assistant 
	Commissioner is sitting in the back seat.
 

48 	CASBAH ENTRANCE. OUTSIDE. NIGHT.
 
 	The automobile arrives at Place du Gouvernement, takes a turn around 
	the square, then turns toward the blockade, and slows down.

	One of the soldiers moves to the center of the ramp, and raises the 
	phosphorescent flag. The car lowers its headlights and stops.

	The soldier goes to the driver's window. In his right hand, he is 
	holding a machine gun which hangs from his shoulders. He greets them.
 
	He bends to window level:

				SOLDIER 
		Good evening ...

	Arnaud responds in an innocent, cheerful tone: 

				ARNAUD
		Good evening ... Can we pass?

				SOLDIER 
		It's too late. No one is allowed to enter 
		the Casbah at this hour. It's impossible.

				ARNAUD
		But it's not even midnight yet!

				SOLDIER 
		It's ten minutes past midnight. Curfew 
		begins at midnight.

				ARNAUD
		Please, we just want to take a short ride. 
		A friend of mine has never seen the 
		Casbah.
 
				SOLDIER 
		I'm sorry. Tomorrow. Tonight is out of 
		the question.
 
	The Assistant Commissioner intervenes with the self-assured and 
	somewhat arrogant tone common to all policemen. He stretches his arm 
	toward the window and hands the soldier a card.
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		It's alright, they're with me. 

	The soldier examines the card by the glare of the headlights, hands it 
	back, and bringing his hand to his visor, he salutes. 

				SOLDIER 
		Okay, sir. Go ahead.
      
	The Assistant Commissioner salutes with his hand.
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		Let's go, Henry. 

				ARNAUD 
			(he changes gears)
		Thank you. Good evening. 

	The soldier steps aside, and salutes again.

	The automobile begins to move, steadily increasing its speed.


49	CASBAH STREET. OUTSIDE. NIGHT. 

	The streets of the Casbah are deserted, almost completely blackened. 
	Some cats are frightened by the headlights and run close to the walls.
 
	Inside the car the four men are silent. They keep their eyes fixed 
	straight ahead of them, their faces concentrating, taut.
 
				ARNAUD 
		This way?

				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		Yes, it's the first intersection ... or 
		the second.
 
 
50	RUE DE THÈBES. OUTSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	The automobile slows down at the first intersection. Arnaud leans out 
	the window and looks. There is an enamel nameplate -- RUE DE THÈBES.
 
				ARNAUD 
		Right or left?
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		Try going to the right. 

	The car turns right, moving slowly.
 
	On one side of the street, the even numbers are getting higher: 26 ... 
	28 ... 30 ...
 
				ARNAUD 
		What number is it?
 
				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
		Eight.
      
	The man next to the Assistant Commissioner says:
 
				FRIEND
		Let's park here. It doesn't matter.
 
 				ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER 
			(in sharp tone) 
		It does matter. Go back, Henry. Let's go 
		to number eight.
 
	Arnaud puts the gears in reverse; the car moves back quickly and passes
 	the intersection: 16 ... 14 ... 12 ... 10 ... 8... it stops.

	Arnaud puts it in neutral. With the motor still running, he presses the 
	cigarette lighter on the dashboard.

	The Assistant Commissioner takes a large package that he is holding 
	under his legs on the car floor. It is wrapped in pieces of newspaper. 
	He lifts it forward. The man who is next to Arnaud takes it, leans it 
	against the back of his seat, touches it until he finds the right spot, 
	unwraps it from that part, and straightens a small plastic tube which 
	appears at the opening. It is a fuse.
 
				ARNAUD 
		How long do you want the timing device? 

				FRIEND
		Five minutes. Give me a match ...
 
	Arnaud takes the cigarette lighter from the dashboard.
 
	The other man has opened the car door. He takes the lighter and touches 
	it to the fuse which ignites immediately. The door of number eight is 
	very near, almost directly opposite the car door. 
 
	The man places the package in a shady area and returns to the car in a 
	run. Arnaud has already changed gears, releases the clutch, and the 
	automobile shoots forward.
 

51	RUE DE THÈBES. EXPLOSION. OUTSIDE. NIGHT. AUGUST 11, 1956. 12:20 A.M.

	The explosion is very violent. The fronts of buildings number eight, 
	ten, and twelve explode and collapse. 

	EXPLOSION.
 
	The echo of the explosion has ended. There is a long pause, only some 
	isolated noises resound. They are stressed, recognizable: a burning 
	beam, the thud of falling debris, broken glass ...

	Then suddenly and almost simultaneously with the other sounds, after 
	the shock, the human voices, the shouts and weeping are heard.

	VOICES, SHOUTS, WEEPING.
 

52	RUE DE THÈBES. OUTSIDE. DAWN.
 
	The dawn's light is clear and white. It dispels every shadow and 
	designs precisely every outline. Here and there, in the middle of the 
	sky, there are numerous clouds of dust, strangely motionless. In the 
	light, the human figures seem black. Seen from a distance, they seem to 
	be ants upon heaps of debris. There are women, motionless, weeping 
	softly, their voices similar to prayer. From time to time, there is a 
	sudden scream, a despairing sob, someone running.

	Another corpse is pulled out from the rubble, bodies mutilated or still 
	intact -- they are all dead.

	The people continue to rummage through the debris and to wait around 
	pitifully.
 

53	CASBAH STREETS. OUTSIDE. DAY.

	But there is no pity in the other streets and alleys of the Casbah, or 
	at the top of the steps. There is anger and hatred. The people are 
	running and shouting.

	They are shouting from their windows and balconies:
 
	JU-JU.
 
	They smother every other sound. The excitement increases. They run 
	where there is more shouting, more people. They don't know what to do 
	yet, but want to be together. Until there is a voice stronger and 
	clearer than the others which gives them a goal and direction.

	Ali la Pointe points below beyond the slopes of the alleys and 
	stairways. There below are the European quarters which widen near the 
	sea.
 
	The crowd is shouting, pushing, rushing forward with him, like a raging 
	stream, tumultuous and unrestrainable. Ali is together with his men, 
	five boys, one of them older than twenty. All of them are armed. The 
	crowd forces them to quicken their step to a run.

	Petit Omar is furthest in the rear. He is wearing a pair of short 
	pants, his chest bare; he is barefoot. He calls Ali with all his might, 
	but in vain.

	He tries to join Ali, to make his way through the legs of the others; 
	he runs, clinging to the others, pushes, passes near the walls; then, 
	turning into a side-street, he rushes into an alleyway, and finally 
	arrives in front. He runs to Ali, almost out of breath.
 
				PETIT OMAR 
			(shouting)
		Kader says to stop them! He says we've 
		got to stop them!
 
	Ali slows down as much as he can with the crowd pushing him from 
	behind.
 
				ALI 
		Where's Kader?
 
				PETIT OMAR 
		With the others. They are trying to stop 
		the people.
 
				ALI 
		Go away.

	Their voices can hardly be heard or understood amid the loud noises.
 
				PETIT OMAR 
		But he says that if we go on like this, 
		we're playing their game, and they'll 
		murder everyone ... Stop, Ali!
 
	Ali continues to run. His face is sullen, frowning, as always when he 
	must choose between instinct and reason. Omar calls him again. His 
	voice is hysterical, repeating again to stop. He is hanging on one of 
	Ali's arms. Ali jerks himself free violently; he strikes the child. 
	Omar sways and falls against the wall.

	With this movement, Ali seems to release his anger at not being able to 
	carry out his actions.

	He slows down, speaks to his men, a few words in Arabic, his voice cold 
	and bitter.
 
	Ali extends his arm and the others imitate him. Each man grabs another 
	by the arm, forming a chain. They check the flow behind them and hold 
	back the crowd that is pressing forward.
 

54 	KADER'S HOUSE. INSIDE. DAY. SEPTEMBER 30, 1956.
 
	Djamila, the girl who in January, in rue Random, gave the revolver to 
	Ali la Pointe, is now standing in front of a large mirror. She removes 
	the veil from her face. Her glance is hard and intense; her face is 
	expressionless. The mirror reflects a large part of the room: it is a 
	bedroom. There are three other girls.
 
	There is Zohra, who is about the same age as Djamila. She undresses, 
	removing her traditional costume, and is wearing a slip ...

	There is Hassiba who is pouring a bottle of peroxide into a basin. She 
	dips her long black hair into the water to dye it blond.

	Every action is performed precisely and carefully. They are like three 
	actresses preparing for the stage. But there is no gaiety; no one is 
	speaking. Only silence emphasizes the detailed rhythm of their 
	transformation ...

	Djamila's lightweight European dress of printed silk ...

	Zohra's blouse and short skirt to her knees ... make-up, lipstick, 
	high-heeled shoes, silk stockings ...

	Hassiba has wrapped her hair in a towel to dry it ... a pair of blue 
	jeans, a striped clinging tee-shirt ...

	Her blond hair is now dry. She ties it behind in a ponytail. Hassiba 
	has a young, slim figure. She seems to be a young European girl who is 
	preparing to go to the beach. 

	Continual silence. Djamila and Zohra have finished their preparations 
	and sit down to wait. Hassiba is still barefoot. She is putting on her 
	sandals, when someone knocks at the door.
 
	Djamila gets up and goes to open it. 

	It is Kader.

	A quick attentive glance; Djamila ... Zohra ... Hassiba ...

	Hassiba responds to his look with a gay and somewhat coquettish 
	expression; she says, stressing her French:
 
				HASSIBA
		Ça va, monsieur?
 
 	Kader smiles for a second, without any gaiety, but to please her. Then
	he speaks briefly and harshly in Arabic. And turning one at a time to
 	each of the three, he gives them three addresses.
 
				KADER 
			(to Djamila)
		Number three rue de Chêne.
			(to Zohra)
		Number fourteen rue Monseigneur Leynaud. 
			(to Hassiba)
		Number twenty-one rue de l'Hydre.
 
	Each one of the girls repeats, in turn, the address which he has given 
	her. Each one of the three responds emotionally. The atmosphere is 
	tense. Kader bids them farewell according to the Algerian custom, first 
	bringing his right hand over his heart. Then he embraces them.

	They look at him for a moment; they are embarrassed. Kader tries to 
	ease their discomfort, smiles, and answers Hassiba's previous remark.
 
				KADER 
		Ça va ... Et bonnes chances!
 

55	RUE DE L'HYDRE. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY. 5:45 P.M.
 
	At number twenty-one rue de l'Hydre, there is a bread store. Hassiba 
	has again covered her face with a veil, and is also wearing a white 
	cloak which covers her whole body. 

	She enters the store. There are other women who are buying bread. 
	Hassiba waits for them to leave, then says in Arabic to the shopkeeper:
 
				HASSIBA
		I've come to take the package ...
 
	The shopkeeper empties half a basket of bread; at the bottom, there is 
	a beach bag with a shoulder-strap, and he gives it to Hassiba.

	Hassiba hides it under her cloak, bends her head in a sign of farewell, 
	and leaves.
 

56	RUE MONS. LEYNAUD. INSIDE. DAY. 5:45 P.M. 

	At number fourteen rue Monseigneur Leynaud, there is a tailor shop and 
	clothing store. Zohra is also wearing the veil and white cloak. She 
	enters.
 
				ZOHRA
		I've come to take the package ...
 
	The tailor accompanies her to the back of the shop, where there is a 
	workroom and young girls who are sewing. He rummages in a closet, takes 
	out an Air France utility bag and gives it to Zohra who hides it under 
	her cloak, greets him, and leaves.
 

57	RUE DU CHÊNE. INSIDE. DAY. 

	Inside number three rue du Chêne, an Algerian craftsman is working in 
	filigree. Djamila takes a small leather cosmetic case.

	Djamila hides it, greets the man, and leaves.
 

58	ALLEY AND BLOCKADE. RUE MARENGO. INSIDE/OUTSIDE. DAY. 6:05 P.M. 

	At an intersection of rue Marengo, an alley, Hassiba enters a large 
	door, and shuts it. In a second, she has removed her veil and cloak. 
	Her face is made up; she is wearing pants and a jersey top. She places 
	the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
 
	Inside the bag, a towel and bathing suit are visible. 

	Hassiba goes out the door, proceeds down the alley until she reaches 
	rue Marengo. She approaches the blockade. 

	It is Saturday evening; there is a hurried bustle of Algerians and 
	Europeans. Soldiers and policemen, are very busy with their usual 
	requests for documents.

	Hassiba's arrival is quickly noticed for she is very pretty and 
	attracts much attention. Some soldiers whistle.

	An elderly Algerian woman looks at her with dislike. Hassiba is 
	indifferent and waits her turn. A French soldier approaches her.
 
				SOLDIER
		I'd like to search you, Miss ...

	For an instant, Hassiba is dismayed; then, she glances down at her 
	clinging shirt and pants.
 
				HASSIBA 
			(innocently)
		Where?
      
	The boy is young, handsome, and cheeky. 

				SOLDIER
		Not here. There's too many people.

				HASSIBA 
		But you don't understand. I was saying 
		that there's nothing to search.

				SOLDIER
		That's what you think!
 
	Some Europeans laugh, the Algerians seem not to see or hear, but it is 
	evident that they are scornful.

				SECOND SOLDIER
		Are you going for a swim, Miss ... all by 
		yourself?

				HASSIBA 
		No, with some friends.
     
	At the same time, she passes the blockade. 

				SECOND SOLDIER
		Lucky them. Next Sunday I'm free .... Shall
		we go together?
     
	Hassiba shrugs her shoulders, smiles again, and moves away.
 
 
59	BLOCKADE RUE DU DIVAN. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	At the rue du Divan blockade, Zohra too is dressed like a European, and 
	seems to be calm.
 
	There are not too many people. A soldier makes a sign for her to pass 
	in a hurried manner, and the girl passes.
 

60	BLOCKADE RUE DE LA LYRE. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	Djamila is tense, pale, her features are strained. Her eyes seem even 
	larger with make-up. Now, at the blockade at rue de la Lyre, the Casbah 
	exit is blocked. An Algerian has been discovered without documents. He 
	argues, shouts, and says that he wants to go back. 

	INCOHERENT VOICES.

	The soldiers try to catch him, he struggles to get free. 

	Meanwhile the people push forward in protest. Two soldiers catch the 
	Algerian, and drag him bodily into the guard posts. The flow of people 
	continues.

	Djamila steps forward, holding the cosmetic-case with both of her 
	hands. She doesn't know how to carry it, and from time to time she 
	changes her position. She realizes that she looks awkward.

	It's now her turn. The soldiers' tone is arrogant. The previous scene 
	has made them nervous. An officer signals her to pass, then points to 
	the cosmetic-case.
 
 				OFFICER 
		What's inside?
 
 	Instinctively, Djamila lifts the case and looks at it; she feels 
	herself failing, but makes an effort to answer.
 
				DJAMILA 
		Here?

 				OFFICER 
		There ...
 
	Djamila uses all her strength to smile and she succeeds. Her eyes light 
	up defiantly.
 
 				DJAMILA 
			(provocatively)
		Nothing. 

	The officer signals her to pass.
 

61	FISH-MARKET. INSIDE. DAY. 6:15 P.M.
 
	A large warehouse in the fish-market. There are enormous iceboxes with 
	cartons of frozen fish and tubs with running water and live fish. The 
	three girls are next to one another. 

	The three bags are on top of the counter, a few steps away. With them 
	is a thin Algerian about twenty-five years old. He has thick black 
	hair, straight and combed neatly. He is wearing glasses. With his rough 
	and nervous hands, he pulls out the towel and bathing suit from 
	Hassiba's bag, then delicately and carefully, a square wooden box. He
	opens it, and turning to the girl, signals her to move away a bit. The 
	girl steps back. In the box, there is a huge iron tube, sealed at both 
	ends by two clock dials. Inside the tube, two batteries with wires are 
	attached to the dials. The youth glances at his wristwatch, then 
	adjusts the hands of the dials to six forty-five. He puts the bomb back 
	into the box, closes it, and places it in the bag. He replaces the 
	towel and bathing suit, then hands the bag to Hassiba. He is smiling 
	slightly. 

	Hassiba takes the bag and goes away.

	The box fits perfectly into Djamila's cosmetic-case. The youth opens it 
	without removing it from the case, adjusts the two dials to six fifty, 
	puts everything back in its place, and hands the case to Djamila. He 
	smiles at her and she moves away. In the Air France bag, there are 
	newspapers and magazines on top, and the same box. The youth adjusts 
	the bomb to six fifty-five, arranges it again inside the bag, closes 
	the zipper, and hands the bag to Zohra. He smiles at her. His smile is 
	more genuine, less mechanical. There is less tension than before.

	The youth smiles at the girl and says in Arabic:
 
 				ALGERIAN
		May Allah protect you.
 
	Zohra thanks him in a whisper, bends her head, and moves away. The 
	youth takes a cigarette from his shirt pocket, places it between his 
	lips, and lights it. His hand is trembling a little.
 

62	CAFETERIA RUE MICHELET. INSIDE. DAY. 6:30 P.M.
 
	Cafeteria, rue Michelet 1. The club is very crowded. There are two 
	rooms; one at the entrance with an American-style bar, and one at the 
	back with tables. It is Saturday, and at this hour many European
	families go out to have an ice cream. There is not too much confusion 
	or uproar. The people are calm, they take their places at the bar and 
	small tables, and eat their ice cream while chatting quietly.

	Hassiba enters, glances at the large clock above the cash register. It 
	is half past six. She goes to the register and waits her turn. The 
	different orders mingle; she orders a Coca-Cola. They give her the 
	check. She pays.

	She goes to the bar; all the seats are taken. She gives her order and 
	the ticket to the waiter.
 
	A man moves aside, looks at her, then steps down from his stool and 
	offers it to her.
 
	Hassiba tells him that it doesn't matter, but the man insists. Hassiba 
	thanks him and sits down. The man is about fifty, well groomed. He 
	smiles again, and turns to chat with some friends.

	Hassiba settles herself more comfortably on the seat, then removes the 
	bag from her shoulder. Holding it by the strap, she places it on the 
	floor below the counter behind the brass railing used to lean one's 
	feet.
 
	The waiter has brought her the drink. Hassiba drinks slowly, from time 
	to time glancing at the clock. She finishes drinking. The bag is in a 
	vertical position.
 
	Moving her feet slowly and carefully, Hassiba lets the bag slip on its 
	side.
 
	She gets down from the seat, and points it out to the man who is 
	standing next to her. 

				HASSIBA
		I'm giving your seat back. 

				MAN
		Are you already leaving, Miss? 

	Hassiba smiles, nods yes. 

				HASSIBA
		Good evening ...

	The man sits down.
 
 				MAN
		Good evening ...
 

63	MILK BAR. RUE D'ISLY. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY.
 
	Milk Bar, rue d'Isly, at the corner of Place Bugeand. The jukebox is 
	playing full blast. It is a bar for young people. There is much bustle 
	and confusion, much laughter. The girls are making plans for Sunday.

	Djamila enters and moves to the jukebox which is in the corner near the 
	door. There are playbills for various theater performances hanging on
 	the wall. Djamila stops to look at them and reads the bottom lines. She 
	places the cosmetic-case on the floor. Rising again she looks around 
	her, and pushes the case behind the jukebox with her foot ...
 

64 	AIR FRANCE. IMMEUBLE MAURETANIA. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	Maison Blanche, Immeuble Mauretania. The entire ground floor is filled 
	with ticket counters and a waiting room for the airlines. There are 
	some employees, stewardesses and some travelers.
 
	Zohra passes through the large glass door at the entrance, goes to the 
	Air France counter, takes a time schedule, then goes to sit down on a 
	sofa which runs along the opposite wall. She sits down and places the 
	airline bag on the ground in front of her, and begins to leaf through 
	the timetable, from time to time glancing around. Using her heels, she 
	pushes the bag under the sofa.

	She looks at the large electric clock which is hanging in the center of 
	the room; it is forty minutes past six.
 
 
65	CAFETERIA RUE MICHELET. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	It is six forty-four by the cafeteria clock. The second hand is moving.
 	There are more or less the same people. The old man is still seated on
 	the barstool, and continues to chat.

	Hassiba's bag is still at his feet; the second hand is racing. A five-
	year-old child hands a coin to the waiter:
 
				CHILD
		Ice cream ...

	The father and mother are watching him, delighted. The waiter smiles at 
	the child and points to the cash register. He speaks to the child in 
	the usual tone of a grownup when speaking to children:
 
 				WAITER
		You have to go there first ... and then 
		come back to me.

	The second hand reaches twenty-five, then thirty. The child goes to the 
	cashier and pays. The cashier smiles at him and gives him the check.
 
				CASHIER
		What a good boy ...

	The child returns to the counter. The waiter has already prepared the 
	ice cream for him, and hands it to him. The child is standing on
	tiptoes.
 

66	CAFETERIA MICHELET. EXPLOSION. INSIDE. DAY. 

	The second hand, the explosion: bodies flung into the air, arms, legs, 
	white smoke, screams.
 
	Bodies thrown outside, the doors unhinged, the windows broken, empty.

	The people watch from their windows, the passersby move closer, they 
	bend down to look at those who are writhing on the ground.

	Astonished and incredulous faces. No one speaks. Only screams and 
	weeping. Sirens which are drawing nearer. Firemen and police 
	arriving ...
 

67	MILK BAR. RUE D'ISLY. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	The ambulance sirens on rue d'Isly, one car after another. 

	At the Milk Bar, the people go to the doors to look at the ambulances 
	which are racing toward Place Bugeand. The sirens fade in the distance 
	and move away. The jukebox is again loud: "Brigitte Bardot, Bardot ..." 

	The people re-enter the bar, chattering, to have their apéritifs. It is 
	six fifty: the explosion.
 

68 	MILK BAR. EXPLOSION. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	The jukebox is flung into the middle of the street. There is blood,
 	strips of flesh, material, the same scene as at the Cafeteria; the 
	white smoke and shouts, weeping, hysterical girls' screams. One of them 
	no longer has an arm and runs around, howling despairingly; it is 
	impossible to control her. The sound of sirens is heard again. The 
	crowd of people, the firemen, police, ambulances all rush to the scene 
	from Place Bugeand.

	The ambulances arrive at rue Michelet.

	They are already loaded with dead and wounded. The relatives of the 
	wounded are forced to get out. The father of the child who was buying 
	ice cream seems to be in a daze: he doesn't understand.

	They pull him down by force. The child remains there, his blond head a 
	clot of blood.
 
	The policemen try to bring order to the chaos, are forced to shout, 
	push, threaten. The wounded swarm around the ambulances. A Commissioner 
	sends off the first one.
 
 				COMMISSIONER
		What time is it?
 
 				POLICEMAN
		A quarter to seven.
 
 	The Commissioner goes to the second ambulance, pulls down a man who is 
	trying to enter by force, slams the door, and shouts to the driver. His 
	face is pale and drawn; the veins of his neck are swollen.
 
				COMMISSIONER 
		Go away, for God's sake!
 
	The auto leaves and now, the third explosion resounds in the distance. 
	It is heard clearly and violently from the Mauretania section.

	The Commissioner stops midway in his last gesture, and likewise, all 
	the others, who are paralyzed with fright, incapable of taking action
	again, of accepting such reality for a third time.

	In Place Bugeand, there also, the people are motionless. All of them 
	are looking in the same direction. Their faces are alike in their 
	terror, alike in their sense of impotence, alike in their deep sadness.


69	STREET. EUROPEAN CITY. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	The sun appears, then hides behind black clouds. There is a cool wind.
 	It is ten in the morning, and the European city has its usual rapid and 
	efficient rhythm of every day at this hour, only there is terror 
	written on the face of every person. That same terror has remained, and 
	suspicion, and despairing impotence.

	Patrols of soldiers and policemen move around the city, search 
	Algerians and some Europeans, stop automobiles, trucks, buses, and 
	trams that they block at both doors. 

	At the entrance to every shop, the owner searches every customer before 
	letting him enter.
 
	He does so politely with a drawn smile, and methodically rummages 
	through every handbag, every package. 

	So too in the bars, in the offices, in workshops ... And now that it is 
	already late afternoon, also outside the brothels, the cinemas, the 
	theaters.
 

70	LEMONS STREET. OUTSIDE. SUNSET.
 
	A young Algerian boy thirteen or fourteen years old, wearing sandals
	without socks, trousers that reach to his ankles, walks quickly 
	carrying a cardboard box tied with a cord. It is dusk.
 
	A European woman sees him pass in front of her, looks at him, and 
	follows him with her glance.
 
	On the sidewalk there are some youths. The woman points to the Algerian 
	boy, says something. The traffic is heavy. Her words are unclear. One 
	youth calls to the boy who is by now thirty feet away:

				YOUTH
		Hey, little rat ...
 
	The boy turns around for a second, his face frightened, and quickens 
	his step. The youths follow behind him and the boy begins to run. The 
	youths too begin to run and others join them, people who are passing. 
	They form a small mob and are shouting. The boy shoots into a
	sidestreet, drops his box, and races ahead.

	While some chase the boy, others stop around the box, make way, look 
	for a policeman, a soldier, an officer. A circle continues to form 
	around the box. A patrol arrives. One of the soldiers has a Geiger 
	counter. He moves near the box, carefully placing the counter above it, 
	then ceasing to be prudent, he takes his bayonette, cuts the cord, and 
	tears open the box: lemons.
 

71	STREET CORNER. OUTSIDE. SUNSET.
 
	The boy has been cornered, surrounded, pinned down, kicked, hit with 
	umbrellas, until he is exhausted and can no longer defend himself. He 
	is no longer moving. He is lying on the ground, dead. The air is gray 
	now, and slowly all the colors unite to form gray. Lights are lit in
	the city and contrast with the whiteness of the Casbah high above. The 
	sky is still clear, the black profiles of the mountains, the straight 
	coasts on the sea, the sea itself that seems to be land until it 
	reaches the horizon where the moon rises between the clouds.
 
				SPEAKER
		"Following a lengthy discussion, the 
		General Assembly of the United Nations has 
		decided its agenda for the forthcoming 
		debates:
 
		(1) re-unification of Korea 
		(2) disarmament 
		(3) the Algerian question.

		Colombia has proposed that only the first 
		two points be discussed for the day. 
		However, the Afro-Asian nations opposed, 
		underlining the importance they attribute 
		to the Algerian question ..."
 

72	SEA-FRONT. OUTSIDE. DAY. JANUARY 10, 1957.
 
	The European crowd applauds, their eyes aglow, their mouths wide open, 
	shouting and yelling, their teeth flashing in the sun. Clapping of 
	applause on the sea-front of Algiers. Children, are held up to see, 
	waving small flags. The paratroopers of the Tenth Division march past.
 
				SPEAKER
		"Mr. Raymond Lefevre, Inspector General 
		of the Administration, has presided over 
		a meeting in which important decisions 
		have been taken with the aim of securing 
		public order and the protection of 
		persons and their property. In particular, 
		it has been decided to recall the 'Tenth' 
		Division of paratroopers to Algiers that, 
		until now, has been employed in the 
		antiguerrilla operations on the Cabiro 
		plateau. The Commander General of the 
		Tenth Division will assume responsibility 
		for the maintenance of order in Algiers, 
		and will have at his disposal in order to 
		achieve this goal, all civil and military 
		means provided for the defense of the 
		zone."
 
	Massu and the authorities are standing on the balconies of the 
	Prefecture building.
 
	The paras are marching, their sleeves rolled up, their faces sunburned. 
	Machine guns, bazookas, crew-cuts, the eyes of singing boys, silent 
	steps, one battalion after another. 

	The dragon "black berets" pass by ...

	The "red berets" of the 2nd Regiment of colonial paratroopers ...

	"Les casquettes" of the 3rd Regiment parade by; "les hommes-peints,"
	Mathieu's paras.
 
	Colonel Mathieu is at the head of the regiment. He is tall, slender, 
	over fifty. He has thinning gray hair, a lean face, blue eyes, and a 
	wide forehead. His face is lined with many wrinkles. Were it not for 
	the uniform, the weapons, his tanned skin, his manner of walking, and 
	his energetic voice when giving orders, he wouldn't seem a soldier, but 
	an intellectual.
 
 	The 3rd Regiment colonial paratroopers are now before the Commissioner. 
	Mathieu turns his head slightly and: 

				MATHIEU 
		3rd Regiment! Attention à droite ... 
		Droite!
 
				SPEAKER
		Family name: Mathieu; Name: Philippe; 
		Born in Rennes May 3, 1906; Rank: 
		Lieutenant Colonel; Schooling: 
		Politechnique-degree in Engineering; 
		Campaigns: Second World War, Anti-Nazi 
		Resistance Movement, Italian Campaign, 
		Indochinese War, Algerian War ...
 

73	VILLA HEADQUARTERS. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	In a villa in the military headquarters, a reception room is visible 
	through a large window on the first floor. There are about twenty 
	officers seated in rows of chairs as if for a lecture. Mathieu is in 
	front of them and he is speaking while standing next to a desk. At his 
	back there is a blackboard, and near it, a large map with pyramid 
	graphs, cells, arrows, crossmarks, and, above them, the title: 
	STRUCTURE NLF AUTONOMOUS ZONE OF ALGIERS.

	Mathieu's voice has nothing of the military and traditional. His tone 
	is neither harsh nor cold, but rather kind and pleasing; from it
 	emanates a superior authority imposed by reason and not by position.
 
				MATHIEU 
		The result is that in the last two 
		months, they have reached an average of 
		4.2 assaults per day, including 
		aggression against individuals, and the 
		explosions. Of course, the conditions of 
		the problem are as usual: first, the 
		adversary; second, the method to destroy 
		him ... There are 80,000 Arabs in the 
		Casbah. Are they all against us? We know 
		they are not. In reality, it is only a 
		small minority that dominates with 
		terror and violence. This minority is 
		our adversary and we must isolate and 
		destroy it ...
 
	While speaking, he goes to the window, and pulls down the shade. He 
	interrupts his speech, points to the rest of the window:
 
				MATHIEU 
		Draw it down there too ...
 
	Two or three officers stand up to perform the task. At the back of the 
	room there is a movie projector. 

	Next to it there is a para who is preparing to operate it. 

	The other shades are drawn, and gradually the room is darkened.

	Mathieu, meanwhile, has resumed speaking:
 
				MATHIEU 
		He is an adversary who shifts his 
		position above and below the surface with 
		highly commendable revolutionary methods
 		and original tactics. ... He is an 
		anonymous and unrecognizable enemy who 
		mingles with thousands of others who 
		resemble him. We find him everywhere: in 
		the alleys of the Casbah; in the streets 
		of the European city, and in working 
		places.

	Mathieu interrupts himself again and makes a signal to the back of the 
	room which is completely darkened.
 
				MATHIEU
		Go ahead, Martin.

	Martin turns on the projector. On the white wall next to the map and 
	graph appear pictures of the Casbah. There are the blockades, the 
	barbed wire, the metal screens, the Algerians who exit and enter, the 
	policemen and soldiers who examine documents and frisk someone. From 
	time to time, close-ups of the pictures are shown, enlarged to the 
	minutest details, close-ups of faces, motionless images that last only 
	for a few seconds.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Here is some film taken by the police. 
		The cameras were hidden at the Casbah 
		exits. They thought these films might be 
		useful, and in fact they are useful in 
		demonstrating the usefulness of certain 
		methods. Or, at least, their inadequacy.

	Hassiba is now seen and the soldiers who are wooing her, while she 
	laughs, jokes, flirts in a provocative manner, and passes the blockade.
 
				MATHIEU 
		I chose these films because they were 
		shot in the hours preceding some recent 
		terroristic assaults. And so, among all 
		these Arabs, men and women, there are the 
		ones responsible. But which ones are they? 
		How can we recognize them? Controlling 
		documents is ridiculous: one who has 
		everything in order is most likely to be 
		the terrorist.

	An Algerian is being dragged away while protesting, kicking, and trying 
	to free himself. And then the scene changes. There is another Casbah 
	exit, and an Algerian who is being searched.
 
 				MATHIEU 
			(smiling)
		Note the intuition of the cameraman. He 
		realized that in that box, there had to 
		be something of interest, and he paused 
		to focus it.
 
	The picture is enlarged. The small box which the Algerian is carrying 
	on his shoulder is seen in detail. It is opened. The box is swarming 
	with snakes; the soldier who had wanted to examine it jumps backward.

	The officers in the room burst into laughter.

				MATHIEU 
			(laughing)
		Maybe the bomb was hidden right there, in 
		a double bottom. Who knows? We'll never 
		know.
 
	Using the barrel of his machine gun, a soldier has closed the box. A 
	snake has managed to jump out, and fallen to the ground. The people are 
	terrified and move away. Others laugh, among them, Petit Omar, who 
	seems to be an ordinary child enjoying himself. 

				MATHIEU 
		That's enough, Martin ...

	The lights are again switched on in the room. Mathieu is again next to 
	the desk, and waits a second until the buzz of comments subsides.

				MATHIEU
		We must start again from scratch. The only 
		information that we have concerns the 
		structure of the organization. And we 
		shall begin from that ...

	He takes a wooden pointer from the desk in order to illustrate the 
	graph, while he speaks with the tone and precision of a university 
	professor.
 
				MATHIEU 
		It is a pyramid-like organization divided 
		into a series of sectors. At the top of 
		the pyramid is their General Staff. 

	He has moved near the blackboard, and taken some chalk, and slowly as 
	he speaks, he illustrates his speech. 

				MATHIEU 
		The military commander responsible for 
		the executive body finds the right man 
		and nominates him to responsibility for 
		a sector: number one. Number one in his 
		turn, chooses another two: number two and 
		number three ... And so they form the 
		first triangle.

	He has written high on the board a number one and below it, with some 
	space between them, the numbers two and three. He unites the three 
	numbers with lines and forms a triangle. 

				MATHIEU 
		Now number two and number three choose, 
		in their turn, two men each ... number 
		four and five, and so on ...
 
	Mathieu writes the new numbers, spacing them on the next line. Then he 
	unites two to four and five, and three to six and seven, forming two 
	new triangles.
 
	Mathieu has written other numbers and unites them to those of the 
	preceding line and thus forms other triangles. Now the blackboard is 
	covered by a series of triangles that form a large pyramid.
 
				MATHIEU 
		The reason for this geometry is so that 
		every militant will know only three 
		members in the entire organization: his 
		commander who has chosen him, and the two 
		members that he himself has chosen ... 
		Contacts take place only by written 
		instructions ... That is why we do not 
		know our adversaries: because, in 
		practice, they do not even know each 
		other.

	Mathieu leaves the blackboard and moves near the officers. The tone of 
	his voice changes. The explanation is now finished. He gives 
	directions ... 
 
				MATHIEU 
		To know them means to eliminate them. 
		Consequently, the military aspect is 
		secondary to the police method. I know we
 		are not fond of this word, but it is the 
		only word that indicates exactly the type 
		of work that we must perform. We must 
		make the necessary investigations in 
		order to proceed from one vertex to 
		another in the entire pyramid. The 
		reason for this work is information. The 
		method is interrogation. And 
		interrogation becomes a method when 
		conducted in a manner so as to always 
		obtain a result, or rather, an answer. 
		In practice, demonstrating a false 
		humanitarianism only leads to the 
		ridiculous and to impotence. I am 
		certain that all the units will 
		understand and react accordingly. 
		However, success does not depend solely 
		on us. We need to have the Casbah at our 
		disposal. We must sift through it ... and 
		interrogate everyone. And here is where 
		we find ourselves hindered by a 
		conspiracy of laws and regulations that 
		continue to be operative, as if Algiers 
		were a holiday resort and not a 
		battleground. We have requested a carte 
		blanche. But it is very difficult to 
		obtain. Therefore, it is necessary to 
		find an excuse to legitimize our 
		intervention, and make it possible. It 
		is necessary to create it ourselves --
		this excuse. Unless our adversaries will 
		think of it themselves, which seems to be 
		what they are doing.
 

74	ALLEY UPPER CASBAH. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	It is not a song, but a type of spoken chorus, an assembly of young 
	voices, words whispered from the throat, both high and low, and sudden 
	silent pauses. It is monotonous; but it is just such a repetition, 
	always with the same pattern of tones -- high, low, then, silent -- 
	that manages to transform itself into a motif, reach an excited pitch, 
	and acquire breadth and solemnity. The sound fills the alleys, rises 
	toward the long rectangle of sky, and moves farther away as if it were 
	meant to be heard by all.

	The alley is narrow and sloping, with crumbling walls, tufts of grass,
 	and refuse. It is located at the outer periphery of the Casbah -- the 
	countryside is in the background. An Algerian is walking with large 
	steps; a five-year-old child is behind him, moving quickly, stumbling 
	from time to time on the pavement; although he does not cry, 
	occasionally he calls to his father, who proceeds forward, and does not 
	turn around. The chorus arises from behind them. It is incoherent. They 
	stop in front of a door; they have arrived. The door gives way and they 
	enter.
 

75	KORAN SCHOOL. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	A large room, like a shop or stable. Here too, on the ground and 
	pavement, there are tufts of grass. It is cold. The walls are 
	unplastered, the windows boarded. The roof is in sight, but not the 
	beams. The roof is made of tiles and covered with a coat of whitewash.
 
	There are about twenty children, five to eight years old, seated on the 
	floor. The teacher is in front of them; he too is seated. He is 
	prompting the verses in a low voice, almost in a whisper, and the 
	chorus repeats it.
 
	The Koran School: a bare, wobbling place.

	The Algerian who has entered takes the child by his hand, and 
	accompanies him to the teacher who is now standing; the chorus 
	continues; the other children, do not look at the two who have just 
	entered.
 
	The Algerian and the teacher greet each other, bringing their hands to 
	their hearts, and then to their mouths. At the same time, the teacher 
	takes an envelope from under his tunic, and hands it over to the other.
 
				SPEAKER 
		"To all militants! After two years of 
		hard struggle in the mountains and city, 
		the Algerian people have obtained a great 
		victory. The UN Assembly has placed the 
		Algerian question in its forthcoming 
		agenda. The discussion will begin on 
		Monday, January 28. Starting Monday, for 
		a duration of eight days, the NLF is 
		calling a general strike.  For the 
		duration of this period, all forms of 
		armed action or attempts at such are 
		suspended. We are requesting that all 
		militants mobilize for the strike's 
		organization and success."
 
	The Algerian has hidden the envelope inside his tunic, then presents 
	the child to the teacher, who makes him sit down with the other 
	children The teacher also returns to his place and sits down, and 
	suggests a new phrase; the chorus continues. The Algerian leaves the 
	school.
 

76	ALLEY UPPER CASBAH. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	Having passed through the door, he again moves along the alley, this 
	time descending, with hurried steps. The chorus continues, again heard 
	from without, but its echo is now different.
 

77	VARIOUS VIEWS CASBAH. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY.
 
 	Bars, stores, market stalls, "Arab baths." Typewritten pieces of paper 
	are used to wrap purchases, or slipped inside bags, or used on the 
	blank side to add up bills and then handed to the customers.
 

78	VARIOUS VIEWS EUROPEAN CITY. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY. 

	In the European city the Algerian workers: at the docks, the central 
	gas company; on the trams; the waiters in the restaurants, in the bars; 
	the shoeshine men
 
				SPEAKER
		"Algerian brothers! A great hope has 
		arisen for us. The world is watching us. 
		The next few days may be decisive for our 
		future and our freedom. The colonial 
		powers will attempt to demonstrate to the 
		UN that the NFL does not represent the 
		will of our people. Our response will be 
		unanimous support of the general strike."
 

79	SEA-FRONT. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	At the sea-front, there is a newspaper boy, about twelve years old, 
	barefoot. His voice is shrill yet cheerful. He is smiling.
 
				NEWSBOY 
		Le Monde! Le Monde! General strike! ... 
		Strike! 

	Some Europeans buy the newspaper, half-heartedly, grumbling
	disagreeably. The boy remains cheerful, places the change inside the 
	bag strapped to his shoulder, thanks them.
 
	Now he passes in front of a beggar, an elderly Algerian who is leaning 
	against a railing.

	The boy winks at him, while he continues to shout:
 
				NEWSBOY 
		Strike!

				SPEAKER
		"During the eight days of the strike, do 
		not frequent the European city, or leave 
		the Casbah. Provide lodgings in your 
		homes for the poor, the beggars, the 
		brothers who do not have homes. Store 
		provisions of food and water for eight 
		days!"
 

80	CASBAH STREETS AND SHOPS. INSIDE/OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	There is a strange atmosphere in the Casbah. People are greeting each 
	other in the streets; a thick buzz of voices, a festive mood, a sense 
	of brotherhood, and the children, who are taking advantage of the 
	situation and play and run everywhere.

	The shops are unusually crowded. The people enter and exit, loaded with 
	supplies. In the shops too, there is the same festive mood, almost as 
	if the supplies were for a trip to the country. The shopkeepers are 
	also cheerful.
 
	And the poor customers, instead of paying, hand over a ticket stamped 
	NLF.
 
 
81	CASBAH BLOCKADE. OUTSIDE. DAY. SUNSET. SUNDAY. JANUARY 27, 1957.
 
	Late afternoon, at the blockades of rue de la Lyre, rue du Divan, and 
	rue Marengo. The Casbah exit ramps are deserted, while the entrance 
	ramps are overflowing with people. Here too, there is an intangible air 
	of gaiety, witty remarks, laughter, ironic glances toward the soldiers 
	and policemen with cold faces, immobile -- helmets and machine guns --
	who stand at the entrances without intervening.
 
	The image is shortened and focused through the lenses of binoculars.
 

82	GOVERNMENT PALACE. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. SUNSET. 

	A paratrooper officer looks at the blockades of rue du Divan from a 
	Government Palace balcony. Mathieu is beside him.
 
				MATHIEU 
		No one is leaving, eh?

	The officer hands him the binoculars. 

				OFFICER
		No. They continue to enter, the rats.
 
	Mathieu looks through the binoculars, and comments in a low voice, 
	smiling:
 
				MATHIEU 
		Rats in a trap, we hope ...

				OFFICER
		But do you believe that the strike will 
		be widespread? 

				MATHIEU 
		Without a doubt.
 
 	Behind the two officers, through a large open window, a room is 
	visible. There is a large table, and around it, other high officers of 
	the various armed forces, and some important officials in plainclothes.

	A general, who has his back to the balcony, turns and calls Mathieu:
 
				GENERAL
		Mathieu! Mathieu, a name ...

				MATHIEU 
		A name?
 
				GENERAL
		Yes, a name for the operation.
 
	Mathieu moves the binoculars from the blockades and turns slowly around 
	the Government square, until he reaches an advertising sign for a brand 
	of champagne which now, in the dusk, lights up with a sporadic rhythm: 
	CORDON ... ROUGE.
 
	Mathieu pauses then turns toward the room, and enters smiling:

				MATHIEU 
		Champagne ... All right? 

	The general repeats absent-mindedly: 

				GENERAL
		Champagne ... Champagne. 
			(then, in a convinced voice) 
		Operation Champagne, yes, alright.
 
 
83 	RUE DU DIVAN BLOCKADE. OUTSIDE. EVENING.
 
	At the rue du Divan blockade, there is an incoherent, monotonous, and 
	irritating chant. There is a blind beggar. He is light-complexioned, 
	tall and thin, his beard long, his arms stretched out, a cane in his 
	hand. He arrives at last at the entrance ramp, tries to find the way, 
	but cannot. He tries again and again with his cane, continually 
	repeating his sorrowful chant, until a policeman takes him by his free 
	hand, placing the hand roughly on the metal screen.
 
 				POLICEMAN
		Go on! Go on!
 
	The beggar protests and waves his cane in a way that the policeman has 
	to duck to prevent himself from being hit. The policeman curses, 
	spitefully, coarsely.

	A soldier starts to laugh. The old man takes up his chant again, and 
	moves forward leaning on the metal screen. On the other side of the 
	blockade, behind the square, there is a group of veiled girls who have 
	seen the old man, and seem to be waiting for him.

	Two of them go to meet him, and each one takes one of his arms. At the 
	touch of their hands, the old man is again infuriated. Even the girls 
	laugh. Then, one of them speaks to him slowly in a loud voice.

	It seems that the old man has understood. He is convinced. He mumbles 
	something kindly and lets them accompany him.
 

84	CASBAH ALLEY. FRONT DOOR. OUTSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	A poorly lit alley. A group of unemployed men and beggars are standing 
	in front of a door.
 
	One of the three companions consults a list, then points to two in the 
	group. He signals them to enter.
 

85	KADER'S HOUSE. INSIDE. NIGHT.
 
 	Inner courtyard.
 
	In the inner courtyard, there is an elderly man who awaits them and 
	receives them kindly.
 
	They greet each other in the customary Algerian manner.
 
	Courtyard and balcony.

	On the terrace also, someone is looking toward the courtyard. Kader is 
	on the terrace together with a man about forty years old, dressed in 
	European clothes, he has narrow shoulders and a sunken chest. His face 
	is sensitive, his forehead high, and his hair and eyes black. His eyes 
	are kind and thoughtful and twinkle with irony.

	He is Ben M'Hidi, one of the four members of the CCE, the Central 
	Executive Committee.
 
				KADER 
			(to him)
		They are beggars and unemployed, homeless. 
		We have organized things in such a way 
		that during the strike they will be 
		guests of other families who have homes 
		and will provide shelter in the event of 
		possible reprisals ... But I didn't know 
		that they would be brought to this house 
		too. It is a mistake.
 
 				BEN M'HIDI 
		Why?
 
				KADER 
		Because you are here too. It would be 
		better for you to move to another house.
 
	Ben M'Hidi moves away from the parapet. 

				BEN M'HIDI
		All right ... You're the one who must 
		decide. 

	Kader follows him along the terrace.
 
				KADER 
		No, if I were the one to decide, you 
		wouldn't be in Algiers now.
 
	Ben M'Hidi looks at him, smiling.
 
				BEN M'HIDI 
		Why? Isn't it wise?
 
	Kader smiles too, and repeats:
 
 				KADER 
		It isn't wise.
 
	At the end of the terrace, there is a construction raised to a level 
	with the stairs that lead to the floor below. There is a large room; 
	through the open door, the lighted interior is visible. The walls have 
	high brick baseboards, and at the bottom of one of the four walls there 
	is a square opening that leads into a hiding place. The closure of the 
	hiding place, a square of very thick wall, is placed to one side. Ali 
	la Pointe is covering it with bricks.
 
	On the other side of the room next to the door, there are some cement 
	wash-basins, and a shed for rain water. Kader appears at the door.
 
				KADER 
		Ali, you must accompany Ben M'Hidi to the 
		Maison des Arbres.
 
	Ali doesn't answer immediately. He finishes placing the last brick then 
	turns to Kader.
 
 				ALI 
		Why? Isn't he sleeping here?
 
 				KADER 
		No, it's better if he doesn't. The house 
		is filled with new people.
 
	Ali gets up, wipes his hands on his trousers, at the same time 
	inspecting the work that he has just completed. 

				ALI 
		Here's another one ready. What a hideout! 
		It really looks like a wall. I'll dirty 
		it a bit, and it's perfect. Want to give 
		a look inside?
 
	Kader has taken a machine gun from one of the basins, and he tosses it 
	to Ali, who catches it. 

				KADER 
		No, go now. It's already late.

	They go out on the terrace. Ali releases the catch of his machine gun 
	so that the bullet slips into the barrel. 

				KADER 
			(to Ben M'Hidi)
		They are a family of militants from way 
		back. Everything will work out well, 
		you'll see ... C'mon, Ali, hurry up.

				BEN M'HIDI 
		Alright. See you tomorrow.

	They say good-bye, embracing one another. Ali has already climbed over 
	the terrace wall, and has jumped to the next one.

	Ben M'Hidi follows him; he is less agile and moves with a bit of 
	trouble.

	From the parapet, Kader says to him:

				KADER 
		Passing along the terraces only takes 
		five minutes ... and with Ali la Pointe, 
		you'll be safe ...

	While jumping, Ben M'Hidi loses his balance, and has to grab on to Ali 
	to prevent himself from falling. 

				BEN M'HIDI
		But it's he who won't be safe with me ...

	The two figures move away from terrace to terrace, and disappear in the 
	dark.
 

86	CASBAH VIEWS AND TERRACES. OUTSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	In the dark in front of them, a metallic reflection is visible and the 
	sharp and aggressive sound of an Algerian voice is heard.

	Ali responds to the password.
 
	A youth steps out from the shadows. He too is carrying a machine gun, 
	recognizes Ali, and greets him. Ali and Ben M'Hidi continue ...
 

87	MAISON DES ARBRES, TERRACE. OUTSIDE. NIGHT. 

	Until they arrive at a terrace which is separated from the next one by 
	an alley about ten feet wide. 

				ALI 
		Here it is ... we've arrived ... 

	Ben M'Hidi glances at the emptiness beneath them, looks at Ali, and 
	takes a deep breath.
 
				BEN M'HIDI 
		Not yet ...

	Ali has climbed onto the parapet, looks around him concentrating 
	attentively for a moment, and then jumps into the void, reaching the 
	opposite side. He bends, searches for something in the dark, and lifts 
	a type of gangplank.
 
	He hands it over to Ben M'Hidi, and together they place it between the 
	two terraces.
 
				ALI 
		Be careful now. Unless you know how it 
		works, it's better if you sit on the plank 
		and move forward like this ...

				BEN M'HIDI 
		Let's try ...

	He tries to stand up on the gangplank, but he lacks the necessary 
	steadiness. He can't hold his balance. He does as Ali has advised him; 
	he sits astride on the plank, and using the force of his arms, he 
	pushes himself forward. He stops halfway to rest for a minute. 

				BEN M'HIDI 
		It's good nobody is following us ...

				ALI 
		It's a question of habit ...

	And when Ben M'Hidi is closer, Ali helps him to get down to the terrace.

				ALI 
		It's better if I go first, to make sure 
		everything's okay ...

	Without waiting for an answer, he moves toward the stairway that leads 
	to the floor below; his movements are silent and graceful.

	Ben M'Hidi leans out from the terrace, and looks toward the European 
	city and the sea. At the port, two searchlights are lit, and their long 
	bright rays move slowly toward the Casbah ...

 	When Ali la Pointe returns, Ben M'Hidi is still leaning on the railing. 
	He seems not to hear the sound of Ali's footsteps, or his voice.
 
				ALI 
		Everything's okay ... They're waiting for 
		you ...

	Ali moves near him, and Ben M'Hidi turns and looks at him. 

				BEN M'HIDI 
		What do you think of the strike, Ali? 

				ALI 
		I think it'll be a success ...

				BEN M'HIDI
		Yes, I think so too ... It's been 
		organized well ... But what will the 
		French do?
      
	Both the question, and the answer seem obvious to Ali. 

				ALI 
			(shrugging)
		It's clear. They'll do everything 
		possible to make it fail.
 
 				BEN M'HIDI
		No, they'll do even more. We've given 
		them the opportunity to do a lot more ... 
		Do you understand what I mean? Starting 
		tomorrow, they won't be groping in the 
		dark any more; every shop and every 
		worker who strikes will be a known enemy, 
		a self-confessed criminal ... And they 
		will be able to pass to the offensive. 
		Have you thought of this?
 
	Ali has listened attentively. The effort with which he is trying to ask 
	himself the meaning of these words is visible on his face.
 
				ALI 
			(shaking his head)
		No ...
 
 				BEN M'HIDI
		But Kader told me that you weren't in 
		favor of the strike.
 
 				ALI 
		No, and neither were my men. 

 				BEN M'HIDI
		Why?
 
				ALI 
		Because they told us that we mustn't use 
		weapons, now, when the time is right.

 				BEN M'HIDI
		That's true ... Wars aren't won with 
		terrorism, neither wars nor revolutions. 
		Terrorism is a beginning but afterward, 
		all the people must act ... This is the 
		reason for the strike, and its necessity: 
		to mobilize all Algerians, count them and 
		measure their strength ...

				ALI 
		To show them to the UN, right?
 
 				BEN M'HIDI 
			(smiling slightly)
		Yes ... yes. The problem also involves the 
		UN. I don't know what it's worth, but this 
		way, we'll give the UN the possibility of 
		evaluating our strength. 

	Ali breathes deeply, instinctively, unrestrainedly, Ben M'Hidi watches 
	him, smiles, and says:
 
 				BEN M'HIDI
		Do you know something Ali? Starting a 
		revolution is hard, and it's even harder 
		to continue it. Winning is hardest of all. 
		But only afterward, when we have won, 
		will the real hardships begin.
 
	He pats Ali's back fondly with his hand and continues, smiling:

				BEN M'HIDI
		Anyway, there's still a lot to be done 
		... you aren't already tired, Ali, are 
		you?
 
	Ali looks at him, and without reacting to his irony: 

				ALI 
			(with conviction)
		No!
 

88 	VARIOUS HOUSES. CASBAH. OUTSIDE. DAWN. JANUARY 28, 1957. 

	It is gray and smoky dawn, a slow reabsorption of the night, an opaque 
	light which is diffused, sprayed, frozen, to transparency, and 
	rediscovers its outlines and perspectives; and finally, the sun, golden 
	light, awakens all Algiers. To the north, the sea. To the south, the 
	mountains and the Casbah, situated halfway along the coast. The Casbah, 
	still, inert, expectant, on this first day of the strike ...

	The paratroopers are already at their places, one after another, at 
	equal distances like links of a very long chain, strung through every 
	alley, spreading to every sidestreet, twisting through the squares, 
	climbing up the stairways, dividing, joining, and lengthening again. 
	The silence is perfect; the camouflaged immobile forms seem to be part 
	of the landscape.

	Then a brief and sharp hiss, a hundred whistles together. 

	A signal releases the still forms: the attack begins. 

	Doors are beaten down, shots, screams, rifle fire, machine gun fire; 
	the doors opened or broken down; the courtyards, the houses, the rooms, 
	invaded; the men who are trying to escape and who protest and try to 
	save themselves.
 
 				VOICES
		Of course ... I was just going to work ...
 

89	BEN M'HIDI'S HIDING PLACE. INSIDE. DAWN.

	Ben M'Hidi is inside the hiding place. From outside, an old man helps 
	him to place the square piece of wall over the entrance, and then, in 
	the spaces between the bricks, he adds a paste of plaster mixed with 
	coal dust. When the paras arrive, everything is in order.

	Still men are being seized, beaten, dragged; a cache of weapons; men 
	pushed down the stairs:
 
				SOLDIERS 
		Go on, go on, you little rats! Get to 
		work!


90	CASBAH. STREETS. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
	Women are clinging together after the beatings. 

	Someone is fleeing toward the terraces. We hear the deafening whirl of 
	the helicopters flying against the wind, their cabin doors open, paras 
	sitting on both sides with their legs dangling out, their machine guns 
	on their knees, a loudspeaker for every helicopter, microphones turned 
	on in such a way that the din of the motors is multiplied a hundred 
	times.
 
	The helicopters fly low again, they skirt the terraces. 

	The Algerians are fleeing in terror, the uproar begins to fade away, is 
	less intense; microphones are turned on, and off. The terraces are 
	emptied, men seized, beaten, dragged; all the men are forced outside in 
	the alleys, the streets, the squares, every man is forced to face the 
	wall, his hands up.
 

91	SHOPS. DOORS UNHINGED. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
 	A truck in reverse, a rope fastened to the hub of the wheels, its other 
	end to a door-latch. The motor is accelerated, clouds of exhaust 
	fumes ...

	Door latches pried open like lids of sardine cans, shop windows smashed 
	with machine-gun butts, the counters, the shelves, flung into the air, 
	the merchandise thrown into the streets; a game, a frenzied 
	excitement ...

	The Algerians watch, but can not intervene. Some shopkeepers rush to 
	the scene, crying despairingly, while others are dragged away forcibly, 
	tossed about, slapped, pushed, forced to open their shops.
 

92	CANDY SHOP. INSIDE. MORNING.
 
 	A shopkeeper is pushed behind the counter; he gets up, trembling with 
	fear.
 
	A para asks him for a bag of candy, pays politely, smiles, pats his 
	bald head, and asks him sweetly:
 
				PARA 
		And the strike, my friend?
 
	Then he distributes the candy among the children who are outside.
 

93	CANDY SHOP. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
 	The children take the candy silently, without thanking him, then eat 
	the candies slowly, their faces unfriendly and cold ...
 

94	PLACE DU GOUVERNEMENT. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
	The black sky, the trees, the advertising signs ... Cordon Rouge ...
	... an equestrian statue, a car radio, a loudspeaker. 

				LOUDSPEAKER
		"Attention, people of the Casbah! The NLF 
		wants to stop you from working. The NLF 
		forces you to close your shops. 
		Inhabitants of the Casbah, rebel against 
		their orders. France is your country. 
		France has given you civilization and 
		prosperity: schools, streets, hospitals. 
		People of the Casbah, show your love for 
		your mother country, by disobeying the 
		terrorists' orders. Algerians, return to 
		work!"

	And then Algerian music, a cheerful and rhythmical melody; the 
	Algerians are forced out of the Casbah in columns, and are pushed 
	toward the military trucks which clutter the southern side of the 
	square, and continue to arrive and depart.
 

95	CASBAH. EXIT. OUTSIDE. MORNING.

	Meanwhile the paras of the psychological divisions make their first 
	selection, randomly, or else deliberately, basing them on the slightest 
	suspicions. They evaluate each man by his appearance or behavior. They 
	block the Algerians from the exit ramp, and assault them with a battery 
	of questions: 

				PARA'S VOICES
		Who are you? What's your name? Occupation? 
		Where do you work? Why did you strike?
 		They forced you, eh? ... No ... Tell the 
		truth! You promised them, right? Then 
		you're the one who wants to strike. Do 
		you belong to the NLF? C'mon, answer me! 
		Are you afraid to say it? Never mind, it 
		doesn't matter.
 
	The Algerian does not answer, but stares into the para's eyes. The para 
	turns to his companions and shouts:
 
				PARA 
		Jacques! ... Jacques! ... Another one to 
		headquarters! 

	The Algerian is seized, and pushed toward the truck.

				LOUDSPEAKER
		"Attention, Algerians! The NLF wants to 
		stop you from working. The NLF forces you 
		to close your shops. The NLF wants to 
		starve you and condemn you to misery. 
		Algerians, return to work ... !"
 

96	THE PORT. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	The port is deserted, the cranes still. A loaded ship sways lazily at 
	her moorings, the fork-lifts are filled with supplies ...

	The limestone is dried out, the bridges empty, dangling cables swing 
	slowly from the pulleys. There is silence in the docks ...

 	Then, the sound of motors approaching, clouds of dust, Arabs pushed out 
	of the trucks, into the shipyard.
 

97	STREETS OF ALGIERS. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	In the streets of the European city, there is an atmosphere of fear and 
	doubt. The shop windows have their shutters lowered halfway, the 
	shopkeepers are standing in the doorways, ready to close.

	The front doors of houses are shut. There are a few hurried passersby 
	but no automobiles; the trams are not running; on the sidewalks the 
	garbage is piled high, nearby the long brooms of the Algerian street 
	cleaners. 

				PARAS
			(yelling)
		Sweep, mes enfants, sweep.

	An Algerian with a very refined expression, a gentle appearance, says, 
	while excusing himself: 

				ALGERIAN 
		I don't know how, sir, I'm sorry ...

	They shove the broom into his hands, and shout to him:
 
				PARA 
		Learn!

				LOUDSPEAKER
		"French citizens! Europeans of Algiers! 
		The strike called by the NLF is a failure. 
		Do not be afraid. Return to your jobs. 
		General Massu guarantees your safety. 
		The Army will protect you!"
 

98	STREETS OF ALGIERS. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	A jeep with loudspeaker precedes a row of military trucks loaded with 
	Algerians.

	In every truck there are two paras carrying machine guns by their 
	sides. The Algerians are standing crowded together one against the 
	other. Some of them are holding banners and signs:
 
		I AM GOING TO WORK BECAUSE I AM FREE. 

		WE ARE FREE.

		ARMY-POPULATION-PEACE. 

		THE ARMY PROTECTS OUR RIGHTS.

 	The trucks turn a corner, a youth jumps from the last truck, falls, 
	gets up again, and breaks into a run.

	The paras shout to him to stop, their voices mix with that of the 
	loudspeaker.
 
	The Algerian continues to run.

	A burst of machine-gun fire, then another.

	The Algerian jerks forward, his back curved, his arms raised. 

	He falls down.
 

99	COMMISSIONER'S OFFICE. PRESS ROOM AND STAIRWAY. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	Noise, confusion in the Commissioner's office press room, ticking of 
	the teletype machines, throngs of journalists in the telephone room. 
	They are trying to transmit the first news. 

	VARIED VOICES.
      
	Shouting in every language is heard.
 
 				A JOURNALIST
		We are now in the fourth day and the 
		strike continues, with total support by 
		the Arab population. The city is very 
		calm. However -- Calm ... Are you deaf? 
		The city is peaceful. In the Moslem 
		quarters, in the outskirts of the city, 
		in the Casbah ... Bye, will call again, 
		I'm busy.
 
	Through the open door, Mathieu can be seen passing, accompanied by 
	another officer. Some journalists see him, and rush behind him. Some 
	others follow, four or five in all, trying to stop him.

				JOURNALISTS 
		Colonel, colonel ... Excuse me, colonel, 
		a statement ... We don't know anything ... 
		You promised us a press conference ...
		Now there is a meeting with the 
		Commissioner. 

				FIRST JOURNALIST
		Will you tell us what is happening? 

				MATHIEU 
		Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We are still 
		weighing the situation.

	They move to the landing and begin to ascend the stairway that leads to 
	the second floor. The journalists have difficulty keeping up with 
	Mathieu.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Look around. I've put everything at your 
		disposal. Go take a look with your own 
		eyes.

				2ND JOURNALIST
		The strike is a success; but ...

				MATHIEU 
		No. It has failed in its objective. 

				1ST JOURNALIST
		Insurrection? 

				MATHIEU 
		Insurrection.
 
				2ND JOURNALIST 
		But the NLF has always spoken of a strike 
		as a demonstration ...

				MATHIEU 
		And you believe the NLF?
 
				2ND JOURNALIST 
		They seemed to be plausible this time. A 
		general strike is a good argument for the 
		UN.

				MATHIEU 
		The UN is far away, dear sir. It is easier 
		to make oneself heard with bombs. If I 
		were in their place, I would use bombs. 

				1ST JOURNALIST
		Armed insurrection ... but what is it 
		exactly?
 
 				OFFICER
		It is an armed insurrection ...

	They have arrived at the second-floor landing, hurry along, and stop in 
	front of a large door, where there is a written sign: PREFECT. Mathieu, 
	at the same time, has continued speaking.
 
 				MATHIEU 
		It is an inevitable stage in revolutionary 
		war; from terrorism, one passes to 
		insurrection ... as from open guerrilla 
		warfare one passes to real war, the latter 
		being the determining factor ...
 
				3RD JOURNALIST
		Dien Bien Phu? 

				MATHIEU 
		Exactly.
 
 	Mathieu glances at the journalist, as if to see if there were any irony 
	in his remark, but the journalist's face is expressionless.
 
				MATHIEU 
		In Indochina, they won. 

				3RD JOURNALIST 
		And here? 

				MATHIEU 
		It depends on you.
 
				4TH JOURNALIST 
		On us? You aren't thinking of drafting us 
		by any chance, are you, colonel?

	Mathieu leans his hand on the door handle and smiles at the 
	journalists.

 				MATHIEU 
		No! We have enough fighters. You have 
		only to write, and well, if possible.

				1ST JOURNALIST 
		What's the problem then?

				MATHIEU 
		Political support. Sometimes it's there, 
		sometimes not ... sometimes, it's not
		enough. What were they saying in Paris 
		yesterday?

				5TH JOURNALIST
		Nothing ... Sartre has written another 
		article ...

	Mathieu gestures and makes an expression as if to say: "see what I 
	mean?" At the same time, he opens the door. But before entering, he 
	turns again to the journalists. 

				MATHIEU 
		Will you kindly explain to me why all the 
		Sartres are always born on the other side?

				5TH JOURNALIST
		Then you like Sartre, colonel ... 

				MATHIEU 
		Not really, but he's even less appealing 
		as an enemy.
 

100	PLACE DU GOUVERNEMENT AND RUE DU DIVAN BLOCKADE. OUTSIDE. SUNSET.
 
	Place du Gouvernement, dusk, the other side of the blockade is silent, 
	only the uncovered eyes of the Algerian women who await their men.
 
	The trucks continue to arrive: the men are forced to descend and 
	allowed to enter the Casbah. There is an atmosphere of sadness, for not 
	all the men have returned. The women look at them, scrutinize their 
	faces, from the first to the last in one glance, then slowly ... one 
	face at a time. Some women recognize their husbands, or their brothers 
	or their sons, and run to meet them ... 

	But others continue to ask for news in lowered, sorrowful voices.
 
				AD-LIB VOICES 
		Have you seen Mohamed? Where? When? Why
		hasn't he returned?
 
	A steady hum of voices in Arabic; then the monotonous voice of a 
	policeman who speaks in the microphone of the loudspeaker.
 
				LOUDSPEAKER 
		"The NLF wants to stop you from working. 
		The NLF forces you to close your shops, 
		inhabitants of the Casbah, disobey their 
		orders. France has given you civilization 
		and prosperity: schools, streets, 
		hospitals. People of the Casbah! Show your 
		love for your mother country by disobeying 
		the terrorists' orders."
 
	The loudspeaker is attached to one of the blockade posts, and from it a 
	long wire for the microphone is hanging. The policeman has a raspy and 
	bored voice; he stops speaking and leans the microphone on the table in 
	front of him. He gets up, lights a cigarette, and moves away a few 
	steps.
 
	Two children are among the women and behind the wooden horses 
	barricades. They were waiting for this moment.
 
	They bend, seem to be playing, but one of them lifts the barbed wire
 	as high as he can, from the ground. Petit Omar passes a wire 
	underneath, its farthest end bent in the form of a hook. He moves it 
	toward the microphone cord which is lying coiled on the ground. He 
	succeeds in clasping it and pulls it toward him slowly. The cord  
	unwinds, lengthens, stretches, until the microphone on the table begins 
	to move, until it reaches the edge of the table, and falls ...

	The noise re-echoes in the loudspeaker, but no one pays any attention 
	to it.
 
	Petit Omar waits a second, then begins to pull again. 

	The microphone is dragged along the ground -- a humming sound -- it 
	moves nearer, inch by inch, forward, under the barbed wire, until the 
	children are able to take it, and disappear with it behind the women.
 
				LOUDSPEAKER 
		"Algerians! Brothers! Do not be afraid! 
		Algeria will be free. Be courageous, 
		brothers! Resist! Do not listen to what 
		they are telling you ... Algeria will be 
		free ..."
 
	The voice is not violent, but gentle, somewhat breathless and hurried. 
	It extends to the whole square, so that all can hear it well: the 
	people stop what they are doing to listen. They are emotional, proud, 
	or angry, and look toward the sky where the voice seems to be diffused, 
	as if those words should be written up above.

	The officer is slow to realize what has happened, looks at the 
	loudspeaker, the cord, and now grabs it, cursing. He pulls and tugs it; 
	the wire yields, and he wrenches it from the microphone.
 
				LOUDSPEAKER 
		"Brothers--" 

	The voice is no longer heard, nothing more, silence. 

	Silence, only that something is changed in the women's eyes. The veils 
	that cover the lower half of their faces suddenly begin to tremble, 
	sway as if shaken by a breath, a light wind. There is no longer an 
	atmosphere of sadness, or silence.
 
	JU-JU.

	The ju-jus attack the air, invade it, shake it, make it vibrate as if 
	they were electric charges, or the sound produced by the wind on a 
	field of dry reeds, or the sound produced by a hundred, a thousand 
	fingernails that are scratching a window pane ...
 

101	HEADQUARTERS. PARA. OUTSIDE. DAY.

				PARA 
		One, two, three, four ... Inside! C'mon!
 
	The five Algerians indicated are forced to get up, taken, pushed, and 
	brought inside a large deserted house which is the paras' headquarters.
 
	The other Algerians, about a hundred of them, are sitting on the 
	ground, in the clearing in front of the house, and the paras of the 
	first regiment continue to guard them with pointed machine guns ...

	Suddenly from the villa, the music of a French song comes forth at full 
	blast.
 
	The Algerians look at each other nervously. Even a young para seems to 
	be upset.
 
				1ST PARA 
			(turning to other para)
		What are they doing?
 
 				2ND PARA 
			(smiling)
		Dancing inside ...
 

102	HEADQUARTERS. VILLA. INSIDE. DAY. 

	A para rushes through a corridor carrying a tape recorder, enters a 
	room where there are some sergeants and an Algerian.

	The adjoining room with white tiled walls and a sink is visible through 
	an open door. Two paras are sitting on the floor, smoking and chatting 
	between themselves in whispers. 

	The para places the tape recorder on the table. The Algerian is naked 
	to the waist. Signs of torture are visible. His face is swollen and 
	wet. The sergeant places the chair near him, and helps him to sit down, 
	then starts the tape recorder. He says to the Algerian who is 
	trembling:
 
				SERGEANT
		Go ahead! C'mon ... Repeat everything 
		from the beginning, and then we'll let 
		you go. Name ...
 
				ALGERIAN 
		Sid Ahmed.
 
				SERGEANT
		Second name.
 
				ALGERIAN 
		Sail.
 
				SERGEANT
		Which "district" do you belong to? 

				ALGERIAN 
		Second district ...

				SERGEANT
		Second district ... Explain better ...

				ALGERIAN 
		Second district, Casbah, West Algiers.
 
				SERGEANT
		What "group"? 

				ALGERIAN 
		Third group.

				SERGEANT
		Third group. What's your assignment? 

				ALGERIAN 
		Uh ... responsible for the sixth section.
 

103	VILLA. HEADQUARTERS. INSIDE. DAY.
 
 	In a room on the ground floor, a captain is bent over a large map with 
	graphs, and is writing the name Sid Ahmed Sail in one of the blocks at 
	the bottom of the pyramid ...
 
	At the same time, paras are seen through the large window, bringing 
	other Algerians to the villa, and immediately afterward, the music and 
	song are heard again very loudly.
 

104	CASBAH ALLEY. OUTSIDE. NIGHT. 

	Night, darkness, locked doors. The Casbah is silent. The paras tread 
	noiselessly on their rubber soles. Patrols. 

	A flashlight searches for the number of a door, then stops. A para 
	knocks discreetly. 

	NOISES INSIDE. VOICES.

				ALGERIAN VOICE
		Who is it?
 
 				PARA
		Sid Ahmed ... Sid Ahmed Sail.
 
	The door is opened, the paras break in.
 

105	ANOTHER ALLEY. CASBAH. OUTSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	Another alley in the Casbah, other paras. 

	Another door forced open, broken into.
 
	Algerians are crowded together in a courtyard which is illuminated with 
	electric flares. 

	They are being interrogated.
 

106	CASBAH STREET. OUTSIDE. DAY. RAIN. 

	A cloudy day, a light drizzle, a sloping street, Algerian music. A 
	company of zouaves walk two by two in the Casbah, through the alleys, 
	stop, play their music, and move on again, alternating Algerian music 
	and a French song.

	Behind them, a line of donkeys with baskets full of packages and bags, 
	and cheerful paras who are joking, as they distribute the supplies to 
	the starving women and children, who stand ashamed in front of their
	houses, their eyes lowered, their gestures too brusque, and hesitant.
 
				SPEAKER
		"At the General Assembly of the United 
		Nations, none of the motions presented in 
		the course of the debate has obtained the 
		necessary majority. At last an agreement 
		has been reached on a resolution that 
		excludes any form of direct intervention 
		by the UN in the Algerian question. The 
		Assembly of the United Nations has limited 
		itself to expressing the hope that in a 
		spirit of cooperation, a peaceful, 
		democratic, and just solution will be 
		found, that conforms to the principles of 
		the United Nations Charter ..."
 
	The monotony of the last words is drowned out and lost. It is raining 
	more heavily now. The water has begun to run along the sloping alleys. 
	The walls are gray, wet; the doors of the cafes and shops are barred 
	with signs nailed upon them. 

		THIS SHOP HAS SUPPORTED THE NLF STRIKE. 
		THE PREFECT HAS ORDERED ITS CLOSING UNTIL 
		FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. 

	The band of zouaves has stopped again, and now they are playing "La vie 
	en rose."
 

107	VILLA HEADQUARTERS. INSIDE. DAWN.
 
 	In some parts of the villa a gramophone is playing "La vie en rose."
 
	In the room on the first floor, through the large window, the whiteness 
	of the dawn is visible. The desk is cluttered with beer cans and 
	thermos. Mathieu and other officers have their eyes fixed on the graph, 
	where the captain is marking other small crosses at the bottom of the 
	pyramid. The scene is motionless; their expressions are dull. Everyone 
	seems to be incapable of movement, overcome by the dull apathy that
	always follows a sleepless night.

	Until Mathieu breaks the stillness of the scene. 

				MATHIEU
		Good ... Good work ... Now we can all go 
		to sleep. 

	And moving together with the others, he continues.
 
				MATHIEU 
		The end of the strike doesn't change 
		anything. The directives remain the same. 
		Give your men the usual shifts. We must 
		remain in the Casbah: twenty-four hours a 
		day! 

	He turns and points to the graph. 

				MATHIEU 
		We must cling to it, and work fast!

	Then he turns to the officers and smiling, says in another tone of 
	voice:
 
				MATHIEU 
		Have any of you ever had a tapeworm?
 
	The officers say "no" and laugh.

				MATHIEU 
		The tapeworm is a worm that can grow to 
		infinity. There are thousands of segments. 
		You can destroy all of them; but as long 
		as the head remains, it reproduces itself 
		immediately. It is the same thing with the 
		NLF. The head is the General Staff, four 
		persons. Until we are able to eliminate 
		them, we must always start again from the 
		beginning.

	While he is speaking, Mathieu takes his wallet from his back pocket, 
	opens it, takes out four photos.

				MATHIEU 
		I found these in the police archives. 
		They are old shots, but I made some 
		close-ups. Ramel ... Si Mourad ... 
		Kader ... Ali la Pointe. We must print a 
		thousand copies and distribute them to 
		the men.
 
	Meanwhile, the photos are passed around.

	There are photos taken from identification cards, or blown up from some 
	group shots, figures somewhat blurred, faded, smiling, peaceful ...
 

108	NLF LEADERS' HIDING PLACE. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	In the dim light, the four faces are barely illuminated. The shadows 
	tone down their expressions: Kader, Ali la Pointe, Ramel, Si Mourad. 
	They are crowded into the hiding place, sitting on the floor, 
	motionless, their eyes staring straight ahead, their breathing heavy. 
	From outside, noises, voices that are fading in the distance. Silence. 

	Then, a discreet knock, a remark in Arabic.
 
	The four breathe deeply, look at each other, then smile a little.

	Ali unslips the beam which, placed through an iron ring, is holding 
	shut the door of the hiding place. Using the soles of his feet, he 
	pushes against the square of wall: the light enters violently. It is 
	not electric light, but daylight.
 
	Kader blinks his eyes to accustom them to the light, then goes out on 
	all fours; after him, Ramel, and then the others. They leave the hiding 
	place that Ali built in the wash-house on the terrace.
 

109	COMPLEX OF KADER'S HOUSE. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	All of them have machine guns. Ramel is very tall and robust, about 
	thirty years old.
 
	Si Mourad is slightly older than Ramel. His movements are slow and 
	precise; his glance expresses patience and authority. Djamila is 
	waiting for them.
 
				DJAMILA 
		You can come out. Thank God. There were so 
		many this time, about ten.

	Ali recloses the hiding place.
 
 				KADER 
		Paratroopers? 

				DJAMILA 
		Yes.
 
 				KADER 
		What do you think? Did they come here on 
		purpose or by accident?
 
				DJAMILA 
		No. By accident. They asked some questions, 
		but they didn't touch anyone.
 
	Ali has come out of the wash-house. The sun is high, and helicopters 
	are seen passing one another in the sky. On some faraway terraces, 
	bivouacs of paras are visible. They are guarding the Casbah from above.
	
	The rumble of motors and the voice of the loudspeaker are heard more 
	clearly as they near the house.
 
				LOUDSPEAKER
		"Attention! Attention! Inhabitants of the 
		Casbah! The terrorist Ben Amin has been 
		executed this morning. Qrara Normendine 
		has been arrested. Boussalem Ali has been 
		arrested. Bel Kasel Maussa has been 
		arrested. Inhabitants of the Casbah! The 
		NFL has been defeated. Rebel against the 
		remaining terrorists who want to force 
		you to continue a bloody and futile 
		struggle. People of the Casbah, the 
		terrorist Ben Amin has been executed. 
		Help us to build a free and peaceful 
		Algeria. Inhabitants of the Casbah, the 
		NLF has been defeated. Rebel against the 
		remaining terrorists who want to force 
		you to continue a bloody and futile 
		struggle. Attention! Attention! 
		Inhabitants of the Casbah! The terrorist 
		Ben Amin has been executed this morning. 
		Qrara Normendine has been arrested. 
		Boussalem Ali has been arrested. Bel 
		Kasem Moussa has been arrested. 
		Inhabitants of the Casbah -- the NLF has
		been defeated ..."
 
 	The voice fades away and is no longer heard. At the same time, a woman 
	has come up from the floor below, carrying a tray of cups and a teapot.

	Ali looks at her quickly, but then watching her more closely, he sees 
	that she is crying. When she passes near him, he stops her, places his 
	hand kindly on her shoulder, and asks her in Arabic why she is crying.

 	DIALOGUE IN ARABIC BETWEEN ALI AND WOMAN. 

	The woman shakes her head, tries to smile, but says nothing. Then she 
	enters the wash-house silently and begins to serve the tea.
 
				KADER 
		It's better to split up, to increase our 
		chances. We must change hiding places, and 
		change them continually ... In the 
		meantime, we must make new contacts, 
		replace our arrested brothers, reorganize 
		our sections--
 
				ALI 
			(interrupting him)
		Yes, but we must also show them that we 
		still exist.
 
 				KADER 
		Of course. As soon as possible.
 
				ALI 
		No, immediately. The people are 
		demoralized. Leave this to me ...
 
 				KADER 
		No. Not you, or any one of us. As long as 
		we are free, the NLF continues to exist 
		in the Casbah. If they manage to take us 
		too, there won't be anything left ... And 
		from nothing comes nothing ...

				RAMEL 
			(intervening)
		But it's also necessary to do something ...
 
				KADER 
		And we will do something, don't worry. As 
		soon as we have reestablished contacts ...
 
 				MOURAD
		And our movements?
 
				KADER 
		For this too we've got to change methods.
 

110	MUNICIPAL STADIUM. OUTSIDE. DAY. FEBRUARY 10, 1957.

	The municipal stadium is crowded with people. There is a football game 
	between two European teams. It is almost the end of the first half. 
	From above to the right of the guest box, there is a very loud 
	explosion.
 
	Strips of flesh are hurled into the air. Thick, white smoke ... There 
	are screams of terror. The people try to move away in haste. They are 
	shoving, pushing, bumping into one another ... Then, calm returns. The 
	sirens of the ambulances are heard.

	The stretcher, the dead carried away, scores of wounded.
 

111	PREFECT'S OFFICE. PRESS HALL. INSIDE. DAY. FEBRUARY 25.
 
 	Ben M'Hidi is standing in front of the journalists with handcuffs on 
	his wrists and ankles. He is without a tie. He is smiling a little, his 
	glance ironical. There are two paras behind him with machine guns 
	ready. The picture is still for an instant; Ben M'Hidi's smile is 
	steady, so too his eyes, his entire face. Flashes, clicking of cameras.
 
				1ST JOURNALIST
		Mr. Ben M'Hidi ... Don't you think it is 
		a bit cowardly to use your women's baskets 
		and handbags to carry explosive devices 
		that kill so many innocent people?
 
	Ben M'Hidi shrugs his shoulders in his usual manner and smiles a 
	little.
 
				BEN M'HIDI 
		And doesn't it seem to you even more 
		cowardly to drop napalm bombs on unarmed 
		villages, so that there are a thousand 
		times more innocent victims? Of course, 
		if we had your airplanes it would be a lot 
		easier for us. Give us your bombers, and 
		you can have our baskets.

				2ND JOURNALIST
		Mr. Ben M'Hidi ... in your opinion, has 
		the NLF any chance to beat the French 
		army?

				BEN M'HIDI
		In my opinion, the NLF has more chances 
		of beating the French army than the 
		French have to stop history. 

	The press hall in the prefect's office is crowded with journalists of 
	every nationality. At the side and central aisles there are 
	photographers and cameramen.
 
	Ben M'Hidi is opposite them, standing on a low wooden platform. Mathieu 
	is next to him, seated behind a small desk. Mathieu now gets up, and 
	signals to two paratroopers. Another journalist simultaneously has 
	asked another question:
 
 				3RD JOURNALIST
		Mr. Ben M'Hidi, Colonel Mathieu has said 
		that you have been arrested by accident, 
		practically by mistake. In fact, it seems 
		that the paratroopers were looking for 
		someone much less important than yourself. 
		Can you tell us why you were in that 
		apartment at rue Debussy last night?
 
	The two paras have moved forward and they take Ben M'Hidi by the arms. 
	At the same time, he answers.
 
				BEN M'HIDI
		I can only tell you that it would have 
		been better if I had never been there ...
 
 				MATHIEU 
			(intervening)
		That's enough, gentlemen. It's late, and 
		we all have a lot of work ...
 
	Ben M'Hidi glances at him ironically. 

				BEN M'HIDI
		Is the show already over?
 
				MATHIEU 
			(smiling)
		Yes, it's over ... before it becomes 
		self-defeating.

	The paras lead Ben M'Hidi away. He moves away with short steps, as much 
	as he can with the irons that are tightened around his ankles. Mathieu 
	has turned to the journalists and smiles again.
 

112	PREFECT'S OFFICE. PRESS HALL. INSIDE. DAY. MARCH 4. 

	Colonel Mathieu is standing. On his face is a brief smile, motionless, 
	his eyes attentive, but half-closed somewhat, due to the camera 
	flashes.
 
 				1ST JOURNALIST
		Colonel Mathieu ... the spokesman for the 
		residing minister, Mr. Gorlin, has stated 
		that "Larbi Ben M'Hidi committed suicide 
		in his own cell, hanging himself with 
		pieces of his shirt, that he had used to 
		make a rope, and then attached to the 
		bars of his cell window." In a preceding 
		statement, the same spokesman had 
		specified that: "... due to the intention 
		already expressed by the prisoner Ben 
		M'Hidi to escape at the first opportunity, 
		it has been necessary to keep his hands 
		and feet bound continually." In your 
		opinion, colonel, in such conditions, is 
		a man capable of tearing his shirt, 
		making a rope from it, and attaching it 
		to a bar of the window to hang himself?
 
				MATHIEU 
		You should address that question to the 
		minister's spokesman. I'm not the one who 
		made those statements ... On my part, I 
		will say that I had the opportunity to 
		admire the moral strength, intelligence, 
		and unwavering idealism demonstrated by 
		Ben M'Hidi. For these reasons, although 
		remembering the danger he represented, I 
		do not hesitate to pay homage to his 
		memory.
 
		 		2ND JOURNALIST
		Colonel Mathieu ... Much has been said 
		lately not only of the successes 
		obtained by the paratroopers, but also of 
		the methods that they have employed ... 
		Can you tell us something about this? 

				MATHIEU 
		The successes obtained are the results 
		of those methods. One presupposes the 
		other and vice versa.
 
				3RD JOURNALIST 
		Excuse me, colonel. I have the impression 
		that perhaps due to excessive prudence ... 
		my colleagues continue to ask the same 
		allusive questions, to which you can only 
		respond in an allusive manner. I think it 
		would be better to call things by their 
		right names; if one means torture, then 
		one should call it torture.

				MATHIEU 
		I understand. What's your question?

				3RD JOURNALIST
		The questions have already been asked. I 
		would only like some precise answers, 
		that's all ...
 
 				MATHIEU 
		Let's try to be precise then. The word 
		"torture" does not appear in our orders. 
		We have always spoken of interrogation as 
		the only valid method in a police 
		operation directed against unknown 
		enemies. As for the NLF, they request 
		that their members, in the event of 
		capture, should maintain silence for 
		twenty-four hours, and then, they may 
		talk. Thus, the organization has already
 		had the time necessary to render useless 
		any information furnished ... What type 
		of interrogation should we choose? ... 
		the one the courts use for a crime of 
		homicide which drags on for months?
 
 				3RD JOURNALIST
		The law is often inconvenient, colonel ...
 
				MATHIEU 
		And those who explode bombs in public 
		places, do they perhaps respect the law? 
		When you asked that question to Ben 
		M'Hidi, remember what he said? No, 
		gentlemen, believe me, it is a vicious 
		circle. And we could discuss the problem 
		for hours without reaching any 
		conclusions. Because the problem does 
		not lie here. The problem is: the NLF 
		wants us to leave Algeria and we want to 
		remain. Now, it seems to me that, despite 
		varying shades of opinion, you all agree 
		that we must remain. When the rebellion 
		first began, there were not even shades 
		of opinion. All the newspapers, even the 
		left-wing ones wanted the rebellion 
		suppressed. And we were sent here for 
		this very reason. And we are neither 
		madmen nor sadists, gentlemen. Those who 
		call us fascists today, forget the 
		contribution that many of us made to the 
		Resistance. Those who call us Nazis, do 
		not know that among us there are 
		survivors of Dachau and Buchenwald. We 
		are soldiers and our only duty is to 
		win. Therefore, to be precise, I would 
		now like to ask you a question: Should 
		France remain in Algeria? If you answer 
		"yes," then you must accept all the 
		necessary consequences.
 

113	CASBAH HOUSES. TORTURE SEQUENCE. INSIDE. DAY.

	Casbah, bedrooms, kitchens, bathrooms.
 
	Sharp, white light; motionless faces, figures paused midway in 
	gestures.
 
	Women, children ... glassy eyes ...

	Background motionless like in a landscape.

	Algerians ... wild eyes ... animals being led to slaughter.

	Paras, their every gesture measured exactly, perfection achieved.
 
	An Algerian is lying down on the table, his arms and ankles bound with 
	belts.

	An Algerian, in the form of a wheel, an iron bar in the curvature of 
	his knees, his ankles tied to his wrists. 

	Electrical wires wrenched from their outlets, a generator with crank, 
	extended pliers with their prongs open wide, the tops of the wires held 
	between two prongs, the pliers applied to a naked body, the most 
	sensitive parts: lips, tongue, ears, nipples, heart, sexual organs ...

	Faucets, tubing, buckets, funnels, a mouth forced open, held open, with 
	a wooden wedge, tubing in the mouth, rags scattered around, water, a 
	belly that is swelling . .. The torture is precise in every detail, and 
	every detail points to a technique that is taken apart and reassembled.
 

114	UPPER CASBAH ALLEY. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	The chorus of the Koran school like ceaseless wailing, like a stubborn 
	will to survive that seems to be spreading through the Casbah.

	Petit Omar looks up instinctively, his small face hardened and 
	taciturn, like that of an adult, then enters the school.
 

115	KORAN SCHOOL. INSIDE. DAY. 

	The children are sitting on the mats, motionless; only their lips are 
	moving. There is an oblique light, the teacher is in the shadow.

	RELIGIOUS CHORUS.

	Petit Omar approaches the teacher who shakes his head in denial. Omar 
	goes out.
 

116	CASBAH STREETS. PATROLS. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	The Casbah is patrolled by paratroopers; helmets, machine guns, 
	portable radios, police dogs ...

	Paratroopers are erecting loudspeakers at every street corner. 
	Paratroopers with brushes and buckets of paint are marking the doors of 
	the Casbah with large numbers. From time to time, machine-gun fire is 
	heard in the distance.

	Algerians are standing against the wall, their hands up. There is a 
	dead man a few feet away, an Algerian youth. The paratroopers turn him 
	over and search him. A child with terrified eyes turns around a little.
 
	A para transmits the dead man's name into the portable radio.
 

117	CASBAH. OTHER STREETS. OUTSIDE. DAY.

	A car radio receives and transmits the same name; and then the name is 
	repeated by the loudspeakers scattered throughout the Casbah.

				LOUDSPEAKER
		"Inhabitants of the Casbah! The rebellion 
		gets weaker every day. The terrorist Ben 
		Amin has been executed. Kasem Moussa has 
		been arrested. He was commander of the 2nd 
		Sector NLF. Inhabitants of the Casbah! The 
		terrorists are not your true brothers. 
		Leave them to their fate. Rely on the 
		protection of the French army. Denounce 
		the terrorists and agitators. Cooperate 
		with us to reestablish peace and 
		prosperity in Algeria ..."
 

118	FOUR WOMEN. STREET. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
 	Four women, their faces veiled, meet a patrol of paras in a small 
	street.
 
	Two of the paras stop the last woman, and lift her dress, uncovering 
	her feet and ankles -- those of a man. The tear away her veil.

	The man is Ali. At the same time, there is ...
 
	MACHINE-GUN FIRE.
 
	The two paras fall to the ground. Ali grasps his weapon, visible 
	through the opening of his cloak. The other paras fling themselves to 
	the ground.
 
	The other three women flee, while Ali continues to shoot, then runs 
	away.
 
	The four flee through the narrow streets and alleys, climb a stairway, 
	and leap from one terrace to another. Behind them, shouts, whistles, 
	and machine-gun fire are heard. And moving nearer ...

	BARKING OF DOGS.


119 	COURTYARD WITH WELL. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	The four enter a courtyard. Ali's three companions have also lifted 
	their veils. They are Kader, Mourad, and Ramel. 

	A woman rushes to shut the door while a man leads the four toward an 
	opening hidden by some boxes.
 
	The others who are in the courtyard, women and children, are also busy 
	helping, silently, hurriedly, in a tense atmosphere of solidarity with 
	the four fugitives. 

	Very near are heard ...
 
	BARKING OF DOGS AND PARAS' HURRIED FOOTSTEPS. 

	A woman runs toward the door and throws some large handfuls of pepper 
	under the cracks.
 

120 	STREET COURTYARD WITH WELL. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	The group of pursuers -- paras who are holding police dogs by leashes 
	-- slow down in front of the door. 

	BARKING DOGS.
 
	The animals sniff the ground, then move on together with the paras.
 

121	ARAB BATH. INSIDE. DAY.

	Petit Omar enters the large steamy room. He moves near the manager and 
	hands him an envelope. The manager slips it quickly under the counter.
 
				SPEAKER
		"To all NLF militants! Reorganize! Replace 
		your fallen and arrested brothers. Make 
		new contacts! This is a grave moment. 
		Resist brothers! The General Staff leaves 
		you free to take any and all necessary 
		offensives ...
 

122 	CASBAH HOUSE. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	All the inhabitants of a house. The men are in a row on the balcony of 
	the first floor, their hands crossed behind their heads, their backs to 
	the wall, while paras guard them with pointed machine guns.

	Two paratroopers lead an Algerian girl forward: she seems to be 
	exhausted, and can barely walk, her eyes half-closed. 

	They stop in front of the first man and ask her:
 
 				PARAS 
		Is this one?

				SPEAKER
		"Our hearts are breaking before such 
		outrages, our houses invaded, our 
		families massacred. Brothers, rebel! 
		Bring terror to the European city!"
 

123	ALGERIAN STREETS. OUTSIDE. EVENING.
 
 	The European city, evening, houses are being lit. People have finished 
	working. They are going to the bars, cinemas, or for walks, or crowding 
	the bus stops ...
 
	The wail of a siren at full blast, an ambulance, driven at frightening 
	speed.
 
	The people move aside, jump to the sidewalks. The cars squeeze to the 
	right, stop.
 
	The ambulance door is opened, a corpse is thrown out, falls, rolls into 
	the street.
 
	The people rush to it. It is a hospital attendant's in white uniform 
	with a knife stuck in his throat.
 
	The sound of the siren decreases in intensity; the ambulance is by now 
	far away.
 

124 	AMBULANCE. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. EVENING. 

	In the driver's cab, there are two Algerian boys. Their hair is curly, 
	their shirts old and torn. They are sweating; their eyes wide open, 
	staring.
 
	The one who is driving barely reaches the height of the steering wheel. 
	He clutches it desperately. The other has a machine gun. He makes a 
	remark in Arabic shouting to be heard above the siren.

	The driver takes a hand off the steering wheel, places it on the 
	dashboard, and tries all the switches until he finds the one for the 
	headlights. The high beams.
 
	The other, meanwhile, is now on his knees on the seat. He is leaning 
	out the open window to his waist, and he begins to shoot.


125	ROUTE OF AMBULANCE. OUTSIDE. EVENING.
 
 	The pictures succeed one another in a dizzy rhythm; surprise, terror, 
	someone falls. 

	SHOTS. SIREN.
 

126	AMBULANCE. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. EVENING.
 
	There is no more ammunition. The machine gun is thrown in the back of 
	the ambulance. The siren is still at full blast. The auto races ahead 
	at terrifying speed. The two boys don't know any more what to do, where 
	to go, and the one who is driving has his eyes almost closed, as if he 
	were dizzy. 

	They reach a square. 

	SIREN.
 
	The other points ahead to the left.
 

127	BUS SHELTER. OUTSIDE. EVENING.
 
 	The people are crowded in a bus shelter. The one who is driving doesn't 
	understand or doesn't want to.

	The other shouts to him again and again, the same phrase, then flings 
	himself on the steering wheel, and turns it in that direction.
 
	The bus shelter is nearer and nearer.
 
	The people are paralyzed. They have no time to move. They are run down, 
	rammed into. The ambulance crashes into a pillar.

	On the ground, all about, the bodies of dead and wounded. The boys' 
	bodies remain motionless, their foreheads resting on the smashed 
	windshield.
 
	But the sound of the siren does not stop, and is heard, mournful and 
	full of anguish.
 

128	RAMEL'S HOUSE. IMPASSE ST. VINCENT DE PAUL. 
	OUTSIDE/INSIDE. DAY. AUGUST 26.
 
	Impasse St. Vincent-de-Paul, noon. There are helicopters in the sky, 
	and paras fill the alley.
 
	Their faces are pale and tense, their eyes wide open, their hands 
	clutch their machine guns. There is a strange silence. Then a movement 
	at the back of the alley, a voice, a brief greeting. Mathieu has 
	arrived and he is saying to an officer:
 
 				MATHIEU 
		Now is not the time for heroes. Give me 
		the megaphone. 

	Mathieu takes the megaphone in his hands and approaches an open door. 
	Through the doorway the inner courtyard of the house is visible where 
	the corpses of four paras are strewn about.
 
	Ramel and Si Mourad are on the first-floor balcony, lying in wait 
	behind the railings, so they are able to watch the door, courtyard, and 
	the stairway that leads from the balcony to the terrace.

	On the terrace there are other paras who are facing the balcony. From 
	time to time they release a burst of machine gun fire.

	The voice of Mathieu is heard over the loudspeaker.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Ramel ... Si Mourad ... use your heads. 
		If you go on like this, I wouldn't want to 
		be in your place when you are captured ... 
		Because you will be captured in the end, 
		and you know it too. Surrender! If you do 
		it immediately, I promise that you will 
		not be harmed and you will have a fair 
		trial. Can you hear me?
 
	Ramel and Si Mourad look at each other.
 
 				MOURAD
		Who is speaking?

				MATHIEU 
		Mathieu. Colonel Mathieu.
 
 				MOURAD
		We don't trust you, colonel. Come 
		forward, show yourself.
 
	A moment of silence.

				MATHIEU 
		I don't trust you either. First stand up 
		so I can see you, and keep your hands 
		still and well in sight.

	Mourad hesitates an instant, glances at Ramel, then: 

 				MOURAD
		Okay. But we want your promise for a fair 
		trial in writing. Give us a written 
		statement, Mathieu, and then we'll 
		surrender. 

				MATHIEU 
		How can I give you this statement? 

				MOURAD
		We'll lower a basket from the window ...

				MATHIEU 
		Okay, I'll make the statement in 
		writing ...

	Mourad shows his companion the two large time-bombs that are on the 
	floor in front of him. He takes one, begins to prepare it, and 
	regulates the mechanism.

	At the same time, he tells Ramel in Arabic to go find the basket.
 
	Ramel crawls past the doors which are all closed, and asks for a basket.

	A door opens and an old woman appears. She hands him a basket with its 
	cord rolled up.
 
				MOURAD
			(without turning around)
		A newspaper too, or a piece of paper ...
 
	Ramel brings him the basket and newspaper. Mourad has loaded the time-
	bomb mechanism, and the tic-toc sound is sharp and clear.

	Now he has to move the second hand. Mourad's hands do not tremble, his 
	glance is attentive, concentrating. Ramel watches him without saying a 
	word; his fear is obvious. 

	Without moving, his eyes glued to the bomb dial:
 
				MOURAD
			(loudly)
		Are you ready, colonel?
 
				MATHIEU 
		Yes ... But let me first see you.

	Mourad moves one of the clock hands to precede the other one by a 
	minute. Immediately afterward he places the flat and rectangular bomb 
	in the bottom of the basket.
 
	The basket seems to be empty. The piece of newspaper protects its 
	bottom. Mourad tells Ramel to get up, and he too gets up. Their machine 
	guns are lying on the ground. Meanwhile, Mourad has begun to count to 
	himself silently, his lips moving: one, two, three, four ... 

	From the terrace, the paras can see Ramel and Mourad standing up not 
	very far away, their empty hands resting near the basket on the 
	railing. 

	A para shouts:
 
 				PARA 
		We see them. You can come.
 
	Mourad begins to lower the basket very slowly.
 
				MOURAD 
			(counting)
		60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53 ...

	Mathieu enters the courtyard together with an officer and other paras. 
	He looks up toward the balcony, smiles, and shows them a folded piece 
	of paper.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Here it is ... you know that when I give 
		my word, I keep it ...
 
	Mourad does not answer, but looks at Mathieu as if to calculate the 
	distance and time, and slows down even more the basket's descent.

	Mathieu moves forward a few steps, as if to go for the basket that is 
	hanging on the other side of the courtyard, but suddenly he seems 
	perplexed for a second, and then changes his mind. He turns to the 
	nearest para, and gives him the note.
 
				MATHIEU
		You go ...

	Mourad's face has remained motionless. In his expression there is a 
	shade of disappointment. He sees Mathieu retrace his steps toward the 
	door, and is now surrounded by a group of paratroopers ...

				MOURAD 
			(counting) 
		25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19 ...

	The basket has stopped moving two yards from the ground. In order to 
	reach it, the para has to step over the corpses of his dead companions, 
	his face hardens, he reaches the basket, and extending his arm, he 
	throws in the note. The basket does not move; the para looks up.

				PARA 
			(muttering)
		Hurry up, black bastard!
 
	Mourad smiles at him, and mumbles something in Arabic, a phrase that he 
	doesn't manage to finish, for now is heard -- the explosion.
 

129	RUE CATON 4. FATHIA'S HOUSE. INSIDE. NIGHT. SEPTEMBER 2.

	Rue Caton number four. It is 11 p.m. A large, badly lit room is filled 
	with paratroopers and one of them is now being carried away on a 
	stretcher. Another three or four wounded are seated on the opposite 
	side of the room and are waiting their turn to be carried away.

	Two paras are by the door. They look out from time to time, and are 
	attentive, ready, with machine guns clutched by their sides.
 
	On the other side of the room opposite the door, the Algerians who live 
	in the house are standing against the wall. Mathieu is in front of 
	them, and he is asking a group of women:

				MATHIEU
		Which one of you is Fathia?

	A woman about forty years old raises her eyes toward him.
 
				MATHIEU
		Is it you?

	The woman nods yes.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Go up the stairs, and tell Kader that if 
		they don't surrender, we'll blow up 
		everything ... Do you understand? 

	The woman again nods yes, and without waiting for more words, she moves 
	toward the door, taciturn, silent. Mathieu follows her, he pushes past 
	her.

				MATHIEU 
		Try to convince him, if you care about 
		your house ... Wait a minute ... Do you 
		want to get killed? 

	He leans out the door and says loudly:
 
				MATHIEU 
		Kader, look. Fathia is coming ... I 
		wouldn't shoot ...
 
	Then he steps aside and lets the woman pass.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Go on ...
 
	Outside the door, there is a small landing, then a steep stairway, and 
	at the top, a corridor. Fathia climbs the stairs that are cluttered 
	with empty magazines, with cartridge boxes. The walls are chipped from 
	the shooting. The ceiling is parallel to the stairway at the same 
	inclination, for part of its distance. But for the last few yards, it 
	straightens out and lowers to become horizontal.

	The floor of the hiding place is open. Inside are Zohra and Kader.

	Fathia repeats to them in Arabic what Mathieu has said to her.

	Kader listens to her then answers, he too in Arabic. Then he smiles.
 
				KADER 
		Okay ... You can tell the colonel to blow 
		up whatever he likes. Go on, now.
 
	Fathia goes down the stairs, and reenters the room.
 
				FATHIA 
			(to Mathieu)
		He said that you can blow up whatever 
		you like ...

	She, then, rejoins the other women.

	Mathieu seems to be tired, he has lost weight, he is nervous. He turns 
	to his men, and slowly as he gives the orders, the paras begin to move.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Return to where the others are. Prepare 
		the plastic. It should be placed on the 
		ceiling of the stairway under the hiding 
		place ... a long fuse rolled up ... Take 
		cover ... keep shooting while you are 
		working. Quickly! Clear the house ... 
		Bring them outside, then check the rooms 
		again ... Hurry up!
 
	Kader gives Zohra a box of matches. She goes to the back of the hiding 
	place where there is a bundle of papers. She lights them, then returns 
	near to Kader who is inspecting the magazine of his machine gun.

	There are only two shots left. The other empty magazines are scattered 
	around. Kader turns to Zohra, and starts to speak, but suddenly his 
	words are blurred by the sound of shots. 

	Kader and Zohra have to step back a little, because the shells are 
	flashing at the edge of the opening.
 
	The shooting stops. From the stairway, one end of a long fuse is 
	thrown into the corridor. The other end is inserted into a plastic 
	charge fastened to the ceiling of the stairway, under the hiding place.
 
	Kader and Zohra can see two or three yards in front of them, below, 
	into the corridor, where the end of the fuse is glowing and burning.

	Kader too has lost weight, his beard is long. He looks at the fuse, 
	then at Zohra. A second passes in silence. Now Zohra too looks at him, 
	and Kader says calmly in his usual voice:

				KADER 
		It doesn't do any good to die like this ... 
		it doesn't help anybody ...

	He leans out from the hiding place.
 
				KADER 
			(shouting)
		Mathieu! If you give your word that you 
		won't touch any of the other people in 
		the house, we'll come out.
 

130	MILITARY CAR. INSIDE. NIGHT. 

	Inside a military automobile.

	In the back seat, Mathieu is sitting next to Kader who is handcuffed.
 
	Zohra is in the front seat, between the driver and a para who has in 
	his hand a large regulation pistol. The interior is lighted by the 
	headlights of a jeep which is following directly behind the auto a few 
	yards. Silence. Mathieu looks hastily at Kader, who is staring straight 
	in front of him, and appears to be sullen and downcast.

	Then Mathieu speaks in a pleasant tone, as if in friendly conversation.

				MATHIEU
		If you had let me blow you up, you would 
		have disappointed me ...

	Kader turns to him, and replies, trying to maintain his own voice at 
	the same level of indifference:
	 
				KADER
		Why?
 
				MATHIEU 
		For many months, I've had your photo on 
		my desk together with a dozen or so 
		reports on you ... And naturally, I am 
		under the illusion that I know you 
		somewhat. You never seemed the type, 
		Kader, inclined to performing useless 
		actions. 

	Kader doesn't answer right away, then speaks slowly as if expressing 
	the results of his doubts, a new point of view ...
 
 				KADER 
		You seem to be very satisfied to have 
		taken me alive ...
 
 				MATHIEU 
		Of course I am.
 
				KADER 
		That proves that I was wrong. Evidently I 
		credited you with an advantage greater 
		than I should have.

				MATHIEU 
		No. Let's just say that you've given me 
		the satisfaction to have guessed 
		correctly. But from the technical point 
		of view, it isn't possible to speak of 
		advantages. By now the game is over. The 
		NLF has been defeated.

	Zohra has turned around suddenly. She is crying and speaks hastily in 
	Arabic, violently, harshly.

	Mathieu doesn't understand, and turns to Kader to ask him politely, 
	although with a bit of irony:

				MATHIEU 
		What is she saying?

				KADER 
		She says that Ali is still in the Casbah.
 

131	CROWDED BEACH. OUTSIDE. DAY. 

	Ali la Pointe's glance is sullen, heavy, motionless. He moves his head 
	slowly in such a way so that his glance also moves in a semicircle.

	White beach, fine sand, transparent sea, bodies stretched out in the 
	sun, golden skin of girls; girls in bikinis, sensual, smiling, young 
	men with narrow hips, with muscles well cared for, cheerful youth, 
	naturally happy, enviable. The children are building sand castles near 
	the water's edge; the beach is shaped like a half-moon with rocky reefs 
	at both ends ...
 
	A September Sunday, warm and calm. Ali is leaning on the wall. He is 
	wearing a white wool cloak. Only his eyes are visible ... the eyes of a
 	hungry tiger perched above a path, on the lookout for innocent prey. 
	Eyes that now gleam, cruel eyes, tension dilating the pupils ... Then
	again the calm, a gloomy calm, a gratifying tension. The place is 
	right, and the victims couldn't be better ones.

	Ali moves, leaves the wall, crosses the street to a large city 
	sanitation truck, one of those metallic trucks with no visible 
	openings.

	A young Algerian is at the steering wheel, a street cleaner. He is 
	leaning his thin face on the wheel. His hands are dirty, by now 
	unwashable from years of work.

	Ali has climbed into the cab. The truck is in motion and leaves.
 

132	SANITATION TRUCK. INSIDE. DAY.
 
	The name of the street cleaner is Sadek. He seems frightened. He looks 
	around, hesitates before speaking.
 
 				SADEK
		Then the beach is okay, Ali.

	Silence. Sadek looks at him again, waiting, but Ali does not respond.

 	Ali looks straight ahead at the street bathed in sunlight, the tar that 
	seems to be liquid, the villas that surround Algiers, the lemon trees, 
	the oleanders ... Then he speaks, but without turning to Sadek. He 
	speaks in a whisper, his eyes continually staring straight ahead. 

				ALI 
		We need two more, the biggest ones.
 
 				SADEK
		And the others?

				ALI 
		The others ... let's wait and see. 

	Sadek remains silent for a while.

 				SADEK
		I've looked, Ali, even where I work. 
		Nothing. The ones who have not been 
		arrested have left Algiers and gone into 
		the mountains ... And the others don't 
		want to hear any more about it ... 
		they're afraid ...
    
	Ali doesn't answer him. Silence.
 
				ALI 
		Can't you go any faster?
 
 				SADEK
		Yes, sure ... here.

	Sadek puts the truck in third gear, accelerates the motor, then shifts 
	back again into fourth gear. The truck increases its speed. The road is 
	straight, the outskirts of Algiers are visible.

 				SADEK
		If we don't find any others ... should we 
		call it off? 

	Ali turns suddenly to look at him but says nothing. Sadek can feel 
	those eyes on him, and tries to justify himself.
 
 				SADEK
		We can't plant all of them by 
		ourselves ... 

	Ali speaks to him in a dry and indifferent voice. 

				ALI 
		You don't have to plant anything. You 
		only have to carry them, that's all.
 

133	RUE DES ABDERAMES. ALI'S HOUSE. OUTSIDE/INSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	Night. At number three rue des Abderames, on the first-floor balcony, 
	the stove fires are glowing. The women are cooking outside on their 
	stoves built from tin containers. They are cooking in front of the 
	doors of their homes. The doorways are lit up.

	Ali passes along the balcony, passes by Mahmoud and his wife who are 
	speaking in whispers by themselves and leaning on the railing. It is a 
	warm and starry night. Mahmoud says some more words to his wife, still 
	speaking in whispers, tenderly. Then he follows Ali who has stopped in 
	front of the door.
 

134	ALI'S ROOM. INSIDE. NIGHT.
 
	In the room, there is Petit Omar who is cutting out some pictures from 
	a comic book.
 
	As soon as he sees Ali at the door, he stops, closes his book, puts the 
	scissors in his pocket. He seems to be embarrassed at being caught in 
	his childish game.
 
	In the center of the room, there is a dividing curtain, pulled halfway 
	to the side. On the other side, Hassiba is typing. Behind Hassiba, next 
	to the bed, the hiding place is open. Ali enters. He seems tired, 
	sweating. He removes his cloak, tosses it on the chair, and puts his 
	machine gun on the table.
 
				ALI 
			(turning to Petit Omar)
		C'mon, hurry. Go to sleep. Tomorrow we 
		four have a lot of work to do: Mahmoud, 
		Hassiba, you and I.
 
	Mahmoud has remained motionless at the door. Hassiba has stopped typing 
	and approaches them. Omar says nothing, but there is a satisfied look 
	in his eyes. He can't help stretching out his hand to touch the machine 
	gun.
 
	Ali sits down, at the table, moves the machine gun away from Omar, and 
	continues to speak, still talking to Omar.
 
 				ALI 
		Because we can't find anyone else, Sadek 
		will bring us there in the truck. You get 
		out first and plant the bomb where I tell 
		you ... then return here quickly. But be 
		careful that no one is following you. Then 
		Hassiba will get out, and after her, 
		Mahmoud. Then I will plant the ones that 
		are left. They'll know that we're still
		strong ... you can be sure of that.
 
 
135	ALI'S ROOM. INSIDE. DAWN. OCTOBER 7, 1957.
 
 	The room is badly lit by a small lamp which is on the other side of the 
	curtain. There is a mattress on the table and Petit Omar is lying on 
	top, asleep.
 
	Ali is lying on a mattress on the ground, fully dressed, with his 
	machine gun by his side. His eyes are open, and he is listening to the 
	far-away sound of a motor. He looks at his watch, gets up, and goes to 
	open the door. Outside there is the first gray light of dawn. The sound 
	is heard more clearly and seems to be moving nearer.
 
	Ali returns to Petit Omar, stays a minute looking at him, then shakes 
	him roughly. The child gets up immediately. He is trembling, as if he 
	had slept with taut nerves, and jumps down quickly from the table. His 
	eyes are open, but he is still sleepy.

	Ali smiles for a moment, and runs his fingers through Omar's hair.
 
				ALI 
		Omar, Omar. C'mon, wake up. Hurry, little 
		one. Today you're going to see fireworks.

	The child also smiles and his face relaxes, then brightens up. At the 
	same time, he extends his hand and pats Ali's side. Mahmoud enters the 
	room from the balcony. He is carrying a tray with four cups of coffee. 

				MAHMOUD
		It's almost time, isn't it? 

				ALI 
		Yes.
 
 	Then Ali turns to the curtain and calls:
 
 				ALI 
		Hassiba ...
 
				HASSIBA
		I'm ready.
 
	Ali sits down and puts on a pair of sneakers. Petit Omar has finished 
	dressing.
      
	The curtain is drawn, Hassiba appears, already dressed. 

				MAHMOUD
		I heard the sound of a truck before ...
 
 				ALI 
		Me too. But I don't think it was Sadek. 
		Otherwise he'd be here by now.

	Hassiba is dressed in European clothes, a skirt and blouse. She nears 
	the table and takes a cup of coffee. 

				HASSIBA 
			(smiling)
		How is your wife now?
      
	Mahmoud's face is expressionless. He shakes his head.
 
				MAHMOUD
		So-so ... 

	Ali has finished putting on his shoes. He takes a cup of coffee. In the 
	same moment, outside the door is heard: 

	MACHINE-GUN FIRE. 

	The four are startled. 

				ALI 
			(shouting)
		Inside! Inside!
 
	Simultaneously, all of them move toward the hiding place. 

	Mahmoud's wife appears at the door. Her face is despairing, but she 
	moves carefully, quickly, precisely. She closes the door. She puts the 
	coffee cups back on the tray, and hides everything in the sink.
 
	She goes to the other side of the curtain. Ali is entering the hiding 
	place. The other three are already inside. Ali pushes the movable piece 
	of wall toward him, and the woman helps him.

	Then, she takes a can from the night table; it is full of plaster mixed 
	with coal dust. The woman spreads the paste in the joints between the 
	bricks of the wall and the closure of the hiding place. At the same 
	time, shouting, shots, and the footsteps of paras are heard.

	As soon as she has finished, the woman slips into bed under the sheets.

	The paratroopers break into the room shouting, and make the woman get 
	up. They drag her outside on the balcony.
 

136 	ABDERAMES COURTYARD. OUTSIDE. DAWN.
 
	They drag Mahmoud's wife down from the balcony to the center of the 
	courtyard, where now all the inhabitants of the building are standing 
	-- men, women, children -- all of them with their hands to the wall, in 
	full sight of the paras who are guarding them.

	Sadek's head is lowered. He passes along the balcony between Marc and 
	the captain. He stops in front of the door.
 
				CAPTAIN 
			(mumbling softly)
		Here?
 
	The Algerian nods yes. They enter.
 

137	ALI'S ROOM. INSIDE. DAWN.
 
 	Sadek points toward the curtain. The captain signals him to go there. 
	The Algerian points to a spot in the brick baseboard.

	The captain examines it and with his thumb, he tests the fresh plaster. 
	He bends down and leans his ear to the wall. He smiles as he listens to 
	the ...

	HEAVY BREATHING.
 
	It is the same breathing that soon after Mathieu hears, bent in the 
	same position as the captain. The colonel gets up and looks around him.
 
	Four paras are ready with their machine guns aimed at the hiding place. 
	Others are arranging plastic charges along the wall, all of them 
	connected to a single fuse.
 
	In a corner, Sadek, wearing his cap and army camouflage fatigues, is 
	sitting on a chair.

	He is watching the scene with his eyes wide open. He is trembling. His 
	body is slouched forward. He seems to be lifeless, without nerves. If 
	it weren't for his face, he would seem to be a heap of rags.
 
				MATHIEU 
			(to the captain)
		Everything ready?
 
 				CAPTAIN 
		Yes, sir.
 
 				MATHIEU 
		He hasn't answered?
 
 				CAPTAIN 
		No, sir. Total silence. 

				MATHIEU 
		I thought so. It was obvious.
 
	Mathieu bends down again and leans his ear against the bricks. He gets 
	up again. He remains a minute in this position, lost in thought.

				MATHIEU 
			(loudly and markedly)
		Ali ... Ali la Pointe ... You're going to 
		be blown up. Let the others come out, at 
		least the child. We'll let him off with 
		reformatory school ... Why do you want to 
		make him die?

	Mathieu stops, and shakes his head. He turns to the captain: 

				MATHIEU 
		Let's go ...

	A paratrooper is unrolling a large bundle of fuse. 

				CAPTAIN 
		Bring it down there, till it reaches 
		outside ...
 
				PARA 
		Yes, sir ...

	Mathieu has stopped in front of Sadek. He looks at him.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Is this one still here? ... Take him away. 

	Two paratroopers grab the street cleaner by the armpits and almost 
	lifting him completely, they lead him away. Mathieu is about to go out, 
	then turns and takes the megaphone from the captain's hands, and places 
	it to his mouth. 

				MATHIEU 
		Ali! Ali la Pointe! I am giving you 
		another thirty seconds. What do you hope 
		to gain? You've lost anyway. Thirty 
		seconds, Ali, starting now.
 

138	ALI'S HIDING PLACE. INSIDE. DAWN.
 
 	Ali la Pointe's eyes are staring at the square piece of wall that seals 
	the hiding place. His glance is taciturn, gloomy. The others are 
	watching Ali. Their lips are half-open, their breasts rise and fall in
 	laborious breathing.
 
 				ALI 
			(in deep, resigned voice) 
		Who wants to leave?
 
	Petit Omar presses against Ali's arm; he looks like a son with his 
	father.
 
	Mahmoud takes his head in his hands and squeezes it.
 
 				HASSIBA
		What are you going to do? 

				ALI 
		I don't deal with them.
 

139	ALI'S ROOM. INSIDE. DAWN.
 
 	Mathieu checks his watch; thirty seconds have passed. He moves to go 
	out. The four paras with machine guns are still in the room.
 
 				CAPTAIN 
			(to another paratrooper)
		You stay here by the door to signal the 
		others. When I call you, all of you come 
		down ...
 

140	RUE DES ABDERAMES. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
 	The sun has risen to the height of the terraces. 

	The terraces are swarming with people.
 
	The alley is empty and only the fuse is visible; it reaches to a small
	clearing full of paratroopers. Two more colonels and a general have 
	arrived.
 
	There is a paratrooper with an "Arriflex" ready to film the explosion.
 
	The atmosphere is that of a show. Two paratroopers are connecting the 
	ends of the fuse to the electric contact.
 
	On the terraces, there are Algerian women, children, and old people.

	Their eyes are motionless; someone is praying. There is an atmosphere 
	of suspense.
 
	There is also the wife of Mahmoud; her eyes seem blank. 

	Five paras come out of the house quickly, and pass along the alley 
	toward the clearing.

	The captain signals, and the para begins to lower the contact switch 
	slowly.
 
	The eyes of all are motionless. The camera is ready. But the explosion 
	does not occur.
      
	The paratrooper swears; he examines the wires.
 
 				CAPTAIN 
		Stand back! Ready, Pierre?
 
 	Pierre responds by mumbling something, and at the same time his hands 
	are moving frenziedly around the wires.
 

141	ALI'S HIDING PLACE. INSIDE. MORNING.
 
 	Ali la Pointe bends over Petit Omar as if to cover him. Hassiba has 
	stopped breathing, her eyes wide open; Mahmoud is crying ...

	A single image, a second and now: 

	THE EXPLOSION.
 

142 	RUE DES ABDERAMES. OUTSIDE. MORNING.
 
	The house collapses in a white cloud, as if its foundations had 
	suddenly been removed.
 
	Mathieu and the other officers move away. Behind them the echo of the 
	explosion continues to resound, then shouts, orders, and isolated 
	ju-ju.
 
	Mathieu's face is weary but his expression is relieved. He is smiling.
 
				GENERAL
		And so the tapeworm no longer has a head. 
		Are you satisfied, Mathieu? In Algiers 
		everything should be over.
 
				MATHIEU 
		Yes, I believe there won't be any more 
		talk of the NLF for some time.
 
				GENERAL
		Let's hope forever. 

	Another colonel intervenes:
 
 				1ST COLONEL
		At heart they are good people. We've had 
		good relations with them for a hundred and 
		thirty years ... I don't see why we 
		shouldn't continue that way.

				2ND COLONEL
		Yes, but Algiers is not the only city in 
		Algeria. 

				MATHIEU 
			(smiling)
		Bah, for that matter, Algeria isn't the 
		only country in the world ...
 
				GENERAL 
			(smiling)
		Why, yes, of course ... But for the 
		moment, let's be satisfied with Algiers! 
		In the mountains our work is always 
		easier.
 
	Gradually the officers move away down the slanting street toward their 
	jeeps, and their remarks fade away and are lost.
 

143	CASBAH STREETS. DEMONSTRATIONS. OUTSIDE. DAY. DECEMBER 1960.
 
	Like the cries of birds, of thousands of wild birds, the ju-jus invade 
	and shake the black sky. 

	JU-JU-JU ...

	And below, in the Casbah the white cloaks of the Algerians are like 
	streams, floods; through the alleys, down the stairways, through the 
	streets and the squares, they flow toward the European city.
 

144	PRESS HALL. PREFECT'S OFFICE. INSIDE. DAY.
 
 	In the press hall, the journalists are taking the telephones by force, 
	shouting at the top of their voices. An English journalist:
 
				JOURNALIST
		No one knows what could have been the 
		pretext. The fact is that they seem to be 
		unleashed without warning ... I telephoned 
		Lausanne ... yes, Lausanne. I spoke with 
		an NLF leader in exile. They don't know 
		anything there.
 

145	ALGIERS STREETS. DEMONSTRATION. OUTSIDE. DAY/NIGHT.
 
	In front, the adolescents, very young boys and girls, their mouths wide 
	open, their eyes burning, laughing, their arms stretched above them, 
	raised and lowered to mark the rhythm.
 
				VOICES
		Algerie! 
		Mu-sul-mane!
 		Algerie Musulmane!
 
 	The paratroopers jump down from the trucks, and rush forward.

	The policemen rush forward, soldiers, zouaves, the CRS ...

	Deployed in cordons, in a wedge, in turtle-like formations, in order to 
	divide, to scatter, to hold back ...

	But the demonstrators will not move back, or divide. They continue to 
	press forward, pushing against the troops, face to face.
 
				VOICES
		Free Ben-Bel-la! 
		Free Ben-Bel-la!
 
	The Europeans are closing their doors, lowering shutters. They too, the 
	younger ones, the more decisive, are grouping together, trying to 
	confront the Algerians. They are less numerous, but armed ...

	The first revolver shots resound in the streets, from the windows. Some 
	Algerians fall, but the others continue to advance. They are running 
	now, scattering.
 
 				VOICES
		Ta-hia Et-thou-ar! 
		[Long live the partisans!]
 
	The jeeps, the trucks, the sirens, the tear-gas bombs, machine gun 
	fire.
 
	And then the tanks. The turrets move slowly in a semi-circle. The 
	machine gunner fires the first burst at point-blank. 

 				VOICES 
		Ta-hia el-Djez-air! 
		Ta-hia el-Djez-air! 
 
	Meanwhile the sun has set, and shadows of night are visible.
 
				VOICE OF 
				ENGLISH 
				JOURNALIST 
			(off)
		Today the situation is tenser. In spite 
		of pressure from the more intolerant 
		colonialist group it seems that the 
		Government has given strict orders not 
		to use arms except in emergency 
		situations. But this afternoon there were 
		attempts to enter the European city by 
		force: as a result, the first casualties 
		... Now calm has returned, although from 
		the Casbah continue to be heard those 
		cries ... incoherent, rhythmic, 
		nightmarish cries ...

	And then, from time to time, in the by now dark night, the shrill and 
	angry ju-jus. 

	JU-JU-JU ...
 

146	ALGERIAN STREETS. FLAGS. OUTSIDE. DAY.
 
	Those cries continued until the following day.

	The following day is sunny; the scene begins again like the day 
	before. Only that ...
 
				VOICE OF 
				ENGLISH 
				JOURNALIST 
			(off) 
		This morning for the first time, the 
		people appeared with their flags -- green 
		and white with half moon and star. 
		Thousands of flags. They must have sewn 
		them overnight. Flags so to speak. Many 
		are strips of sheets, shirts, ribbons, 
		rags ... but anyway they are flags.
 
	Thousands of flags. All are carrying flags, tied to poles or sticks, or 
	waving in their hands like handkerchiefs. Waving in the sullen faces of 
	the paratroopers, on the black helmets of the soldiers.
 
				SPEAKER 
		"Another two years had to pass and 
		infinite losses on both sides; and then 
		July 2, 1962 independence was obtained --
		the Algerian Nation was born."
 
 				VOICES 
		Ta-hia el-Djez-air! 
		Ta-hia el-Djez-air! 
		Ta-hia el-Djez-air!

 

 
				THE END
 
  








Screenplay by Franco Solinas